What if Dean didn't' sell his soul?

"Sam," Dean breathed in relief as he saw his brother hobbling towards him and Bobby.

"Dean," Sam called out gladly.

"Sam, look out!" Dean yelled, as a kid came up behind him with a knife.

Sam heard the yell, but after the pummeling he had just taken, his reflexes were a little slow. Soon, he was feeling a white hot pain in his back. He teetered for a moment and started falling to his knees. Just as he was hitting the ground, Dean was there to catch him. How did he always get there right in time to catch him? Sam wondered.

Dean sank down with Sam and lowered him gently the rest of the way to his knees. He held him up, thinking if he could just keep him up everything would be OK. But, within seconds, Sam was drooping down. Dean adjusted his grip to fall even further with him. Sam didn't look good.

"Come here. Let me take a look at you," Dean said as he brought Sam forward to rest on his shoulder as he went to look at his back. He put his hand on the wound and drew it back to look. He recoiled in horror. That was a lot of blood.

He pushed Sam back. "Look at me, it isn't even that bad," he lied to Sam and himself. "We're going to patch you up. Make you all better. I've got you. That's my job right, look after my pain-in-the-ass little brother," he said, hoping to get a smile, or defense, or insult. Anything.

He looked at Sam again. His eyes had closed and his head seemed to be just flopping. "Sam!" he yelled. "Sam! Sammy!" He felt for a pulse. There wasn't one. "No, no, no, no, no," he said, as if by denying it, Sam would still be alive. He remembered back in Guthrie when he had called a do over. If ever there was a time for a do over, this was it. He wished he could go back in time five minutes and stop that kid from stabbing Sam.

He pulled Sam close to him and hugged him. Tears came to his eyes. He hugged Sam closer and screamed "SAM!"

He wasn't sure how long he stayed in that position just holding Sam. He didn't move until Bobby came back, though.

"Dean?" Bobby said. He knew before he had left to chase that kid that Sam wasn't going to make it. He had seen him twist the knife right in the middle of Sam's back. No way that wouldn't be fatal.

"Dean?' he said again when he received no answer.

"We have to get him inside, Bobby," Dean said. It's raining and cold out here.

Bobby thought that maybe they shouldn't postpone the inevitable. "Dean, do you want me to build a pyre?"

"No, go find a building with a bed in it we can lay him down in," Dean said.

"Son, you know he's gone, right?" Bobby was afraid that maybe Dean was in denial.

"I know," Dean sobbed.

Bobby went to find a bed. If Dean wanted to wait until tomorrow to cremate Sam, it probably wouldn't hurt anything. After finding a building with one bed in it he went back to get Dean. "I found a bed," he announced. Dean just nodded and Bobby helped him carry Sam to the house. He laid him down.

"Dean, you should get some sleep," Bobby suggested. Dean hadn't slept at all the last two days. He had refused to sleep until they found Sam.

"I'll just sit with him for a while, Bobby," Dean said.

"Dean," Bobby admonished.

"Leave me alone," Dean said and he sounded so forlorn that Bobby just decided to leave him alone. He would probably fall asleep due to pure exhaustion soon anyway. Bobby went out to the kitchen and cleared off the dirty table and lay down on it. He thought he wouldn't be able to sleep, but was out a few minutes later.

"Sammy, I'm so sorry. I was supposed to protect you. That was my job," Dean whispered. "Can you forgive me?"

Dean sat awake by Sam's bed all night. He was reminded of when they were little and Sam would get sick. He was always the one to stay up with him in case he needed anything. He choked back a sob at the realization that Sam would never need anything again.

SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

Alastair walked up to John's rack. "I'm making you that same deal again, John. If you start torturing souls, your torture can end."

John thought about it. He had been on this rack for 100 years. He didn't think he could take it anymore. But at the same time, he didn't want to inflict this pain on anyone else.

"No," he said, once again.

Alistair shrugged and picked up his razor blade and started humming. John screamed as he did every day of his death.