Wow… I remember when I said that this story would only be 2-3 chapters. I'm such a dirty little liar, aren't I? Well it wont be too terribly long, but it might take another chapter or two to reconcile.

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"Dean…" Sam's voice was disproportionately small. "I… I'm…"

Sitting back beside Sam's leg's, Dean rubbed Sam's arm comfortingly. He could literally feel his brother shaking beside him. "Yeah?"

"I'm scared, man."

Chest suddenly filled with an odd heavy pressure, Dean swallowed down the lump in his throat. Sam hadn't said that to him since he was seven – it was pretty hard to forget how and when and why your baby brother was afraid – and hearing it now was almost as terrifying as the circumstances themselves. Sammy was hurting, he was terrified, and it was clear that it was all going to get a hell of a lot worse sooner or later.

"Its okay, Sammy." Dean lied through his teeth, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck stand up and his head pound from the shear wrongness of it. "Ipromiseyou that it's going to be okay."

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There was a breath of time where the silence threatened to overwhelm them, Sam's desperate eyes accusing and vivid on his brother. He wanted to believe him, but didn't. Where had the days gone when Sam trusted Dean's word on principle? Hell… Where they trusted each other at all?

"Don't give me that look, man. C'mere." Raising an eyebrow in a shaky attempt to lighten the mood – the only way to go was up, he figured – Dean tried to lift his brother's torso just enough so that he could sit on stone block with his back against the corner of the wall, and let Sam lean back against his chest. Letting out a surprised yelp through his teeth, Sam's back arched, his hand straining against the handcuffs for something to hold onto. "Sorry, sorry…" Dean grabbed Sam's arm in apology, and Sam squeezed his wrist as if it was a stress ball. This probably wasn't the best thing for Sam, or for the sake of the plan, but Dean couldn't think of anything else to do. He had already tried every possible exit.

It felt like they were little kids again, when they would both try to sit on the couch together and watch cartoons. Dean would start out with his legs in front of him, back to the arm rest comfortably, before his kid brother got bored of X-men comic books and decided that he too wanted a seat on the couch. Well Dean - being the stubborn arse that he was - was "unable" to move from his comfortable spot, and Sam – being the creative and equally stubborn nerd that he was – had to try and find a way to fit his gangly limbs on the couch too. By the end of it he was usually lying side by side with Dean, who had his arm against the arm rest while Sam was in an unconscious state leaning on Dean's chest, head on his shoulder like a pillow. Back before they were in the double-digits, when they could both fit on a couch together, when Sam still got afraid of noises or the dark, he often fell asleep that way. All these years later it felt like a natural motion to Dean, propping his little brother up against him, but this time he could notice how Sam had changed. Sam was no longer the smaller body, but he also seemed much more fragile than he had when they were little. Dean tried to make light of it, mumbling something or other about Sam's hair being too long and being in Dean's face, but the idea that Sam was breaking in his arms tugged at his heartstrings cruelly. "You cold?" Wondering if he was being paranoid, Dean decided that Sam's body heat should be much higher than it was, and rubbed his chest in a shaky attempt to warm him up. Sam felt stiff, as if he was already dead and rigor mortis had already begun to set in. God, that was a dangerous thought. Trying to laugh it off, Dean chuckled dryly. "…You owe me a huge-ass piece of pie after this, little bro. Apple pie. W-With whip cream and one of those little round cherries." Thoughts turning to death and blood, Dean's voice cracked as his façade threatened to follow suit.

Normally, Sam would have rolled his eyes after a second's worth of pause, give what could only be described as the "Bitchface," and inform Dean about his horrendous lack of vocabulary. But Dean's hopes were cut short, as Sam's humour was inaudible. "M-Maras…chino c-cherries," Sam corrected with less gusto than the still air itself, causing Dean to give up on his attempts at distractions.

"Yeah… You're right, Sammy." Leaning his head back against the cold stone block wall behind him, Dean closed his eyes, breathing in the stale air of the cavern around them. He let his breathing slow, listening to the shallow drags of the back against his chest. Under his hand, Sam's ribs expanded and contracted at an unsteady rate, his abdominals clenching every few seconds instinctively. "Just relax, dude." Dean breathed slowly, hoping he could inspire Sam to do the same. "Breathe like me, alright. You have to slow down."

Hand on Sam's chest, paying attention to each rise and fall, Dean himself had to struggle to keep his breathing even. His problem, however, was anxiety. Sam had almost died. If he stopped breathing again, the chances of Dean getting him up and running were slim to none. Taking care of Sammy had always been the first priority, the only thing that mattered. He would be – and had been – willing to do anything for him. But if Sam died again, could he bring him back? He wasn't strong enough to do it again. Thinking about hell, about Alistair, Dean's temples throbbed. "Sam?" His voice was rough.

Sam's head tilted up into Dean's chin, listening. "…Hmm?" He grumbled silently in reply.

Exhaling deeply, Dean felt Sam's hair flutter from his breath. "What did Alistair mean? What do you have that he wants?"

He could almost hear the wheels in his little brother's head turning. After a moment Sam stilled, his chest evening out. Dean waited, momentarily concerned, before he heard a soft sigh.

"You can tell me this shit, you know that." Squeezing Sam's arm easily, Dean tried to probe for an answer. Sam knew what Alistair wanted, but for some reason he was reluctant to say. Why was that? Confused, he tried to remember any connection between Alistair and his brother. They had just seen Alistair in the spirit realm – or whatever the hell it was called - and Dean hadn't noticed anything abnormal about the relationship between Sam and Alistair. Mutual hate maybe, but nothing of a connection. They had only met a few times, and nothing had occurred between them that Dean hadn't been present for.

Well… other than what had happened in the graveyard. Dean had gotten knocked out and then, according to Sam, Alistair fled after he found that he couldn't toss Sam around? And Alistair had made that comment, before he tried to kill Tessa; something about Sam being unable to use his powers without his meat?

Dean contemplated that for a while in the absence of an answer from Sam. He'd made his viewpoints on Sam using his powers quite clear, and vocalized frustration at the fact that he wouldn't tell Dean how he was getting his mojo. However he was doing it, was the secret really that important? Important enough that Alistair would do anything to find an answer, perhaps?

"Still waiting here, dude…"

"I d-don't know what he wants." Sam's voice was a little bit stronger than it had been before, almost forced.

Sam's dying was not enough to keep Dean's annoyance away. "Really, Sam? Thou doth protest too much if you ask me."

Then Dean heard a little sigh. It was just a quiet release of breath, so quick that he wouldn't have caught it if he hadn't been so close. It was just there, but heavy in itself. The sigh of a burden.

"Look, I know I've been giving you a hard time over your demon powers and stuff – and I'm not saying that I'm letting you off the hook or anything – but what… what do you think you are going to accomplish here?" Drawing blanks, Dean both regretted and didn't regret being so harsh. " Honestly Sammy," Hesitant to find the correct words, Dean started again. "Is it worth dying over? So what if Alistair knows how you're doing it?"

There it was again; the sigh. Dean breathed his own inhale immediately afterwards, as if his own lugs had just been emptied. In and out, like a two-manned accordion, went their breathing. It was as if the pain in Sam's chest restricted Dean's breathing as well. He was the keeper of a brother who needed serious upkeep. A throbbing uneasiness danced up Dean's esophagus, but he found the movements soothing. When he exhaled, Sammy breathed in. His little brother kept breathing.

" 'm the only one w-who can, D-Dean." When Dean had thought that Sam would refrain from answering once again, he went against the grain. Dean heard him swallow. It sounded like a thousand knives in his throat.

"Is that what Ruby's been telling you?" Dean couldn't help it; his voice grew cold.

In return, Sam clammed up. There was another sigh. While the first one had said "the world is so heavy," this one was annoyed. It was a "you don't understand" sigh.

"We still have the knife," Dean offered as a parting gift. "Cas can help us trap Lilith. It's not just on you, Sammy. There's a billion ways to skin a cat, and sending Lilith down south with your mind is only one of them."

There was a long pause. And then another. Brow furrowed, Dean closed his eyes. "…It's not the fact that you are exorcising demons with your mind that bothers me, Sam. I'm just worried that something could go wrong. Killing Samhain had you bleeding out of your nose for over an hour, and he was an understudy compared to Lilith or Alistair. You tried to pull him once already, remember? Didn't even ruffle the guy's hair. People aren't meant to have that much power in their body. And that's not on you, that's just how it is. I can't have you blowing up or having a brain aneurism or something."

The conversation remained one-sided while Dean waited, and he couldn't help feeling frustrated that Sam wasn't holding up his end. And afraid of what that might point to. Why wasn't Sam speaking up to defend his side of the argument?

Neck tightening, Dean huffed. "God-damnit, Sam! Say something! Anything!"

Sam flinched, the muscles in his back tightening against Dean's chest. The breath that was taken sharply cut into Dean's own lungs.

"Sammy, I'm..." Clenching his teeth, Dean shook his head against the cold wall behind it. "I'm so" –

" 'm s-sorry, Dean." Before Dean could finish, Sam had answered with the same. It wasn't just physical pain in his voice this time.

Was Sam trying to make amends? This wasn't happening. This wasn't freaking happening! "Don't do that," Dean hissed angrily, trying to keep his tone steady. "Don't try and tie up loose ends like this is the last time we will ever fight about this. Tomorrow you're still going to be a stubborn ass."

He could feel Sam denying the possibility of a tomorrow. God, there had to be a tomorrow.

"Dean" –

"Don't!" Quietly, Dean cut Sam off. He wouldn't sit here and listen to a good-bye speech or some lamented apology. There was no need, since Sam wasn't dying.

The outburst had drained Dean's already sasquatch-squashed lungs, and as he paused to draw breath, he realized that Sam was trembling. And that that Sam wasn't arguing, he was begging.

Oh God.

" 'ean…" If Dean listened carefully, he could almost hear the pressure under Sam's ribs. Helplessly, Sam dug his nails into Dean's arm, drawing blood.

Even more so, Dean let Sam find his other hand and let it get the feeling squeezed out of it. "

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I know, Sammy. I didn't mean to… Just don't pay attention to me, alright? You know I'm a dim-wit sometimes."

Nails tugging at the fabric of Dean's jacket and pressing into the muscle underneath, Sam swallowed slowly, feeling his chest rise and fall like a high tide. There was the sound of agonizing panting somewhere in earshot, but he swore that he couldn't be the one making those noises. Could he?

On and on Dean went, back-tracking and side-stepping his previous statements and questions. Sam caught part of the rant, but not much. Although either way, the damage had already been done. You couldn't cover a hand grenade with a band-aid. Dean's words – and more importantly, the intent behind them – had already hit their mark. The fact was that Sam was treading a fine line here. Was it really worth it to die for the demon blood? In a way, Pamela had tried to warn him to stop it, hours ago when they had left her at the hotel. God, he could see her now. Half sitting-up on the bed – his bed – with her hair over her face, crimson wetting the down comforter underneath her. What would she think of him dying to keep his secret now? Were his plans to save the world any good if he was in the ground?

"If you think you have good intentions, think again."

Yet again, her words struck him. For so long he had doubted Ruby, the demon blood, his destiny. And after a long hard haul he had finally gotten himself hard enough to tune out his weaker self. What was right and important would rule out in the end, and Ruby could show him how. That had been his take for a long time. But now the doubt was back, and in the valley of the shadow of death it was hard to ignore.

What did it matter if he died with his secret told or kept? Either way, he was the only one who could save the world. It made more sense to live and save the world than to die with his secret in tact.

That is… if he continued to drink the demon blood in the first place.

A swell of pain interrupted his train of thought, blocking out every other sense, and he jackknifed and arched his back instinctively to get away from it. It felt as if a balloon of tension had popped underneath his ribs. Instead of the expected release, he had gotten more agony.

"God, Sammy. Wha" – A loud knocking sound synced up with the motion of Sam's head hitting something solid, and Dean was silenced. "Ugh… Son of a… Sammy, it's okay – just …" Just then Sam noticed that Dean was no longer a warm mass behind him, and he felt flat stone under his shoulder-blades. His hands pulled at the cuffs to their full restraint with their own agenda, and when his body jerked forwards, something caught his shoulders and pushed him back onto the table, revealing where Dean had transported. "Shhh, Sammy, it's…." Sam saw a hand in front of his face at some point, but nothing in his head matched up. Why was Dean telling him to be quiet? And who was making that god-awful noise?

This was it, Sam thought. Dean may have gotten a lucky break and pulled of the heimlich maneuver, but there was no freaking way he was getting Sam out of this one. As much as he wanted to, Dean could only save Sam's life so many times. Hell, he sold his soul for him! Sam knew for a fact that his big brother would not – could not – do it again. And while there had been a fraction of hope in his head that he would get out of this alive, the antagonizing bout of white-hot pain in his insides was enough to blast his hopes to shreds. He was going to die.

"Gah – Dea…. Uh…" Sam wasn't sure what he wanted to say, if he could find the strength to get any words out, but he couldn't help feeling like he had to say something. Last words, protests, anything. All that came out, however, were beginnings of words that melded into screams. It finally clicked in that the noises were his, which terrified him. Here he was, the only man who could stop the apocalypse from happening, and he couldn't even control the noises coming out of his own throat.

"Breath through it, Sammy. It will pass. Come on…" Dean's hands fluttered like confused birds over Sam, wanting to help but unsure what to do. The great hunter, man's man, didn't know what to do. Sam felt his big brother's fingers slide inside his, and his hand clenched onto them with no remorse of it's own.

"Dean p-p-please…" Sam squinted up at his brother through fogy and tear-showered eyes.

"Shhh! Save you're breath, man. Just calm down!" Dean sounded almost angry as he held a hand to silence Sam, although his eyes were wide as saucers and there was no colour in his face. He looked like a fate worse than death himself.

"I c… I ca…." God, now he was choking. There was suddenly something in his throat that hadn't been there before, and he tasted the salty-sweet taste of blood. Again. Sam squeezed his eyes shut, unable to stand it. "J-Just… just do it." When Sam opened his eyes to search for Dean's, his brother's figure danced in front of him like a mirage. He tried to look past the protective big brother to a man who could still see reason. Sam was going to die either way. The best thing Dean could do would be to put him out of his misery. "You've g… got your g-gun."

For a long time Dean didn't say anything, and his grip in Sam's hand loosened. When he spoke - after what felt like a year of waiting – Sam could barely hear him. "Sam… Don't say that" –

"P-Please!" While Sam had tried his hardest to enunciate, he could barely understand himself anymore.

He knew that Dean did, however, because his hand slid out of Sam's. And it twitched ever so slightly towards his back waistband, where Sam knew that he still had his .45 handgun. Dean grew very still. "Sammy…"

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For those of you celebrating Christmas, Ashura, Day, Bodhi Day, Virgin of Guadalupe, Santa Lucia Day, Las Posadas, Hanukkah, Kwanzza, and any other celebration this year, I hope you have a wonderful time! And Happy New Year to come! Go 2011!

Reviews are like Candy. That is all I want for Christmas this year. :P Please, Santa-readers, I've been good! *wink*