A/N: Hello there! This is a death fic, for fair warning. It's quite angsty. Lots and lots of thank-yous and hugs go to Faye Dartmouth for her totally AWESOME beta. Reviews are awesome, constructive criticism is even better.

Word count: 825

I don't own Supernatural, or anything else that has to do with anything related to Supernatural (unfortunately).

The minute Sam is aware, he knows something is wrong. He is cold and damp. It is dark out, and the ground is hard and unforgiving beneath him.

When the pain hits, Sam can't imagine how he didn't notice it before. It feels as though someone ripped out Sam's intestines, set them on fire, and stuffed them back in his stomach. It also seems as though that same someone took it upon themselves to repeatedly bash in his skull with a rather large blunt object, as though the debilitating pain in his stomach was not enough.

A small part of Sam's brain (the voice of reason that had been absent in moments prior) none too gently reminds the rest of Sam's brain that his mind would be put to far better use if he tried to figure out what the hell was going on, as opposed to making graphic analogies.

Sam thinks this part of his brain reminds him of Dad.

He begins, first, to try to recall what had happened immediately before he found himself lying down on what seems to be a very cold, very hard, patch of dirt. He comes up empty, and decides that his memory loss can be attributed to the same thing that is making his head hurt like a giant flaming bitch. He begins to lift his head in an attempt to see the other damage, but the pull on his neck and the tensing in his stomach are too much to handle, and he drops it back down with a thump.

He turns his head slowly, and sees headlights. Headlights that appear to be attached to a car that is most definitely not the Impala. (It looks like a nice car. BMW? Dean would know.) He hears people arguing with more than a tinge of panic in their voices. ("We can't just fucking leave him here, Greg!" "Well what do exactly you propose we do, Sharon? Huh? My dad would kill me if he found out I hit someone with his fucking car! If we go now, no one will know it was us.") He hears the doors slam shut and suddenly the lights are moving farther and farther away. He sees a coffee cup lying on the road, the plastic lid several feet away, and steam still rising from where the hot drink hit the cold asphalt.

It is three in the morning, and Sam remembers. He remembers that they weren't even on a case, and that he couldn't sleep, and just went for a stupid walk to the stupid 24-hour convenience store to get a stupid cup of coffee and how he doesn't deserve to die for that.

Because if there is one thing Sam knows for sure, it's that he is going to die.

---

The next time Sam is aware, he muses for a moment on how he didn't even realize he fell asleep.

He feels colder than he did last time he was awake, but he doesn't hurt as much and Sam decides that's a fairly even trade. The voice of reason that reminds Sam of Dad also reminds him that this is not a good thing. That he shouldn't feel numb with the amount of injuries he sustained.

Sam hopes he is found soon. The place they are staying is smack dab in the middle of Bum Fuck, Egypt, but their motel is near the center of town. Sam hopes Dean is looking for him.

The coffee cup is no longer steaming, and the sun is beginning to rise.

---

The next time Sam is awake, he is not entirely aware.

He hears a voice. ("Sammy?") The deep rumble of it is comforting, though he can't understand what it's saying. ("Sammy, c'mon dude, you gotta wake up. Please!") It is laced with panic and worry, and Sam wants to tell whoever it is not to worry, that it doesn't even hurt anymore. ("Sammy, come on, hang on. There's help on the way, and they are going to get you all fixed up, you hear me? You're okay, you're going to be okay.") Sam is confused. He doesn't know who it is talking to him, or why they are trying to comfort him, when they are obviously the one in need of comfort.

He feels himself begin to relax, and his eyes open. He sees Dean above him, chin wrinkling, tears in his eyes. Feels his brother holding Sam's head in his lap, and feels shaky fingers pushing his hair away from a no longer sweating forehead. His mouth is moving, but there is no sound coming out.

Sam wishes it hadn't happened like this. To die in a hit-and-run seems too remarkably ordinary for the Winchesters, and Sam want a re-do.

The coffee cup has long since gone cold, and Sam just wants to sleep.

---

The last time Sam is aware, he sees a light, and he feels warm.