Shake It Off and Move On
K Hanna Korossy
"Are you ready to stand up…and be who you really are?"
He never did answer Zachariah's question, because that was when he finally remembered the most important part of his real life.
Dean blinked, chin jerking up. "Sam—crap, did he get his memories back, too? Or were you gonna go give him the whole 'I want to live' pitch next?"
Zachariah smiled at him with that infuriatingly patronizing smile that Uriel had also excelled at. "Sam had his own lesson to learn. He's made his choice already."
Dean glared back at the angel. "What? Where is he?"
He only got another smile. The angel was friggin' rocking on his heels.
"Never mind," Dean growled, "I'll find him." When he stomped past Zachariah, the angel didn't make a move to stop him.
The bank of elevators had been cordoned off for some reason, so Dean ran down the dozen stairs, replaying the last few days in his mind: his leeriness of the weird IT guy, the paradigm-shifting experience of seeing a ghost, the thrill unlike any he'd felt—well, could remember feeling—at taking on said ghost with IT dude…and then the fear that had followed at the idea of giving up his life, all he had, to take their show on the road. Sam hadn't remembered his past, either—at least, Dean was pretty sure that hadn't been an act and Zachariah had said as much—but he'd had his dreams and feelings and had taken a chance on Dean.
And Dean had ignored his own instincts and shut Sam down.
Or maybe he really had been acting on his instincts, because he remembered the past—the real past—now. To the days he'd spent in the hospital, curled into himself as he'd ignored Sam's coaxing and pleas to talk, not caring about anything, hurting too badly to make the effort. In agony. Terrified. Without hope.
He'd given up long before he'd woken up in his fancy apartment and terminally boring life, and Sam Wesson's pleading face. And some part of Dean had fought hard not to go back.
Dean's face darkened. Now was not the time to think about that, though. Now he just needed to make sure Sam was all right inside this fake steel-and-glass world.
Dean burst out of the stairwell on the IT floor, startling a girl in yellow into dropping the sheaf of papers she'd been holding. He barely spared her a glance as he barreled into the unfamiliar territory of cubicle-land, scanning it for the brunet mop that would surely be towering over the short partitions.
No Sam. But there was a little knot of canary-shirts in the far corner of the room, and Dean headed that way.
"What happened?" he demanded once he saw the source of the stir: a smashed telephone, an iron poker lying on the floor beside it. His eyes narrowed as he took in the little vampire bobblehead lying upended beside the murdered phone.
Dean had no authority in IT, but his expensive suit and tie apparently carried enough weight because one of the geeks cleared his throat and squeaked, "Uh, one of the employees kinda flipped out. Whaled on his phone and took off. Sir."
He didn't need to ask who it was. A moment of amused pride curled his mouth; Sam had quit in style, with or without his memories. But it didn't last because Dean was hit next by the realization that he had no idea where to find his brother now. Except…
"Hey." He snagged the IT manager's arm. "You got an address on him?"
The guy gave him a jaundiced look.
"For, uh," Dean coughed and gave him his best smile, "you know. Paperwork."
And what do you know, it worked.
00000
He was Sam Winchester, hunter, college dropout, son and brother, possibly key to the Apocalypse. Just…wearing a godawful bright yellow shirt, standing in the middle of a tiny apartment full of video games and electronic equipment, none of which was his. And without a clue how he'd gotten there.
Sam ran a hand through his hair. Okay, what did he remember last? Well, last before he'd started living the dead-end life of Sam Wesson, geek extraordinaire.
The hospital. His hand dropped. He remembered the hospital.
Castiel had been to see Dean; Sam had returned from a coffee run to hear the angel's quiet murmurs coming from inside the room. By the time he'd blown through the door, however, Dean was alone again, lying in the bed…crying.
If Sam hadn't been ready to renounce the whole angelic host before, he was at that moment.
But no amount of coaxing and pleading would get Dean to tell him what was wrong, or to talk to him at all, or even to look at him. When his brother drifted off a few minutes later, Sam knew it was at least as much out of avoidance as exhaustion.
It didn't get better when Dean woke up again. In fact, he quickly sank into total withdrawal, not even seeming to notice Sam was there at all. It wasn't long before his vitals took a downturn, too. Depression, the doctor called it. Sam knew better: Dean's spirit had been crushed along with his body. Dean wasn't getting better because he had no desire left to live. And Sam had no idea how to fix that.
None of the angels had come when Sam went outside and screamed at the sky for them.
He swallowed now in the claustrophobic, alien-familiar apartment, dragging a hand down over his mouth to pull at his lips. The last time he'd seen Dean—well, Dean Smith—his brother had been full of vitality and enthusiasm. Right before he'd rejected Sam. But if this was some kind of djinn-like fantasy to fix Dean's heart, Sam couldn't exactly resent it.
That didn't mean he'd let his brother go without a fight.
Turning his back on the apartment—the normal life—that wasn't his and held no appeal, Sam headed back to work.
00000
So, Dean thought, comparing the address on the paper to the little cinderblock of an apartment building. Apparently IT didn't make a fraction of what an exec like Dean did, which made sense, but still. At least he'd had an awesome apartment and some pretty cool perks to tempt him. This place? This wasn't a lot better than what life on the road had to offer.
Shrugging, Dean headed inside.
The apartment building, for being old and shabby, was at least clean. A nice-looking mom with a kid paused to smile uncertainly at him, and an old woman peered out through a cracked-open door up the hall from Sam's place. When Dean met her eyes as he knocked, she whispered, "Tell him I made a cake today," and shut her door.
Figured. The Boy Scout always had made friends wherever he went.
No one answered the door. Maybe Sam didn't want to see him after their last conversation? Dean heaved a sigh and glanced up and down the hallway, making sure cake lady's door was firmly closed, before he went through his pockets, found a nice keychain he could bend the wire of, and knelt in front of the locked door.
His eyebrows rose as he stepped inside. "Sam?"
He could already tell by the silence that the place was empty, but Dean's curiosity got the better of him and he took a minute to look around. So was this the angels' idea of a geek apartment, just like Dean's was the chrome and modern furnishings of a high-paid marketing director? Or was this Sam? Dean's eyes slid along the assortment of video game and movie titles, then the small TV with a dozen different boxes hooked up to it. Dean huh-ed quietly and went on to the kitchen next, finding nearly a whole shelf of beer in the fridge and an assortment of Thai and pizza and diner leftovers. Unable to resist, he snagged a piece of pizza and a beer and continued to search.
The bedroom was…revealing. The bed was precisely made—extra long—and the walls were jammed with neatly filled bookshelves. The closet, Dean wryly noted, looked like it'd been organized by season and color. But it was the desk that drew his attention. It was full of pieces of paper and notebooks and post-its with scribbles on them like "black eyes" and "monster that lives in a mine" and "Lawrence, KS." He poked through the notes while inhaling the pizza and beer, but there was nothing new there. Just old—their past—and Dean wondered again what Sam had remembered and why he'd been the one to dream of their real life. His abilities again? Or maybe just more of a desire to go back?
"Castiel said you broke the seal because you were a righteous man. You, Dean. You think they gave Hitler, or Ted Bundy the option of getting off the rack and putting others on it? They could use you because you didn't belong there, because you're a good man."
He'd heard Sam talking while he'd lain there in the hospital bed, but he hadn't let the words penetrate. Nothing Sam said could fix the terrible things he'd done and the fractures in his soul. Nothing could make it feel better.
"Even the angels don't blame you, man. Dean, it was Hell. It's the worst thing ever, designed to break people. Most of them just deserve it, but that wasn't why you were there. This wasn't your fault."
He hadn't wanted to fight anymore, so freakin' tired. Sam was alive. He was actually doing pretty well without Dean, even thought Dean was holding him back. And Dean just screwed things up anyway; instead of helping people, the one thing he'd always had to be proud of, he'd tortured them. He'd had nothing left to fight for.
"You held out longer than anyone could've, dude. Dad… I don't believe Dad lasted a hundred years. Think about it,Dean—the angels never tried to rescue him. Maybe…I don't know, maybe it really was just a year for him, or maybe he wasn't even a righteous man. You remember the hospital now, right, before he died? He wasn't exactly a saint."
Dean did remember. He remembered John lying to Sam, and sitting silent and still next to Dean's bed instead of trying to find another way to save him. He remembered John blaming Sam for the accident. He remembered begging his dad to help him, unheard.
And more recently, Sam begging Dean to save himself, with similar results.
Dean pulled in a deep, shaky breath and dropped the empty bottle on the coffee table before he strode to the door. Screw this. He had to find Sam now.
Not knowing anywhere else in this world to try, Dean headed back to work.
00000
Dean wasn't in his office. No one had seen him since that morning, and security was threatening to eject Sam from the building if he didn't leave quickly.
Not like he had anything left there now. He went outside into the sunshine and sank down on a bench in front, dropping his head into his hands.
Please. I don't know… I need… Please.
"This lesson was intended for you both."
Sam's head shot up, and he stared at the trenchcoated figure sitting on the bench beside him. "What? Lesson?" A cold suspicion gripped him. "Wait—youdid this?"
Castiel turned his head to look at him. "No, Sam. You did."
Sam recoiled, jaw gaping. "W-what?"
Castiel seemed to sigh. "You and Dean. He was not improving, and you were unable to help. It became…necessary to find another way."
Sam stared at him, mind unwillingly drawn back to the hospital. Dean had lain in wasting silence two days, unresponsive, refusing food and comfort. For no reason the doctors could pinpoint, he'd gone from slowly recovering to declining, fading in front of Sam's eyes.
Sam had railed at the angels at first, furious they hadn't even considered that he could have been of more help with Alastair than Dean, blaming them for letting his brother be attacked. Then he'd turned his rage on Alastair and all the monsters in Hell who'd chipped away at Sam's tall, strong, proud brother until only this feeble shell was left.
In the end, though, his real anger had been at himself. He'd been the reason Dean had made the deal in the first place. He'd been the one unable to get Dean out of it. He'd been the one who'd been helpless to comfort Dean in the aftereffects. And he was the one who wasn't enough to pull Dean back from the brink now, who was no longer reason alone for Dean to fight. The one who, it turned out, still needed Dean far more than his brother needed him. With even that solid ground sliding out from under his feet, Sam had been close to giving up, too.
Maybe Dean Smith's rejection had been more instinctive than Sam had realized.
He stared at his hands, laced loosely in his lap. They still bore bruises and a cut from the fight against Sandover's spirit the night before. "So," he smiled humorlessly, "if this was about helping Dean, what was the lesson for me?"
Castiel tilted his head, his gaze piercing. "Do you truly not know?"
Dean had been reminded of the love of the hunt, of his abilities, of joy. What had Sam gotten out of this?
Dean. He'd gotten back Dean. And the reluctant knowledge he couldn't do this alone, that the Winchesters were still a team. Because maybe Sam could save the world, but he wasn't so sure about himself.
The demons had known who the righteous Winchester was, but the angels didn't seem ready to give up on Sam yet, either. And that gave him a little bit of hope, too.
He cleared his throat. "Where is he?" Sam asked quietly, humbly. A prayer before God.
Castiel turned to look behind them, at the garage next to the office building. "B5. You need to go home, Sam."
Sam turned back to him with a frown, the question on the tip of his tongue. But the bench beside him was empty.
Sam sighed and pushed to his feet. B5, right. As good a home as any.
Besides, as much as he sometimes fought it, he already knew where his home was.
00000
He was heading back to the Prius, parked in his prime reserved spot, when he saw her.
Dean groaned. "Oh, baby, how could I forget you?" He hurried forward. Touching the sleek black metal felt like he was grounding himself in a storm. Dean let his fingers caress the Impala's curves as he made his way up to the driver's seat. Fishing out his key ring, he realized he'd never even questioned the other keys on it besides the Prius's and his apartment's, but he knew the right one at a glance. He unlocked the door and slid inside, sinking into the vinyl and caressing the steering wheel. "Yeah, sweetheart, I missed you, too," he murmured.
Well, he hadn't consciously. But all those little car models spread around his apartment? Pale attempts to replace what he was really missing.
Just like Sam Wesson for Sam Winchester.
Dean's fingers tightened their grip around the wheel, his brain feeling like an overworked engine as it scrambled to sort out three weeks of unreality from the months of nightmarish reality and the underlying constant reminders of Hell before that.
Sam was the touchstone throughout, the only constant. In Hell, Dean had clung to memories of his little brother in order to last as long as he had. And even in Corporateville, the angels had sent Sam in with him. He'd always been the key, the solid ground Dean could always anchor himself in while he tried to make sense of the chaos around him.
Until Dean had thrown him away.
Sam had talked a lot to him in the hospital. Some of it Dean had listened to; most of it had just jammed up against the door he'd shut between him and the world. But he could remember Sam rambling on about those days after the crash, reminding him that their dad wasn't a saint, that no way was Dean a disappointment, blah, blah.
Sam had never once brought up what he'd done back then.
Dean had already known about the talking board and the code blue. What he remembered now, though, was Sam's tears as he struggled to communicate with Dean. The desperate aching pleas for Dean to stick around because they were just starting to be brothers again. The way Sam had never given up on him, even when their dad apparently had. How hard Sam had fought for him and loved him.
It was a far more potent argument. It might have even reached him in his dark hopelessness after Alastair.
Someone knocked on the passenger side window, jolting Dean out of his thoughts. He looked up, seeing the yellow shirt first, then the face above it with twenty-five years of memories attached.
All he felt was relief. Dean reached over to unlock the door.
Sam opened it and crouched down but didn't make a move inside. "Can I come in?"
Dean was pretty sure he'd meant to say it playfully, but there was a plaintive uncertainty there that jabbed him in the heart. "Get in here," he said gruffly.
Sam climbed in, long legs immediately jamming up against the dash, the gold of his shirt startling against the black interior of the car. First thing they were gonna do—after having every kind of carb known to man and finding a cheap motel—was change out of the monkey suits they were in because, seriously. Dean still had some pride left.
But for the moment, just sitting next to Sam in the car felt like more than he could've asked for.
00000
"So…"
"Yeah."
Sam nodded. "Castiel?"
"Zachariah." At Sam's look, Dean added, "Cas's boss."
"Oh. That's just…great."
"Yeah."
Sam glanced at him. "At least they healed you."
Dean snorted a laugh. "And you got your memories back." His brow furrowed. "Right?"
"Right. Yeah. Soon as I got home."
"Right. Home. Didn't know you were such a video game junkie, dude. Oh, and your neighbor, the one who looks like she's 102? She said to tell you she made a cake."
Sam raised an eyebrow. "You went to my apartment?"
Dean turned away, eyeing the garage around them. "I was looking for you," he said quietly.
"Oh." He recognized the tacit apology for the earlier rejection and half-smiled his acceptance. "Before or after…?"
"After. But…I was gonna even before I knew about—" His motion encompassed Sam and car.
Sam felt himself flush a little, quietly pleased. "Okay."
"Yeah."
Sam rubbed his palm against his thigh. "I bet Bobby's been goin' crazy trying to reach us."
Dean took a breath. "Yeah, we should probably call him." His eyes narrowed. "And those featherbrains better not have…" He mumbled under his breath as he went through his pockets, then reached past Sam to the glove compartment. It was with a sigh of relief that he dug out his ring and amulet and put them on. "Oh, yeah. That's better."
Sam eyed the amulet lying on top of Dean's loosened silk tie, and his mouth turned up. "Goes well with the whole…" He waved a hand at Dean's getup.
Dean tilted a look at him. "You sure you wanna go there, Bumblebee?"
Sam glowered, which only seemed to amuse his brother further.
More silence. Dean cleared his throat. "You think our apartments, all that stuff…?"
"I don't know." Sam hitched a shoulder. "Probably not. I mean, if they could make it for us, they could, I don't know, unmake it."
"Too bad. Those sheets were sweet."
Sam scoffed. "Yeah. That's what I'm gonna miss in all this: the sheets." He shook his head. "And, dude, Bob and Ellen? And sister Jo? Seriously?"
Dean looked pinched. "Dude, Madison? Why'd the angels pull her out of your twisted little brain instead of Jessica?"
Sam sobered; he hadn't even thought of that. "I don't know," he softly admitted.
"Yeah, well… This whole thing was just jacked, okay? I mean, no beer, no fried food, no car, getting turned on by research?" Dean ticked off the insults on his fingers. "And I've still got all this marketing…junk in my head. I mean, dude!" He pointed at Sam. "And I'm gonna kill those stupid little Ghostfakers, I swear."
Sam grimaced. "Well, they did help us."
Dean put up a finger. "Not a word, Sam. Those little Winchester-wannabes are screwing us in public now—they're toast."
"All right," Sam sighed. More silence. He dared a glance at his brother's stormy face, noting the clear eyes, the unscarred face, his color. "You got some good sleep, huh?"
Dean frowned at him. "What?"
Sam gestured vaguely. "First time I've seen you look well-rested, man, in, like, a year." Probably two, considering the deadline that had been weighing on them a year before.
"Oh." Dean didn't seem to know what to do with that. "Well, back at ya, Sammy."
"Yeah," Sam said, soft. "It didn't feel right, you know? I knew it wasn't me. But sometimes the boring stuff felt kinda…nice, too. Y'know?"
Dean didn't answer. He didn't have to.
Sam closed his eyes and rested his head back against the seat. Home. It settled in his bones. No matter how much he yearned for other sometimes, this was home. The car and the jerk sitting next to him.
If it came to that in the end, if he had to sacrifice everything to save the world, he hoped Dean would be able to save him, because Sam didn't want to lose this.
"Hey, Sam…," Dean mused next to him. "Is decoupage some kinda porn thing?"
Sam sputtered into surprised laughter, and didn't stop until he was in tears.
00000
They took a chance, swinging by Dean's place to see if it was still there. They could at least keep the laptop, maybe pawn a few of Dean Smith's expensive cufflinks. But the apartment was already up for lease, probably emptied out, and Dean didn't even try the lock. He couldn't seem to mind too much when they ended up in a small motel on the outskirts of the city instead.
Their duffels had been in the trunk, and Sam disappeared into the bathroom for a shower and a change. Dean stripped his tailored clothes with haste, then reconsidered and folded them up neatly. Never knew when it would come in handy for a gig, looking like he had some money behind him.
The watch he stared at a moment longer. It probably would go to the pawnshop, a parting gift from the angels, maybe—not like we didn't earn it, Clarence!—but Dean preferred the awesome outdoorsman one Sam had bussed tables for all Christmas break one year to get Dean for his birthday.
Sam had worn it at the hospital, along with Dean's amulet, since the ICU didn't allow their patients jewelry. Dean remembered staring at it for hours on Sam's arm as it pressed against his own, his brother's tousled head folded down next to it in exhaustion. He'd been looking at it blankly when Castiel had quietly spoken up.
"There is another way, Dean."
He hadn't answered, looked up, cared.
There'd been the feather-soft sound of movement that seemed to be the only noise Castiel ever made. "I have been…authorized to offer you an alternative."
"To stopping the Apocalypse?" Dean whispered dully. Sam didn't stir beside him.
"No. To lying here in the shadow of despair."
He'd thought about that a moment, then slid his one good eye toward the angel that stood by his bed.
Castiel gazed at him steadily. "Sam will not come to any harm, Dean, you have my word.This is not a deal—we are not them."
Dean looked down. "Okay," he'd finally murmured.
The angel's head tilted questioningly. "You don't want to know what I'm offering first?"
He closed his eyes. "Anything's better than this," Dean said, not bothering to hide the emptiness in his rough voice.
A moment passed, then he felt the cool touch of fingers on his forehead. "So let it be done."
And he'd woken up between Dean Smith's Egyptian cotton sheets.
The bathroom door swinging open broke through the memory, and Sam walked out, toweling his hair dry. "You're not dressed yet? Thought you were dying to go eat some grease." He grinned wryly.
Dean took a quick breath and started moving. "Yeah. Sorry. Just was wondering how much I could get for the watch." He nodded at the timepiece as he shrugged into his own jeans and t-shirt. They felt…good.
"Hmm." Sam tossed the towel aside and scooped up the watch to examine it. "Rolex, huh?"
"Only the best for the Director of Sales and Marketing," Dean answered brightly, pulling on his jacket.
Sam's eyes flicked over just as Dean settled his own watch across his wrist, and he smiled, dropping the Rolex back onto the bed. "Whatever, man, just direct us to the nearest diner, 'cause I'm starving."
Dean led the way out the door, feeling the rightness of the familiar presence once more at his back. "Hey," he couldn't resist with a smile over his shoulder as Sam locked up after them, "you don't think your neighbor still has that cake…"
The End