"Ashes fly ashes burn
The sun is black ain't no return
Ashes fly ashes burn
Over and over ain't no need to learn

It's all dust on dust
It's all you and me
Out done completely out played
Just shovel some more dirt on the grave

The choices you make and the choices that are
When hell is so close and heaven's so far
Ashes fly ashes burn
Over and over ain't no need to learn"

-Black Label Society

Food doesn't taste the same. Everything that he used to love, to savor, or simply shove into his mouth for the texture of it as much as the taste, nothing is right. It's all ash in his mouth, and drinking isn't the same. The burn of whiskey brings back the memories of other things burning and being stripped away. Soda fizzes and makes him choke, like brackish, sludgy water, so he's stuck with stale bread and water now. It doesn't matter. He's done with it all.

It's been a whole two days. He knows he should let go. He would do what's right, but he can't bring himself to end his brother in fire. It's wrong somehow, because everything in their lives has been destroyed by fire and letting it lick and devour his brother when he never got this pleasure is sickly perverse and as wrong as him wanting his brother more than he should.

The hole is deep, much deeper than necessary. He climbs out of it and goes back into the rickety old shack. His legs threaten to give way beneath him as he's confronted once again with the lifeless corpse that use to be his brother.

He considers the crossroads, because anything is worth it to bring Sam back. Anything. Everything. But he knows Sam will never forgive him, and he'll be forced to live with Dean's sacrifice. He isn't stupid, he knows that demonic bitch won't give him back Sam and ten years. He'll be lucky if he can get one, though he'd try for five. It's a tempting thought, but it's best to leave it. Besides it won't be long now before the world goes up in flames, darkness slipping through the cracks and crevices as demon's slip inside and destroy humanity using the very fears and emotions that drive the stupid race.

He takes in a deep breath, closes his eyes, cursing his weakness for the tears slipping down in his face. Sam would never let him live down the chick flick moment if he were around to see this. Dean, tough as nails, and crying like a little bitch. That he's crying over Sam wouldn't matter, not to Sam anyway. Not that it matters anymore, but God, what he wouldn't kill to make it matter again.

He hefts Sam's body up, slips his arms beneath Sam's armpits, clasps his hands around the front of Sam's chest, and pulls, hauling his heavy ass across the creaking floor boards of the shitty shack that he's been holed up in since he threw Bobby out. Sam's shoes drag across the old wooden floor, and Dean grunts with the effort of moving the dead weight.

He finally makes it to the hole dug in the yard behind the shack. He lays Sam's body down next to the hole, his body shaking as he realizes that this is it, the last time he will ever look down at his brother. He collapses next to the body, his hands fisting into Sam's shirt as he pulls the body up in his arms again, the stiffness of death is long gone, and if there is a smell, Dean doesn't know. They're might be, but he can't be bothered to notice. He's already lost track of time, can't be bothered with it.

He wraps his arms around Sam's body, clinging there, buries his face in the shirt, the only thing he smells is the soap he used to wash the body, and something that he will always recall as 'Sam' in his mind. He's shaking so hard that Sam's body trembles with him, and for a moment he believes that maybe, just maybe Sam isn't dead. Maybe he's come back. Stranger things have happened, but then he pulls back, let's his finger's slip across Sam's cold, dry lips and he breaks down again.

"There's so much I never got to say. You have no idea what I would do for you, how far I would go, but I'm tired Sammy, so tired, and you'd hate me for it. Losing you is hard, but knowing you'd hate me. I… I can't. I know I'm not worth much, but I'd give up myself and whatever else I had to get you back," Dean whispers. "I want you back. Like I've always wanted you. Wanted to touch you, kiss you, make you more than my responsibility. Wanted to make you mine. Christ, Sammy, why didn't you just look behind you?"

Dean can't take much more as he pulls back, because it's time. Now or never. He rolls Sam's body into the grave, hears the thump as it hits the bottom of the hole. He could almost swear that he hears a grunt too, but that's impossible. It's been days and he's got to face it, Sammy's gone. Fuck the world and this stupid demon war, because Sammy, his world, is gone.

He slowly stands up, the effort almost too much, but he's Dean fucking Winchester, and damn if he can't muster up at least that much strength from stubbornness alone.

With a shaky breath and a trembling hand he reaches for the shovel. He steels himself and scoops some dirt from the pile he made while digging The Grave. He swallows back the sob, nearly choking on the painful way his lungs contract against the abuse from holding back all of the emotions that are threatening to tear loose. He drops the dirt into the hole, imagines it landing on Sam. He knows he should salt and burn the body, just to make sure that Sam find's his peace, but he can't. He just can't.

It gets a little easier with the second shovel full and then the third. By the sixth he swears he hears a cough. It's almost enough to make him stop, but he knows Sam is gone, so he keeps going, moving mechanically like a robot or a broken slave.

He's lost count of how many times the shovel has hit the pile of dirt to dump it back in the hole, when he hears a series of grunts and moaning, but it's nothing. He's losing his mind. That has to be it. He gets another shovel full, turns to the hole, is about to dump it when a hand shoots up from the grave, stained in dirt and straining to reach for something to pull the rest of the way out.

The shovel hits the ground with a metallic thud and Dean stumbles backwards, landing hard on his ass as he struggles to scramble away until his back collides with the trunk of a tree and he has no other way to go. He trembles, his back pressed against the tree like he's trying to become one with it as he watches in growing horror as the body, his brother's body, shudders and struggles to climb it's way out of the grave. He sees the top of his brother's head and squeezes his eyes shut, because he can't watch anymore.

"Dean?" he hears, and it's said in that voice Sam always uses when he knows he's cornered Dean and he's unsure of what Dean's reaction will be.

"You're gone," Dean whispers brokenly, turning his head from side to side, refusing to look.

"I'm right here, Dean. What… Why was I in a grave? Dirt was being thrown on me. What the hell man? Were you…? Were you burying me?" Sam asks, and he sounds offended and hurt and he's Sam. Dean knows that he is Sam, but this isn't possible. No matter how much he wants it to be.

"Look at me, Dean. I'm right here," Sam says softly, and Dean feels rough, calloused fingers gliding up his jaw, Sam's fingers, and he wants so desperately to give into the touch, but everything inside of him, every instinct honed over the years from hunting is telling him that this isn't right.

He feels Sam's breath warm against his ear as Sam leans in close, and then Sam's lips, warm once again, are brushing against his earlobe as Sam speaks.

"Did you really think that he would just let his favorite die? I've always been the one he wants, but if I'd been the one to open the gate I'd have died. It requires a sacrifice. I'm his chosen, this whole knife in the back thing, just temporary."

Dean sucks in a sharp breath and his eyes fly open as Sam pulls back and he stares into his brother's face. It's so familiar, so Sam, but there's something else, just below the surface.

"Sammy?" Dean says, his voice breaking, his tone unsure.

Sam gives him a smug smile. "Who else would I be? It's me, Dean, all back from the dead, but there are conditions. You know the sick bastard made me drink his blood the night that he killed Mom? It was sort of like this pact. He didn't do it with the others, just had them watched over by lesser demons. I was always his favorite. It's because of Mom. She had gifts… Or was she cursed? I don't know exactly, but whatever it was she passed it on to me, all the memories. It's all in my blood."

"What are you talking about? Sam, you're not making any sense."

"Mom was one of the settlers in the Roanoke colony! She gave herself to Croatoan when the disease spread to be spared their fate. He kept her for decades, and then He saw her, wanted her, struck a deal with Croatoan because He was older, more powerful, and when Mom saw her chance she escaped, managed to be reincarnated, but He found her, and when He did she was pregnant with me. The memories, her memories are passed down in the blood. You have them too Dean, but Dad's blood runs too thick in your veins. We'll have to thin that out eventually. It's a rush, all of this power. The things I can do. I've never felt more awake, more alive. And the things I see in your head. The things you want to do with me, to me. Hell, Dean, why you been holdin' out?" Sam asks, and he settles his ass on the ground, sitting across from Dean, pulling his legs in to sit Indian style, like they use to when they were kids and Dean was sharing his worldly wisdom with little Sammy.

"No. No," Dean says, firmly shaking his head and squeezing his eyes shut, praying it will all go away, because he looks like Sam, sounds like Sam, but he can't be. Yet, it is Sam. Dean knows it down to his bones.

He freezes at the press of warm, soft lips against his own. He tries to pull back, but his head bumps sharply against the bark of the tree behind him, and his eyes slip open and he's trying to focus on Sam's face and finds that Sam is leaning over him, Sam's arms on the ground on either side of him, and Sam pulls his face back enough so that Dean can look at him without having to cross his eyes.

"Yes," Sam replies softly, and Dean's heart jumps sharply in his chest, jolts painfully.

Dean gasps, grabs at his chest and looks in fear at Sam. He feels the cold creeping over him, his lips turn blue, his skin loses it's color, the blood rushing in his body is slowing down, and his heart is stuttering, the steady hum of the pulse in his ear skipping, and slowing down impossibly.

His eyes widen in horror and he gasps as his lungs begin to burn, but his throat isn't working. He can't breathe, let alone swallow down even a decent gulp of air.

Sam pulls him down, his long arms wrapping around Dean's body, as he struggles to take in air. Dean's body is limp, and he hates this. His veins are hardening, his lungs burning, and while his head should be spinning he is conscious to it all.

Damn if it doesn't hurt, and then Sam's breath is against his ear shushing him as that large hand runs soothingly up along Dean's spine, slipping into the short-cropped hair at the nape of Dean's neck.

"Won't be long now, I promise, Dean. You won't have to wait as long as me. I know it hurts, but it'll all be over soon. I talked to Him you know, told Him that I wouldn't join Him without you. We're a set, together or no deal. He liked the idea, Dean. Won't be long, and then you'll be mine, just like it was always meant to be," Sam says gently. "You and me against the world. We'll make it quick for Bobby. Then we'll have a little fun. Like old times, except we've been traded to the other team, the winning team."

The last movement Dean manages before the darkness takes him is a blink, and a single last tear slips down his face as he realizes how truly damned the Winchesters are.

There is pain and there is darkness, endless darkness, and then he's pulling back, his body arching up painfully against Sam as he sucks in as much air as his lungs can hold.

When his eyes fly open they lock with his brother's steady gaze and Sam smiles back at him, his eyes glinting a faint hint of gold, and Dean knows that his own eyes hold that same golden spark. Heat rushes blazing through his veins like hell fire as his limbs slowly come back to life. He is Dean Winchester, three times dead, and three times resurrected.

He blinks and shakes his head as Sam leans in for a second kiss, to which Dean gives in.

Maybe Dad got off easy selling his soul, but let it not be said that Dean Winchester takes the easy way out.

End.