Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural; no one, especially me, is making a profit from this fic.

WARNINGS: Dialogue from Season 3, episode 6 "Red Sky at Morning" and SPOILER for the end of Season 3, for those who have not watched it.

I guess this could be considered a tag for "No Rest for the Wicked."

Thanks to my sister, Wicked Rebel, and my best friend, Twilightrayne, for proofing this.

The night was quiet despite the low and now distant rumble of thunder that sounded in the distance. Beads of rain water left over from the storm slid off of their respective leaves to delicately sprinkle Sam's still form that was draped over Dean's grave. He had been lying there since he and Bobby had finished burying Dean a couple of days ago; Sam had refused Bobby's offer of hospitality, and Bobby had reluctantly left at Sam's request. Sam had been lying face-down on Dean's grave ever since.

Wind rustled gently around him, causing the tall grass surrounding his form to tickle his bare face. But he remained still, unfeeling. The drops of water from the leaves above him began to mingle with the tears trickling down his cheeks, icing his already cool face, but his brain didn't register the sensation. Since Dean had died, Sam was left drowning in a violent current of emotions: first it was grief which was quickly followed by anger, then despair had grabbed him; soon despair had begun to twist and merge with grief and loneliness, leaving him almost catatonic and physically numb over Dean's grave.

The only movement made by Sam now was not physical, but mental: not the image, but the sound of a memory painting his mine's canvas: Dean's voice, a conversation that had taken place months ago.

"I'm not blind; I see what you're going through with this whole deal, me going away and all. But you're going to be okay."

"No, I'm not," Sam's hoarse voice stated aloud to a Dean who wasn't listening.

"You think so?"

Sam scoffed at the question he had asked, shaking his head slightly to himself; he felt his mouth form a bitter grin, he could taste the grass pillowed against his face.

"Yeah: you'll keep hunting, you know, you'll live your life. You're stronger than me, you are: you'll get over it. But I want you to know that I'm sorry; I'm sorry for putting you through all this, I am."

The grin that had adorned Sam's face fell and he whimpered, shot out his hand and gripped the earth beneath him: hearing this memory was beginning to ground him, chasing away the comfortable numbness blanketing his drenched body.

"You know what, Dean? Go screw yourself. I don't want an apology from you; and by the way, I'm a big boy now: I can take care of myself!"

"Yeah," Sam spoke to himself bitterly, "You seem to be doing a great job of taking care of yourself." At that, Sam opened his eyes and stared up at the makeshift cross he had made out of weathered wood; he felt more tears well up as he mulled over the fact that now Dean wasn't around to take care of him when he failed to take care of himself. Sam blinked and returned his awareness back to the memory that was still playing in his mind, watching as the image of the cross blurred as his tears began to fall.

"Oh, well, excuse me —"

"So would you quit worrying about me? I mean, that's the whole problem in the first place. I don't want you to worry about me, Dean. I want you to worry about you. I want you to give a crap that you're dying!"

Sam gave out a sigh that quickly morphed into a strangled sob. "And now you're dead," Sam gutted out the obvious, returning his gaze to the earth below him; he tightened his hold on the grass under his palm.

A slight shiver assaulted Sam's back, causing him to close his eyes. There was no doubt about it: the recent memory Sam had allowed himself to listen to had begun to pull his senses together, dragging the comfort of a numbed state away from him. Now he felt the cold that had settled upon him from lying on Dean's grave through a storm; at the time he hadn't felt it, but now he did. And now he was cold.

Sam's muscles gave an involuntary quiver as he shivered again; and he opened his eyes to look at the dirt below him. Dean was there; Dean had always been warm.


Sam felt his hands penetrate the soft earth, reaching for his brother. He was cold and needed his brother's warmth: he needed the touch that was able to sooth him, the arms that would encircle him and keep him not only safe, but warm. Sam needed Dean, but all he got when he reached for him were arms caked with mud and weeds. Sam shut his eyes, letting a sob escape from his lips: He couldn't reach Dean.

Sam pulled his arms from the earth and sat up, eyes fixed on Dean's grave. He had been lying there for days now, snuggling against the earth, pretending it was Dean; and although the thought of staying there until the Earth mercifully swallowed him whole had occurred to him more than once, he knew that he would have to leave sooner or later. Letting out a shaky breath, Sam leaned forward and pressed his forehead to Dean's grave, and then rose on shaky legs to return to the Impala.

The metal of the Impala's door handle was cool and sleek due to the rain, and the door gave a metallic creak when Sam opened the door and took his seat; he froze after discarding his muddied and soaked shirt onto the car's floor board: he had taken the passenger seat. Stifling a soft cry, Sam felt his eyes wander to the Impala's driver seat. It was empty. Dean wasn't there.

Sam was alone.

Shutting the passenger side door, Sam crawled onto the driver seat and curled up against the leather like he used to crawl onto Dean's lap. He pushed his smooth muscles into the back of the seat and felt the cool material against his wet and already cool skin. Working his body closer to the leather, Sam hoped to come into contact with some of Dean's residual warmth, but he found none to warm his chilled body. Sighing, he leaned his head against the seat, pretending he was finding comfort in Dean's presence instead of the leather. He narrowed his eyes and heard the memory again, but this time, it was his voice instead of Dean's:

I don't want you to worry about me, Dean: I want you to worry about you. I want you to give a crap that you're dying!

Sam shut his eyes and prayed to his brother who he knew was suffering in hell: "Dean… I think I'm dying…." The pads of his fingers dug into the leather of the Impala's driver seat; the material crinkled and gave under his touch, "But I don't give a crap."

Note: "Writing is hard!" But seriously, writing was weird for me: I ended up writing the ending first.

And that was my first fan fiction ever. I haven't written anything story-wise voluntarily since I was in the seventh grade (I'm in college now). Ever since then I have been drawing my stories out instead of writing them out, so I would greatly appreciate constructive criticism: I need the help of more talented and experienced writers! Review please!

Note: This is actually a modified scene from another fan fiction I am thinking about doing. This was taken from the second part; I was going to set the first part a week or two before Dean's deal comes due, and I was going to throw in a drunk limp!Sam and big brother!Dean into the mix. So I'll see how this goes over before doing that one, I guess.

This was a bit angsty, so if you wanna read something cuter, give Wicked Rebel's "You Love Him" a try (it's not wincest, for those wondering)!