All Sam's wanted ever since he left his brother was to be reunited, and Dean rejected him.

After everything, Dean took his call at four in the morning, just to reject him. The little boy who'd carried Sam out of a burning building, who grew into the man who sold his soul because he couldn't live without his brother, told him to pick a hemisphere and stay away from him.

And it hurts so badly, more than it should. Sam's the one who walked away after all, and for good reason. When he made the decision, some part of him knew Dean wouldn't fight it, as desperately as he wanted him to. Wouldn't fight for him. And why would he? Sam knows he's a monster, and that Dean's done saving him. He knows the choices he made, to betray his brother over and over again. He knows.

But still, it hurts.

It hurts the first thing in the morning, when the pain is the first thing breaking through Sam's consciousness, and it hurts late at night, when the haze from the liquor doesn't stop it from echoing in Sam's skull. It hurts in the shower, on the road, and in every run-down diner he makes himself choke down food in. It just hurts, and Sam is so tired.

Monster. Monster. Monster.

He has no one anymore. He has nothing. And he wishes he could stop staring at the single gun he brought with him, wishes he could stop imagining the things he could do with it. But it's not Lucifer's promise to bring him back that stops him. It's not even the dying hope that Dean will one day trust him – love him – again. It's the simple fact that Sam doesn't deserve the peace of dying. He doesn't deserve to render Dean's time in Hell useless.

No, what he deserves is to feel this searing pain every day for the rest of his life.

Sam has recognized – if not accepted - the fact that he may never see his brother again when Zacariah pulls some of his angel BS and Dean does a 180 on his decision. The emotional whiplash is the sweetest thing Sam's ever felt, and he's terrified. He knows Dean doesn't want his apologies. He knows Dean doesn't want him. So instead of focusing in on how to make them brothers again, he's going to have to convince Dean to treat him as a partner. Treating him as he would any other hunter, even though the thought makes Sam sick.

So when they meet up, they don't hug. They don't smile. They barely get within five feet of each other. Dean addresses him as Sam, not Sammy, and there's bitterness in his tone and on Sam's tongue. But Dean hands over Ruby's knife, and Sam takes it. The closest thing to an olive branch the Winchesters can manage.

Then Dean apologizes, and Sam's heart freezes in his chest. He tells him that they're all each other has, and that they keep each other human. It's true, and it almost starts to break down the iron bars Sam has locked around his heart. Almost.

They try to find some sense of normalcy in the first few days together. Jokes that always seem to fall flat, time spent watching bad movies in the motel, half-hearted Bon Jovi singalongs in the Impala. Dean's trying. They both are. But their relationship is shattered glass. Sharp at the edges, destroyed – with no hope of ever finding all the slivers again. Every time Dean looks at him, Sam can still see the betrayal in his eyes. It burns, until Sam gives in and tries to drink enough whiskey that the burn is in his throat and not his heart.

Dean thinks Sam needs training wheels, and he's probably not wrong.

Sam thinks Dean's writing off this hunt too early, and he's definitely not wrong.

Dean vents to Bobby about Sam, and Sam wonders if Bobby hates him anywhere near as much as Dean does. Hell, as much as Sam hates himself. He wants so desperately to call Bobby, to hear the voice of the only other human being who might still give him the time of day. But Bobby is Dean's lifeline through all of this, and Sam won't split their allegiance, even if it's against him.

Sam hits breaking point, and his solution is to go their separate ways again, because as much as he was drowning on his own, he can't take this. Can't deal with Dean trying to pretend everything's okay when they both know it isn't. Can't live every day with the guilt of hurting the one person who's ever tried to save him from himself. The person Sam hid from so he couldn't be saved. He can't look at Dean day after day and see the disappointment, the disgust in his eyes. He saw it enough for a lifetime from John.

But instead of making his point and making a clean break, Sam fractures into shrapnel. He tells Dean that one of the reasons he went with Ruby was to get away from Dean. That the power made him feel like more than Dean's kid brother. And the second the words are out, Sam wants to vomit. It was so much more than that, the decision to trust Ruby. It was the crushing grief of losing Dean, the guilt of not being able to save him, the utter loneliness of being alone with the darkness in his mind. Ruby made him feel like he had a chance to do the right thing for once, after a lifetime of being a screwup who had to keep being saved by his big brother, even as a grown man. Sam opens his mouth to try to get some of this, any of it, out, but the look on Dean's face tells him he won't get far.

A phone call interrupts them – thank God or damn him – and then the pair are back in the flurry of activity that always encompasses a hunt. Normally, the two would find the idea of something wearing Paris Hilton's skin and attacking people hilarious. But today, Sam can't bring himself to care about it. Or anything else.

So they go back to the damn wax museum, trying to take out the damn thing. Dean splits off from him immediately, and all Sam wants is to prove to his brother that he can handle this. That he's not the liability that both of them know he is.

And then Gandhi's on his back, choking him.

Sam struggles, but this thing is strong – or more likely, Sam is in a lot worse shape from running himself into the ground than he cares to admit. He gets away for a split second before the spirit is on him again, and both tumble to the ground. Spots dance across Sam's vision as this thing chokes the life out of him, and for a second, Sam freezes.

For the first time in his life, he hesitates to yell for Dean. He keeps his mouth shut as his vision starts to tunnel, as the breath he should've used to scream is ripped from his lungs.

Dean must have heard the commotion, because he's busting through the doors seconds later and coming to Sam's rescue. Sam's starting to go limp just as Dean manages to burn Gandhi's glasses and Sam is freed. Choking down frantic breaths, Sam avoids Dean's eyes. Dean doesn't rush to him, doesn't ask if he's okay, doesn't say a word, and Sam is afraid to see the look on his face. He finally hears Dean exhale a breath, and make some joke about how of course Sam isn't a fan of anyone cooler than Gandhi. There's today's olive branch.

Sam drags himself up from the floor and the boys trudge back to the Impala, needing to regroup. Sam is wincing, rubbing at his throat, as Dean drives them back to the motel. At first, he's so quiet that Sam barely registers he's spoken. "Why didn't you yell for me?"

The breath catches in Sam's throat. "I didn't-"

"Didn't what, Sam?" Dean asks, clenching white knuckles on the steering wheel. "Didn't think you needed help?"

Sam is silent, clenching his jaw to keep the tears at bay. He tries and fails to think of an excuse that Dean would buy, but he can't make himself spit out another lie to his brother.

Dean pulls off the road, switching the car off and turning his attention fully to Sam. If possible, his voice lowers even further. "Did you not think I would help you?" The anger in his voice is shifting to something else now, something Sam can't place. "Because, Sam-"

"I didn't think I deserved it," Sam whispers, and Dean flinches. "It was just a split second hesitation, Dean. I was in my own head, and I screwed up again. I'm sorry." The raw truth hurts both of them to admit, as much as Sam tries to sugarcoat it. But he has to say it anyway.

"Sammy, by the time I got to you, you were almost out."

Sam freezes at the nickname, trying to choke back a sob. "I won't do it again."

"I'm not worried about you screwing up, I'm worried about you." Dean is staring at him now, intensity in his eyes, and Sam can't even tell anymore if he's angry or scared, or both.

"Why?" Sam blurts out, and Dean's eyebrows shoot skyward. He has to close his eyes as he mumbles, "you're going to kill me anyways."

"I'm going to what?" His brother's reply is incredulous, as if the idea never occurred to him. As if their father didn't tell him he might have to. As if Dean didn't leave him a voicemail saying just that.

Sam can't answer him, can't even look at him. Dean grabs him by the shoulder, forceful, desperate. Wordlessly, Sam pulls out his phone and hands it over. As much as Sam tries to block it out, he can hear the voicemail as Dean starts to listen to it. Sam tries to ground himself, focusing on his breaths, before he's startled by the sound of Dean opening the door and smashing his phone to pieces.

"What-" Sam starts, before he's wrapped in the tightest hug Dean's given him since Cold Oak.

"Sammy, I would never." Dean's voice is hitching now, and it sounds like he's fighting for control. "You've been living with me for days thinking I could kill you at any moment?"

Sam shrugs, the movement limited by Dean's crushing hug. "I deserve it."

"Stop saying that." Dean's voice breaks completely, and he takes a shuddering breath. He pulls away, forcing Sam to meet his eyes. "You do not deserve to fucking die, Sam."

"I would've done it myself, but-"

"You what?" Whatever had been hard to decipher in Dean's eyes is crystal clear now. Horror.

"Lucifer said he'd stop me," Sam finishes quietly.

Dean moves his fist in front of his mouth, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to stop the tears that are already flowing. "I told you to pick a hemisphere and stay away from me while you were trying to figure out how to kill yourself." The resignation in his voice stabs another spear of ice through Sam's already broken heart.

"I'm sorry," is all Sam can think to say. "I'm sorry I'm not strong enough."

Dean stares at him again wordlessly, for so long that Sam starts counting the moments. Then Dean wraps Sam in a crushing embrace once more. When they pull apart, Dean ruffles Sam's hair sadly, affectionately. Brokenly.

"Enough. We're going to go get some real food into the both of us, then we're going back to the motel to have whatever chick-flick moment we need to, then we're both going to get some sleep. And you're going to stop saying you're sorry, and I'm going to stop making you feel like you need to. And you're going to tell me if I need to lock up the guns," Dean says, deadly serious. Sam scoffs, but Dean holds his gaze. "If we're going to fix this, you're going to need to stick around. And we're going to fix this, Sammy."

"Fix what?" Sam asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Us, little brother."