My heart bleeded, girl

Part 1

Part 2

Slowly, Dean blinks awake. His neck is stiff; his back twisted and bent. He has no idea where he is, but whatever he's lying on is hard as hell.

The floor. He's on the floor, and oh, fuck. Panic fills him and he sits up too quickly, blood rushing from his head, leaving his brain fuzzy. Spots dance around the edges of his vision and he closes his eyes again.

Sam.

Dean doesn't turn his head to look at the bed next to him. Sam is there, stretched out and cold. Lifeless. Everything that happened suddenly catches up with Dean and he turns his head, wrenches himself to his knees and throws up, vomit spattering on the floor between his hands.

Dean thinks maybe he'll never stop puking and his stomach heaves against the truth screaming in his head.

Sam is dead.

Dean spits and gags. His nose runs and there are tears on his face.

Eventually, his stomach long empty, Dean sits back on his haunches and leans his shoulder against the bed. He doesn't look; he can't look at what's on it, at who's lying there dead. He squeezes his eyes closed and wipes his nose on his shirtsleeve.

There's a sudden warmth against the back of Dean's neck, familiar and almost soothing. It makes him look over at Sam in spite of himself, in spite of his best efforts.

"Sammy," Dean says in a hoarse whisper. His throat is wrecked, raw and painful. He doesn't want to cry, doesn't want to lose control like that. He's afraid if he does he won't be able to stop, but it feels like part of his soul has been torn away from him. He feels hollow and emptied out.

Sam's not here anymore, and half of Dean is missing.

He's crying and he doesn't even realize it until he hears ragged sobbing and knows it's coming from him. Dean gives up then, lets the sobs take him, carry him away, until he's somewhere else entirely.

*

~ Dean may only be four years old, but he understands that Daddy crying is something that's not supposed to be mentioned. Dean's not talking much anyway; there's no point in saying anything if Mommy's not there to hear him. But even if he felt like talking, he wouldn't tell his Daddy not to cry so much.

Daddy thinks he's hiding. He thinks Dean can't hear him at night, can't see his red eyes in the morning. The way he sometimes just sits, Baby Sammy on his lap, and stares at things Dean can't see.

So he can't tell his father not to cry, because when Daddy cries, it's a secret. But Dean has a secret, too.

Mommy always said there were angels looking out for him, and Dean knows that someday, angels are going to make everything all better, and then Daddy won't cry anymore. ~

*

Sam puts his hand on the back of Dean's neck, gripping it as tightly as he can. He thinks Dean can feel him, thinks he's at least aware of Sam's touch even if he doesn't know what it is.

He keeps his hand in place while Dean cries, even though he's distracted by something, something he can still only get a glimpse of out of the corner of his eye.

Finally, Dean falls asleep again, exhausted by grief, and Sam turns his attention to the rest of the cabin.

Sam keeps seeing movement. He sees a dark shape that hides in the corners, slips past the window, moves across the floor. It's always on the edge of his sightline and he can never actually see what it is, no matter how quickly he turns his head to catch it.

It's silent, slipping past him like a shadow, and it's damned distracting. Dean sits huddled on the floor, weeping. Sam's heart is breaking and he wants to know what the hell is in this cabin with them.

"Dammit," he growls, looking furiously around the room. "Goddammit, show yourself! Let me see you!"

He turns around and there, standing in front of him, is a pretty girl with smooth dark hair and the most serene expression Sam has ever seen. She smiles softly at him.

"Who are you?" he asks, her sudden appearance causing a flicker of anger to spark under his skin. "What are you?"

"I'm a reaper, Sam. I've come to collect you." Her tone is certain, absolute, and Sam instinctively takes a step back.

"No," he says, shaking his head. "No way." He looks over at Dean, certain he can't leave him alone to deal with so much grief and regret.

The girl tilts her head to one side and regards him with interest. She doesn't seem to be surprised by his answer. "Your time here is over, Sam. You need to accept that and move on."

"No," Sam says again with absolute certainty. "Dean needs me to stay here."

"He won't know you're here, Sam. What would be the point of staying?" Her voice is soft, soothing, almost mesmerizing.

"Look at him," Sam says, pointing furiously at his brother. "I can't leave him here like this."

"You can't take him with you, either, Sam. Not now. Once before, or after, in another time – " she stops, and Sam waits, but all she does is shake her head ruefully. "Not this time."

Sam has no idea what she's talking about, and he really doesn't care. Dean is devastated, too broken for Sam to leave him behind. He's left before, but this time he won't. He can't.

"You have a choice, Sam," the girl says. "You can stay with him, but Sam, think about what that will mean. He'll never be without you, but he won't know that. He may sense that you're here, but he'll never know for sure. You'll have to watch him grieve for you, and you won't be able to do anything about it. You'll be a ghost, a thing that Dean would hunt if he could. Most spirits are confined to a place, but you would be bound to a person."

She tilts her head and looks at him, an unreadable expression on her face. "You and Dean are different, Sam," she says, and Sam has no idea what she's talking about. "Dean will age, and then he'll die and move on, and you'll be without him, because once you make this decision, Sam, you can't change your mind. You can't go back and fix it the way you want it. This is forever." There's something in her voice that makes Sam think she's lying, but her eyes are guileless.

"I don't care." Sam doesn't even have to think about it. He can't leave Dean again. "I won't go with you."

The girl studies him, her gaze somber. She's not like any reaper Sam ever imagined, certainly not like that wrinkled old guy Dean saw in Nebraska. She tilts her head, raising one perfect eyebrow.

"It's your choice. It's not the way it's supposed to be, but I can't force you." She smiles gently. "Well, I can, but I won't." She turns and walks a few feet away then pauses, staring out the window at the night sky while she waits for him to decide.

Sam doesn't hesitate. He's sure about this, more sure than he's ever been in his life. He won't become something Dean wanted to hunt. Sam's not a monster and Dean won't let him become one. Sam has faith.

"I'm staying."

The reaper turns to look at him over her shoulder. "If you're sure?"

Sam nods. "I'm sure."

She stares at him a moment more, and then she's gone.

Sam feels relief and almost overwhelming terror at the same time.

"Dean," he says. "It's okay. I'm not going anywhere." He's not sure if he's offering reassurance or seeking it.

There's no response from his brother, but Sam hadn’t expected one. He tries not to panic as he watches Dean, overwhelmed by grief and oblivious to Sam's presence.

And he thinks about the decision he just made.

*

Dean wakes with a start, sitting up so fast that he almost knocks his head on the bed he's sprawled next to. He's disoriented for a moment, trying to figure out where the hell he is, and then it all comes crashing back in on him.

He fell asleep on the floor next to the bed where Sam's body is laid. Sam is dead. The knowledge sweeps through him with a devastation that takes his breath away. He tastes the sharp metallic edge of his adrenaline rush in the back of his throat and he almost chokes on it.

Rolling to his side, Dean pushes himself to his hands and knees. His head hangs down between his arms and he makes himself take slow, steady breaths. He breathes in the smell of vomit and clamps down on the urge to gag.

He keeps his head turned away from the bed.

Dean has no idea how long it takes, but eventually he manages to stagger to his feet. He sways in place, closing his eyes against the momentary head rush.

Grabbing his duffle out of the corner where he threw it earlier, he pulls a t-shirt out at random and quickly swipes it through the half-dried vomit on the floor.

The abandoned shack they've been squatting in comes without the amenities of indoor plumbing and Dean has to piss, so he makes his way outside. He tosses the dirty t-shirt away as he heads toward the nearby woods.

The night air is cool and sharp, and it clears his head. He sees Bobby asleep in his car, so he wanders a dozen yards away from the cabin, unzipping his jeans as he walks. It's a sign of how exhausted they are that Bobby sleeps through the noise of Dean shuffling around in the dried leaves and dead branches that litter the ground surrounding the cabin.

Not that Dean is particularly noisy. One of the first things Dad taught him when he was little, before Dean even knew why they lived the way they did, was to move as silently as possible, regardless of where he was or what he was doing.

*

~ Dad said they were going camping. Dean didn't know what that meant; he'd never been camping before, but he was excited. Going camping seemed to make Dad less mad, so that made Dean feel lighter, and that heavy feeling in his chest that was always there got a little better.

At first, camping didn't seem to be much different from what they usually did, which was drive a lot. Sometimes at night they stayed in a motel and Dean really liked that. There was usually an ice machine and Dean loved the sound the ice made when it tumbled down into the plastic ice buckets that were in the rooms. He was in charge of getting ice whenever they stayed in a motel and Dad said it was an important job.

Dean's chest swelled with pride whenever Dad put an ice bucket in his hands and said, "Okay, Dean, I need you to go get ice. Look at the map and find the ice machine. Then see how fast you can make it back here."

And Dean would squint up at the small map on the back of the motel room door until he could see the word that Dad said meant ice. ICE. He knew those letters, just like he knew the letters that spelled his name. DEAN.

Then he'd dash out the door, picturing the map in his head, looking around and trying to figure out if the numbers and squares on the map meant to turn here at this corner, or down there by the railing. It was always easy to find the ice if there was a Coke machine nearby, because that's where the ice was, and Coke machines were easy to hear, humming loudly in the silence of the late afternoon.

If he got back to the room with the ice really fast, Dad would pat him on the shoulder and say, "Good job, buddy." Dean liked that part the best.

Anyway, camping didn't seem to have ice machines. They didn't sleep in motels when they camped; they slept on the side of the road, tucked back away from the highway in a bunch of trees, or sometimes deep in the woods next to a stream. Dad had a small tent, just big enough for Dean and Sammy to sleep in, and Dad slept in a sleeping bag right outside the tent.

Sometimes Dean asked if he could sleep outside, too, but Dad always said, no, Dean had to sleep inside to make sure Sammy was okay, in case he woke up and stuff. So Dean would take one last look up at the star-filled sky and say, "Night, Dad," and duck into the tent to watch over his little brother.

During the day, while Sammy took a nap on the scratchy old green blanket Dad kept in the trunk of the car, Dad would show Dean how to walk around in the grass without stepping on any twigs, and how to step real quiet on the leaves when they turned orange and red and fell down out of the trees.

Sometimes Sam would wake up and Dad would carry him around on his shoulders while he and Dean practiced walking real quiet, or Sam would sit and play with his stuffed bear while Dad showed Dean how to make a fire and cook stuff.

Dean liked it okay, and Dad smiled more when they were in the woods, but sometimes he missed the ice machines. ~

*

Dean pauses with his hand on the cabin door. He doesn’t want to go back in there, can't bear the thought of what's inside.

But he can't leave Sammy alone in there. He has to watch out for him, watch over him. It's his job.

Straightening his shoulders, Dean pushes the door open and goes inside. He's immediately struck by how different it feels. It's warmer, for one, although that could just be the difference coming in from the cold night air. But it had been damp and chilly in here before and now the air feels softer, warmer somehow.

Dean raises his head, sniffing. He swears he smells…well, it smells almost like Sam's aftershave. Old Spice, because it's cheap and it's what Dad used, what they used when they'd started shaving, because it was there.

And that's impossible. He must be imagining things. Sam's dead, and he sure as hell hadn't shaved since he'd been dragged off to Cold Oak, and Dean's shit is still in his bag, because he sure as hell hasn't worried about shaving since Sam disappeared, and maybe Dean is losing his mind.

"Sammy?" he whispers. It feels like the air around him moves, just a little, a soft, warm caress and Dean shivers. He shakes his head to clear it. This isn't the time to lose his grip on reality.

Although, truth be told, if this isn't the time, Dean doesn't know when would be. Reality is more than he can deal with right this minute and the temptation to sink into some kind of despair-soaked fantasy is almost overwhelming for a minute.

He decides an excellent alternative to that is a whiskey-soaked stupor and he reaches for the bottle of Jack on the battered table by the window. Tipping his head back, he ignores the fact that the smell of Old Spice is stronger than ever. He lets the taste of the whiskey override everything.

Dean doesn't fall sleep, not really, but he lets the whiskey tug him down, allows himself to drift for a while. He sits at the table, arms folded next to the greasy pizza box, with his head tucked into his elbow as he dozes.

*

Sam is inordinately pleased with himself. It may not count as a huge accomplishment in the grand scheme of things, but he managed to move things around in his duffle bag enough to spill some of his aftershave.

He can see Dean relax as soon as he notices it and although he wishes Dean wouldn't take refuge in the seemingly bottomless bottle of whiskey, he's content to watch as his brother dozes at the table.

All he needs to do is practice and soon he'll be communicating with Dean with no problem.

*

Dean doesn’t know how long he drifts in and out of consciousness, but his neck becomes increasingly painful from his twisted position. Finally he raises his head, eyes bleary and crusted over with weariness.

It's close to dawn. There's a faint light coming in through the tattered curtains at the window, almost imperceptible, but there nonetheless. It's chilly again inside the cabin, which Dean's brain helpfully points out is a good thing. There's a dead body in here to keep cool, after all.

Dean gets to his feet abruptly, shoving the chair back and away from the table. The smell of cold pizza assaults his nostrils, and he swallows down a gag, choking on the stench of coagulated cheese and bright orange pepperoni grease.

He's gotta piss again, so he opens the door of the cabin, listening to it creak in the silence of the early morning. It's early enough that the birds are still silent, but the smell of rain is in the air and Dean knows that when the mist lifts, it'll be damp and unpleasant.

Dean's been all over the country during the course of his life, and he knows every place has its good and bad points. No place is perfect, and no place is all bad, but he swears, right now, that if he never comes back to this part of South Dakota again, it'll be too soon. He's never been anywhere as unpleasant as this goddamn miserable bit of real estate.

Bobby's awake, climbing stiffly out of his car, nodding to Dean as he heads off to his own tree to take care of his morning business. Dean waits by Bobby's car until comes out of the woods, studying Dean's face thoughtfully.

"I'm gonna head out for a bit, check on a few things, maybe pick up some food. You boys –" Bobby stops, blinks, swallows, and doesn't say anything else for a minute.

Dean thinks he hears a quiet snort, and he's instantly livid at Bobby even as he knows it wasn't Bobby's laughter he heard. Bobby gives no sign of having heard anything out of the ordinary.

"Shit," Bobby says, looking chagrined. "You gonna be all right here for a few hours, son?" There's a slight emphasis on the you.

Dean jerks his head in acknowledgment, barely paying attention. He's straining, trying to hear that laugh again, the one he would know anywhere. Sam's laugh.

*

~ "Quit it, you big loser," Sam whined, trying and failing to grab the slice of pizza Dean was holding just out of arm's reach.

"Who's the loser, Sammy? Sure ain't me," Dean teased, twisting to avoid Sam's grasp.

"Come on, Dean, quit it." Sam was trying to use his I'm really serious voice, which Dean thought one day might actually be impressive enough to work. Sammy had all the makings of an impressive persuader, all pleading eyes and sincere smile.

Today was not that day, however. Dean was honor bound, as a big brother, not to give in to Sam too easily. Let the kid struggle for a while. It would build character.

"You're such a jerk, Dean," Sam said in disgust. He kicked out half-heartedly at Dean, toe of his ratty sneakers glancing off Dean's shin. Little fucker.

Dean snorted, letting his guard down slightly. "You kick like a girl, Samantha," he smirked.

"Well, this girl's gonna kick your ass if you don't give me some pizza," Sam snarled.

"Ooh, I'm scared," Dean said, grinning down at his brother's furious face.

"You should be," Sam responded, and then he made a move toward the pizza in Dean's left hand, quickly feinted right, then left again and somehow he ended up in possession of the pizza, pepperoni sliding off on a thread of stringy cheese.

Dean wiped his greasy fingers off on the seat of his jeans, cocking his head at Sam. "Pretty good moves you got there, squirt."

Sam laughed, inordinately pleased with himself, and Dean was happy enough to hear it that he didn't even try to grab the pizza back out of his brother's hand.

"Bitch," he said fondly.

"Jerk," Sam smiled around a mouthful of food. ~

*

Sam watches as Dean looks hopelessly around after Bobby leaves, heart clenching at the expression on his face. Dean looks so lost, and Sam's more determined than ever not only to stay with him, but to try and do a better job of letting Dean know he's here.

He remembers that time in the hospital after the wreck, and how he knew Dean was there. Part of it was that Dean managed to break a water glass, but mostly Sam thinks he just somehow sensed his presence. That was why he'd gone out and gotten a Ouija board to try his hand at communicating with Dean.

Sam needs to get better at moving things. He had freaky mind powers when he was alive, powers that apparently made him important to Yellow Eyes. They all had powers, he and the other children like him. Sam takes a moment to mourn for Ava and Andy, all of the ones who got caught up in the demon's plans. Even Jake. He knows Jake didn't go looking to be dragged to Cold Oak for some Clash of the Titans thing any more than the rest of them did.

He wants to be angry that Jake won the "contest" and that he's still alive, but Sam knows he needs to focus on Dean right now. The rest of it doesn't matter, it's beyond him to fix. Dean is the only thing that matters.

Sam doesn't think he can stand to spend the rest of Dean's natural life being close to his brother and yet unable to touch him. That would be torture and he needs to learn how to touch things.

He ignores the voice in his head that asks if Dean wants to be touched by a ghost, even the ghost of his little brother.

Sam hungers for that touch, he always has, and he's never had enough of it. He's had to be careful over the years, learning to respect Dean's boundaries, which are many, always changing, and extremely tricky to negotiate.

He'll adapt to Dean, the way he's always done. No problem.

*

~ It took Sam a while to hit enough of a growth spurt to approach Dean's height. He went through puberty and then pretty much stayed the same height for another year. His frame was slight but his hands and feet were big enough that Sam secretly thought one day he'd be taller than Dean.

They used to touch all the time, whether Dean was teasing and rough-housing, getting Sam in a headlock and refusing to let him go until Sam promised to let him have the last can of soda in the refrigerator, or shoving him over and stealing the covers on those occasions when they needed to share a bed.

And then one bright summer morning after Sam's fourteenth birthday, Sam kissed him. And Dean stopped touching him unless he absolutely had to and Sam began to wonder if he had some kind of contagious disease, or, after a while, if Dean really was angry about the kiss in spite of his reassurances at the time that it was fine, but it wasn't going to happen again.

Sam had respected that. He discovered that he had great reserves of patience when it came to Dean, and he could bide his time.

Dean got a look in his eye like a deer stuck in the Impala's headlights, like Sam had seen that one time when they were driving down some back road late at night and a doe and her fawn had crossed the road in front of them. Sam never forgot how they stood frozen in place, and he'd never forgiven his father for hitting the fawn, although logically he knew it wasn’t John's fault.

The little body had gone flying through the air and the doe had skittered off into the woods while her baby thumped onto the shoulder of the road and lay still and broken, its eyes blank in the moonlight.

The whole gruesome tableau had stayed with Sam for years, stuck in his memories, showing up in his nightmares whenever he was particularly angry at his father.

And that expression of frozen terror was what he saw on his brother's face whenever Sam got too close. Sam started deliberately brushing his arm across Dean's when he reached past him for the ketchup while they ate, or bumping his shoulder into Dean's when they tramped side by side through the woods, following along behind their father while he taught them the art of tracking.

Dean would seem to lean into Sam's touch until he realized what he was doing, and then he'd jerk away with a look of fearful guilt. Sam had some idea of what was going through his brother's thick head, but he still got angry at the feeling of rejection.

Dean got angry right back, and they spent almost the entire summer and early fall when Sam was fourteen barely speaking, exchanging hostile glances and belligerent shoves until John lit into them both, telling them he'd had enough and to knock it off or there would be hell to pay.

Dean had immediately knuckled under to John's demands after the big tirade, as usual, and Sam had watched resentfully as his brother ceased open hostilities but became almost a stranger instead.

Gone was their usual comfortable camaraderie, replaced by stiff interactions and stilted conversations, the distance between them seemingly impossible to bridge. Sometimes Dean forgot to keep his distance, and he never stopped looking after Sam, but mostly Dean was distracted and Sam was miserable.

Sam had a major growth spurt that summer, and by the time he caught up to Dean in height, he was so starved for his brother's touch he would have done almost anything to get it.

Turned out, all that was needed was a hot Indian summer afternoon in the middle of Indiana and some stolen hours to spend at an abandoned stone quarry swimming hole.

Standing there with the sun sparkling on the water, Sam was self-conscious about stripping down to his boxers to swim. It was a strange combination of feeling awkward about his newly acquired height, which when he studied himself critically in the bathroom mirror, only seemed to emphasize his lack of muscles, and a need he couldn’t explain to have Dean look at him as something other than a little kid.

To see him.

Sam hesitated, then pulled his shirt up over his head and tossed it on the warm grass at his feet. He didn't look at Dean, just fumbled with the top button of his jeans, his suddenly sweaty fingers making it hard to get open.

It was stupid. The three of them lived in each other's pockets, especially him and Dean, with almost no privacy to speak of. They saw each other in various stages of undress all the time without ever giving it a second thought. Sam had no idea why he felt so weird all of a sudden, but he felt the same way he did when his hormones got the better of him and he had to lock himself in the bathroom and jerk off at the most unexpected and inconvenient times.

Going through puberty with a father and an older brother breathing down his neck wasn't exactly Sam's idea of a good time, even if Dean was there to answer any questions Sam might have had. Or he would have been, if Sam had even been able to contemplate asking him anything without first dying of embarrassment.

Beside him, Dean undressed with the same carelessness he always did and Sam envied him for his self-confidence. He tried not to stare as Dean slid his jeans down his legs, kicking them off along with his boxers, but it was hard not to. Dean's sun-dappled skin glowed golden and the freckles sprinkled liberally across his shoulder held Sam in thrall. A cool breeze rustled through the trees, making goose bumps rise on Dean's shoulders. Sam wanted to taste them.

"Last one in cleans the guns," Dean shouted, turning to grin at Sam. Sam saw Dean's smile falter for a moment as his eyes raked up and down Sam's body, and then he reached out a slow hand and trailed his fingers down Sam's chest, the barest touch; making Sam shiver, his face hot.

"Looking good there, Sammy." Then Dean snatched his fingers away as if they'd been burned, the tips of his ears as red as Sam imagined his own face to be. "Come on, race ya!"

Dean turned and ran across the rocks, sun gleaming on his skin, and Sam knew very well where the rush of heat in his blood was coming from.

Dean jumped into the water, surfacing with a sputter. "Jesus Christ that's cold!" he whooped. "Get your ass in here, Sammy!"

It was as much a threat as a suggestion and Sam knew it. Resigning himself to the sudden shock, he leaped into the quarry, his breath catching in his throat as the icy water closed over his head.

Rock formations towered above them. The water was cold and still and Sam figured the swimming hole was spring-fed. He swam toward Dean, his teeth chattering already. Laughing, he splashed Dean right in the face.

"Oh, dude, you're so dead," Dean shouted. "It is so on!"

"Bring it," Sam sang back, as he dove under the water, kicking hard.

Sam was a good swimmer, but he was no match for Dean. A hand closed around his ankle, tugging him backwards, and then Dean's arms circled Sam's waist, bringing them chest-to-chest.

They both stilled and Dean looked at Sam warily. Throwing caution to the wind, Sam leaned forward and kissed Dean. His lips were cool and slick, motionless under Sam's.

Sam pulled back nervously and said, "I've been wanting to do that again since Alabama." Sam absolutely did not let his voice waver.

There was a moment when it could have gone either way and Sam pretty much stopped breathing entirely. Then Dean's eyes softened and he smiled ruefully. "Dude," he said, and leaned in to kiss Sam back.

When their afternoon swim ended, with Dean's hand on his cock and the other around his waist, holding him up so he didn't drown while he was having the most incredible orgasm of his life, Dean not wanting to touch him was no longer a problem. ~

*

The need to touch Dean, to reassure him, is overwhelming. Sam paces, filled with fury at his impotence. He focuses his rage, concentrating on the door of the cabin, and suddenly, with a final grunt of effort from Sam, the door closes sharply.

He's grimly pleased with himself; especially when he sees Dean jump and look back at the closed door with a puzzled expression. There's time, they have plenty of time for Sam to get good at this, to get good enough at it that he can let Dean know he's there.

To show him that Sam's not going anywhere, that he's not going to leave Dean alone ever again.

Dean pulls the door of the cabin open, staring down at the doorknob in his hand, then shakes his head and closes it again. He wanders over to the table and reaches for the bottle of whiskey, and Sam feels a spike of frustration.

"Damn it, Dean. I'm here," he says. "I'm right here."

*

Sam stands in the early morning shadows that hide the corners of the cabin, watching his brother. Dean's been working on the bottle of Jack pretty steadily since Bobby left. Sam hopes Bobby gets back here with some food sooner rather than later or Dean's going to be passed out drunk at ass o'clock in the morning.

The morning after I died, Sam thinks, and he shivers. Obviously he knew things could end this way; he's known that all his life. He hasn't felt safe since he turned nine and found out what his father did when he left his sons to fend for themselves in run-down hotel rooms across America.

When he was little, he used to lie awake at night and wonder what it would be like to be dead. Eaten by a monster, lost forever, away from his brother and his father. He'd wake up shuddering in fear but Dean was always there to make him feel safe, at least until the next night when it was too quiet, with only John's snores to fill the silence while they slept.

Over the years he'd stopped thinking about it, mostly. That didn't mean the fear went away, but he'd learned how to push it to the back of his mind, to squash it down whenever it tried to take over. His father always said that it was smart to be scared but stupid to let fear control you.

But he'd never honestly considered that he might die before they found and killed the demon that had taken so much away from them. He's surprised, but more than anything, he's becoming increasingly angry. Anger that burns bright, but that he has no idea what to do with.

This must be how vengeful spirits are born, Sam thinks. People who die angry, with no one on whom to wreak their vengeance except the living who are left behind.

*

Dean carelessly lets the bottle of whiskey hit the table, although he's not careless enough to let it tip over. He wants to drink away the consciousness of this awful day but there's not enough booze in the world to erase the knowledge that Sam is laid out on the bed in the other room, dead.

The morning sun casts shadows around the cabin but Dean's not looking for things that hide in dark corners. He's beyond that. His mind is numb with grief and alcohol, and a wave of dizziness washes over him when he stands up.

When his head clears, he stands stock-still, suddenly having the oddest feeling that he's not alone. That strikes him as ridiculous, because he's never been more alone in his life.

There's something in the cabin with him, or maybe he just wishes there were. It's almost comforting. It feels warm and alive, everything Sam isn't, but it feels like Sam all the same. Dean peers around the room, but there's nothing to see.

"Sam?"

Dean swears there's a kind of rippling effect in one corner of the room. The darkness shimmers for a moment and then it's gone. It leaves him with a feeling of peace, while at the same time it causes a longing in his soul so deep he gasps with the intensity of it.

"Sam."

*

~ Dean felt a shiver of pride as he and Sammy moved quietly through the dense forest. He wanted to show off, show Sam what he could do, and he thought he might get the chance tonight.

Sam hadn't been on very many hunts yet, and most of the time when he went with them, Dad didn't let him do much. Dean had been hunting since he was in the sixth grade, but Dad had been less eager to take Sam along that young.

Sam seemed both relieved and annoyed by that. He hated being left out. Sometimes he acted like Dean and John purposefully excluded him from anything important, while still expecting him to train and research and do all the things Dean did.

On the other hand, Sam was clear that he had important things to do and hunting was a real imposition on his busy life as an eighth grader.

It was actually pretty funny most of the time, except for when Sam and Dad were butting heads over how Dad's demands interfered with Sam's social and academic schedule. Then it got loud and Dean was expected to pick a side. How they expected him to do that when they both acted like it was a betrayal of the highest order if Dean picked the wrong one, Dean didn't know.

As far as he was concerned, there were no sides. He didn't want to have to choose between them and sometimes they made him so damned mad he wanted to walk away and let them fight it out on their own. They could sort their own shit out just fine without his help.

But his job was to do whatever he had to in order for the three of them to function as a unit. If he didn’t do that, someone could get hurt.

Sam could get hurt and that was unthinkable.

They were in the woods, hunting a black dog that had been terrorizing a small town in Idaho. Dean slipped through the woods as silently as he could, circling in one direction while his father circled around the other.

Sam was behind him and John had ordered him to stay glued to Dean's back, to watch and learn and keep his mouth shut.

The moon shone through the trees, whose branches stirred in a slight breeze. Suddenly, there was a roar and something came crashing through the undergrowth, heading right toward them.

Dean heard his father yell and he raised his gun, aiming right for the huge black shape that leaped at him, fangs gleaming in the moonlight.

He fired and the creature twisted in mid-air, howling in agony. It hit the ground with a thump and Dean stood staring, frozen to the spot.

He jerked at the sound of his father's voice calling his name.
"Dean! Dean, is Sam all right? Are either of you boys hurt?"

Dean lowered his gun and grinned at John as he stepped into the clearing. "We're good, Dad," he said, "Right, Sammy?"

He turned to his brother, grin widening as he saw Sam's eyes. They glowed with appreciation, and something else, something like hero-worship. His heart sped up and he felt warm all over.

Dean laughed and clapped Sam on the back. "We're good, Dad," he said again. ~

Part 3