Title: Served Cold

Summary: After it's over, Sam and Dean find that there are more demons to deal with than the just one that killed their mother.

Rating: PG
Characters: Sam and Dean
Warning: None
Spoilers: Slight spoiler for Dead Man's Blood
Timeline: Set about a year or two into the future, very non-specific

Disclaimer: Not mine. Please don't sue.

-

When Sam was one, and Dean was five (and a half, thank you very much), Sammy slipped on the gravel while walking on Pastor Jim's driveway and scrapped up his knee. For a moment, he looked more shocked than anything, but then bright red blood started trickling down Sam's knees. Face filled with horror at the sight, Sam took a deep breath and began to wail.

Dean tried to comfort Sam without looking at the blood, which made his stomach tight with uneasiness. He gathered his brother into his arms, but couldn't keep a hold of the one-year-old's squirming body. As time passed, Sam's screams become shriller, his face as red as the blood on his knee. Dean tried everything – "please! please Sammy!" – but Sam just wouldn't stop crying. Tears started leaking out the corners of Dean's eyes and before long, he's sitting on the ground right next to Sam, crying loudly in despair.

Dean screamed for Mommy, but it's Daddy who came running, a pained look etched on his face. Daddy gathered them up into his arms and hugged them close as he carried them back to the house. He carefully bandaged Sam's knee and wiped away both of their tears.

Afterwards, sitting Dean on a chair, Daddy explained that it's just the three of them now, and he has to be strong to protect Sam, got it Ace? while Dean listened with wide and innocent eyes. With effort, he quieted down his hitched breaths, ran the back of his hand across his nose, and nodded his head solemnly, vowing not to cry again.

-

It's spring now, but there's still a hint of a chill left in the air, enough to make Dean shiver as he gets out of the car. They're parked on the edge of a dark copse of trees just on the outskirts of Lawrence. A small gap in the trees and a trail of flattened grass marks the path that will take them to the house in the clearing.

Shrugging on his jacket across his shoulders, Dean makes his way around the car and keys open the trunk. The metal of the car is cool against his hand as he props it open. There's a brief hesitation at the combination lock, but before long, he's hauling out the weapons. The setting sun glints oranges and reds off the gun metal as they are twisted in his hands.

He tosses a shotgun and ammo to Sam, lips quirking with pride as Sam snatches the gun out of the air and loads it with ease.

They're hot on the trail of the demon that murdered their mother, and this time, they're ready.

Dean's body is humming with anticipation and he can't help but grin. He loads his own shotgun with equal efficiently before slinging it across his back. Leaning back into the trunk, he grabs his favourite .45 and slips the gun into his waistband at the small of his back. Next, the knives slide softly into the sheaths on his hips and wrists. After a brief moment of thought and a mental what the hell, why not, a broadsword gets strapped across his back. You never know what's going to be useful in the fight against evil and Dean always likes to be prepared. Nothing but the colt will kill the demon, but that doesn't say anything about the minions.

Hefting his duffel of supplies on his back, Sam watches Dean with a raised eyebrow and can't help but comment, "I'll lock the trunk again, Dean. You don't have to bring its entire contents with you."

In reply, Dean slams the trunk shut with a bang and a feral grin. He feels a flush of pre-demon ass-kicking excitement. Suddenly adrenaline is pumping fast through his veins and he sure as hell ain't cold anymore.

He lives for this moment.

-

When Sam was eight and Dean was twelve, they still woke up early enough to watch cartoons together on Saturday mornings. Dean, feeling too old to watch cartoons anymore, only woke up because someone had to make Sammy's breakfast. They only watched TV together because he needed to be there to tell Sam what was real and what was not.

Every week without fail, they curled up side by side on the couch, soggy bowls of cereal securely tucked in their laps and watch enraptured as the superheroes beat up the bad guys before disappearing into the night. Dean decides he wants to be a superhero when he grows up.

-

Dean's imagined this a thousand times. The final stand, his father on one side, Sam steadfast on the other, a white-hot blaze of glory, and his final, sweet revenge. It's stupid, he knows, and not like that at all, but he can't help wanting.

For one thing, their father isn't even there. And to tell the truth, it was a bit anticlimactic in the end. Some salt, some fire, a little sword swishing decapitation, and Sam screaming himself hoarse in Latin. A single gunshot, and it's over. A pile of ashes blowing in the non-existent wind.

They don't stick around for too long after. Dean salts the ashes, grinding them in with the boot of his heel, turning it all to a dull grey. After that, lighter fluid gets pour on top so Dean can torch the sucker again. The pile lights up with a quiet whoosh and soon flames are spread rapidly across the floorboards.

The two of them barely have enough time to haul ass out of the place, Dean limping heavily, before it lights up, flames bursting out the windows and eagerly crawling up the roof. The wood burns with loud cackles and hisses, and the smell of smoke mixes with the crisp night air.

It's cold enough that the air burns Dean's throat when he breathes in, and suddenly he's hit with the memory of being four again, scared and confused as he clung to his father's side on the hood of their car watching their home go up in flames.

Dean's shivering violently as he and Sam watch on. Try as he might, he can't force himself to stop.

Soon, they have to gather their weapons and head back to the car. At the edge of the clearing, Dean can't help but stop for a moment, mesmerized by the spreading light. The flames spread quickly up from the basement and soon consume the whole house. Dean waits for the heat of the blaze to reach them, to make him warm, but Sam drags him away, worried that the locals will notice and send someone to investigate.

The woods are pitch black with the new moon and even darker with the light of the flames still burned into their retinas. It seems to Dean like he's stumbling across everything in their path. Maneuvering slowly, they pick their way out of the clearing, Dean leaning heavily on Sam for support.

What they both need right now are showers and stitches. Back at the car, the weapons are put away in silence. For once, Dean is glad that Sam is driving so he can just sit in the passenger side and lean against the cold glass of the window.

Dean can't gather together any of the energy he usually has after a case. But this wasn't just any case. He feels a weight on his chest that has nothing to do with injuries. His mother's killer is dead and all he can feel is empty.

The tension is practically physical in the tight space of the car. Sam's itching to talk; Dean can practically hear the unspoken words running though his head. But thankfully, Sam lets it go and slides uncontested into the driver's seat. Dean cranks up the heat and they're gone, rumbling down the cracked dirt road.

At the motel, they trudge quietly up the stairs to their motel room, leaving the weapons in the car. That leaves Dean with a momentary pang of guilt, but it's chased away quickly by his weariness. They'll be there in the morning.

Once inside, they set about patching themselves up. Dean bites his lip as Sam pours alcohol into his wounds. The pain is sharp and races like fire down his nerves and Dean lets it fill him up inside. When it fades, he's left shaking on the bathroom floor of another nameless motel, Sam staring intently at the gash on Dean's leg, a threaded needle in one hand, and red-stained alcohol running thin rivulets down the drain.

Afterwards, Dean crawls under the covers, where the faint smell of smoke is still detectable over the smell of the laundered sheets.

He lays his head against the pillows, and doesn't fall asleep.

-

End Part 1