When I Don't Have You Around

Sam's POV

    Sam stared at his phone. He had ignored Dean's call a few hours earlier because he was still pretty pissed at the guy, but now he was having second thoughts about whether or not that was a good idea. Maybe Dean had wanted to talk. Maybe he finally wanted to admit that he was wrong.

    Nah, Sam decided. That wasn't like Dean. Well then what had he called about?

    He finally picked up the phone and opened it. There was a new message in his voicemail inbox. The caller ID said Dean. Sam sighed, closing his phone and throwing it onto the empty bed opposite his in the empty motel room. He flopped down onto his bed, running his hands through his hair. He puffed out his cheeks, trying to decide whether or not to listen to the new voicemail.

    Somewhere in the back of this mind he knew the whole fight was childish, but he was a Winchester, which meant that he was stubborn. Besides, technically Dean had started it. Sure, Sam had made some smartass comment first, but Dean had been the one to argue about it. That made it his fault, right? He hoped that Dean was out there somewhere, missing him, driving around in his precious Baby, feeling the sting of his absence. Sam wasn't missing Dean though. Obviously.

    Sam sat up and, grabbing his laptop, began to look for a case. Maybe if he worked he could clear his head. But the empty bed kept taunting him, reminding him of what wasn't there. Stop it, Sam chided himself, be he couldn't help glancing at his phone and wondering what he would find. After about a half an hour of trying to distract himself from it, Sam finally gave up.

    Screw it, he thought. He got up and picked up his phone. He clicked the new voicemail and hit the play button.

    'Sammy,' Dean's voice said. Sam immediately knew something was wrong. His brother's voice was pained and mumbling. He was hurt.

    'I screwed up.' Dean continued. 'The demons got me, and they're gonna kill me.'

    "No, no no no no no," Sam said, panicking. All thoughts of anger or resentment towards his brother vanished in an instant. Dean was in trouble. He had to help Dean. He began to gather his things up and pack them away.

    Dean laughed a little, but it was strained and forced. 'Told you I was gonna die bloody, didn't I?'

    Dean coughed hoarsely. Sam shoved his laptop back into his bag and threw it over his shoulder and began to head towards the door. Dean wasn't going to die. Sam would get there and save his sorry ass before the demon bastards could kill him. Why did they ever split up in the first place? Sam wasn't there to help his brother and now Dean was paying the price. This wasn't supposed to happen. Dean wasn't supposed to—

    'Sammy,' Dean pleaded. Sam stopped in his tracks, the effort of keeping the emotion in making him shake. 'Don't come looking for me, they'll want you too. They'll want you too, Sammy—" Sam closed his eyes as Dean's wet coughing prevented him from speaking. Then an amused laugh began to sound.

    'Sam,' a feminine voice that Sam didn't recognize said. 'That was your brother, in his last dying moments. He's a couple miles from Kanyenta, Arizona, off of 163, in a big abandoned warehouse. Can't miss it. You can come get him if you want. Or rather, what's left of him.'

    The message ended, and Sam ran out to the truck he had stolen. He was about three hours away from Arizona, he could get there on time before they killed him, right? Dean still had a chance. He had to have a chance. Even as he thought this, Sam knew it was too late. How many hours ago Dean called? Five? Six? He was probably already—

    No, no he wasn't. He couldn't be.

    Sam drove in denial all the way to Kanyeta.

    When he found the warehouse, Sam packed all the salt and holy water he could carry to keep the demons away. But as he entered and began to wander the warehouse, he found no one. He came to a large room that looked like it had been occupied earlier. But no one occupied it now.

    There were no demons.

    But there was Dean.

    He lay on his side in a bloodied and bare chested heap, his face turned away from Sam. Sam dropped everything and ran to his brother's side.

    "Dean!" He yelled, grabbing his shoulder and rolling him onto his back. His body was limp and heavy, and his head banged against the hard ground in the process of moving, but he didn't react. He had a gaping hole in his abdomen, the blood still slick and wet.

    "Dean, hey, hey wake up. Wake up!" Sam pleaded. Multiple slashes and bruises made Dean almost unrecognizable, robbing his face of the handsomeness that had once been there. Most of his bones were broken—his legs, his wrists, his arms, his ribs, hell even his nose. Every inch of bare skin was covered in cuts and gashes of all sizes, like his flesh had been put into a meat grinder.

    "Dean?" Sam pleaded desperately. Dried blood caked Dean's nose and mouth. His eyes were half closed and unseeing, and there was no rise and fall of his chest.

    And he was cold. So very, very cold.

    "No," Sam said. "No, no no no no." He cried over Dean's mangled corpse, cradling his head in his arms. He recalled Mystery Spot, and all those times Dean had died in front of his eyes, each time becoming more and more gruesome as the days passed. But eventually the pain of losing his brother over and over again wasn't as severe, because he knew he would wake up the next morning with his brother magically still alive. Now as he looked upon his brother's dead body, he remembered all the times he had been in the same position, and although he knew it was hopeless and foolish, Sam couldn't help but whisper brokenly, "I'm supposed to wake up."

    He didn't.