I wake up breathing heavily and covered in a cold sweat, my heart pounding loud and fast. I was pulled out of my sleep by a nightmare, of jet-black eyes and sharp claws and pointy teeth, monsters and demons and worse.

I know I'm not getting back to sleep. Not in the emptiness of this dark room, anyway.

I wish I could. I'm exhausted after only getting a couple hours last night. Dean had stopped by at a liquor store on the way back and we shared a bottle of whiskey, taking shots until it was empty, the only sleep we got from dozing off in our chairs.

We'd had to go out in the morning, to try to figure out the case of who's been snatching local teenagers. Working with a hangover, on little sleep and after an emotionally taxing visit from a demon, was difficult, to say the least, so I really, really need some more rest.

I tiredly pick up my phone from my nightstand and turn it on, squinting my eyes at the sudden bright light. I scroll through my contacts until I find the one I want, and then I hit Call.

Sam picks up after three rings. "Hello?" he says groggily. I must've woken him up.

"Sam?" I say softly.

"Eva?"

"Yeah."

"Is something wrong?"

"No, not really," I say, even though there is. I'm scared. But I'd never admit that. "I just… was having trouble sleeping, that's all. Did I wake you up? Or Dean?"

"Just me," Sam says. I can hear him yawn.

"Sorry," I grumble.

"No, it's no problem. So what's up? Did you just call because you couldn't sleep?"

"Yeah," I say, biting my lip, debating whether I should say what I'm really thinking or not. I decide to go for it. "And… it's just that I don't want to be alone. When, you know. I will be so soon anyway."

"Oh," comes the voice from the other end of the line.

I'm starting to wonder if he hung up and went back to sleep when he adds, "I'll be right over."

There's a beep as he hangs up and ten seconds later there's a knock on the door.

I open the door for him and he steps in, still wearing his jeans and at least two layers of shirts, hair only slightly mussed from sleep. I, on the other hand, am looking very sloppy in a t-shirt and sweats, short hair sticking up wildly in every direction. I'm too tired to bring myself to care.

"Hey," I say, the corner of my mouth quirking up. The images of monsters flashing in the back of my mind since waking up finally stop, now that he's here.

"Hey," he replies.

I go and crawl back into bed, leaving him to close the door and then come over. He settles himself down on the bed so that he's on top of the covers, and I'm underneath.

He wraps an arm around me and I snuggle up next to him, relaxing in the warmth radiating off him. It's so relieving to not be alone. I'm sleepy again, now that the adrenalin from the dream has had time to fade and Sam's calming presence is nearby.

"Why couldn't you sleep?" Sam asks softly, his lips pressed lightly against my hair.

"Nightmare," I mutter. "I feel better now."

"Oh," Sam says understandingly. "It's okay. I've got you."

"No," I just say, too tired to explain that no, I don't need anyone else to protect me, I'm perfectly capable of it myself.

He seems to get it though, doesn't push for an explanation. He knows how I am with these things.

"Thanks for coming over, Sam," I murmur, my words slightly slurred by sleepiness.

"No problem," he says softly, voice still clear, unlike mine. I don't know how he can stay so alert on so little sleep.

I want to stay awake, to ask Sam what we're going to do now, or… to ask if he wanted kids and a family, or a normal life, or if he wanted kids with me… I want to talk to him about us and if we might be something more and if he'd have wanted the baby if I'd been able to keep it because it was his but also mine and if when he thought about having a normal, apple-pie life, it was me there beside him in that cookie-cutter house watching our children play on a neatly-trimmed lawn.

But I don't ask him any of that. The thoughts start to slip from my mind as I start dozing off.

I'm able to get out one sentence before I'm completely gone. "I love you, Sam," I hum quietly.

"I love you too, Eva," he murmurs back.

With our last chance of delaying the deal gone, we try to forget about it for the final two weeks. There are some differences, though. I treat myself to milkshakes and burgers instead of sticking with the usual salad that I would get to match Sam's. I get to ride in the front of the Impala when I want to. I get first pick for what job I want to take when we're out working on the case (as far as we can tell, a werewolf). I always choose the one that requires the least amount of effort.

It's almost possible to forget that I'm going to hell during the day. A sort of lingering sense of malaise stays with me, always, but it doesn't distract too much.

It's night that's the really gets me. After bothering Sam once in the middle of the night, I try to get by without him. I'll have to in hell, won't I? I'll have no one to look after me then. So when I wake up from the inevitable nightmares with a startled gasp, I just sit in the dark, trying to count to a million to calm myself down enough to sleep again.

It doesn't help a lot. My mind still wanders. You'll be dead in a matter of days. Ten days. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six. Five.

At four days left, we kill the werewolf in the town.

At three days, we tie up loose ends: make sure the werewolf was the only one around, all the missing people have their bodies accounted for, etcetera.

I have two days left when I start seeing things. I can't tell if its the proximity to my death-date or just the fact that I'm so sleep-deprived. I sometimes have to ask Sam and Dean to repeat things because one or both of them shift into monstrous beings when I look at them and I can't hear a word they're saying. When I try to do read any large amount of text, the words rearrange and shift, repeating words like hell or you're dead.

Tonight's my last full night before I'm gone.

Dean's out picking up as much salt as he can for when we—I, I correct myself—get a visit from the hellhounds.

It's just me and Sam in the motel room, loading rock salt rounds alone.

"Ugh," I groan after finishing the ones in front of me. I stand up to stretch and then go plop down on the edge of the bed. I close my eyes and hold my head in my hands. I'm so tired. I just wish I could sleep.

"I'm gonna die," I say after a few moments of silence.

"You're not," Sam says quietly.

"I am."

No response. I can hear him get up and come sit down next to me, though.

"Eva," he says, moving one of my arms down so he can see my face and tilting my chin up towards him as I open my eyes. I'd scowl but I just don't have the energy.

"I…" he starts. It sounds like the beginning of something emotional for him. But he stops, a conflicted look on his face. He cups my face in his hand. "I…" he starts again. But his face is too close to mine and somehow the few inches between us disappears, my lips meeting his in a tentative kiss. Sam's hands run down my back, pulling me closer to him, and suddenly we're kissing each other hungrily, unable to get enough of each other during these final hours before I'm headed towards eternal damnation.

"Wait," I gasp out, pushing Sam away. "I can't."

"What?" Sam asks, brows furrowed in concern.

"I can't, not now. I'm…" I give a forced laugh and gesture at myself. "Sleep-deprived, hallucinating, and basically just a mess. I can't do this now." I bite my lip and watch Sam's face. He takes a deep breath and nods.

"Okay," he says softly, his bright, sad eyes still focused on my tired ones.

There's the sound of the doorknob turning, and the door opens for Dean to come in, holding several bags of rock salt.

"Hey," he says, glancing between the two of us. "Am I interrupting anything?"

"No," both of us say at the same time.

"Okay," Dean says suspiciously. "Well, I got a shit-ton of salt, so we should be pretty well stocked up for the next…" He glances up at the ceiling as he makes an estimation. "The next year or two."

I smile weakly. "You guys'll be nice and stocked up when I'm not around to run errands for us anymore."

"I didn't get all this salt just for you to die," Dean says bluntly, raising his eyebrows at me as if daring me to challenge him. I shrug. "Anyway, Bobby called. Said we need to head about five hundred miles west."

"What? Why?" I ask.

"Six people dead, hearts torn out of their chests."

"So? Sounds like another werewolf. Can't somebody else take care of it?"

"I wasn't done," Dean says, shushing me. "On top of that there's been electrical storms, temperature fluctuations… Bobby thinks it's pointing to—"

"A demon," Sam finishes with a frown. "A powerful one."

"And we have to take care of this now, because…?" I ask.

"Last time we saw things like this…" Sam shakes his head. "We were searching for the demon that killed our mom."

"Oh," I say. "You don't think he's back, do you?"

"No, he can't be. I shot him myself," Dean says, a malicious but sure undertone to his voice. "We need to check it out anyway, because whatever it is, it's powerful."

"And it probably has something to do with you guys in some way or another, right?" I ask, rolling my eyes.

"Something like that."

"How far did you say it was?" Sam asks. "Five hundred miles?"

"About ten hours."

"Eva?" Sam glances towards me. "You okay with this? We could wait for a couple days."

I laugh darkly. "What, until I'm dead? No, I don't think so. I'm coming with you."

"All right," Dean says with a shrug. "Better leave tonight, then."

I stand up and shrug on my jacket. "Great. Let's get headed out, then."

I glance at the clock on the nightstand. Midnight.

Twenty-four hours left.