Contains dialogue from 'All Hell Breaks Loose Parts 1 & 2', which belongs to Eric Kripke, Sera Gamble, and Michael T. Moore.

Part of my Deleted Scenes series. Full list of fics in reading order available on my profile page. They will make more sense if read in order. :)

Denial is what hits him first. Because this can't be happening. It isn't happening.

He tells Sam, "Listen to me, we're gonna patch you up, alright? You'll be good as new," even as his head knows what his heart doesn't want to admit – there's too much blood. And the way Sam's head lolls and his eyes are glazed and blank – no. No, he'll be okay. He has to be okay.

"I'm gonna take care'a you," Dean babbles, holding Sam's face in his hands. There's a knot in his stomach that makes it feel like he's about four seconds away from losing his lunch, but he keeps promising. Because Sam will be fine. He's been hurt before, and he's always fine. "I'm gonna take care'a you, I got'cha. S'my job, right? Watch out for my pain-in-the-ass little brother? Sam?"

Sam's eyes fall slowly closed, every muscle in his face going slack, and Dean panics.

"Sam? Sammy!" He shouts, but Sam doesn't respond. Dean's shaking so hard it's like his bones are trying to break free from his body, his heart going so fast he can barely hear anything else over the pounding of it in his ears. This isn't real. Sam has to be okay. A whole human life can't be snuffed out this easily, like he never meant anything at all. He means everything. Dean needs him, Dean can't function without him. Dean loves him. What he feels for Sam is about a million times too big to be something as ordinary as love, but Dean doesn't have another word for it. So Sam will be fine. Because otherwise … there is no otherwise. He has to be okay.

But he isn't. "No," Dean mumbles, over and over again, no no no no no but it doesn't help. He pulls Sam into his chest, cups the back of Sam's head in his hand. "Oh god," he whimpers, tears spilling down his cheeks that burn like acid against his cold skin. He squeezes handfuls of Sam's jacket so hard his fingers ache, holding him and rocking him like he used to when Sam was only three or four and Dad left Dean in charge of putting him to sleep. Sam used to cry, always so mad that he had to go to bed before Dean did because he never wanted to be left out of anything that might happen once he was dreaming, but when Dean held him, Sam melted. He'd snuggle up in Dean's lap like the human puppy-dog he still is sometimes, and within minutes he'd be a dead weight in Dean's arms. It made Dean so happy, to know Sam loved him and trusted him and felt safe with him. And now …

"Sam!" Dean screams one more time, but it's useless. It can't be happening but it is. Sam's gone.

Bobby comes back after another minute, out of breath and cursing that the guy got away from him. "Fucker was quick," he pants, dragging his hand through the scraggly beard on his chin, before he notices that Sam isn't moving and that Dean's crying almost uncontrollably into his brother's hair.

"Dean," Bobby says slowly, his eyes wide and scared and that just breaks Dean down even more. Uncle Bobby isn't ever supposed to look like that. He's supposed to be big and brave, he's supposed to have all the answers. "Is he …?"

Bobby can't finish the sentence, and Dean can't answer it. He just shakes his head and sobs into Sam's neck.

"I … god damn it," Bobby swears.

"He's fine," Dean hears himself say in a voice that barely sounds like his own. "He's gonna be fine."

Bobby walks over, Dean can't see him but he can hear the crunch of his boots in the dry leaves. He kneels down and puts a hand on Dean's back, repeating his name softly.

"No! He's fine!" Dean shouts, clinging to Sam because he'll drown if he lets go. The feel of him warm and heavy against Dean's chest and the smell of his hair is the only thing holding Dean together. "We'll fix him! We have to fix him!"

"We can't," Bobby says thickly, tears apparent in his voice even though Dean refuses to look at him. "I'm so sorry, son."

"Don't – " Dean begins, but then he dissolves back into another chorus of no no no no.

"Dean. C'mon, let's get him into one of these houses, okay?"

"Sammy," Dean whispers, his voice wavering. "He's my Sammy."

"I know." Bobby pats his back like it's supposed to be comforting. It's about as far from comforting as Dean thinks a touch could ever be.

He doesn't know how long he sits there, on his knees in the mud with Sam in his arms, weeping into Sam's hair. His chest aches, like his heart is actually shattering into a million pieces, and Dean wouldn't even care if it did. There is nothing, nothing without Sam. Nothing to fight for, no reason to keep going. Dean would have already jabbed his knife through the soft spot on his temple if he didn't have to let go of Sam to do it. And Sam can't be gone. Dean won't survive losing him. He barely survived losing Dad, but Sam? Dean doesn't have a hope if Sam's gone.

Eventually Bobby tries again to get Dean to move, pointing out that it's raining and they're getting soaked. Dean doesn't care, he doesn't want to ever move from this spot because that would mean admitting Sam's really gone and he can't do that, but his body does it anyway. Dean watches himself release his hold on his little brother – partner, best friend, everything – and then he watches himself stand up and hook his arms under Sam's shoulders and help Bobby carry him into the nearest building. He sees it all happen as if it isn't quite real, like he's somewhere far away watching a scene in a movie play out. Somewhere where pain doesn't exist, somewhere where he's just empty and numb and finished. They put Sam onto a bed and Dean climbs in beside him and lies down next to him, resting his head on Sam's chest and hugging him so tightly Sam probably can't breathe.

Then, Dean remembers that Sam isn't breathing anymore, won't breathe ever again, and the tears come back in powerful, wretched, soul-achingly intense waves that Dean doesn't have a hope of holding back. He doesn't know or care where Bobby is, if he's still watching or if he's gone back into the other room to give Dean some privacy. He just lies there with his brother, with the love of his god damn life, and cries. The grief consumes him, devours him from the inside out like a flesh-eating virus, and Dean lets it. Each sob is like shards of glass ripping his throat and his gut to shreds, but he doesn't try to stop them. He doesn't care. He doesn't give a shit about any of it. Nothing matters anymore. The whole world could ignite and explode and be nothing but smoke and ashes and Dean would be almost happy about it. There's no point, to anything, if he doesn't have Sam.

"No," Dean breathes one more time, somehow believing that if he says it enough, Sam will open his eyes. His beautiful, soulful eyes, that start out green like Dean's and then fade into dark blue and then finally into the brightest, most brilliant gold just around the pupils. Eyes that have been watching Dean since the moment Sam was born. Eyes that filled with tears when Dean first told him monsters were real; that crinkled around the edges when Dean stole presents from a house in the suburbs to give Sam a real Christmas. That sparkle when he laughs and glisten when he cries and get so dark and intense when they're tangled up together with nothing but skin between them.

Dean really didn't know it was possible to hurt this much.

If he just lies here long enough, if he just believes hard enough, Sam will come back to him. He's sure of it. The universe has already taken away everything else Dean's ever had, it wouldn't take his Sammy away from him too. It couldn't, because without Sam, there isn't a single thing in Dean's life that's worth him ever getting out of this bed.

There's a moment, somewhere between moonrise and dawn, when Dean's almost fallen asleep and then a noise from outside wakes him back up. He blinks sleepily and sees Sam's silhouetted face in the darkness and thinks, for just a few seconds, that they're just in some shitty-motel-room-of-the-week. They don't always share a bed, but they do after they have sex, so it makes sense. Dean's cold, and so is Sam, so he reaches down for the blankets and frowns when he doesn't find any. Then he remembers why Sam's cold, and a wrecking ball smashing into his stomach would be less painful than the punch Dean feels deep in his gut. He crumbles again, tears spilling over his already-sore eyelids, and he collapses back down onto Sam's chest and cries until he doesn't have any tears left. Every inch of his body throbs and his stomach twists into a pretzel and his lungs feel like they're going to collapse because no matter how hard he tries he can't get enough air into them. The room is quickly running out of oxygen and Dean will suffocate if Sam doesn't wake up soon. He squeezes his eyes shut tight. The next time he opens them, Sam will be back. Dean just didn't wait long enough the first time. He's sure of it.

Anger comes just as the sun is rising. Dean didn't really sleep, but he kept his eyes closed anyway and when he opens them, Sam is still motionless. Dead. Gone. Forever. And Dean is furious about it. Furious with that fucking bastard that stabbed him, furious with Bobby for not catching the guy so Dean could avenge his brother as slowly as possible, furious with Sam for getting himself snatched up and taken to this horrible place, furious with the demon for taking everyone Dean loves away from him and leaving him broken and bleeding to die on the side of a dusty highway, and most of all, furious with himself for letting this happen. He should have been able to stop this, he should have protected Sam. That's Dean's job, the one thing he's supposed to be good at, and he failed at that too. He's fucking failed at fucking everything and it isn't fair that Sam had to pay the price for it. It isn't fair that Dean has to live the rest of his life without the one person he lived his life for. None of it is fair, and all of it makes Dean so angry he wants to tear this house to the ground.

He does a pretty good job of it, yelling and smashing anything he can reach, tables, chairs, cabinets, but it doesn't make him feel better. It makes his hands bleed and it makes his voice hoarse but his heart still aches and his head is still spinning and he's still never wished he was dead so much in his life.

Dean doesn't know where Bobby went or even when he left, but when he comes back, Dean's just standing in the doorway to the bedroom, staring with swimming eyes at Sam's lifeless body. Every inch of him reminds Dean of some point in their lives, happy memories and sad memories and angry memories, all of them twisted up together into what makes Sam the person Dean loves more than anything in the world, and it's physically painful to know there won't be more memories to add to the pile after today. Everything he had of Sam up until right now is all he'll ever have of him.

"Brought you this back," Bobby says, holding up what looks like a bucket of fried chicken.

"No thanks, I'm fine," Dean answers, his voice raspy from all the shouting he was just doing, and from crying all night.

"You should eat something," Bobby pushes.

"I said I'm fine." Dean turns away from Sam reluctantly and joins Bobby in the kitchen, picking up a bottle of some kind of alcohol, he doesn't even know what, and taking a swig from it.

"Dean, I hate to bring this up, I really do," Bobby starts gently, "but don't you think maybe it's time … we bury Sam?"

Dean glares at him, white-hot rage pulsing through his veins. "No."

"We could – maybe …"

"What?" Dean interrupts. "Torch his corpse? Not yet."

Bobby leans down, resting his knuckles on the surface of the table, and looks at Dean with concerned eyes. "I want you to come with me."

"I'm not going anywhere," Dean tells him, his voice quiet but dangerous even to his own ears.

"Dean, please."

"Would you cut me some slack?"

"I just don't think you should be alone, that's all. I gotta admit, I could use your help. Somethin' big is goin' down. End-of-the-world big."

"Well then let it end!" Dean bellows, suddenly so infuriated he wants to go back to breaking things.

"You don't mean that."

Dean stands up abruptly and walks over to him. "You don't think so? Huh? You don't think I've given enough? You don't think I've paid enough? I'm done with it. All of it. And if you know what's good for you, turn around and get the hell outta here."

Bobby doesn't move, he just stands there looking confused and sad, so Dean shoves him and shouts, "Go!"

Bobby stumbles back a few steps, and the second he realizes what he just did, Dean feels terrible about it.

"I'm sorry," he mumbles. "I'm sorry, please just go."

"You know where I'll be," Bobby says quietly, and then he's gone.

Depression sets in as soon as the door closes behind him. Dean wants to collapse in on himself, fall down onto the hardwood floor and just marinate in sorrow until his heart gives out and death takes the pain away. But he doesn't. Because dying would be too easy. He deserves to suffer for this, for letting this happen to Sam and not being there to protect him. Dean drags a chair into the bedroom and sits down beside Sam. Half an hour goes by before he realizes he's just been sitting there staring at his brother, drowning in unbearable sadness and thinking of all the things he'll never get to do again. Hear Sam laugh, argue with him about where to eat lunch, tease him about his floppy hair and his kind, patient nature, see him roll his eyes when Dean calls the Impala his baby, smell him when he's just come out of the shower, or even better, after sex when they're both sticky and exhausted but so happy to be that way. He'll never make Sam smile again, he'll never teach him anything, he'll never get to see his bitch-face or that silly, sensitive expression when he talks to victims, or that special, thousand-watt grin that lights up his whole face – the one that's always been just for Dean.

And then there's all the things Dean didn't do with him, all the things he thought he had all the time in the world for. Take Sam to the Grand Canyon. Drive down to Florida in the summer and go swimming in the ocean. Dean's been zigzagging back and forth across the country since he was five years old, and he's never gone swimming in the ocean. Kiss Sam in the rain. He doesn't know why, but that's always been on his list. He thinks Sam would taste good with rain. Buy a can of chocolate syrup and drizzle it all over Sam's body and then lick it off. It's a stupid cliché, but Dean's always thought that would be ridiculously hot. Have sex in front of a fireplace. Again, stupid romance novel crap, but Sam's smooth, caramel skin lit up by the glow from a fire? Dean's mouth waters just thinking about it. Tell Sam he loves him. Dean is such a fucking idiot, that he never once said it out loud. He's felt it every single day of his life since the moment Mom and Dad brought the wrinkly little thing home from the hospital, put him in Dean's lap and said Sammy was his; your little brother. But he never said it. He never told Sam that he's been in love with him every single minute of his whole life. And now he can't. Now it's too late.

"I should've told you every day," he whispers, tears prickling at his eyes again when he remembers Sam can't hear him. Sam will never know how much Dean loves him. It makes Dean hurt in all kinds of places he didn't know it was possible to feel pain.

"You know, when we were little? You couldn't'a been more than five. You just started asking questions." Dean smiles just a little at the memory of Sam at that age. How sweet and excitable and full of life he was. How his face lit up every time Dean walked into the room. How he looked at Dean with so much adoration, like he really believed Dean hung the moon for him. All the stars too. "How come we didn't have a mom, why do we always have to move around, where'd Dad go. He'd take off for days at a time. I remember I begged you, quit askin' Sammy. Man, you don't wanna know. I just wanted you to be a kid, just for a little while longer. Always tried to protect you. Keep you safe. Dad didn't even have to tell me, it was just always my responsibly, you know? It's like I had one job, that one job."

Sam still doesn't move. Dean knows now that he won't, not ever again. He's so still and his skin is so gray and cold, and Dean's eyes fill with tears again.

"And I screwed it up," he says, his voice breaking as emotion grips tight in his chest. "I blew it. And for that I'm sorry. I guess that's what I do. I let down the people I love. I let Dad down, and now I guess I'm just s'pposed to let you down too? How can I? How'm I s'pposed to live with that? What am I s'pposed to do?"

Sam doesn't answer, and Dean's voice breaks even more when he whimpers, "Sammy. God. What am I supposed to do?" He stands up and kicks angrily at the leg of the bed, shouting, "What am I supposed to do?!" one more time even though no one will tell him.

And then, through all the pain and the anger and the grief so immense Dean can hardly breathe through it, a flip switches in Dean's brain. Bargaining. The fourth stage is bargaining, and for Dean it isn't just metaphorical. He doesn't just have to say he'd give anything for Sam to be alive again, because there is something he can give. Dad did it for him, so he can do it for Sam. It makes sense. It's the only thing that makes sense, because the point of Dean's existence is to keep Sammy safe. He failed, and now he has to make it right. He has to, he has no other choice. Sam has to be alive. Dean can't live without him, so it's either this or offing himself. At least this way, Sam gets another chance. Sam deserves another chance. He's so kind and good, he has such a big heart and he deserves to have a better life than the one Dean was able to give him.

He drives to the nearest crossroads like the devil is on his heels, and he shoves his license into the box and then shoves the box into the ground. She's beautiful when she comes, in a way that makes his skin crawl, and she's a bitch about it but she makes the deal. Her mouth tastes like ash when he kisses her and it takes every ounce of strength he has not to rip her to pieces on principle alone, but then it's done and over and the world makes sense again. He drives back as quickly as he left, his heart fluttering behind his ribcage like a kid on a first date when he opens the door and sees Sam standing there, alive and okay, heart beating and blood pumping and everything, and fuck, Dean's never been so happy in his life.

"Sammy. Thank god," he breathes, crossing the room in a few quick steps and all but throwing himself at his precious, amazing, beautiful little brother. And he knows the second Sam's back in his arms that he made the right choice. He doesn't care if he has to go to Hell for it. Acceptance is for assholes anyway.