Time and Time Again

By: Oldach's Dream

Summary: It's that episode where the bank keeps exploding. Sort of.

A/N: Set before Croatoan. I started writing this way before we knew the Sam's-destined-to-be-evil-and-Dean-might-have-to-kill-him secret, so as far as this fic is concerned, John died - the end.

Disclaimer: Oh, yeah, I own 'em. Wanna see the tricks I taught them? They can actually hug now. No, I wish. Really - if you recognize it, Erik Kripke created it. I also don't own any of the quotes. I'm just a clepto.

I love knowing what people think, so review, review, review no matter what you have to say. I wanna hear it.

And no, this isn't a death-fic, not in the traditional sense, anyway, and I'm gonna leave it at that.

I do believe that's all I wanna say before this thing starts rolling - so enjoy!

Chapter One

---------------

"Life is made up of moments that mean nothing, and moments that mean it all." -Unknown.

---------------

"I'm tellin' you, Sammy," Dean smirked at his little brother over his coffee. "This'll be a friggin' cakewalk."

"Every time you say that, we usually end up close to death."

"Girl." Dean mocked.

"Idiot." Sam bit back. "You just wanna shoot something. You're going into this blind."

"I've been hunting for over two decades, Sam," Dean pointed out in that way he had that almost made him sound still mad at Sam for his lost four years at Stanford. "I think I know a common haunting when I see it."

"Only you haven't seen it," Sam pointed out. "We've read about it-"

"And heard it."

Sam rolled his eyes but conceded, "And heard it. But we haven't seen a thing."

"What?" Dean snorted sarcastically, "You want Casper to introduce himself before we can waste him?"

"No," Sam tried to defend himself, but Dean was having none of it.

"'Cause I hate to break it to you, cupcake," he ducked his head down and glanced around their table dramatically, making sure none of the other restaurant patrons could hear him, "but," he raised a hand to the side of his mouth, "They're not really friendly."

"Shove off," Sam pushed his brother's shoulder roughly, just adding fuel to Dean's laughing fit as he sat up straighter.

Now they were getting unwanted attention.

"Look," Dean conceded after a waitress passed their table and shot them a particularly nasty glare, "If it'll make you feel better, you can do some more research."

"Good," Sam sounded victorious, "I will."

"But I'm going to that building tonight, to dig the grave and burn the body." He appraised Sam with unconcerned eyes, "Come, if you think that cast won't get in the way of your half of the digging."

"Seriously?" Sam deadpanned. "We've been here for less than a day - and you want to dig the grave now?"

"Unless you wanted to have a chat with the guy first."

"It's almost dark now," Sam pointed out, ignoring Dean's quip.

"Huh," his big brother pretended - for half a second - to consider it, "Then I guess we better get a movin'."

"Back to the motel so I can do research," his voice held no real hope. "Right?"

"So you can do research while I go dig up a body."

And both could be done in the same general expanse of land - as the haunting that Dean seemed so keen to throw himself into just happened be located a couple hundred feet away from their crap-ass motel.

"Research and hunting simultaneously doesn't really make sense." The younger of the two couldn't help but mention. And yeah, he was digging himself a hole, but so what? Dirt was cheap.

"Good point," Dean mocked. "Guess you'll just hafta come with me."

He opened his mouth to protest, but Dean just interjected with, "I won't make you dig, but you're totally the distraction if we need one."

With that final thought, he stood, picking up their check to take to the front register, almost missing Sam's sarcastically uttered, "Goody,"

"Buck up, Sammy," Dean patted him on the shoulder once he stood. "I'll bet ya anything we'll be all done and at a bar by midnight."

---------------

Anything.

Sam would have taken a prime rib steak - bake potato and the works on the side.

He would have taken a week's worth of being able to pick the music played in the Impala.

He would have liked a go at Gordon - the memory of the other hunter still got to him, and Sam often regretted not being able to take part of the final ass-kicking that inevitably took place that night.

A real vacation would be nice.

A chance to drive the Impala more than once a month.

Perhaps a copy of Psychic Powers for Dummies - the Demon Edition.

There were a few moments of his past he wouldn't mind erasing.

A couple decisions he'd like to redo.

A person or two that he kinda wanted back.

But mostly, for Sam, that anything would be another chance.

A chance to make it right.

---------------

"I said to Life, I would hear Death speak. And Life raised her voice a little higher and said, You hear him now?" -Kahlil Gibran

---------------

"Oh god," Sam choked. "Oh god, oh god."

He held his brother's head in his lap. Rivers of tears and blood cascading down his face in steadily ignored streams.

"God," he'd turned it from a curse, a pointless rambling, to a prayer. "Please. No. No."

"Sammy?" Dean gurgled through thick blood, spilling out of his mouth dangerously.

"Dean," he gasped. "Hang on, big brother." He ordered it, demanded it, begged for it. "We called 911. Help's coming, okay? Just hang on."

The broken man's one working eye opened a slit- more raw emotion in that one fraction of a glace than Sam had ever seen before. Ever.

It made his heart stop.

This was the end.

And he knew it.

"No," he rebelled against his own thoughts. "Just hold on, man. Please, just-" but he cut himself off, knowing that if he said another word then, he wouldn't survive it.

Dean lifted a bloodied arm, his hand instinctually finding his brother's face, his eye having closed again.

The rough, calloused fingers ran from his temple to his chin, Sam closed his own eyes, not wanting to be in the moment any longer, and escape came through his big brother's gentle touch.

"You're hurt," Dean choked, the words sounding frighteningly primitive.

"No," Sam corrected. "I'm fine."

"Blood," he whispered.

"Not on my hands, not on yours," he didn't know what he was saying. Not really. It's like he was speaking for someone else. "We're fine,"

" 'm'ired."

"Stay awake, Dean," Sam pleaded, clasping his brother's hand in both of his.

He knew he was in trouble when Dean didn't respond to the pain he knew he must be causing the broken appendage.

"...can't..." he gurgled again, Sam shut his eyes, opened them, shut them again.

This couldn't be real.

This was not happening.

Delusion. Nightmare. Vision. Really bad movie.

He didn't care. Just not reality.

"I need you, Dean." He was desperate. "And I love you. You hear that? I love you, you fucking asshole. So don't you dare die."

"...'orry..." he mumbled, probably not even hearing himself.

"I love you, big brother." His mind raced, needing to fill in the emptiness before anything else had a chance to. "And I owe you twenty bucks. Remember, when we met Sarah? I need to give that back to you."

No response.

"And the car. You...I can't drive the Impala. I can't. It's yours."

Silence.

"I stole your favorite Zeppelin shirt, when we got into that pranking war when we were kids. I was gonna give it back after all my hair grew back, but I lost it."

A sound, a minuscule shift.

"Don't give up, Dean." So much desperate love that Sam thought for sure that it would be enough, that it'd become so thick and solid that his brother would be able to cling to it.

And perhaps he did.

Perhaps that last second, that last whispered, "...'ight...Sammy," was just a couple extra moments he wasn't meant to have.

And perhaps his heart didn't just shatter into hundreds of thousands of tiny pieces.

Perhaps his world didn't just end.

TBC...