A/N And I'm back! Seriously, sorry for the delay in posting this. The Holidays & health issues (my own and others') took me away from writing for a while. I'll try to post more regularly, again, but thanks to everyone for sticking with this.

A NOTE ON AUTHOR'S NOTES: Please read these. I mean, your choice, obvs, but… I try not to make them too long, but we are coming into Season/Series 04. Obviously, there are a LOT of differences in this season (and season 05) as I've killed off Ruby, and a lot of scenes will change, not necessarily enough to warrant a rewrite, but maybe enough that there will be an explanatory note. Hopefully, that will make it easier to follow.

We are going into Season 04, Episode 01 (S04e01), but first there will be some additional angst for Sam, who suddenly finds himself truly alone for the first time since Dean went to Hell. In s04e01, I felt like there was enough to warrant a rewrite, even though some dialog remains the same. This chapter only takes us towards Pamela, but the seance, etc. will be in the next chapter (Y'all have waited long enough, frankly).

TRIGGER WARNING: Allusions to past suicide attempts.

My usual cultural explanatory notes are at the end.

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Outside Haywood County Community Hospital

Emergency Room

Brownsville, TN

Monday September 15, 2008

2:21 a.m.

Sam stood in the shadows by the bushes outside the ER, watching as the trio of beaten, bruised and broken people — two men and a teenage girl — went inside, leaning heavily on each other.

He waited a minute more to be sure he could see someone paying attention to them, and turned away to return to where he'd parked the Impala around the corner, out of sight of the hospital's security cameras.

Seven demons in that warehouse, and he'd only been able to save three of the meatsuits.

He got into the car and started it, then pulled on to the main road and headed to US highway 79 and Clarksville, where Stunt Demon #4 (in a teenage girl that he hadn't been able to save) had told him there was a group of demons who reported directly to Lilith camped out and causing trouble.

A week after he'd killed Ruby he was definitely safer without the bitch drugging him with Demon Blood, but no closer to taking down Lilith. This was the third nest of demons he'd cleared out, each one pointing to the next nest working for Lilith, and sending him further from Illinois and Dean's grave. Indiana to Kentucky and now Tennessee.

He turned onto the highway and put his iPod on, continuing listening to a carefully curated playlist he'd made of 80's, 90's and 2000's songs chosen by him without a single piece of Mullet Rock in sight. It was his Driving playlist, a mix of beats and styles that he could sing along to (or not), and that weren't distracting from driving but had enough variety in beat and tone to keep him from getting hypnotized by the road.

The playlist had the added benefit of not reminding him of Dean.

It was also decent background for a mental rehash of the hunt he'd just finished.

It had been drummed into them from an early age that you reviewed a case when it was finished, to find out what went wrong so you could fix it, find out what went right so you could keep doing it. It had been Dad's rule that every case was discussed after, even if everything went perfectly (not that their father had ever admitted, even once, that Dean or — especially — Sam had done everything right), and he and Dean had kept up the practice. Ruby had hated it, considering it a waste of time, but it was what hunters did, according to the Oracle That Was John Winchester, so Sam did it.

He turned the stereo down slightly and began his analysis.

"So, what do you think, girl?" he wondered, patting the dashboard as he'd seen his brother do a million times. "Did we do okay?"

The Impala rumbled in the exact way she always did.

"I know, I know," Sam agreed. "I wonder that, too. Does what I do to the Demons kill the meatsuit?" He sighed, deeply. Demons weren't going to talk to him willingly, and the spells he'd used to get Ruby to talk only worked most of the time. He'd figured out that the demon he was interrogating had to be at least a little afraid of him for the spell to work properly.

He wasn't sure how he felt to know that Ruby, whom he'd counted (however incorrectly) as friend as well as lover, had been frightened of him. But it was damned gratifying to know that eighty to ninety percent of demons (at least the ones he'd met) were scared of him.

Of course they're scared of you, he heard Dean's voice in his head. You're a Winchester, dude.

He chuckled softly at the thought. "I'm Sam Freakin' Winchester," he said quietly and smiled to himself, then sighed again. "Yeah, Dean," he agreed, and glanced at shotgun, happy (and slightly disturbed) to be able to see easily imagine his brother leaning against the door, watching him. "And I know, I know. Those four meatsuits we lost, once I pulled the Demon out, it was obvious they'd been dead a while, but…that ain't always true, is it?"

Demons ride 'em hard and put 'em away wet, Sammy, you know that.

"Wet enough to kill them?" he countered. "I lose about twenty, thirty percent on average. What if what I do, pulling the demon out and pushing it back in, over and over… I know it's hard on the Demon, but what if it's too much for the victim? What if the spell that lets me know if they're lying, that makes them bleed, causes too much damage? What if…what if they would've been alive, if not for me?"

You don't know that. And if not for you, how long would the Demon have stayed in that meatsuit, huh? Doing horrible things to people and making the owner of the suit watch? Is that better?

"I don't know," he admitted. "Maybe."

Phantom Dean shook his head. That girl Meg Masters didn't think so. She was grateful we pulled that Demon out of her, even though she knew she'd die.

"Yeah. I guess."

You do good, Sammy. You are good.

Sam brushed a single tear from his cheek. "I don't know about that, Dean," he admitted with a sniff. "Because, even if I knew it would kill them…I'm not sure it would make a difference. In the moment, when I'm talking to the Demon, trying to find Lilith…I don't even think about it. I don't give a moment's thought to what I might be doing to the person, you know? Not until after." He sighed again as another tear fell. "We're supposed to save people, Dean. I'm supposed to save people, but…I don't even think about the people, just the Demon and what it can tell me! What does that make me, Dean?" he brushed his tears away again and looked quickly at the seat beside him, but Phantom Dean was gone.

He nodded, sadly. That was right, that Dean was gone, even from his head, at least for a little while. He didn't deserve his brother now…if he ever had.

He sighed again and didn't bother brushing the falling tears away. "You died on me, Dean," he said quietly. "And without you, I'm turning into a monster. Again."

He'd never told Dean how it had really gone in Broward County, after that horrible Wednesday, before the Trickster, disguised as Bobby, called him and Sam had convinced the bastard to bring his brother back. How for months he'd felt nothing at all, just kept moving and killing and looking for the one creature that could bring Dean — and his own humanity — back.

When Ruby had found him in his crappy motel room in Ely, it had been a mere three weeks since he'd left Rick's and gone out on his own to try to bring Dean back and, when that spectacularly failed, to find Lilith. In that short time, between Rick and Ruby, he'd killed 8 vampires, 7 werewolves, laid 3 ghosts to rest and interrogated and either killed or exorcized 16 demons. He'd saved at least 14 people (including 10 who had been possessed by the demons he'd taken on), and that hadn't made him feel better.

He'd saved 14 people, and it hadn't made him feel anything at all.

He hadn't felt anything, until Ruby found him, drunk off his ass and lying in his own sick, and told him to his face how far he'd gone off the rails, how brutal he'd become. (Honestly, Sammy, I don't give a rat's ass about vampires or werewolves, but I saw what you left behind, and it just about made ME puke. I'm a DEMON, Sam. What you did to them? Not even the worst monster deserved that.)

He'd dialed it back, with Ruby around to remind him that he was a hunter, not another monster; that he was human himself and that he needed to remember that, and to act like it. To feel like it.

Even if all he really felt was pain.

It had only been a week since he killed her, and he could already feel himself slipping back into the old, dark patterns.

"It'll be okay," he said to no one. "I'm getting close to Lilith and once I find her…once I make her pay for what she did to Dean, then I'll….I'll be better. I can…I'll take you back to Bobby's for a tune-up," he decided and patted the Impala's dashboard. "You'd like that, huh? Somebody competent under your hood for a change? Yeah," he nodded to himself. "I'll go back to Bobby's. And it'll be okay. I'll be okay."

He put his foot down on the accelerator, and headed for the next demon nest, the next link to Lilith, leaving his lies behind him.

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Astoria Motel

Plymouth, Illinois

Friday, September 19, 2008

7:18 pm

"Dean!"

Sam woke up suddenly, his brother's name on his lips. He looked around, finding himself on the couch in the little suite of rooms he'd rented in the semi-decent Astoria on a six month lease, the day he'd buried Dean in the woods nearby.

Apparently, he'd been unable to even get to the bed when he'd returned from the bar last night - or rather, early this morning. Disappointing, but not surprising: whenever he returned here, he tended to spend the first night in Pontiac getting shitfaced, even when Ruby had been with him.

It was the only way he could prevent himself from throwing himself on his brother's grave and never getting up again.

Calling out for Dean when he woke up wasn't unusual, either, given that he typically woke up from a literal nightmare about the living nightmare that had been watching his brother getting torn apart, then scooping the bloody, torn, sloppy remains into the coffin Sam had built with his own hands.

This was different, though. This wasn't a nightmare response. THIS was calling out to a mind he knew almost as well as his own.

Dean's mind.

Since he'd nearly killed Rick more than three months ago, all his Powers had come back, stronger than ever. It was one of the reasons he'd been so angry when he'd realized what Ruby was doing, slipping Demon Blood into the smoothies Rick (the health-freak bastard) had gotten him hooked on. He hadn't needed the extra blood to make him strong enough to exorcize even the strongest demons with his telekinesis, but she'd been dosing him anyway.

He'd have given a lot to understand what Lilith was after with that, but the headaches he'd been having the last few days had started to give him a nasty suspicion he wasn't quite willing to face.

The last of his abilities to come back online had been the telepathy, and even that was stronger than it had ever been, giving him the ability to, if not actually read the minds of strangers, then at least know when someone was nearby, especially if that someone was fixated on him (as, for example, when a demon or vampire or other nasty was about to jump him from behind). It made him a better Hunter; all his suddenly enhanced abilities actually were making him the best Hunter he'd ever been, and the Demon Blood he'd involuntarily drunk hadn't been the reason.

(He still couldn't quite figure out why he was so much stronger, but since he'd already been aware of the increase in power to his…Powers…before Ruby found him, he knew it wasn't the blood. Best explanation he'd been able to come up with was some kind of trauma response, a desperate need to keep himself — and everyone around him — safer, after having failed Dean and having to just hang there where he was pinned like a bug to the wall, watching his brother become a chew toy. Maybe some part of himself had ramped up the Power so he'd never have to go through that again. Which, fair.)

But this, suddenly waking up feeling Dean's mind seemingly so close and, from the way the presence just kept growing stronger, getting closer…

This was…

Concerning.

He'd known for a while that he was losing it — he regularly talked to the Impala, now, and okay, maybe that was just channeling his Inner Dean, but it was definitely not something he used to do.

And the fact that he could actually see Dean, sometimes, was weird, no doubt, but he'd gotten used to it, coming to feel that it was a perfectly rational way to keep his brother's memory with him.

He saw his brother, semi-regularly: lying on the extra bed he still got in any motel room he rented (including this one), eyes closed in something more like sleep than death. Or lounging in the shotgun seat when Sam was driving, giving him advice, or bitching about Sam's music, or just generally being a snarky (and so very missed) pain in the ass. Or over the edge of the front seat when he slept in the Impala (which he only did because it was easier than getting a motel sometimes, and not to feel closer to his dead brother.) Or sitting across from him at the inevitably tiny table in the invariably shitty motels, sniffing at the bacon cheeseburger (extra onions) or steak Sam had ordered to go along with his own salad (and if he didn't eat the burger or steak or double order of fries, well, he forgot how filling a salad could be, all right? And his forgetfulness was always appreciated by whatever homeless man or woman he found the next time he went out, so he was just being Charitable, Dean, shut up).

None of that was exactly normal mourning behavior, he knew that (and he hadn't needed Ruby to point it out, when she finally figured out why he sometimes stared at empty spaces, but damned if she hadn't mentioned it anyway, and pretended to be all concerned and worried and caring, the lying, duplicitous bitch).

But this, feeling Dean's mind, the well-known pressure of a mind so familiar, so dear, so missed… Well, even he had to admit that was something to worry about.

"You're getting awfully close to a jacket with no pockets, buckles and really long arms, Winchester," he told himself. "Get it together."

He pushed himself up from the couch and went down the short half-hall to the bathroom, flipping on the light to stare at himself in the mirror (and was that Dean standing behind him, just at the edge of sight in the mirror, like a little girl with a red balloon? And thank you, Doctor, for that little added paranoia in his life.), taking in the haunted look in his eyes (so usual now), and the new lines around a mouth that never smiled anymore.

Time for another talking to. These moments of what his therapist would have called "checking in with himself" and which he privately thought of as "shoring up the walls of sanity" were becoming more necessary, and more frequent, since he'd lost (no, Sam, not lost, killed, or rather, justifiably executed) Ruby.

Pathetic that a manipulative skank demon bitch had been the only thing keeping him sane for months.

"Dean's gone," he told the sad little boy in the mirror. "You did your best, Sam, you did, but you couldn't keep him out of Hell, and that wasn't your fault." (Yeah, sure, it wasn't.) "And you tried everything to get him back." (I must've missed something.) "It's not your fault that no demon would deal." (I just wasn't persuasive enough.) "It's not your fault the Devil's Gate wouldn't open." (My telekinesis is too weak. I'm too weak.) "It's not your fault that there's no spell anywhere in the lore to summon a damned soul." (I just didn't research well enough. You can summon a demon, you should be able to summon the damned.) "It's not your fault that your own spells can't pull him out." (I'm not strong enough, my magick is too weak, just like me.) "NONE of this is your fault, Sam. None of it. Dean knows that. Dean would tell you that. You know he would. It's not. Your. Fault." (But it is, it is, I failed him, he needed me and I let him down. Again. Always. Because I'm useless, when it really matters!)

He slapped on the faucet, splashed cold water on his face, let it drip into his hair, down his neck, into his shirt, then just braced his arms against the edge of the vanity, dropping his head between his arms.

"I'm sorry, Dean," he whispered and let the tears come (no one to hide them from now, no one to sneer or laugh or tease, and FUCK he hated being alone!).

He didn't know how long he was in the bathroom, but when the sobbing stopped, he found himself huddled on the floor between the toilet and the vanity cabinet, covered in tears and snot with, inexplicably, blood literally on his hands.

For a moment, he thought the blood was just (another) hallucination, but it was too tacky, too viscous, smelled too coppery to not be real, and when he pulled himself weakly from the floor and washed his hands, the sink turned pink before the water washed it away.

But there wasn't a mark he could see on him, certainly nothing large enough to cause the palms of his hands and his fingers to be covered. Nothing that would cause what he could now see was a decent-sized puddle on the floor where he'd been sitting.

"What the hell?" he muttered as he mopped up the red pool on the floor. "Where the…"

He searched the bathroom floor as he cleaned up the blood, unable to find any blade, weapon or even broken glass that would explain the mysterious injury.

When the blood was sufficiently mopped up, he stood, staggering slightly (certainly felt like blood loss), and peeled his shirt off, checking himself over for any signs of damage. Even if he'd healed himself, any cut that would have caused that much bloodshed would've left a faint scar behind, but there was nothing.

Well, nothing new, he didn't think. It was a little hard to tell, honestly. Over the years of hunting and abuse, his body had become a roadmap of pain and painful memories. Almost all of them having to do with Dean. Or Dad.

Lately there were a few more. Thin white marks running across his forearms, evidence of the times where just letting himself get the crap beat out of him by the Monster of the Week (before successfully ganking the thing - he might be self-destructive, but he wasn't irresponsible) hadn't been enough punishment for the way he'd failed Dean, the way he'd nearly killed his best friend, the way he continually let everyone important in his life down. (And then there were the 3 or 4 thin scars running up his arms, over his veins from wrist to nearly his elbows, but he tried not to think about those, tried not to dwell on how he couldn't even do that right, or on how disappointed Dean — and Bobby and Rick — would be that he'd even tried, nevermind that his healing kicked in before the job was done.)

Sam tended to avoid mirrors when he wasn't clothed.

Dean had, too.

By the time he'd put his long-sleeved t-shirt back on, he'd all but convinced himself that he'd imagined the whole thing, that the light headedness was caused by the crying bout and the awkward position on the floor; that the red-stained towel he threw into the bottom of the freestanding tub/shower was just covered in dirt, not blood.

He picked up his overshirt, was just about to put it back on, when someone pounded on his door.

"Dammit," he sighed and headed out through the living area, dropping his overshirt onto the couch on the way. It better not be that tweaker in 203 asking for drugs again, he thought and froze half-way to the door, flinching at the sudden onslaught of something strong, something familiar — something Dean — in his head.

He was squinting when he opened the door and stared, dumbstruck at his apparently alive and perfectly intact brother.

"Shit," he whispered and took a deep breath. "You've finally lost it, Winchester," he sighed and slammed the door in Dean's face, just as his brother started crossing the threshold.

"DAMMIT!" Dean covered his nose, sniffing slightly and checking to be sure it wasn't actually bleeding before he turned, confused to Bobby. "What the fuck was that?"

"Beats hell outa me," Bobby shrugged. "Let me try," he suggested and knocked again.

The door opened again, revealing Sam's frown. "Bobby?" His eyes flicked to Dean standing just behind his other father figure, before settling on Bobby again. "What…wh-wha-what are you doing here?"

"Gonna let us in, Sam?" Bobby asked, raising an eyebrow.

"U-us?" Sam whispered and finally let his gaze settle on the man standing behind his mentor.

"Yes, US, Sam," Bobby confirmed and took a step forward, forcing Sam to back away from the door. "Me…and Dean, here."

"Dean." The word was barely a breath in the air but the pain behind it was unmistakable and Dean had to force a smile against the reflected pain that squeezed his heart.

"Heya, Sammy."

And suddenly Dean was nearly bowled over by the one thing he'd been longing for since he'd woken up in that damned box — clutching, panting, living, breathing Little Brother.

"Dean," Sam gasped. "Dean, god, Dean," he chanted as the arm around Dean's neck pulled the shorter man closer, until they could feel each other's breath and heat and hearts, while his other hand desperately traveled from Dean's hair, to his back, to his neck and to his hair again, trying to convince himself the man so solid in his arms was really the one person who could make him better.

"Easy, easy," Dean soothed, wrapping his arms tightly around the boy. "It's me, Sammy, it's really me."

"I know, I know," Sam nodded and finally broke away, still keeping his hands on Dean's shoulders, letting them run up and down Big Brother's arms, to cup his neck and face and return to the shoulders again.

"Don't want to test him at all?" Bobby wondered, with the slightest hint of disapproval, even as his eyes sparkled with wetness in the low light. "Holy water, silver knife, nuthin'?"

Sam laughed and felt himself smile for the first time in he didn't actually remember how long. "No," he admitted and let his hands finally settle on either side of Dean's face, holding him still as he stared into green eyes he'd never stopped seeing, waking or asleep. "I've been — I felt you," he admitted and finally let Dean go, stepping back to wipe roughly at the tears he wouldn't let fall. "Your mind," he clarified. "Been feeling it since I got back to town last night."

Dean scoffed and nodded. "And it's not like you weren't expecting me, or anything."

"What?"

"Oh, come on, Sam, don't lie to me. What did it cost?"

"What?"

"Was it just your soul or something worse?" Dean got into his face. "What did it cost?!"

"What did…what cost?"

"Getting me out of the Pit, Sammy!" Dean snapped and gave his brother a hard push in the chest, shoving the kid backwards a startled step.

"I don't… WAIT." Sam's happiness and confusion vanished like a popped soap bubble, leaving behind an angry snarl. "You think I did this?!"

"That's exactly what we think!" Bobby confirmed.

Sam huffed and shook his head, clearly disgusted with the entire conversation. "Dean," he said coldly, "where'd you wake up?"

"In my coffin, 6 feet under!" Dean half-yelled. "Where'd you think?"

"Right. In. Your. Coffin." Sam shook his head again, glaring. "Underground. And you still think I did this?"

"I…" Dean started and stopped, blinking as his brain finally caught up to what his brother was saying. All the anger and accusation drained away and he reached out to pull Sammy back into another hug. "No," he sighed into the too-long hair. "No. Of course not."

"Umm," Bobby frowned and the brothers broke apart physically, standing side by side facing the confused hunter, but stayed so close the slightest sway from either of them would bring them in to contact again. "And why do we not think it was Sam?"

Dean smiled ruefully and ran a hand over the back of his neck. "If Sammy had known I was coming back," he admitted, "he'd have been there when I did."

"Yeah," Sam confirmed, and shot Dean a slightly disgusted side eye. "Like I'd ever let you wake up buried in a box and all alone if I'd had the slightest idea that you were back from Hell."

"Well, not that I'm not gladdened that Sam's soul remains intact, but it does raise a rather interesting question," Bobby frowned.

"Who did bring you back?" Sam wondered.

"Or what," Dean sighed and shook his head. "I got nuthin'."

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Unnamed two-lane highway

Just outside Plymouth, Illinois

Sunday, September 20, 2008

4:38 am

Sam watched Dean driving with rapt attention, reveling in the rightness of his brother back behind the wheel.

"There's still one thing bothering me," Dean admitted and Sam nodded.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, the night that I bit it. Or…got bit," Dean chuckled, pulling back the laughter at Sam's glare. "How'd you make it out? I thought Lilith was going to kill you."

Sam nodded and sighed. "She tried," he admitted. "She couldn't."

"What do you mean, she couldn't?"

"Well, she threw this bright, burning light at me, and it didn't leave a scratch. Like I was immune or something."

Dean shot him a worried glance. "Immune?"

"Or protected," Sam shrugged.

"Protected by what?"

Again, Sam shrugged. "Not sure, but…my powers, maybe? I mean, I wasn't hurt, but when she was gone — she smoked out as soon as we both realized she'd failed, and don't even ask me who was more surprised about it — but I…well, all my powers were gone after that."

"Gone?" Dean repeated. "So, like you're just hu-normal now?"

Sam closed his eyes briefly, pushing down the hurt at the word that had almost escaped his brother. "No," he admitted, opening his eyes again. "I mean, I was powered down for a while, about a month, but then…it all came back. Kind of…suddenly. And sort of…bad."

"Bad?" Dean shot him another look. "How bad?"

"I was staying at Rick's for a while, and one night he tried to wake me from a nightmare…"

"Oh, shit," Dean muttered. "That can't have gone well."

"It did not, no," Sam sighed. "I didn't know my powers were back until my telekinesis decided he was a tennis ball and tried to throw him out the window."

"Ooof," Dean winced.

"Yeah," Sam agreed dryly. "My room was on the third floor. If the window had been opened, I'd've killed the poor bastard. As it was, the glass and the frame cracked. I left the next day."

"He threw you out?!"

"No! Of course not," Sam defended his friend. "I mean, he should have, but he tried to get me to stay."

"So why'd you go?"

"Because clearly I was a danger to him."

"Sam…"

"No. Dean. Look. I was out of practice, and out of control," Sam explained, "and even if I weren't, my using my powers might've pulled those fucking Cloud Things from Bobby's right to him. I couldn't take the chance."

Dean nodded thoughtfully. "Okay. So you left Rick's, when?"

"First week in June."

"And you've been hunting on your own all this time?!" Dean snapped. "Over three months?! Who do you think you are, Dad?"

Sam rolled his eyes at the comparison, then looked out the passenger door window. "I wasn't…I mean I didn't….I meant to hunt alone…" he admitted and jumped when Dean reached out to smack him in the arm. "Hey!"

"Idiot."

"I'm dangerous to be around, Dean," Sam reminded.

"Whatever. You think of ditchin' me, and I'll kick your Sasquatch ass!" Dean snapped and glared when it just made his little brother grin. "Wait. What do you mean, you meant to?"

"Umm. Yeah. About that," Sam began sheepishly. "There's something I have to tell you," he admitted. "A couple things, actually. And when I tell you the first part, you're not going to like it. And when I tell you the rest…you're gonna hate it. But it's over!" he hastened to add. "I already took care of it. As soon as I figured out what she was doing, I….I took care of it."

"She?" Dean repeated. "Sam…."

"Ruby," Sam interrupted. "I was hunting with Ruby. For a while!" he quickly added, staring at his brother's clenched jaw and the pulse jumping in Dean's forehead. "But it's over! I swear to God, it's over, for good."

"For good?" Dean glared. "And I should believe that why?"

"Because I killed her."

Dean glanced at the side of the road, then ahead at the taillights on Bobby's Chevelle. "Son of a…Start from the beginning," he demanded, and kept following Bobby, no matter how much he wanted to be able to focus solely on his brother right then.

"Well, right after I left Rick's, the first thing I did was head back to Pontiac, to the crossroads near your grave."

Dean scoffed, and nodded. "Wondered why you picked that location."

Sam nodded. "I told you I'd get you out of it," he shrugged.

"And I told you to leave it alone!"

"Like you'd leave me in Hell!" Sam challenged and Dean just rolled his eyes.

"That's different," Dean began.

"Why? And DON'T tell me it's because you're the Big Brother," Sam warned. "I may be younger than you, Dean, that doesn't mean I love you any less than you love me!"

Dean scowled. "Oh, we're going full chick-flick now?"

"Don't give me that no chick-flicks crap, Dean," Sam snapped, starting to build up a head of steam that was impressing even Dean, "that's just a macho bullshit excuse for not dealing with your own shit. You're my brother, you mean the world to me, and there is no universe where I'm not coming after your ass if you get thrown in Hell, or anywhere else! And I don't give a flying fuck who's older and who's younger, we're brothers. That's reason enough!"

The silence that filled the cabin of the Impala was surprisingly comfortable as the brothers both dissected Sam's impromptu speech.

"Damn, Sammy," Dean finally said, his voice quiet and respectful, but somehow slightly amused. "Been sittin' on that one a while, ain't ya?"

Sam chuckled. "Yeah, I guess so. Sorry."

"No, no, it's…It's all right," Dean decided. "You're right. We're brothers. We're never leaving each other behind. Go on. You went to the crossroads…"

"I summoned 6 different demons, nobody would deal. Apparently, now that Lilith had you where she wanted you, all demons were forbidden from taking any deal from me. Or Bobby, for that matter."

Dean nodded and sighed. "Can't say I'm surprised," he admitted. "Although, that just makes it even weirder if some damn Demon pulled me out."

"Yeah," Sam agreed.

"And after the crossroads…?"

Sam shifted in his seat and stared at the hands clenched in his lap.

"Sam. What did you do?"

"Nothing, as it turns out," Sam sighed. "It didn't work."

"What did you try to do?" Dean growled, his body tensing at the growing fear roiling in his belly.

"Um…I went back to Wyoming?" Sam admitted and hunched his shoulders, leaning closer to the passenger side door, trying to make himself a smaller target.

"You WHAT?"

"I tried to open the Devil's Gate," Sam admitted, wo quickly the words almost ran together, and winced when Dean slammed a hand against the steering wheel.

"DAMMIT, Sam! Of all the stupid… reckless… idiotic… STUPID things to do!" Dean shouted. "What exactly was your plan, genius? I'd been, what, a month dead and in Hell and you think I've got the mojo to, what, just crawl out?!"

"Maybe!" Sam yelled back. "You're stubborn enough, that's for damn sure. And if you couldn't, I…" he cut himself off.

"What?" Dean challenged coldly. "What would you do, Sammy? What was your grand plan, fight your way into Hell and rescue me?"

"YES!"

Sam said it with such assurance that Dean almost believed the kid could. He ran a hand over his hair and squeezed the back of his neck. "Well, thank fuck it failed, then, Dumbass," Dean hissed and put his hand back on the steering wheel. For a second he thought about letting it go, recognizing the pain his brother had been in - and the fact that he'd probably have tried the same thing. But…nah.. "No, you know what? You listen to me, little brother," he demanded and grabbed Sam's upper arm hard enough to bruise. He gave a quick glance to the familiar headlights ahead of him, then shot a stern look at his brother. "You ever do something that stupid and reckless again, for any reason, and I swear to god, Sammy, I will give you a beat down your healing won't be able to fix for a week! You got me?!"

Sam just nodded, subdued. "I got you."

Dean slowly let go, giving Sam's arm a gentle rub over the place where he knew he'd just left a nasty bruise. He looked at the stoic, determined look on his baby brother's face and sighed, shaking his head. "And you'd do it anyway," he realized. "Dumbass. Okay, so Devil's Gate. Then what?"

"Then I started looking for spells."

"Spells."

"Yeah."

"To….what? Open Hell?"

Sam shrugged. "That or…summon you."

"Summon me," Dean repeated and barely suppressed a shudder. What if Sam had done it, succeeded in summoning Dean from Hell? What if he'd done it after Dean got off the rack? Dean swallowed heavily and shivered.

"Dean?" Sam frowned, surprised and disconcerted by his brother's response.

"So obviously the summoning failed," Dean noted and ignored his brother's questioning gaze. "Then what?"

"All the spells failed, and I finally realized there wasn't any way to get you back," Sam admitted his failure, his voice cracking with sorrow and not a little bit of shame.

Dean shook his head and reached out to his brother again, this time putting a gentle hand on one broad shoulder. "Not on you, man," he promised. "I did it. Not your mess to clean up."

Reluctantly, Sam nodded. Not that he agreed, but he knew there was no arguing Dean out of that position, so he'd just let it go. For now.

"So, once I realized I couldn't get you back, I went after Lilith. Trying to get a little payback, you know?"

Dean nodded, sagely. "Right. Because that always works so well for Winchesters," he said and shot an annoyed glance at his brother.

Sam shrugged. "I had to do something, Dean," he said quietly. "Otherwise, I…I had to do something," he repeated.

Dean frowned and looked at his brother again, thinking otherwise what? There was something in his little brother, some quiet, desperate something that hadn't had time to dissipate since they'd been together these last few hours.

He knew Sammy had walked out on both Bobby and Rick, not even answering calls, but then he'd taken up with that Demon Bitch, and he'd…what?

"You said you intended to hunt alone," Dean recalled. "Did you?"

"Yeah, for a little while. Three weeks or so."

"And in that time you tried 6 demon deals, went to Wyoming and then tried a bunch of spells?" Dean marveled. "And then you actually had time to hunt? Damn, Sammy, did you sleep?"

Sam looked out the window. "Not well," he admitted softly.

Dean glanced at Sammy again, and remembered the first months after Dad had…

No, he knew his brother hadn't slept well the last few months.

"So three weeks alone," Dean pressed. "And then…"

"Then I found a nest of demons," he admitted. "I'd found a few demons before that, interrogated them, looking for leads to Lilith. That nest in Ely was supposed to be a group of 3, maybe four mid-level demons, and they were supposed to meet up with Lilith." Sam swallowed, and sighed deeply. "It was a trap," he confessed. "One I should've seen. One you would've seen. But I didn't. Not only wasn't Lilith there, but there weren't 3 or 4 well-trusted demons. There were 10 or 12 thugs. I was dead meat, the moment I walked in."

"Shit," Dean breathed. "But…you're here. I mean…did you…how bad were you hurt?"

"Almost not at all," Sam assured. "Because Ruby showed up. Between us, we took the whole nest out. Well, she took most of 'em, including one that was about to literally rip my lungs out. She saved me, Dean. She didn't have to. But she did."

Dean nodded. "So you trusted her."

"Not at first. But a couple more fights, a few leads she dug up that panned out…yeah, I started to trust her," Sam admitted and laughed softly. "Also, full disclosure? Apparently, you're not the only Winchester who thinks with his dick, on occasion."

"Ew, Sammy!"

"She had a different body this time," Sam hastened to explained. "Brunette. Athletic. Tiny. Ethically harvested."

"Ethic…WHAT?"

"Yeah, the meatsuit? A comatose Jane Doe. Ruby possessed her just before they pulled the plug. All on the up and up. I checked."

"Well, that's…actually, I don't know what that is."

"Better than the alternative," Sam said firmly. "Better than another Meg, some poor girl just taken over against her will, for months or years. Can't imagine anything worse," he shuddered, remembering the few snatches he had of his time being possessed by the same demon that had killed poor Meg Masters.

I can, Dean thought. Now, I can't stop imagining it. But he said nothing.

"So she got your trust and your…" he glanced at Sammy's lap, "parts."

"Jeez, Dean!"

Dean chuckled. "Why'd you kill her, if she was such a…help."

Sam frowned and shrugged again, his shoulders hunching forward in that way that meant he was embarrassed. "See, this is the part you're gonna hate."

"I hate it already, Sam," Dean assured him. "You should've listened to me from the get, and ganked that bitch as soon as you found out what she was!"

"I know," Sam nodded. "I know. You're right. But I…I got no excuse. I just…I knew I couldn't trust her, I just didn't think she'd do…THAT."

"Do what?" Dean asked cautiously, reasonably sure he didn't want to know.

"When she found me, she tried to convince me that the only way I could get strong enough to take on Lilith was …well…"

"Drinking demon blood?" Dean challenged. "Christ, Sam! Tell me you're not that stupid!"

"I said 'no'," he reassured his brother. "I would've even if you hadn't made such a big deal about it, but it was practically your dying wish, Dean. So, no. I turned her down."

"Good."

"So, she started putting it into my smoothies."

"Is that what the kids are calling it these days?" Dean frowned.

"It's a health drink, Dean," Sam glared at him. "Rick got me onto them. I'd pick up a few and keep 'em in the cooler, and pretty much as soon as I said no to the blood, she started mixing the blood into them."

"Holy shit, she roofied you?"

"Basically, yeah," Sam nodded. "I only figured it out because I had a dream about it. I confronted her and…in the end I, I killed her," he said softly, and turned to look out the passenger window again.

Dean glanced over at him, and sighed. Well, Sammy wouldn't be the first guy to fall for the wrong chick, to trust the wrong person. Still…

"Jesus, Sammy. Next time you wanna get laid, can you at least make sure she's human first?"

Sam chuckled. "Right." He yawned, wide and long. "Sorry."

Dean looked at him, his expression so openly affectionate that it would have embarrassed him if Sam had pointed it out.

Sam wouldn't have dreamed of saying or doing anything to erase that look.

Dean reached over and patted his brother on the arm. "Get some rest, Sammy," he urged. "We gotta ways to go yet. Grab a few Z's."

Sam nodded and settled easily into the corner between the seat and the door, like he'd been doing for most of his life.

Dean smiled softly as Sam's breathing started to even out almost immediately.

"That's right, Sammy," he said quietly. "Stand down, little brother. Big brother's got you now."

Dean turned back to the road, shifting comfortably in his seat, feeling the leather wrap subtly around him.

It had been a long, long time, and he had the feeling that Hell would never be far away. He glanced at his brother, finally noticing the shadows under the lashes, the slight hollowness of the cheeks, the pallor of the skin. Maybe it wouldn't be away from either of them, not for a while.

But they were together again, and that was what counted.

Like Sam had told Dad all those years ago — Sammy, Dean and Dean's baby. It was all he needed to finally convince himself, to convince them both.

Dean was Home.

SPN=====SPN=====SPN====SPN====SPN====SPN

A/N

A straight jacket, which has lots of buckles and arms that tie in the back (and no pockets), is sometimes used to restrain violent mental patients. (I think they're still used, but even if they are not, they are definitely something Sam would be familiar with, from old TV if nothing else.)

When Sam thanks the "Doctor" he is of course referring to Doctor Who the longest running Science Fiction show in the world. It originally ran on the BBC in the UK from 1963 - 1989, and was rebooted in 2005. The little girl with a red balloon in the corner of the mirror is a specific reference to the 10th Doctor (David Tenant) episode "The Family of Blood" (reboot season 3, episode 9).