Please don't hate me! *runs away to get cover*

Title: And Dean brought Donuts (And yes, this is some sort of reference to Dark Angel' "And Jesus brought a Casserole")
Character: Sam, Dean, Castiel, Uriel
Warning: Death!Fic, Dark!Fic ; Please don't read if you don't feel up to it. I mean it. I'm not taking any responsibility in case of breaking hearts or bones or teeth or anything that results from banging your head on the table.
Wordcount: ca 1000
Genre: Drama, didn't I mention the Death!Fic part?
A/N1: I'm not sure what's gotten into me. But I feel depressed now. :-(
A/N2: blueeyedliz endangered her mental health by doing a wonderful beta-reading. Thank you so much, hun. Remaining mistakes are mine, though.
Disclaimer: Nothing is mine. If it was, I wouldn't be so cruel.

Summary: There's something in his chest. It itches. And Dean has gone to get coffee and donuts

Dean left hours ago. At least it feels like it. The door shut without a sound, as if there wasn't even anger left any more. No more emotions but a void. Deep and so empty it imploded, taking everything around with it.

Sam watches the sun rise through the window, beams tickling the curtains, shimmering through the flimsy material and he doesn't understand, how something so wonderful can mark the beginning of the end. Shattered glass still held by the fragile frame (When had this happened? The window was intact when they had entered the room last night, wasn't it?), its spidery cracks glinting and sparkling, dazzling with prisms hundredfold intensified. It's beautiful. The yellow light is projected at the walls in dots and streaks in every rainbow colour, like rorschach tests meant for Sam to recognize.

"Dean?" He croaks even though he knows there won't be an answer. Dean is gone. Somewhere Sam can't follow.

He tries to take a deep breath but fails. It turns into a coughing fit, rattling his bones, his nerves and his soul. He doesn't want to die. Not like this. Not when Dean doesn't know Sam forgives him for leaving when he did. There's something stuck in his chest and it kinda stings. It won't let him breathe properly and Sam is attempting to pull it out. Because this is wrong. In so many ways. Not just the thing in his chest. Dean said, he wanted to get out, get some breakfast, but Sam knows, he hadn't left to get food or coffee or anything you can buy with money. He had run so he wouldn't have to look back, look at his brother anymore.

Sam is thinking hard. Something is nagging in the back of his consciousness. Something important that he should know, remember. But it keeps slipping away like a freaking eel in oily water.

"Dean?" He calls out again and wonders why his brother doesn't answer. He was here, only minutes ago, wasn't he? Maybe not? His memories are sluggish and slow, sand trickling through a narrow fissure.

Sam keeps his eyes shut because now the sun is shining right into his face and when he opens them, he can see nothing but light, harsh and hot on his skin. It fights its way between his eyelids, stabs daggers into his skull and he feels a tickling in the back of his throat. Carefully, he turns his head, spits it out. Something warm trickles over the corner of his mouth and slides down his cheek. It leaves behind a warm, itching trail and vanishes somewhere near his ear in the line of his hair. Must be blood. Tastes like it, too. Coppery and familiar. Hard to get out of the carpet and the hair.

He turns his head to the other side, away from the sun and carefully blinks his eyes open. The bed he had slept on last night next to him. It's dusty under it. Thick fluffs of hair and dust and lint … and his shoes on the other side of the bed. The ones he wanted to put on when he got up this morning. When he had woken up, tired and restless after a night of tossing and turning, thoughts too loud for his pillow to dampen. Dean had been there, mute as ever (as ever in the last days) and different.

"Dean? Are you okay?" Sam had asked, suppressing a yawn, even though he hadn't meant to act like he cared. Didn't want to be the one to make the first move after their impromptu fallout. They had claimed to be okay, their easy tones belying the hidden meaning behind the words, where the truth had taken refuge, hiding, waiting, calculating.

The pain in his chest doubles and he can hear his breath rattle. How long, since Dean had gone? Long enough to come back any minute now, right?

But Sam doubts Dean will come back. Something had been wrong when Dean left. He can't remember the reason. After all it's still Dean, his pain-in-the-ass big brother. The one who had raised him. The one, who had taught him how to drive and drink Tequila without choking and open a bra, when Sam had met Mary-Lou in ninth grade. He had been incredible clumsy and even though he hadn't told Dean, his brother knew exactly what to teach him. Sam didn't even have to ask. Dean just knew and smiled and laughed. And when Sam had come back from his date he didn't tell Dean that he hadn't needed his new found skills for opening bra clasps.

Dean should be here by now. Now. But he isn't. And Sam knows, maybe it's better this way. Carefully, he lifts his hand, finds the handle of the knife, the one that's embedded in his upper body and he fingers it, traces the delicate patterns of the hilt. It feels unfair. It's not supposed to be this way. The blade is meant for someone else, or something else. Sadly, now it's not Sam's path any more. He knows it and feels bitter, betrayed. By whom? He doesn't remember.

Where has Dean gone again? Oh yes, he had gone to get coffee and should be back in a few minutes. Sam just needs to wait until then. He can do that. He breaths deeply, tries to blink away the enclosing darkness. The sun still caresses his skin; warm, disembodied fingers stroking over his brows, his lips and his nose and he can feel the breath leave his body. Another won't come and he doesn't force it either, trusting in Dean to wake him up when he's back with donuts and coffee.


When Dean comes to his senses, he's sitting on a hard, greenly painted bench. Across the parking lot he can see their motel and there's a brown bag filled with donuts and coffee next to him. On the other side there's Uriel, looking pleased and accomplished, almost relaxed.

And then there's Castiel staring down at him with something like regret on his usually impassive face. Staring down at Dean, who blinks in confusion.

"Now we have work to do", the black angel says and lets his gaze sink lower to Dean's lap, where his hands are resting. And when Dean follows it, they are tainted red.