Well, I had to do it. Just not sure how good it is. Please review!

Title: Like Hell

Rating: T

Summary: There are endless possibilities in life, and even in death. After Sam's passing, Dean finds out that they all hurt like Hell. One-shot tag for AHBL1

Warnings: Based on the episode, I'd say it's a given, but there's character death. Also, spoilers for AHBL1

Discalimer: As I've said before, if SN were mine, there'd be more Dean angst.

"When people want to describe the worst possible thing, they say it's like Hell. Well, there's a reason for that. Hell is… well, Hell is like Hell. Even for the demons. It's a prison made of bone and flesh and blood and fear."

Sam, Born Under a Bad Sign

o0o0o0o

He could feel his little brother's ribs, couldn't stop thinking about how the boy needed to eat more, needed to put on some weight, never could. He could feel the hole in his little brother's back, gaping and mocking, laughing at him. He could feel the warm blood on his hand, the sticky blood, tacky, his brother's lifeblood running out of him too fast. He could taste the fear in his own mouth, knew it was over, knew this was it.

Yeah, it hurt like Hell.

His mind kept screaming at him to get up and run, to chase down the son of a bitch that had done this, but his feet wouldn't listen. That was ok, though, because Dean wasn't alone. He would let Bobby take care of it. He wasn't alone.

The moon shone down over the town, bathing the two kneeling figures in the middle of the old dirt street in white light, causing the red blood covering Dean's palm to glare at him, sparkling and twinkling, brighter than it should have been.

He wasn't alone? What the Hell kind of thought was that? Of course he was alone. He'd always been alone, somehow, locked up inside himself with no way out. Nobody understood, and nobody ever would. Sammy almost had it, though.

He'd been so close, so many times. He'd almost understood. Family over all else. The need to save what he had left, the only thing he had left, the thing that lay dead in his arms. Sammy. His Sammy.

Bobby was gone, had run off into the darkness, and Dean was glad. It was easier to cry when no one was watching. Every wall fell, every dam broke, and tears mingled with rain, cascading down his cheeks and plopping soundlessly onto his dead brother's jacket.

Dead. Funny word. It sounded so final, like there was no turning back. Hell of a word, dead. And he suddenly wondered where Sam was, where in the Hell he was. Not that he was in Hell, mind you. Sammy had always been too good for that.

His mind was wandering, running in circles, running over that same word, four letters that were so powerful, held so much meaning. Yeah, it hurt like Hell.

He clung to his brother, kneeling in the dirt, letting the rain fall, thinking, avoiding the issue, dealing with it by occupying his mind with something else. Not dead, not so final. Offed, wasted, kicked the bucket, anything but dead. Anything but final.

Offed, wasted, kicked the bucket, or dead, it still hurt like Hell.

He wrapped his arms tighter, knowing that his brother would never be that warm again, never be that close. He breathed in the smell of his little brother, sweat and blood and tears all mixed together, and he never wanted to let go.

It hurt too much, hurt like Hell, like a prison of bone and flesh and blood and fear. It hurt like life isn't supposed to hurt, because, if it did, no one would go one living. Ironically, the people that lived those lives, that gave them up to escape the pain, wound up in Hell. An endless cycle of torture.

And he wondered where Sam went, because it might actually be possible to go with him, to be with him. Eternity was a long time, especially if it hurt like Hell, but it could be made bearable with Sammy by his side.

It was a long-shot, though, because good people didn't go to Hell, they didn't have to hurt forever. Good people got a release, and Sam was good people. Sam deserved a release, the kind of release Dean would never get.

Footsteps trekked softly through the mud behind him, but Dean didn't turn around. He knew it was Bobby, and he didn't care. Bobby would want to salt and burn, want to make sure Sammy could get his release, but Dean didn't want that.

His mind was wandering over all of the possibilities, sneaking away from suicide and slowly heading toward apparitions. If he salted and burnt his brother, Sammy couldn't come back. Bobby would say that was a good thing, but what if Sam wanted to come back? He had, after all, been damn close to figuring Dean out.

He wasn't looking. He didn't see Jake pull the knife, now covered in the blood of two skilled hunters. He didn't realize that he and Bobby had showed up at exactly the wrong moment, the moment when one group of psychics was finished off to make room for another. As far as Jake knew, they were that group.

He felt the knife plunge deep into his own back, felt it slice through his spinal cord, then felt nothing. He didn't feel it go straight through him, didn't feel it poke out of his stomach and into Sam's, didn't feel it being pulled from his gut.

The Winchester brothers knelt on the ground, Dean's arms finally going slack and dropping to his side. They stayed there, in the mud, leaning against each other, dead and bleeding, as Jake let a primal wail fill the sky.

Jake never saw the figure appear behind him, the form covered in blood, its hazel eyes flashing with rage as the pendant that hung around its neck glinted in the moonlight. Jake never saw it coming at him, didn't know what was happening when he hit the ground and the thing started clawing at him, its own primal rage being screamed into the sky.

Dean staggered to his feet, blood dripping from fingers that weren't corporeal, rain running off a body that wasn't there. He closed his eyes, blocking out the sight of the three bodies before him, and let himself go on to wherever he was meant to go.

When he finally found the courage to open his eyes, he saw a prison of bone and flesh and blood and fear.

He also saw Sam.

"Sammy," he whispered, taking a tentative step forward and reaching out toward the younger man. It wasn't right, Sam wasn't supposed to be there, he hadn't done anything wrong.

"Demon blood," Sam muttered, stepping forward, his arms outstretched. He embraced his brother, wrapping strong arms around the older man. Dean hugged him back, reveling in the warmth, in the sense of togetherness. And then he screamed.

Sharp claws dug deep into his back, scratching, ripping, shredding, killing. Except, he couldn't die. He was already dead.

He tried to pull away, tried to push his brother back, but couldn't. Sam was too strong.

Pain ripped up Dean's back as the claws went in deep. He felt his brother dig his fingers in, grabbing whatever shredded flesh he could find, and then Sam pulled away. Dean looked up at his brother, wondering what had just happened.

It wasn't Sam. The merciless sparkle in the eyes, the way his mouth turned up in an evil smile. It wasn't Sam. Couldn't be.

"Demon blood," Sam said again, dropping everything he'd just pulled from his brother onto the floor, "you'd think that would make him evil, wouldn't you?"

It wasn't Sam. Sam was in a better place. The thing pretending to be Sam, that looked and sounded like him, it was all part of the deal, all part of a torture that would never end.

And it hurt like Hell.