A/N: I've had this in my head all summer and I'm not sure if it's something anyone would be interested in reading but I really hope so because I liked writing it. It's just my take on another demon blood withdrawal scenario. Also, I'm missing hurt!Sam a bit and this helped. Thanks for reading!

The first thing Dean notices is that the air isn't humid here, not like it was in the South. Where Sam struggled to breathe through wrecked lungs, turning nights into coughing marathons, days into races to see who would break first. Sam or Dean. Sam because his body is literally falling apart around him, fracturing into pieces that float through space and time and most horrifically, away from Dean. And Dean because watching Sam shatter is like someone digging fishhooks under his skin, tearing and ripping the flesh from his bones with precision and delicacy.

But here, Sam raises his head from where it is resting against the window of the Impala and sucks in a breath, a surprised sigh coming back out when his body isn't wracked with seizing from the action. Hazel eyes travel upwards from the dashboard to the windshield in stunted movement as if Sam is prepared to see something truly awful in front of him and not a willowing canopy of green against an impressive backdrop of peaks that rise high into the clouds.

"Dean?"

Of course Dean is right there, opening the door, reaching out a hand.

"Right here, buddy."

"Where are we?"

He leans on his brother, letting Dean carry the minimal weight that's left on his emaciated body, hating that he needs so much support but knowing the alternative is worse. Sam has been on the bathroom floor before, forehead to the tile as every muscle in his body twists and contracts. He's dropped to his knees in the middle of a crowded diner as his veins narrow and scream, too empty.

Empty.

That's the word that comes to mind when Dean glances over, gripping tight as Sam shuffles along the grass, barely lifting a foot because these days even a few inches of air is too much to put between him and the ground. This is just a shell of the gun-wielding, corpse-burning man who raged beside Dean, sometimes in front of him, burning with a fire ignited in him at six months old. Now the fire is ash and Sam is choking on it.

"The mountains," Dean says. "Upstate New York." Sam doesn't question him because he's Dean and no other reason is needed. Not when the elder Winchester has spent the last three months shoving soup and dry crackers down his throat or continually being at his side when the food inevitably makes a reappearance. Not when Dean gave up his entire life to take care of the last family member he has left.

Sam Winchester. The addict.

"I have to check in," Dean tells him after they spend too long getting up three wooden stairs into a cabin that sways and blurs in front of Sam. He drops onto a couch that is too short for his body but Dean has already arranged pillows and blankets and Sam curls into the nest like a child. "Are you okay to stay by yourself?"

"I'm fine," Sam says and when Dean doesn't move adds, "I'm not going to kill anyone if that's what you mean."

"That's not what I meant," Dean says, swinging his gaze to the left where a picture window takes up one side of the cabin, exposing the view of a pristine lake. "Here," he says when Sam doesn't answer. Dean sets two pill bottles and a bottle of water on the coffee table, easily within reach, and then unstraps his watch. "You still have thirty minutes until the next dose and I expect to be back before then but if I'm not, take one of each pill when the alarm goes off." Sam squints up at him.

"Where are you going?"

Empty. Even his mind is shrinking.

"I have to check in," Dean repeats. "Did you hear me about the pills?"

"Yeah," Sam says, raising one finger off the couch in a dismissal. "Bye."

Before he leaves, Dean slips a revolver under Sam's pillow.

xxx

After the grass comes a gravel path that leads up a small hill, the rocks twisting underneath Dean's boots. He walks without looking back, worried that he's going to see Sam through the windows, rifling through the duffel bags in the bedroom, searching for the object that sits in Dean's jean pocket. His fingers curl around the dropper. Such a small object but in the past months it's turned into Dean's anchor, pinning him to reality in the most brutal ways. It's warm from the heat of his body and comforting in the folds of his palm.

There are other small cabins along the path, dotted with brightly colored beach towels, life jackets, sandals. Children's playthings are sitting outside and Dean even spots a couple of the tiny creatures by a cabin to his far left, crawling in the grass being followed by watchful adults. Babysitters. Just like Dean. He might not be watching a toddler but the person in his charge is almost as weak, not quite as clueless. Creeping away from Dean when his back is turned, but without the curious smirks of childhood that lead to cuddles and forgiveness.

The air here is pure and somehow simple, as if Dean can feel each molecule swimming through his veins, settling into him for the duration of their stay. Who knows how long that will be. He told Bobby that he brought Sam here for a change of scenery, that the house in Sioux Falls was becoming a prison. He told Sam he brought him here because this is where they had come for a weekend as children. Not here, specifically, but in this mountainous region. But though Dean is an adept liar on his worst day, he can't lie to himself.

He brought his brother here to die.

Because Sam doesn't deserve to die in a musty boarded-up house that reeks of old books and liquor, nor is it fitting that he leave this world in a cramped motel room with stains on the carpet. No, Dean wants more for his brother. He wants him to die surrounded by beauty.

And it's beautiful here, encircled by the high mountains that roll out as far as he can see. Their tops tickle the sky, seeming to swirl the clouds into foamy murals. The trees are huge, not the raggedy plants of the Midwest but full and voluptuous, towering over Dean. It might be good for Sam to be dwarfed for once. His brother has so little to crane his neck up to these days.

The large building in front of him – maybe the size of four of the smaller cabins put together – is crusted in bark and ivy, vines running up the sides to the tin roof. For a second Dean just stares because while he's seen some things, it's not often he as impressed as he is now. From the gigantic stone steps to the flowers placed at random intervals, this place is better than the photo he saw in the magazine. It's ancient and regal and natural and Dean's heart stutters out a foreign four-letter word.

Home.

The stone steps lead inside to a dimly lit lodge, more bark, more ivy, less flowers. It's spacious and airy with furniture containing rips and tears and moth-eaten armrests. Yet somehow, it's endearing, not disgusting. There's a huge black couch that curves around the main room in a semi-circle with armchairs in all four corners. Photographs of deer and moose and ducks line the wall and decorate the endtables and even the lamps appear to be in the shape of pinecones.

"Can I help you?" A woman's voice comes from his left and he takes a step back involuntarily when he comes face to face with a black bear, high up on his hind legs, mouth open in a snarl. A laugh seems to come from the exposed teeth. "Don't worry, it's stuffed." Dean blinks and sees the bear's eyes are glass, the paws frozen. He peers around the statue and spies an older woman sitting behind a desk made of, yes, wood.

"Uh, hi," he says, annoyed that he let a stuffed bear get the better of him. It's been too long since a Hunt.

"Can I help you?" the woman repeats. She's older than he first thought, her hair not blonde but gray, cut close to her head but still curly. Glasses hang on a chain around her neck and her eyes are a piercing blue. Piercing but kind. And Dean knows instinctively that his woman has been through some stuff.

"Dean Winchester," he says, holding out a hand that she takes. The calluses on her hand match his.

"Great, we were expecting you," she says, sitting back down and rifling through some papers. "Take a seat. Did you have a good drive?" Hospitality isn't really Dean's thing, not to give or receive so, he stumbles over his tongue.

"Uh, yeah. Fine."

"Where did you come from?" The inquiry is polite; she doesn't want the information, she's just asking.

"South Dakota." She whistles.

"Wow. That's a long way."

"Yeah." He shifts in the chair, feeling the dropper dig into his thigh.

"Now you said on the phone you were coming with your brother, right?" Dean clears his throat. He knows how to talk about this, has been practicing this speech for days.

"Yes, Sam. He's sick and I thought this might be a good place for him to relax. It looked real calm on the website."

"Oh, it is," the woman agrees, pulling out a sheaf of paper and putting on her glasses. "I'm so sorry about your brother." Dean looks her straight in the eye.

"It's cancer."

Lie.

"Nasty thing, isn't it?" the woman says. "My husband passed away just last year from it."

"I'm sorry," Dean says.

"I'm Diane, by the way," she says and just like that, Sam is no longer a problem. "Welcome to The Lodge. I hope you and your brother are comfortable here. Just sign right here and you can pay the rest when you check out. You're staying two weeks, right?"

Dean scribbles his names and looks over the paper; it's a list of waterfront rules.

"No swimming after dark, no diving anywhere, no swimming alone, no food or drink on the docks. The docks are just down the path from your cabin," she explains. "You're free to use them at your pleasure. We have kayaks and canoes and motorboats for rent also. The pricing is found on the back of that sheet, yep right there. Any questions?"

"No ma'am," Dean says, standing up because it's been longer than he thought and he needs to get back to Sam. "Thank you so much."

"If you have any questions, just come here to the Main Lodge or ask one of the workers around. They wear dark green shirts."

"Thank you," Dean says and leaves, ignoring the flowers this time. The waterfront rules are bunched in his right hand. Maybe they'll rent a boat one day, Sam might like that. He passes the docks on his way back, noticing the numerous lounge chairs set up with a couple people relaxing in them. It's chillier now then when they arrived and Dean grabs his flannel from the front seat of the Impala before going inside.

Sam's on the couch but he's shivering, the blankets thrown to the floor, his hands cradling his head. The pill bottles are exactly where Dean left them.

"Hey, Sammy," Dean says to signal his presence and Sam's head twitches in his direction but his fingers are trembling as they press into his skull.

"Dean, let me have it," he moans. "Please."

"Not right now," Dean says, unscrewing the bottles and getting the pills out. The dropper burns in his pocket.

"Dean, please. I'm dying."

And he is but not in the way Sam is talking about.

"No you're not."

"Yes I aaaaamm," his brother whines, sounding ten years old again. A tremor rocks through his body, sending his feet slamming into the end of the couch.

"Alright," Dean eases, swallowing hard because this never gets easier. He wraps an arm around Sam's shaking shoulder, trying to absorb some of the motion. "Sam, sit up a little. Help me out." But Sam stopped helping Dean a long time ago, can hardly help himself. Dean grunts, taking his brother's weight, slipping the pills into the corner of Sam's mouth.

"Don't spit them out," he warns as he uncaps the water and wraps Sam's fingers around the bottle. "Swallow." Sam's shaking so hard, the water sloshes over his lips and chin, catches Dean on the cheek.

"I want it," Sam mumbles around the still-there pills, pushing them around with his tongue, sweaty bangs glued to his forehead.

"I know," Dean says. His voice doesn't crack but it's close. He hates this, hates it more than he hates anything in this whole goddamn world. His heart is swollen and caught in his throat, pulsing out a beat so fierce Dean thinks he might throw up. "You can have it later, Sam."

"I want it now!" Sam demands and Dean thanks god his brother has lost strength because a month ago he could of thrown Dean off but now he just bucks once and then falls back to the couch. "Give it to me."

"After the pills," Dean lies. He pulls a couple more out because Sam has spit his out and they are already lost in the cushions of the couch. This time, Dean holds the water and then runs a palm along Sam's throat, urging him to swallow. "There," he says a minute later when the trembling has subsided and Sam is limp against him. "Better?"

Sam doesn't nod, doesn't say a word as his dazed eyes flutter shut and Dean waits a few more moments before sliding out from behind him, covering him with a blanket. The pills are a combination of sedative and morphine, enough to knock Sam out and cover the pain for a while. Buying a little more time before Dean has to use his last resort.

xxx

Sam wakes up for dinner, which is soup from a can and some fresh strawberries that Dean got from a farmer's stand on their way to the cabin. He dices them into a white bowl, staining his fingers red before sucking the juice off them. Meal preparation is one thing Dean actually doesn't mind doing these days. It's calming to be able to chop and dice and fillet and it's always a time of quiet as Sam sleeps. There's no moaning, no whimpers to distract him. Just Dean and the food.

There's a worn table with two chairs on the other side of the living room and he sets two places, finding plates and silverware in the kitchen. It's a small place but cozy, with creaking floors that create a certain melody as Dean moves from fridge to stove to cutting board. Sam doesn't like loud music these days so Dean relishes in any sound besides his own breathing, loving the swish of the knife and the crackling of the propane burner. He has the door to outside open so he can hear the waves of the lake crashing into the shore and the crickets that hide in the thicket behind the cabin.

"Dean?"

"Right here," Dean says, going to the doorway. "What's up?"

"'m thirsty," Sam says. He's been asleep three hours and he always wakes up with cottonmouth; it's the pills doing.

"The rest of your water is right beside you on the table."

"Can you turn on the light?" Dean pauses as he was about to turn back to the kitchen. Lights are on everywhere. Two lights in the kitchen, the overhead in the living room. Dusky sunlight comes through the picture window.

"It's on," Dean says and Sam frowns, eyes snapping open all the way but Dean can see even from across the room they are unfocused and glassy.

"No it's not," Sam says crossly, sitting up and rubbing his eyelids with his palms so that white spots appear against the dark background. Dean's gaze flickers to the light above them and panic builds behind his ribs. Sam reaches out and his fingers knock into the bottle he obviously can't see, tipping it over. Dean crosses the room without a word and puts it in his brother's hand. Sam's face tilts up and when he speaks, his voice wavers.

"Dean?"

"It's okay, Sam."

This is not okay.

"I'm blind."

It's a matter-of-fact statement and there might even be a bit of dry humor twisted into the words and for just that moment, Sam sounds like himself again. Somehow that's even worse than when he sounds as sick as he is.

"Can you see anything?" Sam squints as if this will help – it doesn't – and thinks he sees the dark shape that is Dean in front of him. He can feel the water bottle still clenched in his fist, the rippled surface cool against his palm but he can't see it and Sam is frustrated because his body has played enough tricks on him.

"Shapes," he says finally. "But not much."

"Let's eat," is all Dean responds with and Sam doesn't move a muscle as Dean finishes putting the food on. "The table is over here," Dean says, leading Sam with an arm around his shoulders, pushing him down into a chair. Then he takes Sam's hand in his and the younger Winchester is surprised at the gentleness of his brother's movements as he shows him the silverware, the circumference of the soup bowl, dips his fingertips into the bowl of strawberries.

"How was your walk?" Sam asks a couple minutes later. It took a few tries but he finally managed to get the soup from the bowl to his mouth without spilling it in his lap. The strawberries are sweet and juicy and taste just right on his tongue.

"Good," Dean says. "It's nice looking here." He wants to tell Sam about the lake and the boats they can rent and even the flowers by the Main Lodge but they are both ignoring Sam's lack of vision.

"Cool," Sam says. For the rest of dinner they talk about trivial things like Hunts that Bobby is helping out with and what Hunters in the area might be up to. Afterwards, Dean cleans up – the slosh of water as he does the dishes is one of his favorite sounds – and then he proposes that they go outside. Sam's back on the couch but sitting up, staring at what Dean assumes is nothing.

"Sammy?"

"Yeah?"

"Let's go for a walk." Hesitation ties a string between them and pulls tight.

"I don't think so."

"Yes," Dean says. He has learned that you have to tell Sam to do things and not ask. "We're going."

"I don't want to."

"I know. But it will be good for you." Dean's already pulling on his flannel and then he slips Sam's arms through his own.

"Why?"

"Because there's fresh air outside and fresh air is good for everyone."

"Even demon blood addicts." It's not a question and Dean pretends Sam never even said it because who needs reminders at a time like this.

They make it to the porch and then down those three steps and Sam can tell when the grass between his feet switches to something looser. Stones, he guesses. It does smell good out here, like pine and water and life. Everything is one dark blur and maybe this would have freaked Sam out once upon a time but he knows he's dying so why wouldn't he go blind? He hears the lake getting closer and remembers the first time John took Sam and Dean canoeing. They had been too small to help paddle and had sat in the middle of the canoe as John sailed them around the lake.

"I want to call Dad." There's silence next to him and wood under his feet. Dean lets go for a minute and Sam panics.

"I'm getting you a chair. We're on the docks by the water." Dean's voice says from several feet away. "Stay put, Sammy." He does what Dean says. It's weird being dizzy and being blind at the same time but his head is starting to swim, the sweat rolling down his neck and Sam knows this is the beginning. Every night is the same.

"Can we call Dad?" he asks again when Dean sits him in a chair. Plastic scrapes against wood as Dean draws one up for himself.

"No." Sam frowns.

"Why not?"

"The cell phones are dead," Dean says. Sam can't see but his brother is staring straight ahead, elbows on his knees, chin resting on folded hands. John's been dead for three years but the addict part of Sam's brain has eaten away the sensible part; this isn't the first time he's asked for their father.

"Can you charge them?"

"Sure. We'll call tomorrow." Satisfied, Sam leans back in his chair, stretching out his legs. A cool breeze floats over them, lifting the ends of Sam's hair up. Dean had given him a haircut a couple weeks ago but Sam made him keep it long. He hears Dean talking but it's not to him; he suspects there's another person with them and Sam keeps quiet, concentration slipping enough to let his mind wander without thinking, focusing only on the feel of the air against his skin and the husky murmur of Dean's voice.

They stay on the docks until the sun goes down and then Dean leads Sam back into the cabin, digging out a pair of boxers and a t-shirt for Sam to sleep in. Off the living room is the bedroom with two double beds and a small bathroom. He shows Sam around the bathroom and leaves the door open just in case, but his brother manages well for a recently blind person and slips into his clothes without help, waiting by the door for Dean to retrieve him.

"This sucks," Sam says and then in the same breath asks, "Where are we?"

emptyemptyempty

"At a lake," Dean reminds him. "In the mountains."

"Where's Bobby?" The bed is soft and sinks just the right amount under his weight and Dean fluffs his pillows. The collar of Sam's t-shirt is already damp with sweat and the tremors have reappeared in his hands. Dean knows without looking at his watch that in two hours he's going to have to make the decision again. He's going to have to choose.

"Not here," Dean says, pulling the blankets up, sitting on his own bed to take off his shoes. His feet are sore, his back is sore, even his fingernails are sore it seems. Sam shifts in bed as Dean pulls out the dropper, keeping his body between it and his brother, but Sam's moving restlessly. He can smell it.

"Dean?" The voice is childlike again, petulant and small.

"No, Sammy," Dean says firmly. And that's that for now. But it won't last. Dean knows from experience that in another hour Sam's breathing will grow shallow and his clothes will soak through with sweat and his heart will race too rapidly to count individual beats. He'll moan and scream and beg Dean to kill him, to put a blade through his heart. Another hour after that and the pleading will stop and that's when Dean will make the choice because every second that goes by brings Sam one step closer to the end and they both know it. And this has become Dean's life: the choosing every night between using the dropper and allowing Sam to live another day or doing nothing at all and erasing the possibility of his brother's future.

Dean doesn't know how many more nights he can take, how many more times he can make this decision. It's been three months and each morning he refills the dropper from a secret stash Sam doesn't know about, can't know about. He hates that this responsibility is his and yet he can't imagine it any other way.

"Dean?"

"What?"

"Will you let me die tonight?"

A pause that links them together far more than blood, human or demon. Then a sigh because Dean doesn't know. Outside, there's a lake and trees and maybe even a boat. The air here seems to hold a promise and Dean has a weakness for promises. Always has, probably always will. And there, in the cabin in the woods beside a lake ringed with wildflowers, the decision is made.

"No, Sammy. Not tonight."

A/N: So this was originally a oneshot but I have another chapter. Do you guys want to read it or are you happy with how it ended here? Let me know!