Author's Note: My birthday is on the 23rd and to celebrate, I'm posting a bunch of hurt!Sam one-shots which are like my favorite thing ever. This one-shot, in particular, has a special place in my heart as I have slaved over it for weeks! I'm glad to finally be presenting it to you guys. I'm also trying something new here with writing in 2nd person POV which I really liked using. This is set after "Playthings". Please enjoy!

"There's a piece of you that's here with me

It's everywhere I go, it's everything I see."

Yellowcard, "Ocean Avenue"

It's always the same.

Same crappy motel room with the peeling pink floral wallpaper and the hideous gray carpet on the floor.

Same time of day as sunset gives way to night and the stars begin to free themselves from the shroud that had hidden them during the daylight.

Same actions being endlessly repeated—enter through the door, put the bag of food down on the wooden table, turn around and see him sitting on the bed.

Most hauntingly though, the words are always the same.

"I'm so sorry, Sammy." Dean's voice—broken and mixed with tinges of grief and regret. The gun reflects the overhead light bulb and slightly blinds you as you freeze, wondering briefly if this is really happening or if your older brother has been possessed by something. Dean rises from the bed slowly—almost like the old man you had jokingly referred to him as earlier—and he meets your gaze. There's nothing but love swirling in those green orbs and that's what makes the blow lessen a bit. You had suspected this day would come and now that it's time, you suddenly feel the urge to flee, to save yourself.

But . . . this is the only way to save yourself and to save the world.

This is what you wanted, what you made him promise you.

He opens his mouth to say something else, but for some reason you can't hear him and then, before you know it, the gun has gone off and you're falling down into darkness, your brother's sobbing face the last thing you see.

Your eyes re-open as you gasp, suddenly sitting upright as your heart pounds in your chest. You glance down, half-expecting to see blood pooling below you, but instead you only see the familiar gray carpet. Rubbing your temples as the pain flares in your skull, you sigh. Dean's out, you recall, getting breakfast and so far, he hasn't been around to see the aftermath of your visions.

After all, this isn't the first time you've had this particular one.

No, for three days in a row, you've been watching Dean kill you in this same motel room. For three days, you've been trying to hide from your older brother with excuses of, "I'll go get the food" or "I'm going running" both of which, if anything, have made your overprotective, hyper vigilant brother even more aware of you. For three days, you've been debating what to do—tell Dean or wait it out? Were you going to suddenly become evil enough that you would have to perish soon or was this vision set to take place years down the road? Of course, you've thought it through—agonized over every possible detail—and you're pretty confident that you're going to die sometime soon. It's a sobering realization; one that makes you want to cry and scream at the same time. You could go on and on about the injustices the world has dealt you and your family, but what would be the point? It wouldn't change anything. You had made Dean promise to do this for you. Sure, you hadn't expected to die so soon—and a deep part of you had hoped you wouldn't die at all—but you have to see this through. If you're going to die, there's no point in running away. Dean would just find you again, just like he found you at Flagstaff.

You're just about to gather your strength to push yourself up from the carpet when you hear the key in the lock. Dean steps in, balancing a bag of food with a few books you've never seen before—he went to the library?—and his green eyes meet yours. Then suddenly, the bag and books are tossed aside as he rushes to you; somehow instinctively knowing something's wrong.

"Sammy?" He grips your arms, lending you strength and support. You feel like you're going to topple over. When did you become so weak? "Vision?" His voice holds only concern and none of the fear that you were so sure he would feel when you told him about the supernatural images from the future.

"M'okay." God, you're exhausted. Your head hurts and all you want to do is curl up under the covers and sleep for three days, maybe even four.

"Yeah, right," Dean scoffs, but he pulls you up and helps you over to the bed. "Do we need to go anywhere?" He's examining you now—like he's done for years—and the familiar motions he goes through are strangely comforting. Two fingers checking your pulse, a quick touch of the forehead to check for fever and finally a cursory glance for any visible injuries. It's the same routine you've grown up with, the same routine you know by heart.

"You did have a vision, right?" His hand briefly hovers above your head, like he's afraid his touch will break you, which is silly because your big brother's touch is the only thing that has been keeping you together this past year. After Jessica died, after Dad . . . well, you were sure you weren't going to make it. You thought about just throwing in the towel and letting the despair and grief overtake you until there was nothing.

It was Dean that pulled you back from that ledge.

The glint of the gun. The bang. A broken voice apologizing. The blood.

It's also Dean that's been killing you for the past three days.

"No." You whisper, making the images fade, making them disappear because you can only take so much of this for one day.

"No vision?" Dean asks. He's taught you a lot of things—how to walk, how to play poker, how to drive, how to shoot a gun, the list could go on and on—but the hardest thing he ever taught you was how to lie. There was just something off-putting about looking into someone's eyes—someone who trusted you—and then giving them false information. Still, it was a skill that had to be acquired and Dean taught you well.

Too well maybe, for you force a small smile onto your face and push back the fatigue and reply, "No vision, Dean."

Dean seems content to leave it at that.

He goes on about how he's staked out the area and interviewed one girl he thinks might be the witch causing the recent strings of mercy killings both at the local hospital and in the town. You half-listen, too tired and in pain to care.

A witch seems to be the least of your problems.

He points the gun at you—the gun you got him for his birthday the year before you left for Stanford. You had saved all of your money—even worked a few odd jobs against Dad's orders—to buy it for him. He had been so damn happy when he saw it. Dad's extra month of training practices had been worth it to see Dean smile like he didn't have a care in the world.

Now, that same gun is pointed at your heart, ready to kill.

"Sammy, I'm sorry." A lone tear snakes down your brother's cheek. Still, he remains resolute.


Blood pours out of the wound as you look down in shock. You can feel the sting of bullet as it buries itself into your heart; feel the ground coming up to meet you as you fall backwards. Green eyes filled with tears hover above you. Reassuring words and gestures comfort you as you feel numbness and darkness overtake you.

"—me, Sammy? Dammit, Sam." Arms are holding you, shielding you from anything that dares to even think about hurting you. Dean's always been that way though—fiercely protective of a little brother he viewed as his own child. It wasn't like you didn't know he raised you. Practically all your memories are of your older brother guiding you with John standing in the background, shrouded in grief, rage, and embroiled in a battle for revenge. He wanted to make you his perfect little soldier and you had other plans.

And look where they got you, back into the life you had tried so desperately to get away from.

"Sam, please," A whispered plea falls from your brother's lips and it stirs something in you. You force your eyes open and see Dean's gaze fill with relief. "Sam, you with me?" You open your mouth to speak, but the pain in your skull intercedes and you cringe instead, stifling a small whimper.

That springs Dean into action.

Before you even know what's going on, you find yourself back on that same bed, two pills in one hand and a glass of cool water in the other. You dutifully take the medicine as Dean settles into the plastic chair that he's dragged over from the table across the room. His eyes scan you, skillfully searching for any injury that you may have. Satisfied that there isn't one—one that he can see, at least—he sits down in the chair and waits for you to speak.

"I'm okay." You bluff.

"Yeah and I'm a friggin' superhero," He scoffs. Then softly, "What did you see?"

"Nothing," You lie. "It wasn't a vision."

"You're seriously going to tell me that you grabbing your head and then collapsing in the room—which, by the way, gave me a fucking heart attack—wasn't caused by a vision?" He eyes you suspiciously and you know you should come clean here. It would be the right thing to do, the best thing to do. "Sam?"

"I didn't eat enough." Dean's eyes are unreadable and you let your gaze fall guiltily. Silently, your brother gets up and grabs his half-eaten cheeseburger and hands it to you, a silent challenge evident now in his eyes. Under your older brother's careful watch, you eat the rest of the burger.

Dean nods, his mind seemingly made up.

You silently pray for the visions to end.

Searing hot pain.

God, gunshots hurt.

Soon though, the initial pain is gone and you feel coldness seep into your veins. You can feel your heart frantically pumping trying to save your life and inadvertently just causing blood loss. You can hear Dean's broken sobs above you. You wish it didn't have to end this way—that there could've been some other solution—but then again, maybe it's okay to go with your brother at your side.

You just wished . . .

Well, you had wished a lot of things and they had all gone up in flames, some literally.

Your eyes droop shut, the darkness claiming you once again.

"That's it!" Dean growls, as he wipes away the blood on your temple. Apparently, on your not-so-graceful descent to the parking lot ground, you got cut by a few shards of glass. "Stop lying and tell me whatever the hell it is you're seeing." You sigh wearily, because honestly you're not sure how much longer you can take this. This is day seven of your repeat vision and though you've done your best to appear calm and collected, Dean has been able to see through your façade.

"I didn't see—" You start, though your heart isn't in it anymore.

"Lie to me again, Sam," Dean hisses, voice deadly serious. "I dare you." You take a deep breath in and try to calm yourself. Finally, you open your mouth to speak.

"I saw you shoot me."

If your head weren't pounding, you would've laughed at your brother's comically shocked expression. His eyes have bugged out, his mouth has fallen open—it's a perfect physical manifestation of what you had felt the first time you had seen the vision.

"What?" He whispers, tone caught between rage and sheer grief.

You spend the next 20 minutes relating to Dean your vision, explaining everything. Through it all, your older brother sits there stoically. He nods occasionally and asks a few questions, but overall, he doesn't overreact, as you had believed he would.

"And that's it." A weight has lifted off your chest and you feel slightly better than you did before. The truth will set you free after all, you suppose. Dean rises from the plastic chair and punches the nearest wall, breaking into it. Then, as he's shaking off the dust from his now slightly bleeding fist, he tells you in a tone that reminds you so much of your father,

"I will never hurt you, Sam."

You nod, but you can see the lingering fear in his eyes. After all, so far your visions haven't been wrong. If you see it, it comes to pass. And, in this case, there could be no running from it either. You aren't going to leave your brother, no matter how much Dean tries to get you away from him. He's your family, after all. He's all you've got.

You won't leave him.

Dean's solution—once you make it adamantly clear that you are sure as hell not going anywhere without him—is to get in the Impala and drive like a bat out of Hell. His logic is easy to follow—get out of the place where the vision happens and then the vision won't take place. You know your brother must be scared as he calls Bobby to send someone else to get the witch that you had been in town for to begin with. The whole car ride is silent, save for the soft strains of Led Zeppelin. You feel good about this plan and you shoot Dean a small smile to show him that, when suddenly the pain hits.

"Sam?" You struggle to say something, but all you can get out is a labored breath.


Your head feels like it's on fire and you ground your teeth. You're digging your fingers into the leather seat, trying to steady yourself. You can hear the screech of tires as Dean yanks the Impala off the road.

"No—!" You can hear him shout before your vision grays out.

Different motel room, same story.

Dean's standing this time as you enter the room, a book in your hand. Before you even know it, the barrel of the gun has been pushed into your heart. Dean's expression is heartbreaking—his green eyes are swarmed with grief and there are tear marks on his cheeks.

"This is for the best, Sammy."


You fade away as your brother cries above you.

When you come to, Dean has pulled you towards him so that your head is resting on his lap. He's whispering a litany of reassurances and gently rubbing circles onto your palm, like he's done for as long as you remember. When you open your eyes, you can see the raw emotion on his face—the clear fear that he's feeling.

"Dean?" He doesn't look down, just keeps rubbing those circles.

"Did I . . .?" His voice trails off, as if he can't say it because it goes beyond everything he's ever been taught. Still, the underlying question is still there. Did I kill you? You don't have it in your heart to lie to him, not after everything.


"Fuck." He breathes, eyes swimming in grief and rage. You try to push yourself up, but vertigo assaults you and Dean holds you down until it passes.

You're not sure how long you two stay there, but when you do finally get up and Dean puts the key in the ignition, you can see that your older brother is still on edge.

You wish there was something you could do to help him.

No matter how many times you switch motel rooms, the vision remains the same. You can see the desperation on Dean's face and it kills you to know that you're responsible for putting it there. Finally, you put your foot down and the two of you stay in the same motel room for longer than a few hours. Dean's antsy—pacing the floor, checking salt lines, cleaning guns—and it's starting to annoy you.

"I'm going to go get some food." You say, heading towards the door.

"Sam, you can't—"

"Dean, we can't just keep doing this." You gesture to him and at the lines of salt and the wards he's put up. Nearly every surface has been covered in some sort of protective sigil or other protective device. You're feeling like you're on lockdown and you hate how your visions have caused this mess—have caused your big brother to go from calm and collected to completely freaked out. "I'll be gone for 10 minutes. The diner is right down the road. I'll have my cellphone."

"Sam—" He's gripping your arm and gently, you pry his fingers off of you. You smile softly at him, using those puppy dog eyes that he's told you can get you anything you want.

"Please." It comes out as a whisper and you see Dean's shoulders slump in defeat.

"Yeah," He mumbles. "Yeah, okay."

"You want me to bring you something?" You can't remember the last time you've seen Dean focus on food and all his worrying is starting to take a toll on him physically. He's skinner than normal and he's got the beginnings of dark bags under his eyes. He needs rest—something that you intend to give him.


"Dude, those are—" You let your face twist up in disgust and are rewarded by a small, dry chuckle.

"Better than your rabbit food." It's a weak retort, but it's enough. Your big brother is still there underneath all the fear and worry.

"I'll be right back." You promise.

"I'll be here, Sammy." He grins weakly.

You leave the room.

When you get back, it's like déjà vu.

You put the bag of food on the table, close the door and then turn around. Dean is sitting on the bed, his gun in his hands. Tear tracks are on visible on his cheeks and dread fills the pit of your stomach.

Your vision is going to become true.

"Dean?" He ignores you, choosing to let out a shaky breath instead.

"I've tried so damn hard, Sammy." He's still staring at the gun and you step closer to him. You haven't heard him say that in any of your previous visions, so maybe there's still a chance? "All I've done—everything—it was so I could save you, Sam."

"You have saved me, Dean," You say quietly. "You've been saving me my whole life! Why do you think I'm still breathing now?" He glances up, green eyes clouded with grief. "Man, after Jessica . . ." You run a hand through your hair, suddenly embarrassed. "If you hadn't been there, Dean, I probably would've just rolled over and died."

"I can't save you from whatever is inside you though," Dean mumbles quietly. "I can't do it!" He's gripping the bed sheets, knuckles white. You feel tears prick the back of your eyes, but dammit, you're not going to cry now. You made him promise you to take you out if it ever came to this. Apparently, that time is now.

"It's okay, Dean." A soft smile is on your lips, even though every fiber of your being is screaming for you to run away. Dean rises from the bed, the gun pointed at your heart. A lone tear snakes down his cheek.

"I'm sorry, Sammy." He's crying now and so are you, but it doesn't matter anymore. The gun is steady in his grip, though the rest of him seems ready to fall over where he stands. Your mind flashes back to memories of the two of you together—a montage of the highlights of your life—and you find only one more thing needs to be said.

"I love you, Dean." It's an unspoken rule that those three words never pass from either of your lips, but now . . . now at the end, you have to make sure he knows that.

The gun goes off.

You fall into the dark abyss.

You stay in the dark for a long time.

You wonder briefly if maybe this is Heaven, but you dismiss that thought immediately, because you're a monster—a freak—so if anything, you'd be in Hell. Still, you have a hard time believing that this darkness is the realm of eternal torture and pain.

You walk endlessly searching for a sign, for someone or something. That's when the voices start to filter in. Familiar voices that you've grown up with and though you can't make out what they're saying, you feel strangely comforted by them. Over time, other noises start to filter through—beeping, footsteps, and occasionally snippets of words.

"—did this to him, Bobby. I can't be here when he—"

"You're an idjit, Dean! You think Sam would—"

Dean and Bobby? What did that mean? Could you be alive? You barely have time to process that thought when the ground underneath you seemingly opens up and you're falling once more.

The light hurts.

Still, you force your eyes open and you survey your surroundings. It's a hospital and judging from the amount of monitors attached to you, you're guessing it was a close call. Bobby is sitting in a chair next to you, snoring softly. On your other side, Dean is once again rubbing circles onto your skin, though you wonder if it's more for his benefit than yours.

"D'n." It's painful to talk, but it's even more painful to see the sheer look of guilt that your brother is currently sporting. His green eyes meet your gaze and he lets out a relieved breath.

"You with me, Sammy?"

"Yeah." From the other side of the bed, Bobby stirs, but remains asleep. You chuckle, though it dissolves into a cough.

"Easy there," Dean's hands are on you, trying to help you become more comfortable. "Take it easy."

"What happened?" The last thing you remember is being shot—a fatal shot—but somehow you managed to beat the odds.

"It was that witch," Dean spat angrily. "Turns out that she had the whole town rigged with hex bags so she could amplify her powers or something." His eyes darted to the gruff hunter still asleep. "She could cast her spells remotely. She got me, Sam, made me think that I had no other choice left but to . . ." His voice trailed off, breaking slightly as he relieved the memory. You pat his hand, a soft grin on your lips.

"M'okay now."

"Yeah," Dean lets out a shuddery breath. "After you went down, Bobby killed the witch and broke the curse." He grips your hand suddenly, as if he needs to be reassured that you're really there. "It was too damn close, Sam."

"You got me here—"

"Barely!" He interjects.

"Doesn't matter," You reply calmly. "I'm alive and it wasn't you, Dean. You were cursed."

"But Sam—"

"I'm okay, Dean." You insist.

"Yeah," Dean mutters. "You are." He seems to calm down slightly and you shoot him another smile, grabbing his hand within yours and squeezing it. He chuckles. "Dude, you're such a girl."

"Shut up." You retort, though there's not much heat behind it and you're smiling still. Dean doesn't let go; however, and that makes you glad.

"Jerk." You whisper, eyes sliding shut as you're overwhelmed by the exhaustion that being shot tends to bring out in you. You're almost asleep before you hear his reply.


And you know that somehow everything is going to be okay.

Big brother is watching over you.

Author's Note: I've noticed that there are very few fics that deal with Dean being forced to shoot Sam in order to "save" him. That's what really inspired this and I'm very pleased with how it turned out. 2nd person POV was really fun and it made me relate to Sam a lot more than if I had written this in 3rd person. Anyways, this is just an early birthday present to myself and I've got some other stories coming up soon. If you have a second, please review and let me know what you thought! Thanks!