A/N: This fic is an experiment in a lot of ways: It's in present tense, it's from Dean's POV, and it's a curtain!fic. All firsts in the SPN verse for me. So bear with me. As far as the actual ending goes, normally I'm one for the really tragic endings, but hey, there has to be a happily ever after sometimes, huh?
Every prayer I say (a little closer)
To my resting place (a little closer)
Where my final breath is the beginning
To never needing
And I will find my last Amen
My Last Amen-Downhere
When it's over, Dean is staring through blood-filled eyes at the now-grassy ground, breathing harshly through a broken nose, waiting for something to happen. Sam to come back. Sam can't be gone. He can't. He just . . .
Dean swallows convulsively, trying not to choke on the blood. It's over. Sam saved the world.
Suddenly Castiel is beside him. Dean looks at him in shock.
"Cas?" he asks.
Castiel makes no answer, except to lean over and touch Dean's face. Shakily, Dean reaches up and feels himself whole again. He stares at Cas, who doesn't say a word. He moves over to Bobby, and he's alive again.
Dean can't figure out what to say. There's no explanation, nothing that works . . .
"I will save him." Castiel kneels in front of Dean. "God brought me back for a reason, and I believe it is to save your brother from eternal torment."
Dean doesn't want to allow himself to hope. "Will you be able to . . ." he trails off, staring at the angel. Castiel's face holds no happiness, but has a strength and determination in it that hasn't been there for a long time.
"I can try."
And then he is gone.
Dean refuses to leave the graveyard. He figures that it's where Cas will bring Sam back. Nothing Bobby says will convince him to leave it.
So Bobby, all the while muttering under his breath, takes care of business such as getting food and making Dean eat it.
A whole week passes. Dean thinks he will go insane. But he's sitting in the Impala, listening to Bon Jovi when he hears it.
"Dean!"
It's Cas's voice, and for a second, Dean can't move. And then he's shouting Sam's name as he springs into action, throwing himself out of the car. Bobby's in Lawrence somewhere, using a rental car. Dean's vision tunnels, he's scrabbling over the ground, and Sam's there. He barely glances at Cas, but what he does see is that the angel looks exhausted.
That can wait. Sam . . .
Sam is still, as if he were dead. Dean grips Sam's shoulders, shaking him slightly. Somehow, his brother is still wearing the clothes he was wearing when he jumped into the pit.
"Sammy. Sammy, are you here? Wake up, man." His brother doesn't move, and Dean looks to Cas in desperation.
"It was . . . difficult, rescuing him. I do not know how long Lucifer had him down there, but Sam is . . . not whole."
Dean tries to take in Cas's words, but he's focusing on Sam, and that means he'll have to get Cas to repeat himself later.
"Sam, c'mon, you're out."
Dean is unprepared for Sam's eyes snapping open. He's even less prepared for the screams.
It goes on for hours. Eventually, Sam's throat can't take it anymore, and he subsides into whimpers. Dean just holds him, keeping up a stream of talking on his own. Telling Sam he's strong, asking him to come back, pleading with him to just wake up.
Dean can sense Bobby and Cas standing nearby, but they are both silent.
It's nearly sunset when Sam slumps into some form of unconscious, though his eyes are still moving underneath his eyelids.
"Cas," Dean calls out hoarsely, and the angel moves nearer.
"I wish I could help, Dean. But I can't. We just have to hope Sam pulls through."
It isn't supposed to be this way. Well, if Dean allows himself to think straight, Sam should still be in the pit with Lucifer. So this is better. But just barely. Sam hasn't had another fit, but he hasn't responded to anything either. Catatonic is the word, Dean thinks bitterly. Nothing is easy for the Winchesters.
They're at Bobby's when Sam wakes. Dean is thankfully on watch at the time. Sam wakes, and doesn't scream. Dean doesn't say a word, not risking it. Sam is too calm, too accepting. He sits up on the bed, absently rubbing his head.
"Sammy?" Dean ventures.
Sam's expression is actually pitying. "You're losing your touch."
It's not what Dean expects. "What?"
"You used to be able to trick me. But come on. One time too many. You can't do this now."
Dean comes to the horrifying realization that Sam thinks he is Lucifer. "Sam, it's really me," he murmurs, and squelches the urge to go over to Sam.
Sam smiles resignedly. "Sure you're Dean. You can get to the punchline already, Lucifer. Or is it Michael? I really can't tell the two of you apart sometimes."
Dean runs a hand through his unwashed hair. "What can I do to convince you?"
"Like you haven't used that line before." Sam's eyes run over Dean. "Every detail's the same. And you don't have the amulet."
A wave of guilt washes over Dean. "Sammy, you know that's because I . . . I threw it out. I wish I hadn't, but it's long gone. Remember?"
There's something almost polite about Sam's smile, and Dean wonders if, when the devil's done this before, Sam's actually humored him, just to get him in a better mood. He feels sick. "Cas is here. Bobby is too," Dean tells him, desperate for his brother to remember who he is.
Sam cocks his head at him. "Well, now it's something new."
Dean gets up, and Sam flinches. Dean raises his hands placatingly. "I'm just getting them."
Sam's eyes skitter away. Dean doesn't leave, just opens the door behind him, calling out for his friends.
Bobby stumps up the stairs, while Cas simply appears beside Dean. None of them say anything as they stare at Sam.
"Very good show," Sam says, almost approvingly. Dean can practically feel the bile coming up his throat. "Now, are we going to move on to the rack?"
"Sam, you have to believe me. You're here. Cas pulled you out."
His brother's calm is slowly leaking away. Sam doesn't respond to Dean, shrinking back in on himself. Dean can hear him whispering, "not real, not real, not real."
Dean can't stand it. "Cas, can you put him to sleep?"
"I do not think that would be wise."
Dean takes the risk, walking slowly towards Sam and sitting next to him. Sam doesn't move away. He's trembling, though.
"Sam, I know you don't believe me. But it's real. I promise, man." Dean reaches out, barely brushing Sam's hand with his own.
Sam doesn't pull away. Then suddenly, Dean finds himself with his arms full of little brother, and Sam's sobbing against his chest. He can hear Sam whispering, and makes out him saying, "I don't care if this is fake. I don't care. I don't care."
"Oh, Sammy."
Both Cas and Bobby have left, silently. Dean's grateful for that, because then he doesn't have to stop the tears of his own.
"C'mon, Sam, let's get you cleaned up."
Sam's in a phase where he is functioning, but somehow absent. If Dean were to put a label on it, he would say his brother was withdrawn. It's not fun, but it's better than the seizures.
Dean figures now is as good a time as any to get him to take a shower-Sam isn't exactly in a sanitary condition. Unfortunately Sam isn't exactly able to do anything on his own. Dean tugs a compliant Sam into the bathroom. He grimaces as Sam stares blankly at the shower.
"Guess we'll have to do this the hard way, huh?" Dean says aloud, just to hear something. Sam, predictably, doesn't respond. It's only after Dean pulls off Sam's flannel shirt and then his undershirt that he realizes what he's seeing.
"Sammy," Dean whispers, unwilling to even touch his brother. There are deep scars across Sam's torso. His arms. Probably his whole body, and Dean vaguely thinks that at least his face has been spared the same treatment. Some of the scars are in strange, probably demonic, designs.
Dean swallows and gets Sam to take his shower, washing Sam's hair for him and feeling like he's back when Sam was a toddler and Dean had to wash him. He can vaguely remember Sam giggling and squirming in tepid bath water. Happy.
If only.
Castiel, when Dean confronts him, can't explain the scars. Deep down, Dean really doesn't want to know anyway.
The nightmares are the one thing Dean did expect in this whole mess of the unexpected. They're in Bobby's upstairs room, there's two beds, and Dean wakes up to Sam sobbing. In an instant he's catapulted himself out of his own bed and landed painfully on the floor. Swearing under his breath, Dean pushes himself up to shake Sam awake.
Thankfully, Sam doesn't overreact aside from sitting up and nearly smacking Dean in the face.
"Easy, Sammy. It's me. You're out, remember?"
Sam's face is full of emotions Dean can't recognize. "S'real?" he slurs.
Dean grips his shoulder. "I'm right here. You with me?"
Sam moans, pulling back and burying his head in his arms. Dean sighs, resigning himself to a sleepless night. He scoots onto Sam's bed, snorting in amusement when Sam gives up trying to be as small as possible and presses up to Dean instead.
"It's going to be all right," Dean whispers, brushing Sam's hair with his hand, trying to convince Sam as well as himself. "You'll see, Sammy."
There's no reply, and Dean closes his eyes, fighting to stay composed. He's come so close to losing his brother, far too many times. He can't lose him now. He just can't.
In the end, the nightmares are too frequent, and after a few nights, Dean shoves his bed next to Sam's.
"Dean?"
It's the first time Sam's said his name in far too long, and Dean tries to quell the hopefulness that bubbles up inside without warning. He can't dare to think that Sam will be okay. He's got to be strong enough for both of them.
"Yeah, Sammy?"
Sam's face crumples, and then he ventures, "where are we?"
Dean feels like singing, just for Sam asking a logical question. "We're at Bobby's."
Sam nods.
"How are you feeling?" Dean tries.
Sam squints. "Kinda like I have a concussion."
Dean doesn't expect that, and huffs a small laugh. "Really?" In some twisted way it makes sense. Sam forgets things when he's been knocked on the head. Loses track of where he is, what's going on.
Again, Sam nods. "I think my brain's trying to make sure I don't go insane."
Dean winces. "Do you want to see Bobby and Cas now?"
Sam breathes deeply, obviously steeling himself. Dean tentatively calls for the two of them, and they come.
"Hey, Sam," Bobby says gently. "How're you doing?"
Sam grimaces at him. "I've got a headache."
Cas quirks his head at Sam. "I can help with that."
He approaches Sam, fingers extended towards Sam's forehead.
The reaction is violent. Sam screams-a sound Dean never wants to hear from Sam again, if he can help it-and throws himself backwards, scrabbling away from Castiel.
"No, please, don't, not again, please, not again please, please, please . . ."
Castiel looks horrified with himself, but Dean can't afford to take his concentration off of Sam.
"Sam, you're not there. It's just Cas. Sam, stay with me, man, you were doing so well. Please, Sammy."
Ultimately, they figure out that no one can touch Sam but Dean. Which Dean thinks is simultaneously flattering and shocking; from Sam's mumblings and the things he says after he wakes up from nightmares, it sounds as if Lucifer used Dean's face a lot of the time while torturing Sam. And still, Sam trusts him.
If Dean thinks about it too long, he starts to get close to having a chick flick moment. So he just moves on, and takes care of his brother.
It's far too slow for Dean's tastes, but Sam begins to mend. It's not perfect, but every day they get more and more glimpses of Sam as he was.
Even though Dean knows he should start making plans for what they'll do, he allows himself to be distracted, to just concentrate on making Sam better. They settle into a kind of routine.
On good days, Sam and Dean go jogging together. Help Bobby make dinner. Have shooting practice. Help Bobby research. Cas stops by every now and then.
On bad days, Sam hides under the table, pleading for mercy. Fights against imaginary demons, trying to protect Dean and sometimes Adam. Screaming in imagined-remembered-pain. Tries to hurt himself.
In a weird way, it's become a pattern, and they're coping. Still, it does flit across Dean's mind that he should have an idea of what to do next.
They get in the way a lot. Bobby isn't saying anything, and is even going out of his way to make sure it works, but Dean can tell.
"There's a hunt a couple states over I've got to take care of. You boys going to be okay?" Bobby checks.
Technically, Dean should feel some sort of longing. Some sort of regret for not being able to go hunt. But he doesn't, and that's when he realizes that it might be okay to think of a future without hunting.
To Dean's surprise, it's Sam who broaches the subject later.
"Dean, what's the plan?"
The question is out of the blue, but Dean recovers nicely. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, I get it, I'm unstable. But you can't . . . living like this won't work forever."
Dean nods slowly and leans against the counter, staring speculatively at Sam. "I've thought about it, too."
Sam twists his hands, and peers up through his shaggy hair. "There's . . . I mean, I don't want to go to a hospital, but they have places for people like . . ."
Dean breaks his self-inhibited rule of no loud noises and shouts, "Sam, no!"
Sam flinches, but still lifts his hands in a gesture of frustration. "Dean, it's the only option."
"No it's not," Dean says mulishly.
"Oh yeah? I may not be able to think straight half the time, but that's the only reasonable one I can think of." Sam crosses his arms over his chest as if he's had the final word. The fact that Sam can argue with him makes Dean inordinately happy, even if he is annoyed.
"I was thinking we could just get a place," Dean offers.
Sam rolls his eyes. "You can't hunt from one place. I mean, yeah, Bobby does, but he doesn't get around to much. And even then, I'm a liability on a hunt. "
"I don't think hunting is the best idea right now, tiger," Dean laughs.
Sam rolls his eyes, and the gesture is so familiar, so Sam, that Dean just wants to stop time there and save the moment. "I mean you, Dean. That's why some kind of . . . institution would be best. And whenever there's a hunt nearby, you could stop by and . . ."
It's obvious that Sam has put a lot of thought into it. That says something for how he's recovering, and Dean appreciates that. He does not, however, appreciate Sam's idea.
"Sammy. I am not going to leave you in some freaky place for crazy people. You're not crazy."
"Close enough," Sam mutters, and Dean chooses to ignore him.
"Dude," Dean says firmly, "look, to be honest? I don't really want to hunt anymore. I'm tired. And we've paid our dues, haven't we? Stopped the freaking apocalypse, for crying out loud."
There's something like hope, and maybe a glimpse of happiness in Sam's eyes. "So . . . what's the plan?"
Dean offers his brother a grin. "I'm thinking we find a small place somewhere. I'm thinking I could work as a mechanic."
Sam smiles, hesitatingly, and it's one of the first Dean has seen since Sam's come back from hell. "That sounds good."
"Of course it does. I thought of it," Dean smirks. Sam smiles a little wider in return, but then falters. Dean sees the instant Sam loses it, as he flinches and stares at the wall as if someone's just died.
He probably did just see someone die.
But with any luck, Sam will remember, and they can go somewhere. Anywhere, really. Just so Sam can hold onto that hope, and Dean can too.
They decide on one of the safe houses nearby. It's about a two hour drive from Bobby's, in, of all places, Wyoming. It's a state with some questionable history for the two of them, but that doesn't matter anymore.
It's a bit run down, but Sam says (before he has a panic attack) that it's perfect. Fixing it up will give him something to do.
Still, it's their first day there, and Dean's nervous. He has to start working, but that means leaving Sam alone. His new job as a mechanic is twenty minutes away. Leaving Sam means leaving him during bad spells as well, and that's dangerous in a lot of ways.
"Sam, I don't know."
Sam shrugs. "Dean, it's this or a mental institution. Take your pick."
Dean scowls heavily, and points a threatening finger at Sam. "Bring that up one more time and I will beat you up."
"Sure you will," Sam says agreeably. "I'll be fine. It's not that bad. I mean, even when I'm not all there, I can normally still remain clear enough to manage. I'll call."
Dean knows the lie for what it is. He sighs, wishing that he had taken up Bobby's offer to stay with them for a couple weeks.
"Keep the doors locked, Sammy."
Sam rolls his eyes. "Yes, Dad."
Work at the garage is good. Surprisingly good. But all day, there's an itch under his skin, and Dean's terrified to come back and find Sam out of his mind, or worse. Several times it costs him concentration-Dean nearly burns himself at one point. He calls during his lunch break, and is relieved to hear Sam's exasperated voice on the other end of the line.
It's still a mad rush to get back, and Dean bursts into the house to find Sam in the middle of fixing the sink.
"Sam?" Dean asks.
Sam pulls his head out from the plumbing. "Hi."
"Uh, hey. You . . . you okay?"
"I'm good."
Sam's reply is a little too short for Dean's comfort. "By good, you mean . . ." he prompts.
Sam twitches his shoulders. "It got a little rough. But it's all right."
Dean presses his lips together. Sam just goes back to work. "Did you bring dinner?"
"Yeah," Dean says.
"That's good."
It feels normal, and that's enough to make Dean twitchy. But at the same time, there is some part of him that feels that this just might work.
Their house is small. It's got two rooms, one bathroom, and a main room that acts as kitchen and living room. It also has a small attic as well as a decent-sized basement. Dean figures they'll turn the basement into a panic room like Bobby's.
It doesn't really take much for Dean to decide to get one king-sized bed for the two of them. Chuck's crazy fans would have a field day, but Dean doesn't have it in him to care. Not anymore. Not when Sam wakes up screaming Lucifer's name and asking him to please, just please don't use the fire anymore. So now, Dean's able to just be there for him. And when Dean's own nightmares catch up with him, Sam's there for him as well.
In the end, it's just like when they were kids (only now with more room), and had to share a small motel bed, or sometimes even one of the terrible couch pull-outs.
Dean misses those days, sometimes. But not often. Dean's always lived in a carpe diem style, and there's no reason to change that. Worrying about tomorrow and brooding in the past is what Sam used to do best; now Sam's just struggling to stay sane, and Dean doesn't feel the need to think too hard about the past or about the future. They'll just deal with the here and now. And that's definitely enough.
Some days, Dean thinks bitterly, it's far too much.
It was supposed to be a great day. Sam was actually cheerful in the morning, which made Dean far too relaxed. He forgot to call at lunch.
"Sammy!" Dean shouts after catching sight of the blood. There isn't a lot, but it's enough that the whole sink seems to be red.
He finds Sam huddled in the bathtub.
"Sammy, you with me?" Dean asks gently, working his way over to his brother's side.
Sam's eyes are too wide, his gaze wild. "He asked me to do it. Can't say no."
Dean takes a calming breath. "Yes, you can, Sammy."
Sam shakes his head. "Can never say no to Lucifer. Said yes once, so always have to say yes."
Dean reaches out, pulling up Sam's bloody arms to see the extent of the damage. The cuts aren't deep, but seeing them turns Dean's stomach. It reminds him of Adam, and the ghouls, when they were feeding off of Sam.
Adam. Dean hasn't thought about the kid in a long time and feels a flash of guilt. He brings it up to distract Sam.
"Sam, was Adam down there with you?" Dean asks as he hoists his brother out of the tub.
Sam sways, but shakes his head. "No. Well, for a little while. But Michael had his soul transported to heaven."
"Well, that's good," Dean mutters, relieved. Sam nods sluggishly.
"Yes. At first I had to protect him. But then I was alone."
Dean cleans his brother up. He's surprised that the sight of blood doesn't bother Sam like it did Dean after his trip to hell. But it definitely helps that he doesn't freak out while Dean's fixing him up.
It's the middle of the night, and it's not a nightmare. Dean wakes up, unsure of what startled him, disoriented because Sam isn't gasping or screaming. It takes him a moment to realize that Sam is crying. Not the sobbing of hysteria, just normal crying, somewhat stifled by a pillow. Dean lies still for a moment before turning over.
"Sam?"
Sam immediately goes still. His voice is thick. "It's nothing, Dean. Go to sleep."
Dean rolls his eyes, but it's wasted in the dark. "Dude, c'mon. Don't make me beat it out of you. Free girly moment starting now."
Sam won't look at him. "I'm sorry."
"For what?" Dean questions.
"For being such a burden."
Dean blinks, not expecting that. "What?"
"I've always been one. You've always had to pull me out of trouble, fix up my messes. And I know you do it because Dad told you to look out for me, and all that, but I'm just . . . I'm sorry."
Dean lets him finish his speech, and then punches him in the arm. He ignores Sam's yelp of protest, and sits up, staring at his brother. "Sammy, you listen to me once, and you listen good. You're not a burden. You never have been. And I don't do any of this cuz Dad threw you into my arms while the house was burning, it's because you're my brother. And that's that. You get that through your thick skull now, you hear me?"
Sam's nod is there, and it's enough. Dean slumps back down with a groan.
"Dude, it's three in the morning. Next time, let's do this over breakfast."
It draws a quiet chuckle from Sam, and Dean barely hears a quiet "thanks, Dean," before he falls asleep himself.
It's the weekend. Dean's tempted to just use it fixing up the house, but he's got to see if Sam's improving at all.
At the very least, Sam seems to relax as soon as he's in the Impala. The real question is if he'll be able to survive the library. Or maybe the coffee shop, Dean hasn't decided.
"You sure this is a good idea?" Sam mutters. He looks about as nervous as Dean feels.
"C'mon, Sam. I know you've got the hermit look going on, what with your hair, but it's not healthy. I promise, no talking to anybody. We'll grab you a library card, so you can get some books, okay?"
Sam mumbles something unintelligible in response, and Dean shrugs. They drive on in silence, until Dean gives Sam a quick look. "How do you feel about music?"
There's something heartbroken in Sam's laugh. "You know, sometimes it kept me sane."
Dean gives him another wary glance. "What do you mean?"
"Your music. I would remember it, and sing it, and it helped me forget whatever Lucifer was doing at the time."
Dean doesn't have a response, so he just sticks in a tape and turns it up loud.
They make the trip into town quick. Dean stops at the grocery store and leaves Sam in the car. They hit the library, and Dean pretends to not notice the way Sam breathes a little too fast when people walk nearby, or the way Sam presses up so close it's like he's got a living shadow. They've never been touchy-feely, but it seems like it's Sam's way of dealing, and Dean will submit to anything as long as Sam gets better.
"It's . . . nice."
Dean snorts, taking a swig of his coke. "Thanks, Cas."
Castiel looks over at Sam. "How are you?" he asks, but Sam's not in a place where he can answer. Dean grimaces in response to Castiel's helpless look.
"If you stay long enough, he might snap out of it."
Cas nods. "I should be able to stay." It's twenty minutes before Sam's all there.
"Cas?"
Sam's back with them, and Dean turns to him with a grin. "Look who came to visit, Sammy."
Sam's squinting, so Dean grabs him a couple painkillers.
"How's it going?" Sam manages.
"It is well," Cas says simply.
Cas spends a little time more with them, before saying that he needs to get back to heaven. Dean glances at Sam and then tugs Cas out the door.
"Can you do anything for him? Help him forget or something?" Dean pleads.
Castiel shakes his head. "I'm sorry, Dean. Your brother is strong. Have faith."
Dean looks at him sharply. "So is God in heaven?"
Castiel's smile is enigmatic. "Faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen."
Dean rolls his eyes. "Figures you'd say something like that."
"Goodbye, Dean."
Every now and then, Dean jokes that Sam's the wife in their situation, because when Dean gets home (and isn't having a home a weird concept?) from the garage, he finds Sam cooking or painting walls or something. Sam makes a face and punches him.
Dean's just happy that Sam can actually joke around with him.
They've gone in public more. Trips to the grocery store, the library, the gun store (Sam set up a range out in the back). Sam's growing more and more confident in public, though he has yet to go out on a bad day. Dean thinks they'll keep it that way.
"Do you think you can handle it?" Dean asks bluntly.
Sam hunches over, twisting his fingers. "I dunno, man. I think so. I mean, you said it's quiet, right?"
"Yeah, Sammy. Last time I was there it was halfway empty. We'll go on a weekday. Small crowd. You up to it?"
Sam breathes out deeply. "Let's do it."
It's kind of sad, that they have to gear themselves to go out to a bar. To think, that used to be where they would spend every other night.
Dean scopes the place first, peeking in the door like some kind of underage teenager, just to make sure there aren't too many people. There aren't many, and Dean gestures for Sam to follow him in.
They keep it simple, just a beer for the two of them. The pool table opens up, and Dean gets Sam to play a game. A couple of guys offer to play them for money, but Dean refuses. A couple girls give him-and Sam-a once over, but Dean just winks and then brushes them off. He'll save that for a different night. All in all, it's going really well.
"Ready to call it a night, Sammy?" Sam nods, face happy, but exhaustion evident. "I have to go to the bathroom," Dean says. "You . . ."
"I'll just go outside," Sam says. Dean claps him on the shoulder and heads to the restroom.
It's only a couple minutes, but Dean finds Sam huddled against the wall, whimpering. A girl, who obviously tried to make a move on Sam, is standing nearby, flabbergasted. Sam still isn't able to handle anyone touching him.
"Get out of here," Dean growls. She flounces off, and Dean approaches Sam. "Sam, buddy. You're not down there. C'mon man, focus here."
Dean manages to haul Sam into the car. It takes all Dean's control not to freak out himself. The half-gasping, half-whimpering noises coming from Sam's mouth make him sound like a wounded puppy. As much as Dean makes fun of Sam for his puppy-dog eyes, that doesn't mean he wants to hear that kind of sound coming from him.
"Sam, you've got to relax. It wasn't him. It wasn't Lucifer, just some idiot girl. Man, we've made so much progress. Don't ruin that now." Dean keeps up a running litany of encouragements. In the back of his mind, he thinks maybe he should make some tapes or something. He could probably make some money.
Silent tears are sliding down Sam's face, and Dean keeps one hand on the wheel and the other on Sam's shoulder. Internally, he's cursing himself. But Sam eventually stops trembling, begins breathing normally, and Dean lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding inside. They'll be okay. They'll always be okay.
Dean comes home one day to find Sam doing what looks like research. At least, he assumes that's what it is, because Dad's journal is open on the table, along with a couple of the books Sam stole from Bobby's and his laptop.
"Sam?"
Sam actually flushes a bright red, as if in embarrassment. Dean waits for an explanation.
"Um, hey, Dean."
"Give me more than that," Dean says bemusedly.
Sam shrugs self-consciously. "I just wanted something new to do."
Dean's brow furrows. "Like research for a hunt? Sam, you've been great recently, but I don't think . . ."
"Not for a hunt. For hunting. Hunters. I mean, half of the hunters out there probably get killed from stuff they don't know. I figure we could compile information."
It's a thought. And Dean thinks that if anyone was to do it, Sam would. Still. "Will this involve contacting other hunters?" Dean asks warily.
Sam's the one bemused now. "Dude, I haven't thought that far ahead. I was just putting our stuff together."
Dean can tell Sam's looking for encouragement, so he grins. "You are such a geek. But you're right, it's a good idea."
Sam practically beams, and Dean takes a moment to send what is maybe a prayer, maybe not, of thankfulness that somehow, Sam can still be happy.
They have a rhythm, and it works. Sam still withdraws, breaks down, and has what he jokingly calls "fits" but for a majority of the time he's at least somewhat there.
Weekdays, Sam works on the house, writes the hunter's dictionary or whatever he's gonna call it, and makes dinner. Dean works at the garage, runs errands, and helps Sam with any two-man projects in the evening.
Weekends, they run into town to grab some library books, go out to eat, and do whatever else comes to mind.
They go to the bar every now and then. Dean doesn't hustle, at least not like he used to. It used to be like a job, of pretending to be weak before striking hard and making money. Now, Dean reigns in those skills, and plays normally. No need to offend regulars and get kicked out for good. He makes some money at first, until word gets around that he's good, and then the games aren't for money, unless Dean can reel in someone who's passing through.
Sam spends those trips either shooting pool with Dean or in the corner, nursing a beer and gazing at the pool table absently.
One night, hunters come into the bar. Dean's been lazy, so he doesn't notice it at first. They're just two outsiders, and he can challenge them to a real game. But when his eyes flick over to Sam, his brother's eyes are dark and meaningful, and Sam nods at the two.
He sees it then. The way they move, the traces of salt on one's sleeve, the burn of gunpowder on their fingers. Dean purses his lips, but doesn't say anything. What is there to say? He's in the middle of a game. He'll finish it, and then get out of there as fast as possible.
Dean wins, and excuses himself. Sam is already making his way to the door. There's hope for an easy get-away.
They nearly make it to the Impala.
"Dean and Sam Winchester."
Dean sighs, willing himself to stay calm. Maybe they just want to talk. "Funny, I don't know your name," he says, turning and deliberately putting himself in front of Sam.
"Last name of Douglas. I'm Mark, that's my cousin Colin."
"What can we do for you?" Dean asks impatiently.
"All we want is an explanation," Colin speaks up.
"Of what?" Dean growls.
"The apocalypse. There're a lot of rumors flying around, about the two of you." Dean doesn't like the way Mark looks at Sam.
"If you want a story, go ask your mom," Dean snarls.
Colin pulls out a handgun. "I think you should start talking," he responds coolly.
Dean flicks his eyes back to Sam. Thankfully Sam is still in control, glowering at the two of them and using his considerable height to look intimidating.
"I'll play twenty questions, just put that away," Dean says.
Colin lowers the gun, but doesn't put it away.
"We heard that Sam there started the apocalypse. Is that true?"
Dean opens his mouth to deny it all, but from behind him, Sam whispers, "yes."
Mark's eyes harden. "And you played host for Lucifer."
Dean mutters, "Sam," but he's already affirmed Mark's statement with another quiet "yes."
Both of the hunters have expressions on their faces that Dean doesn't like.
"We did everything we could to stop it. And we did."
"Yeah?" Mark laughs. "Tell that to my wife." He raises his gun, and Dean reacts, pushing at Sam. The gun goes off, and Dean feels a searing white hot pain across the side of his head. He collapses against the Impala, his vision swimming. Sam's there, next to him, but then Sam roars with anger.
It's been an eternity since Dean has seen Sam get angry. Sam's fury sends him towards the two hunters. Dean wants to cry out, since both of them have guns, and Sam's unarmed, but then his little brother is close to them, and he's kicked away Mark's gun, and wrenched the other out of Colin's hand. And then, he fights.
For the past months, Dean's considered Sam helpless. In a lot of ways, he is. On the bad days, Dean has to help Sam eat, shower, and function in the most limited sense. Even on the good days, Dean has to be there, holding Sam's arm when someone accidentally brushes up agains him, calming him down when something as simple as a sentence sets him off.
But Sam is strong. And he takes down the two hunters almost easily.
The illusion of strength is broken the moment he begins crying out against Lucifer. Dean can only watch dazedly, fighting unconsciousness, as his brother sobs, stumbling away from the two bodies.
Dean doesn't know what to do. He's too out of it to get Sam to snap out of his lostness. The hunters are stirring, waking up from unconsciousness.
Then Sam's in front of him, the expression on his face full of panic, fear, and some kind of pain. But his eyes are focused, and he pulls off his outer shirt, folding it and pressing it against Dean's head.
"Hospital?" he asks.
"S'just a graze," Dean grunts. With Sam's help he's standing. The cousins are getting up, dazedly.
Sam stands straight, and stares at them. "Leave us alone," he commands.
"So you can start another apocalypse?" Colin accuses.
Sam's withdrawing again, so Dean speaks thickly through the fuzziness. "Listen, you idiot. My brother stopped the apocalypse. He threw Lucifer into hell, and spent some time down there with him, suffering for it. So you leave him alone, or so help me I will kill you."
They regard him, unconvinced, but then Sam crumples against the Impala, whimpering.
"No, you can't, don't, not the fire, please, please, please . . ."
Muttering to each other, the hunters sullenly leave without another word.
"Sam, now is not a good time to freak," Dean groans, the pain in his head overwhelming. Thankfully the blood isn't flowing as thickly as before.
He's shocked to see a flash of white teeth when Sam grins. "I was just pretending."
Dean is startled into a pleased laugh, and then Sam packs him into the car. "Sammy, that was good."
"I know." Sam's driving them home.
Dean speaks before he thinks. "Why doesn't blood bother you?"
Sam sits stiffly, before answering quietly, "I'm used to it."
Dean winces, wishing he hadn't asked that. The wince opens up the wound again, and Dean presses the now-ruined flannel shirt against his head harder.
"Well, no one can say our lives are boring, huh Sammy?"
"Definitely not." Sam stitches Dean's head with all the skill from before, and Dean feels a little more peace.
The supernatural has dogged them all their life. So it's no surprise that signs of spirit activity crop up. Dean notices it himself from the local newspapers . . . it's a nearby town. Less than 45 minutes away. He doesn't mention it to Sam, but forgets to throw away the newspapers.
"I think we can do it."
Dean gives Sam a dubious look. "Look, we're supposed to be retired. You know, as in no more hunting."
Sam rolls his eyes. "Dude, you're in your thirties, I'm there with you. Bit young for retirement, isn't it? And I know you're itching for a good hunt."
Dean scowls. "That's not the issue, Sam, and you know it."
Sam's face gets that earnest look, and Dean has the dull feeling that he's going to lose this argument. "I can do this, Dean. It's not like there's anything wrong with you. It's just a spirit. Simple salt and burn. People are dying, Dean."
Dean swears under his breath. He can't deny that he has wanted to go on a hunt for a while now. "Sam, I just don't want you to . . . if you . . ."
Sam looks solemnly at Dean. "I'm okay with dying, Dean."
Dean scrubs his face with one hand. "I'm not okay with you dying," he mutters. He throws Sam one more sharp look. "All right. But if this gets complicated, we call Bobby and pass it on."
"Deal."
Dean's waiting throughout the whole thing for something to go wrong. For once, it doesn't. They sneak into the cemetery, dig up the grave, salt and burn the ghost. It appears at one point, proving that they are ganking the right one, but Sam takes it out with a swing of their iron shovel, and Dean sets the bones on fire.
Sam doesn't have a problem the whole time. If anything, he acts more natural than, say, when he's at the coffee shop in town.
Dean can't decide if that's a good thing or a bad thing.
In the end, they decide to have hunting as a weekend deal, under the condition that the hunt be less than two hours away. And demons are off limits. But it works.
It's not that he doesn't love his brother, but Dean is human, and he can't spend all his time with Sam. They'll drive each other up the wall that way. So Dean, every now and then, takes a night to go out and pick up a girl. Have some fun.
Of course, that fun is tempered by a pit of worry in his stomach, because Dean knows that Sam won't sleep well, and thus can't truly relax. The term, Dean believes, is co-dependent. But whatever.
One night he stumbles in. It's two in the morning, and he is about to collapse on the bed, but comes to the startling realization that Sam isn't there.
"Sammy?" he groans. There's no reply, and despite his exhausted state, Dean manages to feel a flash of worry. Sam's lulled him into a sense of security. He hasn't relapsed in a while, though Dean wonders if that's because it's happened when Dean's at work.
Swearing fluently, Dean stomps his way through the house. Then he really begins to panic, because Sam is nowhere to be found. Dean sprints outside, and thankfully the moon is full, and he can see his brother standing a distance away.
"Sammy?"
"Shh."
His eery tone sends chills through Dean, even though it's already cold enough to have him shivering. Dean notices, cringing, that Sam is barefoot.
"Sam, what are you doing?"
"Have to listen. If I sleep he'll be there, and then I won't be able to listen."
Dean reaches Sam. Inwardly, he's cursing himself for needing to go out. He extends a hand to touch Sam's shoulder.
Sam yells and retreats from Dean's touch as if it burned. Dean fights the feeling of hurt that floods him-it's been months since Sam's reacted that way.
"No, don't make him listen. If Dean listens, it'll hurt him. Don't make him listen."
Dean closes his eyes. Sam was doing so well. "Sammy, I'm right here. Look at me, man."
Finally, Sam looks back. "Dean?"
"I'm right here." Sam sways, and Dean puts an arm around his back. "Easy there, Sasquatch."
Somehow Dean manages to get Sam inside. His panic drains away, and he puts Sam to bed, feeling for all the world like he's ten years old again as Sam stares at him, whispering, "'night, Dean."
Dean refuses to go out for a couple weeks until Sam forces him to. When he comes home one night and Sam is okay, Dean relaxes. But not too much.
It was a rookie mistake. They had thought that the signs pointed towards a poltergeist, when it was actually a demon.
"And here I thought you two were out of the game," it smirks, approaching Sam. Sam's frozen, and Dean can't move from where he's pinned behind a desk. This demon's powerful enough to have telekinesis abilities, and Dean is close to panicking.
"Sam Winchester. The one who ruined everything. I hear Lucifer misses you. Do you miss him?"
Dean roars impotently. Sam's eyes are fixed on the demon. He's withdrawn completely.
"I'll take your silence as a yes. Maybe you can join him again. But I'll just take care of big brother first."
The demon turns towards Dean, and he's thankful for that, but still terrified at what the demon will do after Dean's dead.
It has a knife at Dean's throat when Dean hears Sam's voice.
"Exorcizamus te . . ."
Sam's spouting off an exorcism, and the demon is caught unaware.
Somehow they make it out alive. Sam's withdrawn and hurting afterwards, but they're alive, and Dean's just thankful for that.
He's nearly convinced that they should give up hunting, but then Bobby calls with Wendigo case, and Sam's smile is knowing, and they gank it without any problems.
Dean has had a terrible day. There is nothing worse than some annoying jerk with a really expensive car, he thinks. It's late, when he gets home. Late enough that Dean expects he'll just get leftovers. He's surprised to smell something really, really delicious. It's not that Sam's a bad cook, but it's not like the kid's a master chef either.
Dean walks into the kitchen to find Sam grinning, and Castiel sitting stiffly at the table.
"Cas!"
"Hello, Dean."
"I'm making pie," Sam announces. His tone is a little too bright, and Dean can tell it's close to a bad time. He frowns, but Sam ignores him.
"How's heaven?" Dean finally asks, dropping into the chair across from the angel.
"Heavenly," Cas says drily, and Dean stares at him before letting out a bark of laughter.
"Never thought I'd see the day when you could joke, Cas," he snorts.
Cas reluctantly cracks into a smile. "Sam told me to say it," he admits, and Dean's grin goes wider.
Sam has outdone himself with dinner. After they eat, Cas awkwardly offers to help with dishes, and his hand touches Sam's arm. Time seems to freeze for Dean. He waits for Sam to panic, waits for him to withdraw or worse. But Sam doesn't. He's tense, maybe breathing a little too fast, but manages to give Cas a smile.
"That'd be great, Cas."
Dean relaxes, and comes to the somehow-not startling realization that his life is good. Maybe even better than good. If anything, Dean thinks he might just be content. It's not anything he's ever expected, or ever thought he's deserved. But he has it. And maybe so does Sam.
And from the knowing look on Cas's face, the angel has figured it out as well.
Sam actually gives the angel a hug before he leaves, and Dean sleeps soundly that night.
Dean always expected to go out bloody. Some random hunt gone wrong. With their weekend skirmishes with the supernatural, Dean still had some small idea that something would take them out, and their story would end that way.
But they're suddenly done with hunting. And they're both alive.
Their last hunt goes bad. Not too bad, just enough that tells Dean that they're done. Of course it was a simple salt'n'burn. Not anything cool. When Dean's thrown into a headstone, he can't just get up this time. Sam rushes over, and Dean groans when he tries to pick him up.
To add insult to injury, when Sam takes Dean to the hospital, they determine Dean threw out his hip. It's nothing debilitating, but they stress that any heavy duty physical activity is out of the question from then on.
Dean can feel Sam's smirk, and glares at him. He's never going to live this one down.
"Someone's getting a little old," Sam sings under his breath. He's close enough that Dean's able to smack him upside his head. Can't have him undermining authority, after all.
Still, if Dean's ego must take a blow, at least he has Sam laughing to make up for it.
"That's it for us," Sam says out of the blue.
"What is?"
"Hunting. We're done for good." Sam's tone is firm, but there's an undertow of discomfort, like he's scared Dean will fight him.
"Yeah," Dean responds, and is surprised how it doesn't bug him. Sam is suspicious.
"You're okay with that?"
Dean nods. "Yeah, Sammy. I really am."
A lot of their interaction with Bobby had been focused on the hunt, but just because they stop hunting doesn't mean they lose touch. They spend Thanksgiving with him, and drive over for New Year's. He comes over to celebrate with them for getting through a whole year living as civilians (mostly.)
They're halfway through another year when Dean notices that Bobby doesn't look that healthy, and a significant look from Sam tells him that his brother's noticed as well.
So they spend more time with him. Bobby has obviously noticed their strange behavior, but he just rolls his eyes, fondly calls them idjits, and that's that.
Bobby's a hunter, but somehow his end doesn't come with the violence or pain that normally accompanied a hunter's death. He gets sick, Dean and Sam take care of him, and then he's gone.
They grieve, but it's not like when their father died. When John Winchester died, it had sent Dean into a spiral of guilt and pain and uncertainty, and he had shut Sam out, forcing Sam to grieve on his own as well. With Bobby, somehow, after everything, it's okay to cry together (though they laugh afterwards self-consciously, calling themselves girls.) It's painful, but manageable.
Dean takes a week off from work, and they go to the Grand Canyon. For all the years they've criss-crossed the country, they've never really stopped by to see it.
They get out of the Impala, and as Dean watches, Sam deliberately leaves his jacket in the car. He raises an eyebrow, and Sam acknowledges it with a shrug.
"It's warm out."
There's no arguing there, but it's been months . . . years, since Dean's seen Sam out in public without a few layers between him and the world.
Sam's scars are visible, the white and ropy lines curling up his arms. Sam doesn't act self-conscious though, just walks up the hiking trail in front of Dean. Even when they pass by other hikers, who stare at Sam, he still stays calm.
The two of them take it slow, on account of Dean's hip. Dean's never been one for enjoying nature that much, but he does now.
They make it to an overlook. Sam leans against the railing and Dean joins them.
"Whoa," Dean mutters. Sam just nods. They stare down at the deep canyon, at the layers of red rock.
"It's really peaceful," he murmurs. Dean gives him one hard look (because technically this is a danger spot for a suicide attempt if Sam were to freak) before allowing himself to relax and smile as well.
"Yeah, it is."
Sam flashes him a knowing glance, but his smile doesn't fade. Dean coughs awkwardly.
"You forgot the sandwiches, didn't you?" he evades. "Bitch," he adds fondly.
Sam elbows him. But he remembers, and responds softly, "jerk."
Dean stares down into the deep canyon and breathes deeply. Maybe, maybe this is what peace feels like.