Okay, well, on the list of things you should know about this story going in to it is that it has spoilers for pretty much everything through season 7. Another is likely a working knowledge of the Chronicles of Narnia by C. S. Lewis, but what kind of person are you if you have cultural exposure and have never heard of that? I beseech you, read the books. If you fail to do that, at least watch the movies.

I'll leave you to draw what conclusions you will about this story. Please feel free to express your thoughts in a review. I like reviews. They make me happy inside.

Dean was acting differently.

In all honesty, Sam was glad for the change. Dean had been struggling the past few weeks, and Sam knew it, even though his brother tried his best to hide it. There was no way he blamed him, though, given what he'd been through with Lisa, Ben, Castiel, and now Bobby, so Sam let him wallow, just a little, and tried to nudge him out of the rut that had been created with the occasional gentle prod.

He hadn't expected it to work, and he was right, it hadn't. But he didn't have any other ideas. If he tried anything overt, Dean would push him away even harder in accordance with his rule, "No chick flick moments."

He'd wanted so badly to call Bobby. To call Ellen. To call Dad. But everyone was gone now, and that was half of the issue. There was nobody. They just had each other, and times had proven again and again that they couldn't always count on that.

But something had changed.

It wasn't one of those gradual changes, the ones that occurred over a long period of time and were hard to notice. This one had happened quite literally overnight.

They had finished a fairly routine hunt, and gone back to the motel to get some rest before hitting the road in the morning. When Sam had gone to bed, Dean had been staring at the screen of one of the laptops that had been provided by Frank, presumably attempting to dig up some information on that thing that never left Dean's mind these days: the leviathan that had killed Bobby. The next morning when he got up, Dean had been in bed, under the covers, with a leg wearing plaid pajama bottoms sticking out from beneath the blankets.

It hadn't immediately struck him as strange, but now that he thought about it, Dean rarely slept in a bed at all. Most mornings Sam would wake to find Dean with his head smashed against the keyboard of the computer he'd been using the night before. And the pajama pants – well, that should have been telling from the start. Dean wore his clothes to bed. Always. Sam had always assumed that the use of pajama bottoms was exclusive to the days with Lisa and Ben, when there was never a need to leave the bed in the middle of the night; when there wasn't always a crisis waiting to be averted.

That afternoon things had gotten stranger. When they got into the most recent vehicle that they had obtained, Dean hadn't tuned the radio to the rock station. He hadn't made a motion to the radio at all, in fact, but had seemed content to sit in silence, with only the sound of the rattling engine of the crap car to fill the quiet.

They'd been driving for about a half an hour when Dean had turned to Sam and asked, "Do you think Castiel was right about God?"

Sam hadn't known what to say. Upon recollection, his response echoed vaguely, "I'm not sure, but if God was around, why did he let all of this happen?"

Dean hadn't said anything, but just turned his gaze back to the road, the corners of his eyes creasing the way they did whenever he was thinking hard about something.

That night when they reached a motel, Dean had gone into the bathroom, come out wearing the pajamas again, and climbed into bed. Sam had glanced at his watch.

"It's only 11. We could probably hustle some pool…"

"No thanks, Sammy, I'm pretty tired, I think I'll turn in."

Within ten minutes, Dean had been snoring.

Sam had opened the laptop and browsed through the history, trying to find something that could have set off his brother's behavior. Maybe he had found something. But if he had, why hadn't he shared it?

There was nothing in the web history that explained anything. Sam had been about to give up and go to bed when he suddenly realized that something felt wrong. He'd glanced around the room uneasily, even reaching for his knife before he figured out what it was that was off – Dean was silent.

Sam had walked over to the bed and leaned close, almost uncomfortably close, carefully looking at his brother for any signs of injury or illness. Upon perusal, however, he couldn't find anything wrong. The opposite, actually, Dean looked more peaceful than he had in years. There was no nightmarish mumbling. That hand that was always wrapped around the silver knife underneath the pillow was resting unclenched on top of the ugly khaki bedspread.

Satisfied that his brother was okay, Sam had gone to bed.

The next day had followed a similar, slightly unnerving pattern. So had the next, and the next.

And finally, after trying for nearly a week to figure out what was going on, Sam had gotten up this morning and decided that he was going to ask. He was going to break Dean's rule and embrace the chick flick moment.

He waited until that afternoon when they were on the expressway so that Dean couldn't pull over to some restaurant or gas station to avoid the talking to him, then opened his mouth to break the unusual – but not necessarily uncomfortable – silence.

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"What's been going on with you, man?" Sam watched Dean carefully to gauge his reaction. His brother only looked over at him and back to the road.

Sam sighed mentally and was bracing himself to reenter the quiet when Dean spoke.

"Do you remember that series that you read when you were in middle school, about a talking lion and a bunch of kids that went to some magical land and became kings and queens?"

Sam blinked, unsure of where this was going but willing to follow it. "Yeah, the Chronicles of Narnia."

"I had a dream a couple nights ago."

"About those books? Dean, that was years ago."

"No, not those books. Well, not really." Dean paused, and appeared to be focusing on the road for a moment before speaking again. "There was a lion in my dream."

Sam frowned, not really sure how Dean's statements were connected. "Aslan?"

Dean shrugged. "He didn't say his name."

"So, what did he say?"

A long pause followed his question, and Sam began to wonder if Dean was planning on answering. Just as he was about to ask again, his brother continued.

"He told me everything was going to be okay."

"Everything?"

"Yeah, Sam, everything. He said it was going to be fine, and that we'd be okay, and that I should keep fighting."

"Were you going to stop?" He felt like maybe he shouldn't have asked the question, but it had slipped out of his mouth before he could stop it, and it looked like Dean was going to answer it if the way he rolled his eyes was any indication.

"What do you think?"

"I think that we've hit a rough couple months."

"No kidding, genius."

So it was still sore, even if whatever this was had made a difference. "Sorry." Sam shut his mouth and hoped that Dean would keep talking.

"Anyways, I just kind of… I don't know, I believe him."

Sam stared at Dean, trying to figure out why this particular dream had been so impacting. "Dean, it was a dream."

Dean sighed, rolling back his shoulders and stretching his back. "I know. But it feels like it wasn't one. It didn't even feel like a dream when I was dreaming it."

"You know, if I said something like that…" Sam trailed off, suddenly realizing how hypocritical he sounded and bracing himself for Dean to pounce.

"Yeah, you know, Sam, if you said something like that, I probably would never believe whatever you said happened in your dream was true and drive you halfway across the country to figure out if it was real or not." An icy glare turned his way.

"Look, I'm sorry, but it's different. Those were premonitions, and they didn't always happen when I was asleep. They weren't dreams."

"Well, maybe this wasn't either." The glare melted ever so slightly and Dean turned his focus back to the road.

An angry silence filled the car and Sam let it rest, regrouping his thoughts and planning what to say next. Was Dean really serious about this? Did he seriously think that he'd met Aslan in his dreams? The lion was a fictional character from a book. Nothing more.

"I think that maybe God is still out there." Dean stated into the quiet, surprising Sam with his restart of the conversation.

Sam was growing frustrated with his brother's conviction; and weren't they in the wrong roles? Dean was the one who questioned everything. Sam was the one who was willing to take a leap of faith. "Dean, look at the world! Look at this stupid world, man! You lost your girl and the kid who was practically your son! And what about Castiel? He was an angel, and you think God would just let him do what he did? And, oh yeah, let's not forget about Bobby, the only family we had left. We need Bobby! If God was able, why would he just let him die? Why would he let any of this crap happen?" By the end of his rant, he wasn't just arguing with Dean. A hard lump lodged itself in his throat, and his voice was a little raspy.

Silence blanketed the two of them, and Sam thought that maybe he'd won, that maybe Dean would just let this impossible new idea slide. Regret flooded him for a moment as he realized that if he had won, he'd just robbed Dean of the only hope he'd felt in years. He pushed it back down, rationalizing that it was better for Dean to have no expectations and not be hurt than to dredge up some faith from somewhere in his hell-scarred soul and have all of his life squeezed out of him from whatever devastating blow they would meet with next.

He looked over at his brother. There was no defeat on his face, only a look of intense contemplation.

"Maybe we just don't get it. Maybe everything that's happening has happened for a reason."

"And what reason could that possibly be?"

"I don't know." Dean shrugged again in a motion congruent with his statement, but something about his motions seemed to be hiding something.

Sam sighed, tipping his head against the car window. "Why do I get the feeling you're not telling me everything?"

"Maybe because I'm not."

"Are you going to tell me or should I just fall asleep, then?"

"Might as well go to sleep. It could be a while."

Sam looked at Dean, who met his eyes, just for a moment. They were bright. They had hope. They were alive.

He closed his eyes, pressing his cheek against the coolness of the window. The golden sun teased his face with warmth, softly suggesting sleep.

Sam surrendered.