Author Note: Another great prompt that forced me to reexamine some of my own thoughts and positions during a rough patch between the boys. For Nova, who wanted something about Dean adjusting to the normal world after having spent a year in Purgatory almost constantly fighting for his life. As with any prompt I've been given, I'm not quite sure that what I came up with is exactly what you were looking for, but it was interesting to explore and write, all the same.

Told in two parts, the first from Dean's POV, and the second from Sam's.

Still Life

Part I

He'd love to have come out the other side unscathed, and walk right back into the world he'd left behind. Not for the sake of his own well-being or mental health, which even he can admit has never been something to top his list of priorities. No, for more than any other reason, he wants to both feel and exude some sense of normalcy because he's got a reputation to uphold. Because that's how it's supposed to be when you're the big brother, when you're John Winchester's son.

It's been years since he acknowledged that the world he grew up in didn't start and end with the man, that there may have been a handful of times when Sammy was right, and that he came pretty damn close to having 'how high?' left as his only legacy. He's not that guy anymore, but when he's in a tough spot, when he's stripped down to his last layer, when it's just raw adrenaline and survival instincts he's got left, it's still his father's orders that keep him moving, still that rough, no-nonsense bark that gives him the drive to press on.

You fall, you get up.

You bend if you have to, but you don't break.

There's no such thing as square here. It's for the sake of reputation alone that had him threaten, "Keep your nose clean." He owes a lot to Benny, that's for damn sure, and to Cas, the poor bastard, but he owes a lot to his father, too. That voice that kept him moving forward when his mind was muddy and his legs were rubber and things were looking damn near as bleak and hopeless as they ever had.

Dean wishes like hell that he did, but he didn't come out the other side unscathed. He's seen shit bad enough that there aren't words to put to it, a whole heap of indescribable, unfathomable nightmare things that came back with him, imagines burned into his memory and blood that won't come out in the wash and marks all over.

The few thin, paper-white and puckered lines of scars from when he was relatively new to the game, when he was alone and weaponless and hunted instead of hunter, and just not quite fast enough. The scrape of a vampire's fangs down the side of his neck, a pair of nicks from a werewolf's claws across the back of his left calf. He was quick enough before purgatory, and he's not looking to put it to any sort of test, but there might not be anything left on this side of existence that he couldn't outrun now.

The daily, inadvertent exercise of a lifetime of hunting gave him the benefit of the muscle he carries, burned enough calories throughout the day to allow him to eat and drink whatever he's wanted, something he's done well to take advantage of. A year fighting for his life in Purgatory maintained the muscle, but being as hungry as he's ever been and constantly on the run leaned him out.

He'd very swiftly reconnected with his need and thirst for hard liquor, but he's not sure he'll ever really get his appetite back, and it's just as well, because Sam, no stranger to adjusting to a life without his brother, had tossed or stored all of his clothing and seemingly unimportant belongings sometime after he disappeared.

Hopefully stored, probably up in Dad's locker in New York with everything he'd owned the last time he died in a somewhat permanent way. Sam is in enough shock over his sudden reappearance that he isn't being forthcoming about such trivial things, and Dean can't seem to muster up enough concern or energy to ask. In the grand scope of things, having more than one shirt just doesn't seem to matter all that damn much, and he's perfectly fine with new duds, with not walking around smelling like dust and mothballs and belated guilt.

Hopefully stored, because it just might actually kill him to entertain the idea of the alternative.

That Sam hadn't only not looked for him, but had seen fit to throw out anything that had been his. It's bad enough that his little brother had given him up for dead, a lost cause, but to add to it the thought that he'd scrubbed all evidence of Dean's existence from his life, save the Impala?

Yeah. He'd rather not entertain those thoughts.

He's having enough trouble sleeping at night.

"You want some dinner?"

The cabin's been steadily warming and filling with tempting scent of sweating onions and seasoned beef. Because apparently, Sam cooks now. Like some fucking Julia Child wannabe. It seems like just yesterday the kid needed help reheating pizza, when every idiot on the planet knows leftovers are better cold.

Dean doesn't even look up. "Pass."

Because he's mad, and suddenly doesn't want to be a beneficiary of Sam Winchester's half-assed charity when the jackass hadn't seen fit to pick up the damn phone when there were people – when there were friends – who needed help and looking after.

Dean's stomach betrays him, growling long and low like a cornered animal at the very thought of food. Everything on this side of existence smells so ridiculously delicious, and he's pretty sure even the sight of a single stalk of broccoli could set his mouth watering.

And Sam knows it. Despite Dean's refusal, despite his unveiled anger towards his brother's abandonment of not just himself but also of the kid, he gently sets a heaping plate on the table next to his tense elbow.

"You look like death, Dean. You need to eat something."

"I'm good." Dean swallows a mouthful of saliva, followed quickly by most of a glass of whiskey, and tries to hold his breath. He fights not to shiver, feeling the creeping sensation of gooseflesh breaking out along his arms. Fucking meat locker. But it's not the cabin; coming out of the constant heat and humidity of Purgatory, it's been a rare moment when he's NOT cold. He'd kept the leather jacket for protection, not warmth. Better to sweat it out and sacrifice the thick, stiff sleeves to claws and teeth than his own skin. Damn thing had been in tatters by the time he stumbled through that portal.

"Dean."

Sam's tone would imply that he's anything but good, and the return of angry fire rising inside does well to warm him up. "I'm good, Sam." Dean's fingers twitch for a refill of his glass. "Back off."

Why start caring now?

"You still cold?"

Gonna put a fucking bell on that kid. Dean sniffs loudly to distract from what had to have been a very obvious startle and quickly throws another thin log on the fire. It was slim pickings out at the wood pile, forgotten for a full year like the rest of Rufus's cabin. Like a lot of things. "What about it?"

Behind him, Sam sighs. "Dean, it's like…yeah, it's sixty-five outside."

Dean runs a shaky hand down his face and spins on the balls of his feet to see that Sam had actually pulled out his cell phone to confirm the temperature outside, because damn if the kid doesn't always have to be right. He wants to make some sort of crack about the phone, about how easy it seems to be to pull up the weather but not answer a damn call, but bites his tongue instead. The way his startled heart is still tripping around in his chest, the way he can't seem to catch his breath, it's entirely possible that anything he says at the moment will come out like he's on the verge of a crying jag, and that's the complete opposite of what he wants.

"Did you open the flue?" Sam continues with raised eyebrows, tucking his cell phone into the back pocket of his jeans.

The flame catches and spreads quickly to devour the dry wood he's stacked, and a column of smoke escapes into Dean's face. He jerks away and coughs into his shoulder.

"That's a no."

"Did you need something?" Dean asks, eyes watering and face tight from the flush of heat.

Sam sighs. "I know you wanna check on Kevin, and you're right, I get that. I do. But you need checked on, too, Dean."

Dean settles against the hardwood and draws his legs up, lets his frozen hands hang aggressively between his knees and keeps his back to Sam. "I told you, I'm good."

"Dean, if I'd known – "

"Yeah," Dean grits out, clipped and annoyed and communicating very clearly, don't you fucking say it again. The fire grows, but only warms the outermost layer of the chills racking his body. He unrolls the cuffs of his flannel and yanks the sleeves down to his wrists.

"I just think you should take it easy for a few days."

If Sam knew half of what he thinks he does, he wouldn't be standing here jawing at Dean, he'd be sitting across the room and shutting the hell up. "I gave you tonight, Sam. What more do you want?"

They both know Dean's not saying what he's saying, that he's daring Sam to speak the words, to admit that what he wants is for things to go back to the way they were before his phone rang with a fairly aggravated but fully alive Dean on the other end. Dean thinks about how many times he recited Sam's phone numbers, all of them, over and over in his mind in that hellscape, to the tune of every single Metallica song, because at some point he'd forgotten his own birthday and the burn of whiskey and the taste of bacon, but he wasn't going to forget Sam.

All just to have his brother turn up nearly unreachable and looking at him now with that loaded frown on his face, like he's not quite sure this is the better of his options. Dean knows that look; there had to have been a girl. And girl turns big brother into a bulky, unnecessary third wheel.

"I'm gonna open the flue before you suffocate us," Sam says.

"Whatever you think is best," Dean returns icily.

Maybe Sam's right, whatever he's thinking and not saying.

Maybe Dean was clinging too hard to remember the wrong things.

After months of catching mere minutes of rest at a time in nothing closely resembling a pattern, propped up against fallen trees where he'd all but dropped when his stubborn legs couldn't support him any longer only to be woken by something trying to rip out his heart or lungs, Dean's sleep schedule is screwed to the point of being practically non-existent. Not for lack of trying, but it's not like intention has ever counted for much. He's only a couple of days back in the world, but even two days on virtually no sleep is dangerous, not to mention nauseating. And can surely also account for some of his snappish, short-temperedness. He'll give Sam that much.

"We'll head out in the morning, okay?"

Said for maybe the fifth time, but in a higher register now, meaning, Dean, it's the middle of the night, will you please SLEEP?

But he can't. He relinquishes the more comfortable cot in the corner to Sam and stretches out on the couch under a pile of blankets, closer to the fire but also closer to the door because he's not an invalid, and he still has a little brother to look out for, whether said little brother wants it or not.

Out of what Dean would like to think is solidarity but is probably something more akin to guilt from a year spent enjoying fluffy pillows and cozy blankets, Sam resigns himself to stay up with him. But again, intention, and Dean's ears perk to sound of his brother's gentle snoring after about an hour of being relegated to their silent corners of the room.

Dean snorts and shudders under all of his fleece layers, thinking bitterly, it must be exhausting not worrying about anyone but yourself. Just thinking such a thing has him tied up in knots, wanting to rush to where Sam is sleeping just to make sure he's really here.

So far he knows only a few things for sure: beer is just as delicious as he'd thought, this world is brighter and colder than he ever remembers it being, and he missed Sam like he would an arm or a leg.

Dean finally dozes off hours after Sam and not long before the fire dies completely, if the chill in the room is any indication when he wakes later with a start, shivering from an uncomfortable concoction of cold and nightmare-supplied adrenaline. He feels like he's breathing loud enough to wake the dead, but Sam seems to be silent and still sleeping across the room, and he'd like to keep it that way if possible, so he presses his lips together and forces slow, calm breaths in and out through his nose.

"Y'all right, man?"

Not quietly enough, it would seem, because Sam is suddenly up and moving around with the soft swish of blankets and pat pat of approaching bare feet on the floor boards. He stops short of coming into Dean's eye line, though, thank God.

"Dean?"

"Yep. M'good." If he says it enough times, it's bound to be true eventually.

That sigh again, the one that has Dean momentarily reconsidering how much he missed the kid. "Dean."

Dean pulls what energy he can from that slice of annoyance, rolls and stuffs his face into the gap between pillow and cushion. He gives a muffled order of, "Go to sleep, Sam."

Sam complies, because he's smart enough to know if they have a chance in hell of getting back to normal, it means little brother gets the back seat.

It was only a matter of time.

The next morning Sam's taking a piss and Dean's loading things into the car. Just weapons, anything from Rufus's stores that had seemed like it might come in handy because he doesn't have a damn thing else to his name at the moment, outside of his baby and the old flip phone he'd dug up from a box of discarded and forgotten lifestyle.

A breeze picks up, rustling the autumn-kissed leaves of the trees overhead, and it happens quicker than the time it takes to bat an eye. The lush, familiar forest and soundscape of Montana wildlife is gone. In its place, he sees only thin, gray skeletal trunks stinking of death and sulfur, hears the suffocating aural torture of constant death throes that had surrounded him in Purgatory.

Dean covers his ears and tries to blink away the imagery but can't. Disoriented, he stumbles back, hand outstretched for some semblance of balance and grazing smooth, sun-warmed metal. The sensation has no place in this world, and he jumps away from the feel of it, boot heel catching on an exposed root. He goes down in spectacular fashion, teeth knocking together as he lands solidly on his ass and elbows.

Some indiscernible amount of times passes before Dean realizes he's still on the ground and his teeth are chattering, the only part of his body that seems to be able to move. This chill of damp dirt and dewy grass is seeping in through the palms of his splayed hands, bringing down his body temperature. But it's more than that. Shock, he knows. But much like intention, knowing counts for exactly shit.

He also knows this isn't real, because he made it out. He and Benny, they made it OUT, and he's with Sam now and he somehow wishes simultaneously that Sammy would get his lazy, overhydrated ass out here, yet never have the opportunity to see him like this.

There's a crackle in the brush and bramble behind him and Dean forgets everything he knows all over again. He's stripped bare to instinct and reflex and don't die here and he skins two knuckles in his haste to pull his gun from his waistband. God, but it feels good to have a gun in his grip again. It feels like power, like the upper hand.

The rustling picks up as something grows closer, though it's a miracle he can even hear it over the embarrassingly loud pounding of his own heart. His finger is already tightening on the trigger when heavy footfalls rushing from the opposite direction have him rolling in the dirt, swinging the gun around, barrel pointed at a snarling Leviathan bearing down on him.

Bullet won't kill it but it'll slow it down long enough to find something that will. Dean gasps and squeezes off a round. The Leviathan ducks away as a rotted stump to its left explodes with the force of the bullet's impact.

"Whoa, whoa, Dean! Hey, whoa!"

Every evil piece of shit here seems to know he's the much-talked about human around these parts, but this thing sure as hell shouldn't know his name. That's a problem, but it's good to hear the panic in the son of a bitch's voice. Dean's muscles tremble as he swings the gun around, again taking aim at the big mouth.

Who roughly smacks the gun out of Dean's hand instead of trying to eat his face, grabs him by the upper arms with bruising force and gives him an unforgiving shake that sets his teeth knocking again.

And that's when Dean realizes the big mouth isn't so much a Leviathan as it is an extremely alarmed – and possibly slightly pissed – Sam Winchester.

And the scenery mercifully shifts back.

Quiet, no monsters screaming as they rip each other apart. Just the gentle swish of leaves and the rush of a nearby creek babbling into a waterfall over a squat stack of rocks, the soft thumps as a small chestnut-colored rabbit hops innocents from the bush beyond Dean's shaking shoulders.

Fuck me.

Neither of them has ever fucked around with kid gloves when there's a gun in their faces, and Dean folds his suddenly aching hand to his chest as he lets his head fall back with a thunk to the ground. "Jesus, Sam," he says shakily, by way of apology. "I didn't see you."

"Wh – I was standing right here!" Sam's face is red and he's pissed and, yeah, that makes a lot of sense. "Dean, you shot at me!"

He has every right to a sarcastic retort, to point out that this is his first such offense and he'd be hard-pressed to count on only one hand the number of time Sam has shot at HIM, but his defenses have all but fallen by the wayside at the moment. Dean can only roll his head against the dirt as he admits, "No, not I didn't SEE you. I didn't see YOU."

College Boy has nothing to say to that one, and Dean finds the silence unnerving, wishes for it to go away.

"What did you see?"

But maybe not quite like this. Sam's put forth the question hesitantly, because he'd forgotten Dean but he still KNOWS him, and knows there's probably no chance in hell Dean will level with him here, but since they've both been through actual Hell, he figures why not.

So Dean follows suit, and figures why not. "Leviathan."

There's a sigh and a thump as Sam cautiously settles next to him in the dirt. "S'that what you fought? When you were…there?"

"Yeah, mostly." Dean swallows the frog in his throat that feels like an elephant. "But you'd be surprised how many things slow down when you take off their head."

Another horrible, torturous stretch of silence becomes a yawning canyon between them.

"I didn't know. Dean, I…I didn't know."

"Yeah."

Continued in Part II