The tears pooling in Sam’s wide brown eyes finally spilled over, making salty trails down his face and trickling onto Dean’s hand, but for once his big brother ignored his pain. Dean needed to know what he had done on the last hunt that he couldn’t remember, how his actions had resulted in Sam being in this weakened, broken state. If he had done something wrong, he was determined to know what.

His voice was as steely as his gaze when he spoke again. “Tell me what I did to hurt you, Sam.”

Sam knew that voice and had to obey, forcing the words out through a throat that felt like it was closing at the idea of even speaking about that time again.

“You died, Dean.” He whispered brokenly at last. “You died…and you stayed dead.”

Sam’s whispered, broken admission was not what Dean had been expecting. He took a minute to process it, releasing Sam’s chin from his steely grasp while he considered his little brother’s words.

He died…yeah, he knew about that part. Sam had told him about it. Dean had died 101 times, and Sam had been forced to stand by and watch 101 times, and that sucked out loud.

But the Trickster had always brought him back. Sam had explained that. As soon as the last breath of life left Dean’s body, Sam would wake up to another Tuesday, knowing that during that day, he would have to watch his brother die all over again.

But it wasn’t real, and it was over now. Dean hadn’t stayed dead, not even for any period of time longer than a few minutes. So Sam’s words made no sense.

Dean considered the dubious possibility that his brother was still feverish, still confused. Sam seemed lucid enough, and his behaviour had been off way before he got sick, anyway, but still…

Dean reached out again to press the back of his hand against Sam’s forehead, and Sam shot him a frustrated, hurt look before pulling away. “I’m not sick, Dean!”

“Oh really?” Dean nodded. “So that wasn’t you who has been burning up for the last day and a half, can’t walk by yourself, and still looks like you haven’t seen the sun or slept for a week right now?”

“Okay, well I might be sick.” Sam conceded grumpily. “But I’m not…hallucinating, or whatever you’re thinking!”

Dean scrubbed a hand over his face wearily. “Okay, Sam. But dude, I don’t get it. I didn’t stay dead. I’m right here, remember? Unless you think that I’m some kind of…of ghost, or something?”

“I don’t think that.” The irritated, indignant Sam of only moments before was gone, and the Sam before him was deflated, and spoke in a very small, tired voice. Dean waited for him to continue, but Sam seemed to have nothing left to say.

Dean sighed and stood up, backed away a few steps and sat down on the other bed, facing his brother. “It’s like pulling teeth, getting anything out of you, you know that?”

Silence was his only answer.

“Sam. What did you mean when you said, I stayed dead?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Sam whispered, not looking up, studying the carpet at his feet as if it was fascinating.

“Tough luck, kiddo.” Dean softened the words with the pet name, not wanting to sound too harsh. “You’ve been out of it ever since that last hunt. You told me about what the Trickster did and yeah, that sucks. But there’s something else. Something that you’re not telling me, something that’s ripping you apart, man. I can see it.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, trying to catch Sam’s eye. “You’ve got to talk to me, Sam. Before this gets any worse.” His tone was earnest, caring, firm.

Sam nodded, slowly, trying to gather his thoughts, forcing himself to think about that time, because he was going to have to let himself think about it if he was going to talk about it.

“I don’t…” His voice was hoarse, his throat suddenly dry. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Dean rise, and for a moment he thought he might have gotten off the hook, but a minute later and Dean was pressing a glass of water into his hand.

His big brother sat back down opposite him and waited patiently while Sam took a shaky, slow drink. When he was sure that he couldn’t stall any longer he lowered the glass. At least it gave him something to look at other than his brother. He didn’t think he would make it through the story if he had to look into Dean’s kind, concerned eyes.

“I thought…it was over. We found the Trickster, and made him…made him fix it.” The ache in his chest was building, but he’d started now, and suddenly he just wanted to get the secret out, as if by telling it he could somehow give it away and get rid of the memory. “And you were alive, the next day, you were alive and we were going to leave, we were leaving and you went to the car and he shot you, you got shot and you died and you didn’t come back.” He wasn’t aware that he was crying, that his hands were shaking so hard that he was spilling the water. “And I was…I was by myself, for six months, and then it was Bobby, and I killed him, to bring you back, only it wasn’t Bobby but I didn’t know that for sure, I just wanted you back, I just wanted to bring you back because you were dead, you were dead all that time and I was alone, and you were dead, you were dead and you stayed dead…”

As if from far away he could hear Dean’s voice, worried, distressed. “Sam, Sammy.” He felt the glass taken out of his grip, felt the bed dip beside him as Dean sat down next to him and put an arm around him. “Hey, hey, hey hey hey.”

Sam forced himself to stop blabbering, forced himself to take a deep, steadying breath. His heart was pounding in his ears.

Dean waited patiently, watching Sam visibly try and pull himself together. A part of his was digesting Sam’s words, but the bigger part was prioritising, and right now Sam himself was a higher priority than the disturbing words he had just spoken.

Dean could feel the tremors running through Sam’s frame where he had his arm laid against Sam’s back, could see and hear him struggling to get his breathing under control, to get his emotions back in check.

“Take it easy, kiddo.” He murmured, squeezing Sam’s shoulders lightly. “Look at you, you’re a mess.”

“This is nothing.” Sam managed to get out, leaning forward to that his elbows rested on his knees and burying his face in his hands. “You should have seen…I was…after you died, Dean, when I realised that…that I wasn’t going to wake up, that you weren’t going to come back…”

Dean didn’t want to think about that. The thought of Sam suffering was too painful, but the thought of Sam suffering because of Dean…that was a thousand times worse.

“Sorry, Sammy.” He muttered, almost without thinking about it, and suddenly Sam had lifted his head from his hands and snapped it around to look at Dean, his eyes bright and a little angry.

“Why are you saying sorry? What do you have to be sorry for? You died, Dean, it wasn’t your fault! This is why I didn’t want to tell you! I knew that you would do exactly this…this guilt trip, thing, that you are doing!” With his puffy eyes and tear stained face Sam was not exactly intimidating, even in his anger, and Dean refused to let himself get drawn into the argument.

“Don’t act like I’ve got the monopoly on guilt trips around here.” He warned, mildly, and Sam glared at him for a moment more before blinking, deflating, and burying his head in his hands again.

“It wasn’t your fault.” His voice was muffled by his hands, and incredibly weary.

“It wasn’t your fault, either.” Dean said quietly, watching his brother for any reaction, and saw the tiny flinch Sam gave at the words. “And whatever happened after, wasn’t your fault, Sam. I know I wasn’t there, and I don’t know the full story. But I’m sure that you wouldn’t have been…yourself.”

“I tried to save you.” Sam’s voice was little more than a whisper, desperate, pleading. “I tried, Dean.”

“Sam, I didn’t need to be there to know how hard you would have tried.”

“It wasn’t enough, though. It wasn’t enough. There was nothing I could do.” Knowing that preventing his brother’s death was out of his control should have absolved Sam somehow, at least so Dean would have thought. You can’t bear guilt for that over which you had no control. But he heard the same desolation there in Sam’s voice that he had heard last night, when Sam had confessed that he knew that he couldn’t save everyone.

Somehow, knowing that he had no control over Dean’s death was adding to Sam’s pain rather than easing it.

Dean got it at the same time that Sam whispered, “I can’t save you, Dean.” The confession was so shattered, so desolate, that Dean suddenly felt an incredible rage build inside him. At the Trickster, for doing this to his brother, but mostly at himself. What the Trickster had done was only a slap on the wrist compared to what Dean had done when he traded his soul, compared to what he was going to do when he died and left Sam alone.

Sam saw Dean’s jaw tighten, saw his eyes harden and recognised his big brother’s emotion for what it was…anger. “I’m sorry.” He said, dully, and Dean’s eyes immediately softened.

“Sam, don’t apologise. I’m not angry at you.”

“I should be able to save you, but I can’t.” Sam spoke again as if he hadn’t heard Dean. “You saved me, but I can’t save you. You’ve always been the better brother, Dean.”

The older Winchester snorted softly. “I didn’t save you from dying, remember Sam? I brought you back from the dead. There’s a difference. And I don’t regret it for a second…I never will…but that’s how we got into this mess of me dying in the first place.”

Sam shut his eyes even though he had his hands covering his face, wanting to block the world out, wanting to shut himself in. “I don’t want you to die, Dean.” His voice trembled as badly as his hands.

He felt Dean wrap his arm tightly around his shoulders in response, felt his brother tug at him a little so that Sam leant sideways against Dean’s side.

But Dean didn’t answer, couldn’t answer, because there was nothing to say.

Hell hounds or not, no one can promise that they will always be there. Death is, after all, a part of life, and while not everyone can be certain when they will die, everyone can be certain of one thing…that they will die.

Dean would have done anything for his brother, but this one thing, the thing that Sam was most afraid of, he couldn’t protect him from.

“Sam, I could feed you a bunch of crap about how I’ll always be with you, even if you can’t see me, and all that kind of feel-good touchey-feely crap, but I’m not into that stuff, man, so if I can’t convince me I can’t convince you.” The words were punctuated with a mirthless laugh; he desperately wanted to comfort his brother, but didn’t know how.

The truth was that Dean was scared too…scared of dying, sure, but it was more than that. He was scared to leave Sam alone.

There was still so much they hadn’t got done, hadn’t finished off all the demons, hadn’t finished off Lillith. There was so much evil left in the world and it all seemed to be focused on Sam. And Dean was leaving his brother to deal with it alone.

That knowledge scared him more than knowing that he was going to Hell had ever done.

“I’m scared.” Sam said, his voice very, very small, and damn him for sounding like he was four years old and making Dean want to protect him from whatever it was that he was scared of, and damn Mom and Dad for already dying and leaving Dean alone with this responsibility, and damn the demon and Jake and their life for taking that responsibility away from him.

He had no words of comfort for Sam; it was beyond his power to fix this or to take this threat away. Hell, he would fight with his dying breath to stay out of Hell, as long as there was no deal-breaking along the way. But he couldn’t promise Sam anything.

He had no words to make this better. All he had left was the truth.

“I’m scared too, Sam.” Admitting it nearly broke him, he could feel tears building in his own eyes and he forced them back. “I’m scared for you.” He had to make that clear, would not admit that his fear ran deeper and involved Hell Hounds and hellfire, because to do so would drive guilt even further into his brother’s heart. “You’re my little brother, and I want to protect you from everything, but I can’t protect you from this. People die, Sam.” He echoed the words Sam had spoken earlier, but his brother’s voice had been angry, lashing out. Dean’s voice was rough, but still oddly gentle. “You’ve had to deal with more than your fair share of people dying, I know that, and I’m sorry for each and every one and what their dying did to you.”

Sam made a wet noise behind his hands that sounded like a sob. “None of them are anything compared to you.”

Dean thought he felt his heart break then, but he forced more words out. He had to stay in control of this situation, had to, because if he let himself get caught up in the grief and hopelessness of it then he was afraid it would all be for nothing. They might get lost in despair and never find their way out.

“You’re not making this easy, Sammy.” He managed, through a throat that was closing up. Sam did give a small sob then.

“Neither are you.” The words stung a little, but they were fair, Dean knew. He hadn’t helped his brother much to deal since he had brought his own death sentence down on his head.

Sam regretted the words second after he spoke them. “I’m sorry.” Tearful, but heartfelt. He didn’t want to blame anything on Dean.

“I’m sorry too.” Dean replied softly, and meant it just as much as Sam did. “I know this whole situation sucks, Sammy. I know that. And it’s harder for you than it is for me. I know that too. But you’re not making it easier on yourself, kiddo. This isn’t like you. Sam…you have to have hope.”

He felt ridiculous, saying something so…unlike him, so corny, but he meant it. The only light at the end of this tunnel was one that they couldn’t see. They just had to hope that it was there.

So really, was Sam the only one who had faith? Maybe Dean had it too, he just called it something else.

“You have to try and hope that maybe, we can break this deal. Maybe I’m not gonna die.” It was the closest he would come to giving his brother false hope, and even saying these words sat wrong in his chest, but Sam needed something…anything…to hold onto. Dean had never seen him like this, so lost, so desolate, so exhausted. “And if that doesn’t happen, well then you have to hope that you’ll be okay. Just like I do. I hope for that every single day.”

Dean’s voice broke on the last word and Sam bit back his automatic response. “I won’t be okay without you.”

Maybe he didn’t need to say them out loud, because Dean’s arm around his shoulder tightened, and Sam felt Dean rest his chin on top of his younger brother’s forehead. “I know this sucks, so bad.” Dean said hoarsely above his brother’s head. “I get it, believe me. And I get that the last hunt…that what happened sucked for you, too. But…we gotta keep going, Sam. We can’t give up. You can’t give up. Okay? You gotta keep fighting, little brother. For me.”

It was a low blow, and Sam took his hands away from his face only so that he could turn his head and rest his forehead against the curve of Dean’s shoulder, bury his face in the warm spot between his neck and collarbone. Dean shifted to face him more, brought his other arm up and then they were hugging each other, and Sam wasn’t sure who was holding who tighter.

“Don’t cry, kiddo. Please don’t cry anymore.” Dean sounded like he might have been doing the very thing he was asking Sam not to do, but Sam didn’t call him on it.

“I’ve been…a bit of a mess, haven’t I?” He spoke shakily against his brother’s neck.

“I don’t blame you.” Dean said gently, “But maybe it wouldn’t have gotten this bad if you’d talked to me about it, huh?”

“Maybe.” Sam was non committal, but Dean knew what he was thinking.

“I know I don’t make it easy for you to talk to me. I know I’ve been…avoiding the topic. But Sammy, man, you gotta know that if you need me, I’m here. Okay?”

“Yeah. Okay.” Sam said, and he meant it. He didn’t like breaking down anymore than Dean liked watching it.

Dean let out a breath that he hadn’t known he’d been holding. Sam sounded stronger…better…with those two words than he had for weeks. Months, maybe.

More like the adult Sam that he had become than the child that Dean had known.

“I just wanna stay like this for a little while, okay?” Maybe not completely an adult, after all. But that was okay with Dean.

“Sure, Sammy.”

It was the very least that he could do, that he could give, this embrace on a tired motel bed in the middle of nowhere, but he was grateful for this moment, for this chance to hold his little brother safe and warm and protected in his arms, content for this moment, no matter how brief.

He could only hope that Sam would be okay in the future, since odds were he wouldn’t be around to see to it.

But they had this moment, and he intended to do everything that he could to make sure that Sam was okay for now.

Hmmm...

Don't know if I am happy with this. Maybe it needs more? A final act, so to speak?

But then again, maybe there truly is nothing more to be said. life is unfair. It can be cruel. And no matter how hard we want to protect our loved ones, no matter how hard we want to make things better, sometimes we just can't. Maybe this is all there is to say. You can't cheat death, no matter how much you want to, or no one would ever die, because there would always be someone who loved them enough to save them, surely. Pain would be a thing of the past, because the ones who love us the most would always protect us from it, no matter what the cost.

But life doesn't work that way. Pain is real, death is real, but so is happiness and love and hope. Most of all, hope. Whether it's hope that we can get through the pain of a loved one passing, or hope that there is life after death, that we will see those we loved again.

Maybe hope is not only the beginning. Maybe it is the only acceptable ending as well.