DISCLAIMER: The song used in this is 'Goodnight Demonslayer' by Voltaire. I do not own it. I do not also own SPN. Good day!

Goodnight demonslayer goodnight…

Dean Winchester stumbled into his motel room, drunk, disoriented, and most of all, alone. No more Sammy to criticize him on his drinking habits, no Sammy to help him into his bed when he had fallen half-asleep into Sammy's chair, no Sammy to convince him that everything was going to be alright. Because it wasn't; not really. Sammy? … Sammy!

Now it's time to close your tired eyes…

Dean shifted in his motel bed, hand gripping his demon knife and ears radar as he tried to pick up any sound of bloodthirsty demons coming to call. Where are you, Sam? I can't get any sleep guarding. His eyes snapped open as he realized that wasn't just good-natured bluffing. A tear fell down his face. Where are you, Sammy?

There's devils to slay and dragons to ride…

We whooped devil ass, didn't we, San? Dean groaned, feeling the beginning of a nightmare settle over him. Please don't let it be Hell memories; Dean couldn't handle that kind of intense stress now … it was Hell. Panting, silently screaming, Dean was up, rigid, knife pointed at the shadows. Is that you, Sammy? Tell me it's you. TELL me it's you, Sammy!

If they see you comin', hell, they'd better hide…

Dean was fighting the shadows. They were converging upon him; they were trying to kill him. Sammy! Help! Dean was slicing through the shifting darkness, shouting and slurring, stumbling as everything replayed in his mind. Dean. Sam. Michael. Lucifer. The Cage. The turning point, the Impala. Bobby. Cas. Sammy gone, gone, gone … I couldn't save him. Dean let out a horrific shriek and threw himself against the monsters. I couldn't save you, Sammy. I COULDN'T SAVE YOU!

Goodnight, my little slayer…

Dean lay in a pile, gasping for breath. A hand tried to reach for the demon knife, but failed. Had the shadows won? Was Dean laying, dying? Was there a blade implanted in him? Was this weariness only a sedative? What had the bastards done to Sam?—Sam! Where's Sam? Why's he not here? Is he—Sam is dead. Oh god, Sam is dead. Again, and gone, and trapped with Lucifer and Michael and God knows what was happening to him right now and—Sammy! Dean gulped in anguish, though drunken fatigue was overtaking him as he silently screamed for his brother. SAMMY! SAMMY!

Goodnight.

Sammy?