A/N: Hi guys! So, this story was actually published up here a few months ago, and then I got stuck and discouraged and deleted it 'cause I didn't want anyone to languish waiting for a chapter update that might never come. But – thanks to some encouragement from and brainstorming sessions with some lovely, lovely friends, this thing has roared back to life! I will be posting one chapter every week (maybe more often if, you know, people . . . clamor . . .)(and by clamor, I mean review – REVIEW, PEOPLE! SHOW YOUR AUTHORS SOME LOVE! ;-P) for the next month or so. Everything is pretty-much complete so don't worry – there will be no languishing in chapter-update-purgatory if I can help it!

Much gratitude is owed to my wonderful betas, Pickwick12 & SewonandSewForth, who picked this story out of the dust and gave it new life! Couldn't have done it without them!

One Month After the Apocalypse

On the one hand, Dean had always assumed it would end like this – cornered, bleeding, going over all the choices that could have prevented the present circumstances if only he hadn't been such a blind idiot. On the other, he had always assumed that no matter what crap went down in the end, Sam would somehow be there next to him. No matter what he had faced. No matter how acquainted he had become with the smell of death as it approached . . . Dean had never quite been ready to die alone.

Four Hours Earlier

"Don't forget the peanut butter at Costco, okay, hon?"

"Sure, babe."

Lisa's lips brushed his like tropical waves on volcanic rock. Even though he hadn't told her what he was actually up to, the kiss seemed to beg him not to go.

"I'll be back late – I promised Steve I'd meet him at Malloy's for darts."

"I won't wait up."

She smiled at him. It was torture knowing that she would anyway.

As he drove away, he glanced at the address scrawled on his hand: Holden's, 42 McCoy Crt., Brighamton. It would only take him an hour to get there. His hand traced the rough leather cover on the steering wheel, missing everything about the way the Impala's wheel curved to fit his grip. With thoughts of the Impala came jumbled memories of Sam – laughter, his brother asleep in the seat beside him . . . the sound of a shotgun, the sharp smell of gunpowder mixed with rock-salt . . . the taste of blood as Lucifer's mind in Sam's fist smashed into his face. Dean reached over and turned up the radio.

Dean looked the bartender at 42 McCoy Court in the eye. "Bobby Singer sent me," he said. The bartender looked around the empty bar, pulled a lever at the tap, and indicated with a blunt nod that Dean should go through the door that had just slid open in the dart wall.

"Guess I should duck first if I come back out during happy hour, huh?" said Dean with a grin. The bartender just grunted.

The room hidden behind the dart boards was a library of sorts – not nearly as extensive as Bobby's, but it did boast of a few rare tomes that even the surly mechanic didn't want around his place. In the middle of the room, lit by a skylight, was a glass case displaying the book Dean had come to see – a Babylonian Book of the Dead, containing a formula that "might-could-possibly-summon-something-like-dead-l oved-ones-or-other-things-from-hell-I-don't-know-b ecause-anyone-who's-ever-done-it's-died-bloody-but -it's-there-if-you-were-idjit-enough-to-try," as Bobby put it. Dean couldn't read Babylonian, but he hadn't come for the instructions. Bobby had those. He'd come to memorise the sigil associated with them, which purportedly burned any other paper it was written on to ash and destroyed any cameras which dared to photograph it.

Not that he in any way believed that it would actually work. The way he figured it, there was a 60% chance nothing would happen, a 39% chance it would kill him, and a 1% chance it would bring Sam back. But for Dean, trying was like breathing – he had to do it, or he would die anyway.

Dean looked over at the "librarian," a skinny teenager with his feet on the desk in the corner, doing what looked like math homework. The kid's eyes rose off the page and met his, and Dean felt like he'd been punched in the stomach. The hazel gaze and dirty-blonde curls, the layer of fading bruises on the cheekbone, the curious-but-wary look on his face – he was the picture of Sam at that age. For a moment he felt like he was back on the edge of that gaping black hole outside Detroit, watching his little brother fall into emptiness.

" . . . can get the hell out of here. I don't have time for effing tourists!" The room's keeper slammed his text book on the desk and snapped Dean out of his grief-stricken thoughts.

"Um, oh, uh . . . sorry," Dean said, trying to smile. "Um . . . Bobby Singer sent me here for a look at the, um . . ." He glanced at the writing on his palm. "The Utterpissing Codex?"

"The Utnapishtim Codex. Right behind you. Use the levers to turn the pages. Don't touch the case. Don't take any pictures. And don't look too long at it."

"How long is too long?"

"No idea. My dad can read it for hours and come away with a headache. Guy that came in yesterday went blind after 30 minutes."

"Right. Thanks."

Dean looked down at the mouldy tome – the ancient lettering seemed to crawl over the page like spiders. He shuddered and looked back up at the librarian. He was biting his lip, pencil feverishly working out an algebra equation, eyes flashing like he meant to stare the problem into submission. Just like Sam used to. Dean cleared his throat.

"That books gonna burst into flames if you keep looking at it like that."

"Nah. I already tried hexing it. Didn't work. Pretty sure my algebra teacher's made a pact with Lucifer."

"Likely. Don't worry, kid. You'll get it. My little brother hated math so much growing up that he got really good at it – just for spite."

"Yeah? Where's he at now?"

With Lucifer. Where I left him.

"He's, uh . . . he's dead."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

Dean tried for a reassuring smile and focused back at the book. But now the look of the leather and the smell of the pages were the look and smell of his brother and Dean could feel the ache of helpless loss building in the back of his throat. He couldn't do this. He turned a page without really looking at it.

"You're not really the study type, are you?" said the kid, obviously desperate for someone to distract him from his homework.

"Yeah. Yeah, my brother usually did this part."

"You'll get used to it. I'm really good at it but only because Dad says I'm too young to hunt."

"You are."

"Whatever! My sister was hunting at my age!"

"Where's your sister now?"

"In the hospital up in Alaska. Bad Wendigo hunt. My mom's with her, but she's not in any danger, so Dad said I was too behind in school to go visit."

"Well, there you go."

"If I'd been with her, it never would've happened!"

"If you'd been with her, you'd probably have just gotten on the wrong end of a Wendigo claw too – and believe me, it sucks. You may not like it now, but . . . someday you're gonna be really glad your Dad put you before Hunting."

The teenager gave him a pout that was the picture of Sam's. Dean quickly looked back down at the book before the tears came.

Dean hadn't turned but two of the dizzying pages when the wall slid open again, revealing an empty bar. Empty, that is, except for the prone form of the bartender, slumped over a fallen barstool. The teenage librarian jumped to his feet. "Dad?!"

Two ski-masked men emerged from each side of the doorway. The shorter one aimed a shotgun at Dean's chest. The other trained a rifle on the kid.

Dean raised his hands. He was getting rusty. The weight of the 1911A1 Colt in the back of his waistband mocked his evidently slowing reflexes.

The kid didn't seem to realise that there was an AR-15 pointing at his head. His eyes were fixed on his father as he made a run for the door.

"Sam, don't!" Dean heard himself yell over the deafening crack of the rifle. The teenager crumpled, a red stain spreading across the front of his shirt. Dean tried to get to him, but Shotgun blocked his path, resting the end of his barrel on Dean's chin.

"Oh no you don't, Winchester." There was something about the voice that triggered something only recently buried in Dean's memory: barked commands … the thunder of a shotgun … the smell of his brother's blood spreading on cheap motel bedsheets.

"Of course. Roy. Who else would it be?" Dean's laugh crackled with sarcasm. "I see Walt's as homicidal as ever. Here to try for a second execution or are your motives more financial this time?" Roy just moved the shotgun down to Dean's chest. His eyes were as wide as twin full-moons. Evidently, Roy was as surprised as he was.

"Look, if you're not gonna shoot me right away, can you just let me go over and take a look at the kid? Nobody was supposed to end up dead, right, Roy? Really, you'd think a sensible guy like you would have ditched Itchy McTrigger-Finger over there as soon as the Apocalypse was canceled."

"Turn around!" barked Roy.

Dean did as he was told, expecting that the last thing he would ever see was Sam's teenage lookalike bleeding-out on the floor.

But instead of blowing his head off, Roy just slipped the pistol out from the back of Dean's waistband and stuck it in his jacket pocket. "Go ahead, Mother-fucking Teresa, but no sudden moves," hissed Roy. The poke of the shotgun in the small of his back signalled that he was free to walk to the fallen librarian.

Dean crossed the space probably quicker than Roy liked. He was surprised to see that the boy was still conscious. The bullet had gone straight through, shattering the bones at the end of the shoulder like so many match-sticks. Blood was spreading on his shirt, and on the floor underneath him. His eyes were clouded with pain and profound confusion. His breathing was harsh and shallow.

"Dad?" he managed to whisper.

Dean looked over his shoulder at the body of the Bartender. Blood trickled from a massive bruise on his head, but he looked like he was breathing.

"He's gonna be fine, kid. Look, I know it hurts like hell, but I need to look at your wound and stop the bleeding, okay?"

"Okay."

"Now, that means I need to make it hurt more, but I'll try and make it quick, 'k?"

His patient could only manage a nod this time. Dean slid an arm underneath him and lifted him to the side, examining the exit wound. It was large, bits of bone and muscle smashed into a bleeding pulp around the gaping hole. Dean's vision grew blurry with rage. He tore off his plaid overshirt and pressed it to the wound. The boy gasped and twitched in his arms. In the back of his mind he could hear Roy and Walt arguing.

"When I come back, I'm gonna be pissed." His own remembered words mocked him. Why the hell hadn't he gone after them like he'd promised he would? He could have stopped this. He knew they were a control-room-short-of-a-nuclear-plant crazy. He knew they couldn't leave well enough alone. But no, he'd been so wrapped up with losing Sam to the cage. So focused on his own pain. His own crazy.

And here he was, losing Sam all over again.

"Am I gonna die?" Dean could hear the suppressed screams around the edges of his words.

"Nah. You'll just have a really good excuse to skip homework for the next few weeks. What's your name, kid?"

"Seth."

"Okay, Seth, you listen to me. Nobody is dying today. Nobody who doesn't deserve it. Now you just keep breathing for me, okay? That's all you have to do – just breathe, nice and slow, until I can get some help, you hear?"

The boy could only nod. Dean looked over his shoulder at their arguing captors.

"Look, Roy, just fucking shoot them both, or I will."

"We ain't here for blood, Walt, we's here for the book!"

"I told you once, I will tell you again, you leave him alive, we will be looking over our shoulders for the rest of our short lives, you pansy-livered woman!"

"We killed him once and look where that got us! Somebody up there don't take to nobody killing Dean Winchester and I ain't keen on crossing whoever that is! Let's just take the book and go!"

Roy turned to the Codex's case and started to smash on the glass with the butt of his shotgun. Dean saw Seth's eyes go wide. The boy grabbed his shirt and pulled Dean's ear close to his mouth. As it was he could barely hear the agonized whisper.

"You . . . wanna take . . . cover . . . if glass . . . breaks." Dean felt Seth's rattling gasp of breath like a kick in the gut. "Gun . . . desk."

But the glass wasn't breaking. "Roy, would you cut that out?!" yelled Walt. "You're gonna throw out your shoulder. The kid will know how to open it."

Dean's head shot up just in time to see Walt's steel-toed boot headed for his face.

Alright, peeps! Reviews are love. Next chapter should be up in the next week or less, but I reserve the right to be distracted since I'm also participating in a fic-challenge this week over at chappedassmonkey on tumblr, so . . . no promises beyond "Don't worry, it's finished, just needs a bit of polish here and there but you WILL read the end of this fic, and did I mention you shouldn't worry?" ;-) 'Til next time!