Threefold

S s S

Mr. Kripke owns all. Not mine, although this does bear some similarity to the wee coda I did last year. Oh well, if Kripke can repeat himself, so can I. I was contemplating how next season might start. It's kinda hackneyed, but it wanted out, so I obliged.

S s S s S

Sam dipped his finger into the blood pooling in the ragged indentations of his brother's ruined torso. It was still warm and deep enough to cover his finger almost up to his first knuckle. He lifted his finger and watched the red rivulets meander across his skin. Without thinking he raised his hand, dragging the painted fingertip from the centre of his forehead down to the bridge of his nose, where it mixed with the damp trail of his tears.

A trinity complete; a final baptism. Anointed by the blood of his mother, his lover and his brother. He had been too young to understand on the first occasion, to stubborn to see the truth on the second, however the third time's always the charm. There were no reasons to ignore the obvious any more. The cooling corpse of hope lay before him.

What was it that Ava had said? Open yourself up to it and it will click into being. Sam tried to recall exactly what she had told him. On the other hand, Ruby had told him that he couldn't just flip a switch.

Demons lie.

Sam lifted his brother's hand, curling his fingers around tightly until he could feel the bones underneath the dead flesh and felt nothing. No grief, no pain, no anger. It was too late for those things, trite and meaningless emotions that wasted time and energy and made no difference to anything.

Small, bubbly Ava, with her normal life, her steadfast fiancé, who hadn't even believed in ghosts and yet had learned to summon demons with no chanting or sigils and had made them do her bidding.

How hard could it be?

As hard as you want it to be, a voice whispered in the back of his head.

Sam lifted his eyes and spared a quick glance at the empty vessel so recently occupied by Ruby and briefly by Lilith. Maybe he should have listened to Ruby, but she was gone and Sam had no use for her, she had lied and manipulated and ultimately failed him.

He had run out of time and run out of choices. He had been resurrected, dragged back from death and healed, by a crossroads demon, whom he had in turn killed. Just like old yellow eyes, trading in lives and souls with John Winchester, dead by Dean's hand.

A small circular pattern, looping in on itself. Sam could see the spiral of action and reaction spiraling away into infinity. Dean had understood and so had the Trickster, but if there was one thing in the world that Sam hated, it was being told what to do. Ironic really, that there was no one left anymore. Sam could do as he damn well pleased.

He would not leave his brother in Hell and no demon or human was going to tell him otherwise. He dropped his brother's lax fingers and pushed himself to his feet. He had done nothing to protect himself from Lilith's murderous energy, no conscious effort to repel her and she had been afraid, caught off guard by his resistance.

How hard could it be?

The whisper was louder, more insistent. Sam closed his eyes and sighed, he was what he was and the potential to be anything else was dead at his feet.

Come, he thought idly. Come back now. He waited, the house was quiet and the room still, a gentle breeze ruffled his hair. Sam opened his eyes and the space around him rippled.

Under the window, pushing past the gopher dust and trickling over the sill was the twisting column of all too familiar black smoke. It spun into the room, growing in size until it hovered over the empty body of Ruby. Sam nodded and for a moment Ruby was smothered by a small cloud, a mini storm pulsating with electricity waiting to strike.

Lilith sat up, her eyes filled with rage, face twisted with hate. Sam took a hasty step back; Lilith hissed and threw herself across the floor, clawing at his legs, only to fall back with a shriek of pain.

She stayed huddled on the floor, covering her eyes, a low guttural sound emanating from her throat and vibrating through her body.

It really wasn't that hard at all. Sam rubbed at the slight ache between his eyes.

"Bring him back." Sam couldn't tell if it was the stillness of the room or the ever expanding void within him that caused the words to reverberate with the faintest of echoes.

Lilith laughed, dropping her hands from her face she rolled over, her mouth stretched, a distorted grimace of bitter amusement.

"I can't and I won't," she grinned maliciously. "A deal's a deal, boy."

Sam scratched his nose and cocked his head.

"Oh, I think you can. Here I am, back from the dead. But guess what? No trades today. Maybe I should just send you back to hell or better still, kill you." Sam had no idea if he could follow through on either threat, but he was betting that Lilith would be equally unsure.

She stared up at him, fear and uncertainty flickering in her eyes.

"And if I do. What then?"

Sam shrugged. "Who knows? We'll see." She could do it. Something in his chest shifted and for a second the heavy ache of grief pulled his breath down and then it was gone. He could save Dean and the price was and always had been irrelevant.

"Not good enough." Lilith snarled and lunged at him again, only to fall back, the body she was using convulsing and screaming.

Sam winced, screwing his eyes shut. It wasn't that hard, but it hurt. He took Ruby's knife and held it above Lilith, the tip of the blade pointing between her eyes.

"Bring him back and I'll let you go," he said softly, unable to tell or care if he was lying or not.

Lilith bared her teeth at him and turned to Dean's bloodied corpse. "The hounds made quite a mess," she smirked, "I don't know if it'll work."

Sam leant over and rested the length of the blade against her throat.

"Let me remind you, Lilith. If a common crossroads demon can glue my spine back together, I'm sure you can sew up a few scratches." He pushed on the knife a little more. "And while you're at it, I don't want him to remember. Anything of this, me, you. Wipe him clean from day one."

Lilith swallowed, throat muscles taut against the blade. She looked up at Sam and her eyes were black.

"It's done, for all the good it'll do you."

Sam straightened up, pulling the knife away, his eyes fixed on his brother.

"I don't matter anymore, at least not to him. You, on the other hand…" He left the threat hanging. "Go, take the meat suit with you and keep it. No more little girls. And don't forget your demon pals out there."

Lilith was gone.

S s S s S s S

Bobby paused on the doorstep, the possessed minions had disappeared, an encouraging sign, he hoped. He thought he had heard voices earlier, but now it was quiet. At least someone was alive, somewhere, although nothing about the situation was going to anybody any good. It was past midnight, had the kid made it? Bobby stomped down on the gnawing worry eating at his gut. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof. Always been his favorite quote. Don't go looking for trouble because its going to be knocking at the front door soon enough. He shook his head, hand on the latch. If only the Winchesters had taken that one to heart.

He found Sam in the wreck of the dining room, standing over the body of his brother. Bobby blinked at the sudden rush of tears. So no last minute reprieve. Ripped apart by hellhounds. Damn fool kid. Bobby didn't want it to hurt, after watching Dean refuse to leave Sam only a year before Bobby had promised himself, never again. Shouldn't have tempted fate old man, he thought wearily.

"Hi, Bobby. They came for him." Sam's voice was soft and steady.

"Sam, son. I'm sorry." Bobby stopped, what did you say to someone who had just seen the only person that mattered to them dragged into hell? "We'll work this out." He meant it even if he did not believe it. He rested a hand on the boy's shoulder and Sam glanced back and gave him a small, genuine smile. A chill ran across Bobby's skin at the mark of dried blood smeared between Sam's eyes.

"Nothing to work out, Bobby." Sam turned, settling a hand over Bobby's. "Thanks for everything; you've done more for us than anyone." With a final squeeze he dropped his hand and knelt at his brother's side.

Bobby watched, the unpleasant sensation of foreboding unfurling within, as Sam spread his hand over Dean's bloody chest. Sam closed his eyes and nodded, still smiling.

"Sammy." The nickname fell involuntarily from Bobby's lips, the boy was lost.

"It's okay, really it is. See." Sam held out a hand, motioning Bobby to come closer. Bobby peered down at Dean, expecting to see the poor kid turned inside out, there was a lot of congealing blood, but he could see no wound or obvious injuries under the gore.

Dean's lips parted, letting out of whisper of breath.

Bobby dropped his chin to his chest. He should have known, those boys could never leave well enough alone.

"Don't you ever learn?" he looked up, Sam's eyes were too bright, too empty.

Sam raised his eyes to the ceiling, avoiding Bobby's gaze.

"I did learn Bobby, this time. I learnt that I need to let go and that's what I'm doing. You'll look after him, won't you?" Sam looked back to his brother.

"What did you do Sam? For the love of all that is holy, please tell me that you didn't make another deal?" Bobby found himself tracking the blood splatters on the floor and the walls. So much, a bright, vivid red.

"No deals, Bobby. Dean's free and clear. Me too, I guess. Not that it matters. I asked Lilith to bring him back and she did, after a little persuasion." Sam sounded resigned.

"She did what? She let her attack dogs rip him to pieces and then brought him back, just for shit and giggles. I don't think so, Sam." Bobby took a step closer.

Sam turned his head and squinting at Bobby through the hair falling over his face. His eyes were shadowed.

"She couldn't kill me, Bobby, she tried, but she couldn't. I don't know what it means and I don't care anymore. Dean's alive and he's not going to remember anything. Don't tell him about me, Mom, Dad. Nothing, you understand. Tell him whatever works, whatever keeps him away from this fucked up life."

"And you Sam, you're gonna walk anyway from this, from your brother. To what? Please Sammy." Once again the endearment slipped out, these boys, these men were as close to him as any family and Bobby could hear the desperation in his own voice. "I don't know what's in that damn fool head of yours, but there must be something else."

"No, Bobby. I've got to, maybe I'll find an answer, maybe I won't. But Dean will have a life and if I'm not around he can be happy. Please Bobby. Please do this for me, for him." Sam brushed the hair from his face, looking from Bobby to Dean and back, sucking in his top lip, a silent entreaty for Bobby's support.

Bobby nodded, perhaps it was for the best. What else could he do? He often wished he'd never met John Winchester that cloudy afternoon in Arkansas.

"Thanks, Bobby," Sam's voice cracked.

Dean groaned and twitched.

"I've got to go now." Sam bent down and gently pressed his lips to Dean's forehead and whispered something, Bobby shuffled closer, but Sam's last words to his brother were inaudible. Sam stood back and let out a heavy breath before turning away from the man on the floor.

Bobby grabbed his arm, pulling him close and giving him a tight hug, feeling Sam's rigid muscles and the awkward pat the boy gave him.

"Don't lose yourself Sam. Call me."

"Sure thing, Bobby." Sam smiled and Bobby knew he was lying. Dean coughed; a wet rattle, Sam wavered for a second and then strode from the room without a backward glance.

S s S s S s S

Fuck. That hurt. He took a breath and almost gagged at the wave of pain that washed up from his chest, coiling around his neck and hammering at his skull. What in hell had he been doing? Binge drinking the rubbing alcohol again. He tried to swallow; his tongue was coated and bitter. He wanted to open his eyes, but they were sticky and unresponsive. He clenched his fist and attempted to raise his hand, his muscles resisted for a moment and then shaking, he managed to push his hand up to wipe his eyes. He peeled back his eyelids.

A guy with a beard and an ugly trucker's cap was crouched next to him, watching him, forehead wrinkled in apparent concern.

"Uh, hi," he offered weakly. Man, his throat hurt.

The guy, who had a kind of round face and looked like the type who didn't miss a trick, slid an arm behind him and helped him sit up.

"How do you feel, D... kid?" The guy's voice was low and gravelly.

"Like crap, a big steamin' pile of it. Although I can't remember why." He looked down at himself and instinctively recoiled at his stained and tattered clothing. "Whoa, what the hell is going on?"

"Hey, you're fine. It looks worse than it is, it's not yours. You got up close and personal with someone you shouldn't have done. That's my fault, I'm sorry." The trucker cap guy didn't sound that apologetic. He did sounded upset about something, though.

"Well, okay. I forgive you. Whoever you are." He plucked cautiously at his shredded shirt, threading his fingers through the long holes. "I don't remember any of this or you or me. What the fuck's that about." A tingle of panic had started somewhere around his knees and was rapidly making its way up his body. He struggled to stand; capable hands pulled him up, his companion patting his arms as if to reassure himself about their relative health.

"I'm Bobby, Bobby Singer and you were helping me out, as a favor and you got hit by the tail end of some bad hoodoo." The man stopped, eyes darting around the room. "It's gone now and you're okay. Yes. Okay." Singer's hands rested on his shoulders, squeezing tightly before sliding away. A spasm of pain crossed the old guy's face. He would have been politely concerned if it wasn't for the feeling he'd been punted in the head by a pro footballer.

"Must have been some mean favor there, Singer," he groaned, rubbing his aching chest. "And I might be..." he prompted, wheezily.

"You? Oh, uh," Singer paused, stroking his whiskered chin with nervous fingers. "You're Dean." Singer coughed and then suddenly reached out and caught his shoulders again, meeting his eyes with a fierce gaze. "Dean Singer, my nephew."

"Seriously?" Dean didn't know why he should be surprised. "Uncle Bobby?" As the words reached his ears they carried the weight of familiarity. He trusted the old guy.

"That's me. Look, I know you don't remember and believe me it's a long story. Let's get out of here and I'll try and jog your memory on the way home." Bobby took his arm and guided him from the house.

Outside, at the end of the path, Dean stopped and found himself scanning the street. He would know it when he saw it.

"Looking for something Dean?" Bobby asked gently.

"Did I have my own ride?" Dean had a car, he was sure of it.

"Not at the moment, you came with me. You busted yours up a few weeks back."

"Oh." Dean was disappointed. "It was nice car, right."

"Yeah," Bobby sighed, "it was a nice car, kid."