As devastating as it was to watch, I loved everything about the latest episode. But since I thought that Sam deserved at least some good news after everything that went so horribly wrong, I somehow went and wrote voicemail fix-it fic. :)

Unbetaed, apologies for any mistakes.

No matter how bad it gets

- I've been the one out there, messed up and scared and alone. And Dean…

- …did whatever he could to save you.

- Yes. I mean, it's become his thing. I owe him this. I owe him everything.

One by one, Sam listens to all the voicemails from Dean that he's saved over the years. Ostensibly to find a suitable voicemail to bait Crowley. But even though he finds what he's looking for quickly enough, he keeps on listening, seeking comfort and affirmation in the voice of a brother who doesn't hate him.

It's a collection of everyday communications, inside jokes and references to various hunts; a reflection of every tumultuous turn of their brotherly relationship; a testimony to the strength of their bond.

There's Dean being drunk and affectionate. Sammy, you should have come, these nachos are awesome. Man, and the nipples. You deserve some fun in your life, Sammy, my boy, you deserve everything, you're my favorite person in the whole world…

There's Dean being a teasing jerk. Dude, this toy store is haunted, EMF went crazy. Find anything at the library? I think we should check out Simon Smith…. Look at that, hey, Sammy, they have those Princess Jasmine dolls here that you liked so much when you were a kid. Want me to bring you one, princess?

Most frequently, there's Dean being a demanding, prissy brat and a glutton. Don't forget the extra onions on my burger. And bring me some pie, bitch.

But that's outbalanced by Dean being an awesome big brother, trying to take care of Sam even when he's out of his depth and scared shitless. Sam, look… I get the Trickster messed you up real bad. But Sammy, you're my brother, you know we can't… (Beep.) I shouldn't have reacted like that, I'm sorry, you caught me by surprise, okay? But come back, and I promise I won't freak, and I'll even girl up and we can talk about this, okay? (Beep.) Come on, Sammy, don't be a dick.

Not for the first time the sound of Dean's voice soothes him; Dean saving him without even being there.

During those first awful months at Stanford, he spent many nights listening to Dean's voice telling him Sammy, Dad didn't mean any of that, you know that, right? Just… take care, okay? He never answered his brother's calls, afraid that he would burst into tears and beg, "Come pick me up." But he listened to every single voicemail Dean left him with the same reverent attention he devoted to his studies.

Similarly, he allowed Dean's voice to calm him down when violent nightmares dragged him up from sleep during the year he spent with Amelia. One night, Amelia found him like that, his phone in his lap, his chest still heaving, covered in sweat, listening. "I thought you said he was your brother," she remarked, a faint line between her brows. He didn't know how to explain, so he said nothing.

Sometimes he doesn't need the voicemails. Sometimes the memories of all the good times they shared are enough. Life on the road can be nasty, and Dean can be resentful and cruel even without a murderous scar on his arm. Remembering how Dean drove him to ER on the handlebars of his bike; how Dean made him exotic variations of mac-n-cheese; how Dean's knee pressed against his as they were sitting side by side on a bed in a random motel room on the road to Detroit; how Dean carved his name into the baseboard of an abandoned building; often that's enough to make up after a fight and prevent Sam from doing something stupid in retaliation.

Now, though, not even the memory of holding Dean after his confrontation with Cain, snot, tears, blood and dust everywhere, or of the little detour Dean had made after their latest run-in with Claire in order to challenge Sam to a game of mini-golf, laughing like a child, more carefree and at ease than he'd been in weeks, can wipe out the burning, hot ache in his chest left by the words Dean hurled at him during Charlie's funeral: "I think it should be you up there, not her."

So Sam keeps listening, willing himself to believe that somewhere deep inside the man who'd walked away from him earlier that day, fury and hatred radiating from every pore of his skin, is still the same brother who'd left him all these voicemails.

Eventually, he reaches the only one that he's saved and never replayed. But even though he's only listened to it once, he knows it by heart. The words have haunted him in his sleep, have chased him from the church where he released Lucifer to the church where he almost closed the Gates of Hell, desperately trying to make amends:

Listen to me, you bloodsucking freak. Dad always said I'd either have to save you or kill you. Well, I'm giving you fair warning. I'm done trying to save you. You're a monster, Sam – a vampire. You're not you anymore. And there's no going back.

Afterwards neither of them ever mentioned the call again. To all appearances, Dean had forgotten all about it. Sometimes, though, there were moments where Sam wondered – if Dean still thought about what he'd said back then, if he still meant it. If he still hated Sam. Moments like that time when he was human enough to walk out of a devil's trap, and swung a hammer at Sam's head. Moments like Charlie's funeral earlier.

Sam hesitates briefly. Then he decides that listening to this message again can't possibly hurt more than what Dean said next to the pyre. He presses play – and freezes in his tracks.

This is not the hard, cold voice he remembers hearing. Instead, Dean sounds hesitant. Placatory even. And the words – they're nothing like the ones that have haunted Sam for so long:

Hey, it's m-me. Uh... Look, I'll just get right to it. I'm still pissed... and I owe you a serious beatdown. But... I shouldn't have said what I said. You know, I'm not Dad. We're brothers. You know, we're family. And, uh... no matter how bad it gets, that doesn't change. Sammy, I'm sorry.

When the message ends in a beep, Sam drops his phone with shaking hands, tears blurring his eyes.

The ache in his chest loosens a bit. He feels something akin to hope.

For six years those words have tortured him – and they weren't real. They were never real. A trick the angels played on them, undoubtedly, a little extra encouragement for him to break the final seal. For six years he thought that Dean had damned him back there, and now he knows that his brother tried to reach out to him, even then.

It's time for him to return the favor.

With trembling fingers he dials Dean's number. Predictably, the phone goes straight to voicemail. God knows what his brother's doing, possibly slicing, chopping and shooting his way through the Styne household this very instant, burying hurt and fear and grief under a pile of bloody corpses.

"Dean," he says, then pauses. Swallows hard. "I know you don't want to hear this right now, but I'm sorry. I'm so so sorry… And I want you to know that…" He blinks away the tears. "You're my brother and I love you, no matter how bad it gets, and I just – I just want you to be okay. So please… call me when you get this. Be safe."

After that Sam makes the fake call to Crowley and waits.

He's going to save his brother.

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