A/N: Welp, real life has been kicking my ass. Only one short month left in the semester! As always, thanks for reading. All mistakes are mine, not Mikey's.

Sam suspected that Hell was becoming familiar with him, like a feral dog gradually comes to trust a new master. He could feel his surroundings mold around him, conforming to the shape of his body as the seats of the Impala once did. Long ago and far away there lived a little boy named Sam Winchester.

Time rippled and swayed as his thoughts pushed against the mirage. Hell was endless and eternal, he knew this now. Sometimes at night he could see it stretching in his mind's eye; expanding constantly under the thick weight of tortured souls. He'd lost the ability to sleep somewhere under that ochre sky. The little boy lived with his father and brother, until one day a big bad demon ate them all up.

Sam stood, feet planted firmly in the ground as he surveyed his handiwork with a practiced eye. Each limb interlocked just so to form a perfect circle of hands clawing at each other. The extraneous parts were stacked neatly off to the side, sorted by function. He imagined Alistair would be proud- once the fun was over, a true professional always cleaned his work space.

Sam ambled over to the pile of heads and began methodically closing their eyes with trembling fingers.

"How sentimental," Azazel smirked from somewhere behind his left shoulder.

Sam merely shrugged and continued his task without looking up. He was no longer surprised by the demon's sudden, silent appearances. Don't take the bait. Focus. His fingers stuttered slightly, tickling against eyelashes of what had once been a human being. Eyes are the windows to the soul. Close the eyes, protect the soul. The sulfur, it stings.

Azazel stared at him with his head cocked to the side; a slow, affectionate smile spreading over his face. "You are a funny one. Always looking for a wall to butt your head against."

"You want something?" Sam grunted, trying to speak without moving his lips. They still tasted like blood.

"No, but I think you do," Azazel drawled, grinning wolfishly as Sam's eyebrow's knitted together in confusion. "Remember that brother of yours upstairs? You've been doing real good work, kid. Thought you might want to talk to him."

Dean.

The name was oddly foreign at first, a familiar phrase uttered in a strange tongue. Dean was old leather and Zeppelin hummed on breath that stank of whisky. He didn't belong with the snap of burning bone or the twisty black nightmares.

Slowly, Sam allowed the memories to bleed through- tossing a battered baseball across a motel parking lot, a hand on his forehead, "it's going to be alright" whispered in the dark. He hissed involuntarily. He'd kept Dean away, locked deep inside his psyche for protection from meat hooks, razors, and yellow eyes. Now, mixing the pure and the corrupt was like jumping into a frozen pond with his hair on fire.

He managed to nod at Azazel; oblivious to his hand, which was now clutching at the body's head, grasping a fistful of bloody, matted hair. "When?"

"Once Big Brother falls asleep, you and I are going to do a little dreamwalking. But first, you gotta drink your Ovaltine, Sammy."

The demon stepped forward, and Sam knew what was coming even before the razor glinted in the sunlight. Hot, sticky blood pooling in the crook of Azazel's elbow. His stomach rumbled.

He tried not to think about what Dean would say as he hunched over, lapping at skin like an animal. This is all for you, I swear. But even as he pleaded with the memory of his brother, Sam knew that wasn't the whole truth. The sickly sweet taste was part of him now. It inhabited the broken spaces in his head, filling in the cracks. It cradled his ego, hushing all the little voices that whispered you're not strong enough, you'll never be, and chased away the groping shadows.

Twenty three years ago, Dean had watched his life turn to ash in a single night. From that day on, he'd acted as a glue, squeezing into whatever role was needed to hold the family together.

Nearly two years ago, Jess had perished in an inferno, Sam's hope for a normal life dying alongside her. Since then he'd narrowed his vision until the yellow-eyed demon had been all he could see amongst the black.

Dean was purified by fire, Sam inhabited it.

Dean was on shot number I-don't-fucking-remember when he decided that the motel carpet would make just as fine a bed as any. Little mold, maybe some fleas. I've had worse.

The prickly green fibers echoed Cas' stubble against his cheek and he quickly sat up. No,no, not goin' for that gay shit again. S'over. Need another shot… His hand fumbled about for the bottle on the nightstand above him. It felt distinctly lighter than he recalled.

"Here's to you, Johnny Boy," he muttered absently to the empty room, deciding to forgo a glass altogether and gulp down a searing mouthful straight from the source. He craned his neck around slowly and felt his brain slosh inside his skull. Bleary eyes assessed that the salt lines were indeed intact. No fuckin' ghosts gonna bother me tonight.

"Dean!" Sam whispering in his ear, soft and excited like it was Christmas morning and he was five years old. When he still believed Dad would come back as surely as he believed in Santa.

No you can't, the salt…

He must've said that out loud because Sam chuckled.

"Open your eyes, stupid."

Dean cracked one lid carefully, preparing for the monstrous pounding of a hangover, but his head remained clear.

Sam was sitting cross-legged on the bed across from him, his face hidden outside the circle of light thrown by the bedside lamp. Dean could just make out a relieved grin.

Wait, I got a single…

"I'm dreaming."

Sam's grin faltered and he coughed nervously. "Yeah, uh, this was the only way I could, y'know-"

The hair on Dean's arms instantly stood at attention.

"You're in Hell." His voice was flatter and harsher than he intended.

Sam swallowed. "It was the only way I could save you. Dean, I-"

The elder Winchester realized he couldn't even muster up the energy to be angry. Just another addition to the list of Things Dean Fucked Up.

"We're gonna get you out." The phrase sounded unconvincing even to his own ears. A tired mantra already worn thin from mindless repetition.

Sam's shadowy head bobbed up and down. He expected this, but he doesn't believe me.

"It's okay, Dean."

"What are you talking about?!" Panic was rising hot and fast now, his father's words echoing ominously. Dangerous… Can't save him-

Sam shrugged, his lanky shoulders hunched. "I mean, everything you did back then? The deal?" Irritation crept into his voice. "You should have told me! Instead, you just let me walk out that door to go to Stanford-" He took a long breath. "I guess it's just my turn to sacrifice something for this family is all."

"Yeah, that doesn't mean going to Hell," Dean snarled.

"You seemed fine with it," even in the dark, he imagined Sam's lips pursing mulishly in preparation for a long struggle.

"Well, I was a seventeen year old kid with no other options. You should've gone back to school, met another girl."

"The demons say they have plans for us," Sam murmured quietly.

"And rotting in Hell is going to change that, how?"

"No, you don't understand they want-" The younger Winchester leaned forward into the light to grab Dean's arm as the door to the bathroom opened with a loud bang. Sam's lips were moving, forming words that were drowned out by a wrenching screech. Dean wouldn't have heard them anyway. All he could see was his brother looking up at him beseechingly through black, bottomless eyes.