SUMMARY: Tag to 9.23 - A missing scene from the Bunker. Because Sam was left hanging and we all know Crowley was a no show.

DISCLAIMER: I toy, I do not own. Flowery language and manly angst abound.

A/N: I adored all the yummy brother moments. The hugging, the crying, the freaking "I'm proud of us"...every delicious morsel. But as always I need more. So here's my tribute. Please enjoy.

Crowley never showed.

And it was all much too raw to keep up the charade for long. One could only tolerate so much threatening, begging, and bargaining with a brain full of alcohol and a heart full of grief in one sitting.

Damn, he was poetic when shit hit the fan.

He couldn't think. Could barely breathe. He didn't know what to do.

What am I supposed to do?

He glared down at the hastily constructed array of useless shit arranged in the devil's trap. He wobbled down to his knees and howled; an inhuman noise boiling with all the rage and sorrow and horrible that he just couldn't bear anymore.

What's the point?

His fist crashed through the circle. He felt the rush of adrenaline as the objects shattered against the wall and the flying candle wax seared his bare skin. Another cry tore his throat to shreds as he pounded his fist against the cement floor. He felt something crack beneath the skin of his hand and did it again. This pain he could deal with.

"Fuck you, Dean!" A hoarse voice echoed through the claustrophobic hallways of the basement. Another blow and his knuckles came away sticky with red.

Then, as suddenly as it erupted, the rage vanished, leaving him exhausted and hurting just as bad. Maybe worse, because now his hand was screaming at him and his fingers were practically numb.

He rested his forehead against the cool cement, breathing heavily, allowing the black surge of guilt to wash over him. Had it always been like this? He shuddered, feeling a cold sweat break out over his skin and trickle down his back.

He didn't want to go back up there. He didn't want to see his brother. Not like that. He'd had just about all he could take.

His stomach lurched at the memory of Dean's gray, frigid skin. The way his boneless limbs did whatever Sam wanted without protest while he'd cleaned his brother's wounds. The peaceful expression that said everything was okay when it was fucked all to hell.

And that was worse than everything. He'd lied to hurt his brother. Promised himself he'd be okay. His stubborn, self-righteous ass would be just fine on its own. He would let Dean go when the time came. And then the time had come.

Ain't that a bitch…

Sam snorted as he dragged himself off the floor, swallowing convulsively with the realization that if he couldn't get his brother back…that was it. End of the road. He wouldn't survive this time. He didn't want to survive if it meant surviving without Dean. They'd been through too much.

On his way to his bedroom he dragged the half-empty bottle off the table and took another long drink…then another. He was so damn tired of hurting.

It struck him that he couldn't remember the last time Dean had laughed. Actually laughed. And his brother had such a great laugh - full-bodied and infectious. It had never failed to make Sam laugh even when he didn't want to.

His throat clogged as a fresh wave of grief threatened to topple him. He swallowed another mouthful, gagging a little, trying his best to drown the feeling. Trying his best not to drown.

Dean…what am I supposed to do?

Something tickled the edges of his foggy mind. He had…he did have something. He'd find it. He had to find it.

Where the hell was it?

Somewhere. He knew it was somewhere.

Kept it all these years because it was the only one they had.

How screwed up was that?

He staggered the last few feet to his bedroom, the alcohol sloshing uncomfortably in his otherwise empty stomach. He flipped on the light and began rummaging through his drawers. Viciously flinging articles of clothing out of the way, hunting for it with the same heightened level of focus and concentration he would any supernatural bastard.

But it wasn't there. He fell hard on his knees, grabbing for his duffel bag and tore that apart instead.

Where the hell…

After a few minutes of searching he spun in a desperate circle, running a hand through his damp hair. The room was a disaster zone.

And then it slammed into him like a punch to the gut.

He stumbled out of the room, making a zig-zaggy beeline for the garage.

Because it was there. It had to be.

The sight of Dean's beloved car, sitting patiently…waiting…. His eyes burned and his throat felt like it had been stuffed full of cotton balls.

He ran his fingers along the sleek, black exterior before his hand came to rest on the silver handle. He tugged gently and the door swung open. The worn leather hugged his body comfortingly as he sat a moment, breathing in the familiar smell of home.

His hand shook as he reached for the glove compartment and heard the metallic click as it popped open. He handled each item tenderly, setting them aside as if they were made of glass and not worthless industrial materials.

Yep. I'm losing it.

An empty M&M bag, yellowing insurance papers that had expired in 1997, fast-food napkins, a book on African potions he couldn't remember stuffing in there….but remembered looking for.

And wedged in the very back of the compartment, underneath a ratty cloth stained with crusting motor oil, he found it.

The edges were ragged and torn, softened by time. The shiny surface was scratched and crinkled, but it was there. Intact.

For a long moment, he could do nothing but stare. Stare at a moment he'd completely forgotten about. A moment that had been lost in the chaos of their strange, God-forsaken lives. But a moment that had survived all the same.

Sam and Dean stood side by side in the old polaroid. They held a ridiculously massive cardboard sign between them. The obnoxious letters cheerfully congratulated them on being Biggerson's one-millionth customer. Confetti pieces tangled in Sam's much shorter hair, his face frozen in an expression of disgust as he cringed through the ordeal. Dean, on the other hand, looked like he'd just won the freaking lottery. Eyes bright with childish glee as he cheesed for the camera. Actually, if Sam was remembering that day accurately, they had just won an absurd amount of cash.

His brother was grinning from ear-to-ear, an overgrown five-year old having the time of his life. Dean had insisted they keep the cheap photo. He'd claimed it was "for good luck"...more to the point, he knew how much it would piss Sam off. The Biggerson's manager had readily handed it over and his brother thanked the man with a friendly clap on the shoulder.

It'd never taken much to make Dean happy.

"Hell, yeah! Hands down best day ever!"

"Shocker."

"What's your problem, Debbie Downer?"

"It's just not surprising that you'd say that about a day where we happen to win a years supply of artery-clogging mystery meals is all."

"C'mon, lighten up, Sammy. Enjoy the spoils while they last."

"I'd say you're managing for the both of us. Besides, you're the one who wanted to stop. I'm not even hungry."

"Hey, we're celebrating here. And we're feasting on Biggerson's burgers and nacho-fries if I have to shove them down your throat, Nutrition Boy."

"Drunk with the power already, huh?"

"And it feels damn good, too. Get on the bandwagon, Sammy. Live a little."

"Whatever. If I puke your car's taking the brunt."

"You hurl in my baby and you're walking from now 'til infinity, bitch."

"Infinity's not an option you jerk."

Warm water dripped down, streaking the photo and Sam hurried to wipe it away. He hadn't even realized he was crying. His damn eyes just wouldn't quit leaking.

"Dude, cut it out. You're gonna stain the upholstery."

He had no control over the watery chuckle that rose in his throat. He couldn't help it. Dean's stupid grin egging Sam on and his mischievous eyes staring back at him, promising to mock mercilessly if Sam kept up that "girly shit".

Sam wiped his running nose and finally allowed his heavy body to relax, giving in to the darkness he craved. He rested his head on the warm leather, curling up on the seat as weariness and intoxication finally pulled him under.

And so he slept.

oooooooooo

"It's time to go."

Crowley placed a hand on the younger man's shoulder, urging him away from the garage door. He didn't budge.

"Hold your damn horses."

Inky eyes flashed angrily and Crowley took a respectful step back, allowing a moment or two.

Sam had passed out on the front seat of the Impala, an old photo clutched in his hand.

He hadn't recognized it at first. Hadn't recognized the two boys in the picture. The one on the right with the goofy smile and ridiculous spiked hair, grinning like he didn't have a care in the world...and the prissy geek-boy standing beside him, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else...

Had that really been them, once? Had it?

He couldn't remember.

Instead of wracking his brain he took a last look at his brother curled up on the seat.

Tears leaked stubbornly from Sam's eyes even in sleep and he looked feverish. A small part of him still hurt...seeing the kid like this.

He reached out a hand, fingers brushing over the window, wishing for a moment he could take it all back.

It's okay to smile again, Sammy.

"Dean."

He wanted to shove a metal tent stake down Crowley's throat. His hands shook with a newborn rage.

"It's time to go."

"I heard you the first time, jackass."

He turned his back on the cavernous garage - recalled a while back when its discovery had been the highlight of his week – turned his back on the car he'd called home…on the man he'd called brother.

He took the offered Blade from the demon's hand and walked out the door, refusing to look back.

This was for the best.

END

- If you couldn't tell I'm still quite upset. I'll probably need 'til October to freaking get over all the feels. These boys y'all...sheesh. In any case, thanks for reading and if you feel the need to rant you're more than welcome to click that button down there!