A/N : Time for some Sammy? Yeah, I think so! I'm not going to reveal just how much time has passed yet, but don't worry, it will come up in later chapters. So if you're wondering, I swear, Sam's not a grandpa!

If you're reading, please let me know... this story is both easy and very hard to write, so your reviews is a great source of motivation!

Impala cookies for everyone!

--

Sam paced, phone pressed to his ear.

"I know it can't be him," he said, rubbing his hand along his jawline. "I mean, I know, okay, Bobby? I know you think it's stupid, but you gotta understand..."

He paused, then answered, "No, he's tied up. I'm being careful."

Another pause, a sigh, and then, "Yeah. I got it. I'll call you if anything turns up."

He snapped the phone shut, shoved it in his pocket, and went back to pacing. He folded his arms, uncrossed them, then shoved them in his pockets. Paced this way, then back, and finally forced himself to stop. Full of restless energy, he stared at the body on the bed.

When he'd stumbled on the fight outside the bar that night, he'd called out on pure instinct, and when he'd leaned down to take a look at the guy those three idiots had been using as a punching bag, he'd practically stopped breathing.

It looked so much like Dean...hadn't even flinched when he said cristo. Just stared, knife held in an unsteady hand, making a feeble attempt to drive Sam away. He might have laughed if it had been someone else. Left them to their owen devices, even.

But God, he was a dead ringer. He looked just like Dean.

The face was dead on. He could tell, under the dirt that darkened his complexion, it was all Dean. Even with the bruise already blooming over the right side of his face, forming a shiner that had the entire area already swollen. There was a bit of dried blood in the corner of his mouth, and a bloody scrape that disappeared into the blood- darkened hair. But all of it - the blood, the bruises, it was all so familiar. How often had his brother looked just like this after a fight or a hunt gone wrong?

He shook his head, mentally slapping himself.

It looked like him, but wasn't. He needed to remember that.

Still, his mind went back to the place he tried so hard to stay away from - Dean's last day.

They'd run it down to the buzzer, exhausting every avenue before Sam had been forced to accept what his brother had weeks ago : there would be no saving Dean Winchester. Time had run out, and there would be no miracle, no last minute victory.

He wanted to keep going, still. Tried to convince Dean of it, too, because he didn't know what else to do. It felt wrong to just wait for it to happen. Felt like giving up on his brother.

But Dean had shaken his head.

--

"There's no way I'm spending my last few hours running around like a chicken with its head cut off," he'd said, giving Sam a glare that said he wasn't taking no for an answer. "I want to enjoy it. Can we just... can we just stop?

Sam had almost protested, but then the glare was gone.

"Sam..." his brother's voice was void of all anger, just a sad, soft tone he'd never heard before. He realized it was acceptance. "Please."

So they'd stopped, right there, on the side of the highway in the middle of nowhere, and sat with their backs against the Impala, just watching the sun go down in a watercolor sunset.

After a moment of silence, Dean reached up to take hold of the amulet around his neck, hesitantly lifting it over his head. Wordlessly, he handed it to Sam.

"Dean, I can't - " Sam started, caught off guard. He didn't want to do this, didn't want to face the fact that these were Dean's last hours, that at midnight, he would be gone, forever. He felt his throat close, and for a minute he thought he was going to die with the force of that realization.

"Take it, Sammy," Dean insisted, hurriedly shoving it into his hand when Sam couldn't make himself reach for it. "I want you to have it."

He'd wanted to say something, but didn't know what. Then Dean had stood, stretching, and Sam followed suit.

"It's beautiful," Dean said, motioning to the orange and red sky against a dark silhouette of trees far below.

Sam thought about teasing his brother for such a chick flick statement, if only to achieve that normalcy he'd soon be missing, but instead took a few steps ahead. "Yeah. It is."

Dean cleared his throat. "I don't know how to do this, Sam. I don't know how to say goodbye forever."

Sam could still hear the hitch in his brother's voice, that hoarse tone that he got when he was trying to hold his emotions under check. Could still see the way the sun painted shadows across his drawn face.

He hadn't made a noise, just let Dean talk.

"I know you hate me for making this deal, and I don't blame you. I'd kick your ass if you'd pulled that kind of stunt." Dean chuckled a little. "I couldn't let you die, Sammy. You're my brother."

He'd watched Dean turn the bottle in his hands. "So I need you to promise me something."

"What?" he asked, his voice cracking as he did.

And then Dean met his eyes with an intense stare.

"I traded my life for yours. So that you could live," he said. "I'm going to Hell, for you."

"Dean!" Sam had cried, unable to stop the tears sliding down his face. "Don't you think I know that? That I won't live with it every day of my life?"

"I'm counting on that, Sammy," Dean said, his voice low. "I'm counting on you to make sure my death means something. I need to know you'll gone on living, keep fighting. I need to know I'm not dying for nothing. Promise me you'll live."

Sam turned away to face the now darkened horizon, raking the sleeve of his jacket over his eyes. "I promise."

Dean sighed softly behind him.

"I've always been proud of you," he said. "Whatever you do, remember that."

Sam's entire body was trembling, and he pressed the balls of his hands into his eyes. He sucked in a breath, and his voice shook. "Jerk."

He heard the smile in his brother's answer, "Bitch."

He let that sink in, savored it, knowing the warmth that spread through him would soon vanish, leaving him again with that cold sense of fear and sadness. He turned around, a sad smile on his face, but frowned when he saw his brother's entire body tense. "What is it?"

Dean spoke slowly. "You hear that?"

Sam listened carefully for a moment but heard nothing. "What?"

"Dogs."

"What?" Sam asked, blinking.

"I hear dogs, Sammy," Dean said, his voice flat.

"What?" the word exploded from his mouth. "No, Dean, it's not time, it's not even midnight!"

In the early twilight, he saw Dean's shoulders slump.

"Guess they decided to come around early, eh?" His voice held no humor, just resignation.

"No," Sam said, softly at first. Then it was adamant. "No!"

Dean swallowed hard, and tried to offer up a reassuring smile for his brother.

This change of rules had Sam reeling, and he shot to the trunk of the Impala, digging through their weapons.

"We'll hold 'em off," he called over his shoulder, looking for the salt.

It didn't matter if it didn't work, it was something, and he knew without being told that Dean would want to go down swinging.

But there was no answer, just a sudden silence.

He spun around, and in the early twilight, he saw that he was alone.

He circled the Impala, eyes straining into the darkness to see if Dean was playing a cruel practical joke on him.

"No," he said again, his world dropping out from underneath his feet. "Dean? Dean!"

But that was it.

Dean was just... gone.

--

Even now it was hard to forget the panic, the overwhelming realization that he was alone in the world. He was on his own, but more than that, Dean was gone, sentenced to eternal suffering just so Sam could go on living. It was all too much, the guilt, the shame, the fear not just for himself, but for Dean. Sorrow, the kind he'd never felt, not when Dad died, not even when he saw Jess burning right in front of him. Rage, anger at Dean, at the unfairness of the whole damn situation. A hollow, empty pit in his chest, so real that he thought his heart really had broken, cracked in half and now he was filling up with blood.

That first night had been hell. He'd spent the better part of the night searching the area immediately around the Impala, then into the woods by the side of the road with a flashlight, desperate for any trace of Dean. A footprint, anything, but of course there was none.

He wanted an explanation, why the rules were different for Dean, why he'd just vanished, unlike the others who had made deals. He wanted anything, because just then, he felt like he was dying all over again.

He'd dropped to his knees in the middle of the deserted highway, and screamed, wanting everything he was feeling to just stop. When he finally made it to the car, he was sobbing, his whole body wracked with spasms, choking on gasps of air. He couldn't see to drive straight, so he spent the night curled up in the backseat of the Impala, clutching Dean's leather jacket like a lifeline. He wanted his brother back, and without him, he wanted to die himself because it was not right.

But he'd promised, and, with the words burning in his head, he'd done just tried to do what Dean asked. The first year, he'd refused to give up, telling himself that somewhere out there, there had to be something that could get his brother back. But as time went on, hoping got harder, until eventually, he'd had to come to terms with that, too. So he'd gone on with life, throwing himself into hunting.

At first, it was nearly impossible, and every time it felt like he was missing something vital, like half of him was gone. Which, in a way, it was. But he pressed on, and eventually, it got easier, until he found some sort of comfort in them. The memories of Dean at his side, shotgun cocked, smirk on his lips, became less painful, and more fortifying.

He took on everything he could, savored the fight, because least then, he had an outlet. At least then he had something tangible to punish. Every demon exorcised a little slice of revenge for what he imagined Dean going through. With every creature he slayed, every hunt he completed, it got easier to live again, but he never stopped thinking about it.

And that, that was the worst. His imagination, and knowing the horrible things he dreamed, the things he couldn't stop thinking even when he was focused on a hunt, all of the things he imagined could not come close to what Dean was really going through.

--

He was pulled from his thoughts by a shout. He started, realizing he'd been staring into space, and now turned his attention to the bed. Dean - the thing pretending to be Dean- was struggling violently at the ropes that tied his hands to the headboard. He'd had to duct tape his legs together at the ankles, and, not sure of the strength he'd be facing, saved the extra rope in case he really needed to tie him to something.

He realized he might have to.

The Dean-thing had woken up. It was writhing on the bed, thrashing from side to side, arms straining at the bonds, legs trying to move.

He'd expected resistance, hence the precautions, but he hadn't expected such a violent response. He waited to see what would happen, taking a step back before he realized he'd done it.

The Dean-thing was really going crazy, and for a moment he worried, but the rope held firm. Already he could see the wrists getting red. A surge of satisfaction welled up inside him. Good. Let it suffer. Show it what happened when it desecrated his brother's name.

He folded his arms.

The thing started screaming, using Dean's voice, not forming words, just hoarse screams, and Sam sprang into action. He had no idea of knowing how many guests were at the motel and the last thing he needed was management knocking on the door asking questions.

He retrieved the flask of holy water from the table, uncapped it, and flung a healthy amount over the face of the Dean-thing.

"Shut up!"

The skin didn't burn, but the screaming stopped as soon as the command was issued, and for a moment, all was silent.

When the whimpering started, it was muted at first.

Sam stared hard at the flask in his hand, then up to where drops of liquid glistened on that too familiar face. Okay, so it wasn't a demon.

Skinwalker?

He watched in quiet fascination, his heart thumping, willing himself to think. He needed to come up with an explanation, because the longer he stood there, the harder it was to deny the hope that had sparked when he first laid eyes on the thing. Hope that was dashed by anger, and the hole in his chest he'd felt every day since Dean disappeared.

That, not hope, was what had compelled him to bring the thing to his room. He wanted to know why this thing dared to disgrace his brother's memory by wearing his face. Where he'd gotten the image and what he'd done with it. And when he found out, he wanted to send him back to hell, not necessarily in one piece.

But now, as he watched the face contort in pain, the gasps of air that came between the whimpers - which grew increasingly louder each minute - it was hard not to hope. He felt stupid, angry, and alone. He wanted to be able to kill this thing, not entertain some sorry notion that somehow, Dean had come back.

It was impossible, and he knew it.

He would kill this bastard, demon or skinwalker, or whatever the hell else it might be.

Even as he went to his bag, he moved as if in slow motion. It wasn't Dean, but it didn't matter. It didn't matter because killing it would feel like killing Dean. Even if he looked away, he would see Dean's face as he pulled the trigger.

He dug through his bag, distracted.

"Please."

The voice was no more than a whisper, but to Sam, it was deafening.

He froze. He'd dealt with the silence since Dean was gone. Now, the voice that had sung him to sleep as a baby, coached him on how to ride a bike, teased him well into adulthood, penetrated his skin. Never had he heard his brother's voice, sounding so desperate, so lost, pleading.

Which made sense, because it wasn't Dean.

It became his mantra as he gathered the strength to turn around. The Dean-thing was still straining at his bonds, breath still coming in pants, but he saw now it was not fueled by defiance.

It moaned in that half whisper, in time with the words his brain kept repeating.

"Please, please, please, please, please."

Not Dean. Not Dean. Not Dean. Not Dean.

He took a step closer.

Its face was covered in sweat, paler than he remembered it being, and the eyes were shut tightly.

Sam swallowed.

Not Dean. NOT DEAN.

And suddenly he seized upward, body rising as far as the ropes allowed, fists clenched.

Sam shot backwards, almost stumbling, his heart in his throat. "Jesus!"

And then, it screamed.

"NO!"

It was one word, but it hung in the air for what felt like hours. Even as Sam watched the body go limp, tears slipping from beneath closed eyelids, he could still hear it ringing in his ears.

He watched as the body tried to curl in on itself, held in place by the rope and tape. Watched the lips move in what he could only assume was a silent continuation of his pleas.

He couldn't stop his mouth from spilling over.

"Dean?"