"You should have let me die," Sam says. They're sitting at the table and he's ignoring his breakfast while Dean eats both helpings of sausage. "Dean," he says when his brother doesn't answer, "I said you should-,"

"I heard you." Dean snaps because he doesn't want to have this talk with his dying brother. Not now, not ever.

"They were children!" Sam says, almost shouts.

"Child," Dean says quietly and the difference in cadence makes Sam pause.

"What?"

"It wasn't children," Dean says, looking down at his last sausage, wondering when it became unappetizing. "It was a child. Just one." Sam leans back, letting the chair support him as his chest constricts. It's hard to breathe and not all the fresh air in the world could make him take a deep breath.

If you're going to kill us, just kill me and leave them alone. I'm bigger than them anyway.

Sam's brain spins and twists, meshing together what's real and what's a true nightmare, fitting those pieces together like they belong to some puzzle of the past.

"I-I don't know," he mutters, shaking his head. Dean watches his brother grow panicked, hair swinging back and forth frantically and the last thing they need right now is for Sam to fly off the handle. When he glances up at Dean, his eyes are wide and frantic. "Dean, I can't remember! Why can't I remember? What's wrong with me?"

Dean is out of his chair and rounding the table, Sam's wandering hands settle into his and he presses tight to ease the shaking. His brother is going to vibrate right out of this life and into the next one.

"Hey, hey buddy, can you look at me? Sammy, it's okay." He lets go of one of Sam's hands and tilts Sam's chin toward him, forcing him to look over at Dean. With a grunt of worn joints, Dean crouches beside his little brother. "There you go. Easy big guy. We don't a panic attack, do we?"

"Can't 'member," Sam mumbles, shame and fever coloring his cheeks rosy.

"That's okay," Dean tells him, making sure to keep his voice strong and steady even as he's falling apart inside, renting at the seams as if someone is stretching him in too many directions. "Do you want me to tell you?" Dean doesn't want to do this, almost can't bear letting the words fall from his lips but he knows that it isn't going to make Sam worse. Right now, he thinks he killed multiple kids when in reality it was just one. Sam nods and when Dean stands and tugs on his wrists, Sam follows and they move to the bedroom so Sam can lie down. They requested more pillows almost as soon as they got here and the maintenance staff was happy to oblige. Three pillows are stacked behind Sam's back and when Dean helps him ease onto them, the younger Winchester looks a fraction more relaxed.

"Do you remember being in Montana?" Sam's eyes flutter closed for several moments but rest is far off and they both know it. He shakes his head.

"Well, that's where you were. You took off from Bobby's, about three months ago. We had no clue where you were because you didn't want to be found. We had about a dozen Hunters out looking for you but you've always been good at hiding. Used to win at hide and seek all the time and make me so mad."

"Montana?"

"Yep. Found you shacked up in an abandoned house in the mountains. Just you and the body." He's blunt and to the point because it's not worth hiding anything at this point. Sam can take it, has taken so much more than this in the past. "She was a demon, Sam."

Please don't kill me. Please.

His memory fixes the pleadig, patches in the right words and he can see her as if she's a ghost standing in front of him, watching from the end of the bed. Blonde hair in pigtails with eyes the same color as Sam's. Not black. Not black at all.

The degradation swallows Sam whole and he squeezes his eyes only to find crimson images painted on the inside of his eyelids. What's small and blonde and red all over? Addict-Sam is laughing, howling in mirth at the total destruction he's caused, lips pulled back and sneering. He's gotten what he wants and now he's going to retreat and leave regular old Sam to crumble and disintegrate until he's nothing at all.

Ashes, ashes, we all fall down.

"She was just a kid," Sam says. When he coughs, he can feel the wetness but only Dean sees the red shining under the bedroom light.

"She was a demon and we had to gank her no matter what," Dean says, wiping the blood from his brother's lips. It smears across the back of his hand, turning his skin pale by comparison. His brother's blood is literally on his hands. Dean chokes against the rock in his throat, patting Sam's knee as he stands. "I'm going to go clean up from breakfast. You want anything?" A minute shake of the head and an exhausted sigh are Sam's answers. He's been up for less than an hour and already feels like he could sleep again.

Dean heads out to the kitchen, stopping to pick up the plates, dropping them into the sink so hard one of them chips. He stares at it for a long minute, head bowed against what just happened. This cannot be real life. They are holed up in a small cabin in the woods and Dean is doing dishes like he's done a thousand times and Sam is fucking dying in the next room over. The worst part is there's nothing he can do about it and it's killing him. He wonders briefly if there's going to be enough of him left after this to carry on with any semblance of a normal life.

He does the dishes and wipes the counters and knows he should really check on Sam but something else has his feet moving outside, locking the door behind him and pocketing the key. Dean moves along the lake, the grass growing spongier the closer he gets to the water. There's a wooden gazebo reaching out over the lake by about ten feet. Dean's always been an athletic guy, not so into team sports but he's a decent swimmer and he imagines for a minute diving into the lake and just going. Not breaching the surface but skimming the bottom with the rest of the lake's dirty inhabitants, content to remain unseen. It's a dumb fantasy but one Dean can't shake. He's never minded taking care of Sam – hell, he likes looking after this baby brother – but its moments like these when he wishes for normality and if not normality, then at least health. When Sam's…gone…Dean's going to go out there and gank as many demons as he can before they get him.

He's staring out at the lake when he gets an idea that spurs him into action. Bypassing their cabin and avoiding the families he makes his way up to the Lodge, too excited to notice the scenery this time. The main woman, Diane, isn't there but one of the young college students who helps out is at the front desk and is more than happy to accommodate what Dean asks for.

It's as close to beaming as he's come in the last few months as he heads back to the cabin, happy to find Sam awake and listening to music. He's pale and a tinge of red on his lips hints at what Dean missed but Dean ignores it.

"Hey," Dean says. "Feeling any better?"

"Worse," Sam says, voice hoarse. "My eyes have gone to shit again. Not all the way," he stops to rub them, "but pretty close."

"Do you feel like getting out of here for a while?"

"I don't think so." It's the first time in several days that Sam has decided to stay indoors and Dean takes it as a sign. He forces a grin.

"Come on, man. Just for a minute. I've got a surprise for you."

"I'm cold," Sam says, throwing a blanket over himself.

"Tough shit," Dean says. "Get up." Sam blinks up at him in surprise, eyes unfocused. Dean wants desperately to reach forward and wipe off that blood but he holds himself back.

"Dean, I don't feel well." It's not a whine or a declaration but a plea. Sam sounds eight years old again, exactly like the time he got pneumonia so bad he had to stay in bed for a week. Except this time there's no getting out of bed. There's no getting better.

"I know, buddy," Dean says, dropping his voice. He has perfected the quiet, soothing tone that makes Sam swivel his head and listen. Sam always listens to him these days. "But I've got something to show you."

Maybe Sam knows it's the last time Dean is going to ask him to do something, maybe it's because he knows his days are so very numbered or maybe he's just willing to crawl to the cliff's edge for his big brother, but Sam nods and Dean helps him sit up. His hands shake too much to tie his shoes so Dean does it for him, grinning up at him and wrapping two blankets around his shoulders, holding them together with one arm around his brother, leading him carefully down the front steps.

"Where we going?" Sam mumbles. The sun is too bright for his sensitive eyes. When days before he reveled in the warmth, today it seems oppressing, like all four walls of the world are closing in on him.

"I just gotta stop at Baby real quick," Dean says. "You gonna fall over if I let you go?" Sam shakes his head and Dean actually believes him, unlocking the trunk and digging the dropper out of his pocket, stashing it in the container that contains their fake IDs. When he comes back to Sam, he knows his brother can tell the difference and each step away from the car is lighter for both of them.

"Just over here," Dean says, leading them to a small cabin-like building sitting on the water. Sam's too busy placing one foot carefully in front of the other to look up so when Dean finally stops, the younger Winchester is surprised to find they are in a dim building.

"What is that?"

"It's a boat, Sammy," Dean says and there's so much excitement bursting from him, Sam thinks he's going to do a backflip right then and there. "I rented us this boat for a couple hours."

It's on the small side, an average Boston Whaler with just a couple seats in the front and back and a huge captain's chair. The outside is white, the interior is maroon and green; all in all, it's kind of ugly, but Dean is staring at it as if it's his own private yacht.

"All aboard," he says.

"That's a train," Sam murmurs but Dean helps him over the side of the boat, making sure Sam is situated with his blankets before sitting himself in the driver's seat and turning the boat on. It doesn't so much roar to life as whimper but soon enough they're out on the water, gliding along at a snail's pace.

"Doing okay?" Dean says, looking over his shoulder at Sam who is more slumped than sitting, paler than when he was in the house. It's as though the withdrawal has quickened it's pace, determined to steal Sam away right from under Dean's nose and it's this that makes Dean most nervous. He doesn't like feeling as though Sam's going to evaporate when his back is turned, turning into some sort of cloud and never to be seen again. "Sammy?"

"Here," Sam says as if Dean's taking roll call. His eyes are slits against the sun, fingers clenching around his blankets, but his face it tilted toward the breeze as his hair flies back around his ears.

"Good. Hold tight. We're not going far. I got you a present."

They drive to the other side of the lake, maybe a mile, where the trees are bent out over the lake in a friendly wave, giving shade to the critters beneath the surface. It is here where Dean stops the boat, throwing the anchor of the side. Sam starts at the splash and stares down at the disturbed lily pads dancing next to them. Water bugs are skittering to and fro and over by the edge, a bullfrog takes a lazy leap forward. The water isn't as blue under the shade; it's more black and sinister looking, something familiar to the Winchesters and the lake again feels like home.

The hazy shape of Dean sits in front of Sam, whose vision filters light in and out like a screen, sometimes letting him distinguish features and sometimes making everything one big blur. He's so tired and the ciquadas in the high grasses are almost like a lullaby. There's the click-then-swoosh of Dean's lighters and the smell of flame reaches Sam.

"Dean?"

"Right here. Told you I got you a present."

Sam can smell it now like he smells everything else; the weed is potent and acrid, biting at his senses as the smoke drifts his way. He coughs once. Dean exhales.

"Damn that's good."

"I want," Sam says without meaning to. This is something they used to do as teenagers. Once Sam turned sixteen and Dean decided he was an adult, the elder brother would procure the stuff on a regular basis, always sharing and never making Sam pay. They would sneak out to the school soccer fields at night, or behind the gas station next to the motel and smoke a joint. At one point, Sam owned a bowl shaped like a horse's head that Dean got a real kick out of. But he hasn't done this in years, not since Stanford, even though he knows Dean still keeps a stash somewhere in the trunk.

Sam reaches out a quivering hand but Dean has other ideas.

"Let me," he says, his shadow growing as he sits beside Sam, the boat tilting beneath them and shaking Sam's stomach. It's a thickly rolled joint and Sam's lips wrap around it with ease and familiarity when Dean brings it to his mouth, his face clearer now that he's so close. Sam watches his brother as he lights the joint, eyebrows slightly dipped in concentration, green eyes wide and trusting. Out here, it's just the two of them. No unwanted third wheel, no dropper to ruin the party.

"Breathe in deep," Dean instructs. "I only have the one. Don't waste it."

The smoke burns going into his lungs but the ache is welcomed and when Sam coughs, no blood comes up, only satisfaction at participating in such a normal activity. He laughs as Dean takes a drag, raising his eyebrows over the lighter at the noise but then grinning as he slips the blunt out of his mouth, dangling it over the lake. They sit and enjoy the swaying of the boat, watching several birds soar by overhead, entranced by the clouds that move across the sky.

Sam can feel the drug working into system as he takes a third hit and it's the first time in weeks that his muscles have truly relaxed. The spasming is almost imperceptible, the dull ache in his joints sated for the time being. Addict-Sam is nowhere in sight.

"I thought it might help," Dean says after a while, tossing the remainder of the joint into the lake and leaning back against his leather seat, feet up on the side of the boat. His body language is casual but his tone is serious. "Did it?"

"Yeah," Sam says, amazed. He's not better – he'll never be better – but for the time being he is…okay. "Thanks, Dean." His brother shrugs but the way his shoulders fall tells Sam the gratitude means something to him. And they both know the thank you isn't just for the weed.

They spend all afternoon on the boat, riding the high of both the joint and the utter freedom the boat gives them. Sam doesn't need to rely on his legs or hands to get anywhere and being in the open air and not cramped in the Impala is a nice change to the usual transportation. They don't waste time with words when silence with do just fine and a trip where Dean thought might have become heavy with guilt and apologies becomes a last hurrah. One more road trip under their belt and he wouldn't have it any other way.

When the sun becomes too brutal and it's clear Sam is exhausted, Dean returns them to the boathouse. Sam's eyes are almost closed but he's peering around, trying to soak everything in. He knows he doesn't have much longer left; days at most.

"I'll make us some lunch," Dean says after he puts Sam back on the bed, covers him with new blankets and makes sure he's comfortable. "You need anything?" It's with all the energy he has left that Sam shakes his head.

Instead of fixing food, Dean sits at the kitchen table and drops his head into his hands, scraping his fingers against his scalp. The high has worn off and Dean finds himself chained to reality again, a slave to his own miserable life. The boat ride was nice but it also underlined everything Dean is about to lose. He feels himself cracking, knowing that something is soon going to cause him to shatter into smithereens. He can't do this.

The vibrating of his phone pulls him out of his thoughts.

"Hey, Bobby."

"How's he doing?"

Dean glances into the bedroom but Sam looks asleep. He moves to the front porch and shuts the door to the cabin, blocking the phone call from Sam's ears.

"Not good. You got anything?" There's a smidgeon of hope in his voice and even that is more than he should allow.

"No. Dean…I don't think I'm going to find anything."

"What do you mean?"

"Calm down. I'll keep looking but we've never dealt with this before. I don't even have a direction to search in." Bobby Singer hears a ragged intake from the other end of the line and goes quiet, giving his quasi-son time to collect himself.

"Bobby, this is Sam. I can't just…"

"I know, boy. I told you, I'm going to keep looking but you oughta think about saying what you need to say." He lets the words sink in, sear Dean's flesh like a branding iron, effectively extinguishing that ember of hope. "I know it ain't easy but at least you get a chance with your brother."

"Bobby-," Dean's voice is a warning but the older man just keeps talking.

"Think of all those we lost without a chance to say goodbye. Your folks, my wife, friends, and damn good Hunters. Good people in the wrong place at the wrong time. You make sure that brother of yours knows everything he needs to know. You understand me?"

"Yeah, I understand you."

"Don't make me come up there and whup your ass."

"I said I get you, Bobby."

"Good. Now put that boy on. Speaking of things that need saying…"

But Sam's no longer on the bed and Dean rechecks the living room in case he missed him on the couch and then a thud reverberates through the cabin and Dean tells Bobby he'll call him back.

Sam's in the bathroom on all fours, coughing and heaving up what seems like buckets of blood, pouring forth like a fountain from Hell itself. It's pooling on the floor, soaking Sam's jeans and hands. He looks up as Dean enters and there are tears running down his face and for one awful second, Dean thinks about the revolver in the next room over; it's possible the lure of the trigger has never seemed so tempting. He can't handle this.

Mom, Dad, I need you. Help me help him.

"Dean."

"Sammy…" He doesn't know what to say, doesn't know how to be what Sam needs. He's just a guy who's mother burned in his brother's nursery and Dean doesn't deserve this, doesn't want this. For his whole life it's been fight or flight and goddammit if Dean hasn't always picked the first option. A good soldier doesn't run from the enemy. But now Dean is staring down at an enemy soaked in his own blood and the urge to run consumes him like fire.

Instead, he kneels beside Sam, trying not to gag at the warmth immediately spreading into his clothes and at the smell of decaying flesh that is his brother. His brother who is rotting from the inside out.

Help me help him.

Sam throws up again, all over Dean's lap and Dean holds his brother's shoulders, reaching up behind them to tug down a bath towel, spreading it beneath them.

"You could use a tic-tac, Sammy-man," Dean says, digging in the vault for the age-old nickname of their youth. He's rewarded by the smallest of smiles and guilt floods through him when he remembers the revolver. Sam doesn't seem to have the energy to talk and that's okay so they just sit there while until he's finished getting sick, with Dean spouting little quips and facts that he must have read on the inside of a Snapple top. Anything to distract them both.

"You know the bagpipes? Those super annoying things the dudes in skirts play? They used to be made out of the skin of dead sheep."

"Guess how many toothpicks can be made from a cord of wood? You don't know, do you? Seven point five million."

"Okay, here's one that's super weird. The only animal on the entire earth that has four knees is the elephant."

Eventually the blood stops flowing and Dean reaches over and turns on the bathwater, changing it to pearly pink as his palm comes clean under the stream. Sam is sagging against him, barely conscious and doesn't move when Dean starts to undo the buttons of his shirt, exposing a chest that used to be broad with muscle and now is thin and frail. Dean turns the shirt inside out and uses it to wipe the blood from Sam's face and hands and then throws it aside. It's probably ruined but that's okay; they won't be needing it anymore. Slowly, he stands Sam up and removes his jeans, using the most butterfly of touches to ease the material over Sam's bruised thighs. The withdrawal won't leave any inch of skin unblemished. He leaves Sam's boxers on for dignity and helps his brother into the now full tub. Sam's sigh of content as he hits the warm water is the sweetest sound Dean has heard in ages.

He doesn't know many soothing songs and at first his voice cracks as he starts humming but then he finds the right notes and the stilted chorus of Hey Jude fills the bathroom. There are washcloths in the closet and he soaps one up and then drags it across Sam's chest, smiling when Sam smiles.

"Do you like that, Sammy-man? Feels good?" he interrupts himself, moving to his knees so that he's leaning over the tub. He used to give little Sam baths just like this.

"Dean, how come you have to give me a bath but you get to shower alone?"

"'Cause I'm eight and you're four."

"When I'm eight, I can take my own bath?"

"When you're eight you can do whatever you want as long as you're not bothering me."

"No, Dean," little-Sam says seriously, "When I'm eight I'm still gonna love you."

"Bobby says to tell you things," Dean tells Sam, voice low and not so steady anymore. He exchanges the first washcloth for another and washes Sam's arms with long strokes. "Probably all that crap like you're the best brother I've ever had. But truth is, Sam, there ain't much you don't already know." He swallows hard, noticing how Sam's eyes are open and watching him. "But I do want to say I'm sorry. For all the stuff I said that I shouldn't have and all the things I've done that I shouldn't have. All the times I let you down or left you behind or made you feel like you weren't good enough."

He can't tell if the wetness on Sam's face is sweat, tears, or bathwater.

"But dammit Sam, you are the best thing that ever happened to me. And taking care of you kept me sane all those years as a kid. I can't imagine…I can't imagine what it would have been like without you. You've done so well, Sammy-man, I want you to know that. I don't blame you for anything and I forgive you for everything, you hear me?"

There are definitely tears but Sam doesn't brush them away, just grabs Dean's hand in one of his and squeezes, his way of saying thank you and strangely, it's enough. Where words have failed them, the brothers need nothing but a glance to know that the slate has been wiped clean.

He dresses Sam in warm pajamas, puts him in bed and draws up the blankets, not knowing and yet guessing that when Sam closes his eyes, it will be for the last time. The sound of the water swirling down the drain mixes with the sound of the lake crashing into the shore, the birds outside, and the faint squeals of a happy child. It's the orchestra of nature come to play Sam one last song. It's the most beautiful sympthony to fall asleep to and in the midst of it all Dean leans down and presses a kiss to Sam's forehead.

"Dean?"

"You're supposed to be asleep."

"I can't go to sleep without a story."

"Yes you can. Just shut your eyes."

"But you tell the best stories. Just one then I promise I'll go right to sleep. You won't hear me til morning."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

"Alright, here goes. Once upon a time…"

A/N: That's all, folks. What did y'all think? Good ending? Thanks for reading!