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The warehouse groaned like it was breathing.
Sam’s boots echoed through the massive, empty space, kicking up dust and shadows with every step. His flashlight swung in shaky arcs, revealing nothing but crates and old machinery. But something was wrong. Dean was gone. No response on the radio. No sound. Just... silence.
“Dean!” he called again, louder this time, the name bouncing uselessly off the steel beams above. And then he saw it. Blood. A smear on the concrete. Then more. A trail, dark and deliberate. His chest clenched.
“No, no, no…”
He was running before his brain caught up, heart pounding against his ribs like it wanted out. He rounded a corner—and froze. Dean. On the floor. Sprawled on his back, head tilted to the side. Eyes half-lidded. Blood soaking through his shirt, slick and dark beneath him.
Sam dropped. “Dean!” His voice cracked with something close to a scream. He scrambled to his brother’s side, hands shaking as he grabbed at him. “Dean, hey, no—wake up. Wake up!” No breath. No pulse.
Sam’s hands hovered, pressed, gripped—desperate. But Dean didn’t move. His body was already starting to cool. Sam’s mouth worked around silent words before the sob finally tore out. “Please, please, no…”
He clutched Dean’s jacket like it could anchor him to reality, pulled him in like he could just shake him back to life. “You can’t do this,” he choked. “Not to me. Not like this.” He bent over him, forehead pressed to Dean’s chest, broken sounds spilling out between breathless pleas. And Dean watched it all.
He stood a few feet away, wide-eyed and shaking, looking down at his own body. “What the hell…” He tried to move toward Sam, but his feet didn’t touch the ground. He wasn’t breathing, wasn’t blinking. And there was no warmth, no weight. Just presence. A presence tethered by something cold and cruel.
He remembered the witch’s last words—a curse spat between bloodied lips before her neck snapped. Something about the soul and the silence between life and death. She hadn’t lied. Dean was caught somewhere in between. Dead, but not gone. Trapped. And now all he could do was watch as his little brother broke apart, inch by inch.
“Sam,” Dean whispered, though no sound came out. “I’m right here…” But Sam couldn’t hear him. Couldn’t feel him. He was alone, kneeling in the dark, holding onto a body that no longer held his brother. And Dean—Dean couldn’t do a damn thing to stop it.
Day One
Sam didn’t remember getting to the car.
The whole thing was a blur of blood and trembling hands and the weight of his brother in his arms—too heavy, too still. He’d laid Dean gently across the backseat, whispering frantic promises like they could stitch a soul back into a body. “It’s gonna be okay. Just hold on, Dean. Just hold on.” But Dean didn’t move. And Sam drove like a man possessed.
The Impala roared down back roads, engine screaming beneath the weight of panic. Trees blurred past in a mess of night and headlights, tires squealing on tight corners. He barely saw the road. He didn’t care. His knuckles were white around the steering wheel, teeth clenched so tight his jaw ached.
In the passenger seat, Dean sat—ghostlike. Watching. “Sam! Slow down, dammit!” His voice echoed, useless. His hand passed straight through the dashboard. Through the radio. Through Sam. Nothing worked. Sam didn’t hear him. Didn’t see him. And Dean had never felt more helpless.
The Impala tore into the motel parking lot, brakes shrieking as Sam yanked the wheel. He jumped out before the car had fully stopped, whipping around to the back. Dean’s body looked wrong there, still and quiet. Like he was sleeping, but too far gone.
Sam pulled the door open and leaned in, his voice cracking as he spoke. “Okay… okay, I’ve got you. You’re alright. Just a scratch, right? Just some blood…” He wrapped his arms around his brother and lifted him out. Dean’s limbs were limp, head lolling against Sam’s shoulder. Sam held him like something sacred. Like if he dropped him, he’d shatter.
Dean followed, floating just behind, hollow with dread. “Sammy…” The motel door banged open. Sam carried him inside, heading straight for Dean’s bed. He laid him down with agonizing care, smoothing back Dean’s hair like it would wake him. His hands trembled as he backed away, eyes darting to the first aid kit on the table. He grabbed it, tore it open, breath shallow. “We’ll stop the bleeding. That’s all it is. Just stop the bleeding.”
Dean hovered by the bed, watching, aching to reach out. Then Sam lifted his brother’s shirt, and stopped. There were no wounds. Just blood. Dried. Sticky. But no source. No gash. No bullet. Nothing. Dean’s body was untouched.
“No,” Sam whispered, like the word might undo it. The first aid kit fell from his hands, spilling gauze and antiseptic across the floor. Sam fell to his knees beside the bed, eyes wide, heart breaking. And then the sobs came—silent at first, then wracking. He buried his face in the mattress beside Dean’s body, clutching at the blanket, shaking. Dean reached for him. His hand passed right through Sam’s shoulder.
“I’m here,” Dean said, uselessly. “I’m right here.” But Sam couldn’t hear him. All he heard was the sound of his own heart breaking.
Day Two
The room was too quiet.
Daylight bled through the thin motel curtains, pale and dusty. The only sound was the occasional groan of the old air unit kicking on, and the slow tick of a clock that felt like it hadn’t moved in hours. Dean's body lay where Sam had placed it, still and untouched. His face looked peaceful—too peaceful. Like he’d just taken a nap and would wake up with a groan and some snark about the crappy pillows. But he didn’t. And Sam didn’t sleep.
He sat in the corner most of the night, slumped against the wall, bloodshot eyes locked on his brother’s chest, hoping to see it rise. It didn’t. By morning, the grief had twisted into something sharper. Something bitter. Anger.
“You promised me,” Sam muttered under his breath, voice ragged. “You promised.” Dean stood a few feet away, arms crossed, hovering like a ghost-shaped shadow. He didn’t blink. Didn’t move. Just watched Sam with a knot in his gut.
“I always had your back, always!” Sam shouted, louder now, rising to his feet. “And you said—you said—you’d have mine!” He spun toward the bed, fists clenched. “What happened to that, huh?! You left! You just—you just left me!”
Dean flinched. “No, Sam. I didn’t. I’m right here…” But it didn’t matter. Sam couldn’t hear. Couldn’t see the agony on Dean’s face. And then it snapped. Sam stormed into the bathroom. Dean followed. “Sam, don’t—”
Glass shattered.
Sam’s fist went straight through the mirror, shards raining into the sink like jagged ice. Blood spilled instantly, bright red and fast, dripping down his wrist and over the porcelain. Dean lurched forward instinctively. “Damn it, Sam! What are you doing?!” But Sam just stood there, hand bleeding freely, eyes locked on his reflection—or what was left of it.
He didn’t even flinch. Didn’t move to stop the bleeding. Just let it pour. It was like he needed it. Needed the sting. The warmth. The reality. Dean hovered behind him, frantic and useless. “Patch it up,” he begged. “Please, Sam. Just... patch it up.” But Sam didn’t. He turned off the bathroom light, walked out, and left a trail of blood behind him.
And Dean was left staring at the cracked mirror, where his reflection didn’t even show.
Day Three
It was quiet again.
That kind of heavy silence that weighed on your chest, made every breath feel wrong. The room hadn’t changed—same cheap motel bedspread, same flickering light in the corner. Dean’s body still lay on the bed, hands folded neatly, like he was just waiting for the next hunt. But Sam had changed.
He sat cross-legged on the floor beside the bed, eyes red, hair a mess, lips cracked from hours of whispering to someone who couldn’t answer. Dean stood nearby, arms crossed, jaw clenched. Watching. Waiting. Wanting to scream.
Sam looked up at his brother’s body, voice hoarse. “Okay. You win.” Dean’s brow furrowed. “What?”
“You win,” Sam said again, almost as if in response to Dean's question, almost laughing—but it wasn’t funny. “You want me to stop chasing after stuff I can’t fix? Fine. I’ll stop. You want me to stay in the car? I’ll stay in the car. You want me to lay off the books and quit trying to be you?” Sam swallowed hard.
“I’ll do it. All of it. Just… just wake up, man.”
Dean’s chest ached in ways that didn’t even make sense anymore. “Don’t say that,” he said quietly, though Sam couldn’t hear. “Don’t do that.”
Sam leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his hand—still wrapped in dried blood from yesterday’s mirror—resting limply on his thigh. He hadn’t cleaned it. Barely even looked at it. “You said I was your pain in the ass little brother,” Sam muttered. “Said I didn’t listen. You were right. I didn’t. But I will now, okay? I’ll listen. I’ll do what you say, even if it’s stupid, even if it’s safe.” He laughed again, bitter and empty.
“You just have to wake up.” Dean shook his head. “That’s not you. And I don’t want that. I don’t want this.” But Sam kept going. “If you wake up, I’ll quit arguing. I’ll shut up when you tell me to. Hell, I’ll even let you pick the music on long drives without bitching about it.”
He wiped at his face with his hand, blood flaking from his knuckles. Dean watched him fall apart and hated every second of it. Hated that his little brother thought he needed to change just to bring him back. “You’re enough, Sammy,” Dean whispered, stepping closer, though it didn’t matter. “You always were. You don’t have to make deals with ghosts.”
But Sam just sat there, staring at the body on the bed like it held the answer to everything. And Dean’s ghost stood beside them both—silent, unseen—and broke a little more.
Day Four
Sam didn’t look at the bed.
Not once.
He woke up—or maybe just stood up; he hadn't really slept—and moved straight to the table in the corner, where lore books and notebooks and ancient yellowed pages were scattered like a storm had hit them. The chair creaked beneath him as he dropped into it, hunched, eyes already scanning lines of faded Latin and hastily scribbled notes.
Dean watched from the far wall, arms crossed, expression tight with worry. He hadn’t said a word—not that it would’ve mattered. There was nothing left to say that could reach his brother now.
Sam’s hand shook as he flipped a page. The one still caked with dried blood from the mirror. He didn’t even seem to notice. His hair hung in his face, greasy and tangled. His clothes looked slept in, but he hadn’t slept. His lips were dry. His eyes... vacant. Dean paced slowly, watching Sam wear himself thinner and thinner. “You need to eat,” he murmured. “You need to rest. C’mon, man, you’re no good to me like this.”
Sam squinted at a line of text, scribbled something down, then scratched it out a second later. Over and over again. Hours passed. The light shifted. The air felt stale. Still, he didn’t look at the bed. Dean’s body lay there. Silent. Pale. Cold. Sam kept his back to it like the truth would disappear if he ignored it hard enough.
Finally, as the sky outside dimmed toward evening, Sam pushed the books aside and let his head fall into his hands. Shoulders shaking. “I can’t…” he whispered. “I can’t find anything.” Dean stepped closer, silently pleading. “You will. You always do.”
Sam didn’t lift his head. Just sat there, sunken in grief, staring at the floor. “I’m sorry,” he choked. “I’m so sorry, Dean.” Dean stopped. “I should’ve— I should’ve been faster, or smarter, or something. I let you down. Again.” Sam still didn’t turn around. Still didn’t look at him. Couldn’t.
“I promised I’d protect you too, y'know?” Sam said. “And now you’re… you’re there. And I’m here. And I can’t even look at you.” Dean’s heart twisted. If he had one, it would’ve been shattered. “You didn’t let me down,” he whispered. “You never let me down.” But Sam couldn’t hear that.
He just sat in the dark, silent tears cutting down his face, surrounded by books that said nothing—and the weight of the body he refused to look at. And Dean… could only watch.
Day Five
Sam didn’t open the books that day
.
He didn’t move much at all.
He sat on the floor, back leaned against the side of Dean’s bed, knees pulled up, arms resting on them. Dean’s body lay just inches behind him—still, pale, untouched—but Sam kept his back to it like the space between them could keep the truth from swallowing him whole.
Dean hovered in the corner, silent and aching. “I remember that time you gave me your jacket,” Sam murmured, voice worn thin. “I was, what… nine? Ten? We were in Nebraska. Heat in the car went out, and you didn’t even hesitate.”
He let out a soft breath that sounded almost like a laugh. “You shivered all night. But you told me I needed it more. Said I was ‘just a kid’ and that it was your job.” Dean crossed the room slowly, wanting to be closer, wanting to say something—anything—that would make a difference.
“You always said that,” Sam continued. “‘It’s my job to look out for you, Sammy.’ And you did. Every time.” His voice wavered, but he didn’t stop. Didn’t turn around. He just kept staring straight ahead at the threadbare motel carpet, like if he looked back, he’d break completely.
Dean’s hands curled into fists. “You looked out for me too,” he said softly. “You still are.”
“I remember when I got sick in Georgia,” Sam said, words slower now. “Couldn’t even sit up. Dad left us there… but you stayed. You figured everything out. Got me soup, medicine, and kept the lights low ‘cause it gave me a headache.”
Sam shook his head slowly. “You were fifteen. You shouldn't’ve had to do that. But you did. You made it feel like home.” His voice cracked on that last word. His eyes never left the floor. Dean knelt beside him, just inches away, unable to touch, unable to help.
“I always thought you were invincible,” Sam whispered. “Even when you weren’t.” A tear slid down his cheek, then another. He didn’t wipe them away. “I don’t know who I am without you, Dean,” he admitted. “You were the one who held everything together.” Dean reached out, stopped short again. Hovered there in the empty space between them.
“I’m still here,” he said. “I’m not leaving you.” But Sam just sat there, back pressed to the bed like he couldn’t bring himself to move. To look. To face the finality of the body behind him.
And Dean could only sit beside him, silent in death, alive in spirit, and helpless as his little brother came apart one memory at a time.
Day Six
Dean noticed before the sun went down.
The books were still scattered. The lights were off. The rain had started around midday, a steady downpour that never let up. But Sam wasn’t there.
Dean had paced the room for hours, a quiet, invisible storm of worry. He checked the door a dozen times, looked out the rain-soaked windows like he could will his brother to appear. He didn’t. Not until well after nightfall.
The door burst open, wind howling behind it as Sam stumbled in, soaked from head to toe. Water dripped from his jacket, his hair plastered to his face, muddy footprints marking his trail across the room’s already questionable carpet. In his hand he clutched a half-empty bottle of cheap whiskey.
Dean stared, stunned. “Sam—?”
Sam didn’t respond. He swayed, blinking slowly like the world wouldn’t stay still. His eyes were bloodshot, his cheeks hollow. And worse—blood had begun to seep from his hand again, the rain having softened the scab and split the wound wide open.
Dean felt it like a punch to the gut.
“Damn it, Sam,” he whispered. “What the hell are you doing to yourself?” Sam took a long drink from the bottle, then closed the door with his back, leaning against it like even standing took effort. He didn’t go to the table. He didn’t go to the bathroom. He walked straight to Dean’s bed. Dean braced himself.
Sam looked down at him—really looked—for the first time in days. His eyes roamed over Dean’s cold, pale face, the stillness that had never suited him. And then, slowly, Sam reached out and cupped his brother’s cheek, thumb brushing along unmoving skin. “Still cold,” Sam murmured, voice thick with drink and sorrow. “Still gone.”
Dean blinked hard. “I’m right here, man. I’m right here.”
Sam sat heavily on the edge of the bed. His wet clothes made a dark imprint on the covers, the bottle still clutched in his shaking hand. “I went to a crossroads tonight,” he said. Dean’s heart dropped. “What?”
“I—I tried,” Sam slurred. “Tried to trade. My soul, my life, my everything.” He laughed bitterly. “Guess they didn’t want it.” Dean stepped back, furious, helpless. “You what?! Damn it, Sam, are you out of your mind?!”
“I couldn’t get in the car,” Sam continued, not hearing the storm in Dean’s voice. “Not without you. So I walked. Didn’t matter how far. I just… couldn’t sit in the driver’s seat and pretend—” Then he stood up fast, too fast.
“Sam—”
He doubled over, suddenly, and vomited right there on the carpet. The bottle slipped from his hand and shattered, whiskey bleeding into the floor like spilled regrets. Dean rushed forward on instinct. “Sammy—!” Sam wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his soaked jacket, breath ragged. Then he laughed.
Not a real laugh. Not the kind that made your chest feel warm. No, this one was cracked. Empty. A smile that didn’t touch his eyes. The kind of laugh that said I’m hanging on by threads, and I don’t care if they break.
Then, without a word, he crawled onto Dean’s bed and lay down beside him—like they used to when the world was too big, and nightmares felt too real. He curled in close, forehead resting lightly against Dean’s shoulder. Dean just stood there. Frozen. Heartbroken.
“Don’t do this to yourself,” he whispered, kneeling beside the bed, wanting more than anything to pull Sam back from the edge. “Please, Sammy. Just hold on a little longer.” Sam didn’t hear him. He was already asleep. Restless. Shivering. Curled up next to his dead brother like he was trying to hold onto something that was already gone.
And Dean… just watched. Unable to move. Unable to help.Unable to leave.
Day Seven
Sam rolled out of bed like a man on autopilot, his movements sluggish and hollow. His clothes were still damp from the night before, his boots caked in dried mud. He didn’t seem to care. He didn’t even glance at the mess of broken glass or the dried stains on the floor.
He went straight to the kitchenette, pulled the last bottle of whiskey from the cupboard, and poured it into one of the cheap motel mugs. He downed it in one long gulp, standing still, staring at Dean. Silent. Empty.
Dean watched him from across the room, worry etched into every inch of his not-quite-there face. Something felt… different today. Heavy in the air. Like a breath held too long. Sam’s eyes didn’t blink. He just stood there, watching his brother’s body like he was waiting for something to happen. When nothing did, he turned, trudging toward the bathroom. The door closed with a hollow click.
Dean followed, pacing just outside. A second later, the shower roared to life. That’s when it hit him. A pull. Not physical, not even spiritual—something more primal. A magnet drawing iron. A gravity between his soul and the body on the bed.
Dean stiffened. “What the hell…” He pressed his palm to his chest, breathing a breath he didn’t have.
When Sam came out of the bathroom a while later, steam trailing behind him, his hair was damp again. A red bandanna was loosely tied around his wounded hand, haphazard but better than nothing. He stopped mid-step. Then, sharply, his head turned toward Dean. Right at him. Dean froze.
Sam blinked, frowning. “Get some sleep, Sam,” he muttered to himself with a shake of the head. “You’re seeing things.”
Dean whispered, “No… you’re not.” But Sam was already walking again. It happened again. And again. Every so often, Sam’s head would snap toward Dean like he’d caught something out of the corner of his eye. A flicker. A movement. A presence he didn’t quite believe in. Dean couldn’t tell if it was breaking his heart or reigniting hope.
By midnight, Sam had settled into the chair across from the bed. Just staring. For hours. Didn’t move. Didn’t drink. Barely even blinked. And Dean… Dean could only watch him watching him. It unnerved him. Haunted him. But also, somewhere deep down, made him feel seen.
At around 4 a.m., Sam stood abruptly. No warning. Just motion. He left the room. Dean stood alone with his own corpse for a long, hollow moment. When Sam returned, the door creaked open and he stepped inside with a plastic bag clutched in one hand—more whiskey. He sat it on the table without a word, not even looking at it.
Then, like his legs gave out, Sam collapsed onto his own bed, face-down, and was asleep in seconds. Dean didn’t even bother pacing this time. He stood still. Watching. Waiting. A couple hours later is when it happened.
A sound. The bathroom door creaking open. Then footsteps. Wet ones.
Sam could smell it. Their shared soap. The one they always used because it reminded them of home, even when nothing else did.
Across the room, Sam shot up, breath caught in his throat. His hand went under his pillow. Drew out the gun. Cocked it. Pointed it straight at—
Dean.
“Sam, it’s me.” Sam’s eyes were wide. Wild. He glanced at Dean’s bed—and his breath caught again. The outline of blood still marked the sheets, a dark memory that hadn’t washed away. Sam’s mouth opened, but no words came out.
Dean raised his hands slowly. “It’s me. I’m here. I don’t know how—I don’t even know if this is gonna last—but I’m here.” Sam still didn’t move. So Dean did. He crossed the distance in three long strides and gently pushed the gun down with one hand. Then he pulled his brother into a tight, grounding hug with the other. Sam didn’t react at first. But then—his fingers gripped the back of Dean’s shirt like a lifeline. A tremble shook through him.
“This isn’t real,” Sam whispered against Dean’s shoulder. “You’re dead. You died. I watched you bleed out and I couldn’t—”
“I know,” Dean whispered, holding him tighter. “I know, Sammy. But I’m here now. I’ve got you.” Sam shook his head over and over. “You’re not real. This isn’t real.”
“It is,” Dean said gently, rocking them both as if motion might convince him. “It’s me. I swear. I don’t know how, but I’m back.” And there, in the quiet dark, with the scent of soap in the air and days of grief clinging to their skin, Sam sobbed into his older brother's shoulder and Dean held him like he would never, ever let go again.
Morning light crept through the cracked curtains, casting a pale glow across the battered motel room. The world outside carried on like nothing had happened — rain puddles gleaming in the parking lot, distant traffic humming — but inside, something had shifted.
Sam clung to Dean like he was afraid he might vanish again if he let go. And Dean didn’t blame him. For days, Sam had been alone in the worst way a person could be — carrying two souls worth of grief on his shoulders.
Dean kept one arm around him, grounding them both. It didn’t matter that he didn’t understand how he was back. It didn’t matter that he still felt the faint, phantom ache of separation. What mattered was that Sam was breathing against him. That Sam was still here — bruised, broken, but still fighting.
And Dean? Dean would never take that for granted again. Whatever witch, curse, or cruel twist of fate had tried to take him, they hadn’t counted on this — the stubbornness of two brothers who refused to let each other go.
After a while, Dean eased Sam down onto his bed, covering him with the thin motel blanket. His brother didn’t stir, too far gone into a restless, exhausted sleep. Dean stood over him for a moment, just watching — the slow rise and fall of Sam’s chest, the tiny furrow of his brow even in slumber. Proof of life. Proof that they had made it through.
Dean walked into the bathroom but paused at the mirror. And froze. For just a second, he didn’t see his reflection. There was nothing there. Just the cracked mirror, empty and cold.
Dean’s stomach twisted. He reached out, pressed his palm against the glass — and finally, the image flickered back into place. His face, pale and shaken, staring back at him. He shook his head roughly, muttering, “Get it together, Winchester.”
But as he turned off the light and walked back to his brother’s side, the doubt gnawed at him. He was back. He was here.
And yet, somewhere deep in the marrow of his bones, Dean could feel it — like a warning whispered on the edge of a dream. Something wasn’t done with him yet.
Not by a long shot.