A/N: I started this years ago, after the S8 finale. Now obviously (and very) AU tag to that episode. (No Crowley & no Kevin.) The brothers return to the Bunker after they don't close the gates of hell.

We pull up in front of the bunker early the next morning. Early enough that dawn is only a gray streak at the horizon, a streak so thin that apparently only the birds can appreciate it; they're tweeting up a storm around us.

Sam's slouched in the passenger seat, face turned to his window, arms folded across himself, asleep, and my hand reaches over to adjust the blanket that isn't covering him and check for the fever that he doesn't have anymore.

I pull my hand back.

I'm too tired to even begin to think about what happened tonight. Last night. What did happen, what didn't happen. What almost happened.

What the hell happens now.

So, I don't think. I sit here, in the car, and put my head back to rest, for just as long as I possibly can.

Which isn't long, because the car suddenly turned off is like an alarm clock to us, and in a few minutes Sam wakes up. He looks around and pushes himself more upright and sees where we are.

"Oh - sorry - " he says, like he's done something wrong by being asleep and he reaches for the door handle to get out of the car.

"Wait - wait - just - wait." I put my hand on his arm to keep him here. "We're sitting here until you're ready to get back on your feet and walk all the way down those stairs."

He 'hmpfs' and it might be amused and he rests his head back against the seat.

"See you at Christmastime, then."

My hand reaches over again to adjust that blanket that isn't there and check the fever that he doesn't have.

I pull back before he notices.

When that first angel hit the river near us, as the angels fell to earth all over the earth, it seemed to ease whatever was strangling Sammy, but he's still got as much strength as wet glue, he goes green at the mention of food, he can only drink water in sips, and his hands shake whenever they're in view.

But he's alive. He's alive and sitting next to me in the Impala and what else is there?

Lots, apparently. There's a lifetime apparently of 'else' out there that I never realized.

That I never bothered to realize.

Sam thought it would be okay with me if he died as long as everyone else was safe. He was ready and willing to die so that I wouldn't be disappointed in him. Again.

Thinking about that makes me physically sick. It's been making me sick on the entire drive here. He thought that I'd see his surviving as a failure.

Another failure.

"Hey, Sam?"

"Hmmm?" he asks, then sits up, reaching for the door handle again. "Ready?"

"No, wait." I half reach out to make him let go of the handle. "Just – what I said back at the church…all those things I said you should confess…"

His expression crumples, he bows his head and chews the inside of his lower lip. "Let's just get inside," he says and reaches for the door handle again.

"No – wait."

And even after all this time, all the years and pain and misery, Sam does what I ask him because I ask him. He lets go of the door handle and sits there, stiff and waiting.

"I'm sorry. Sam – I'm sorry I said those things to you. That wasn't you, those weren't you. All those things – I mean – Penny Markle should've been my first clue. It should've been the only clue I needed to not put all of that on you."

Sam shakes his head, "I don't know what you're talking about." And he's not being cute or sarcastic or forgiving. He really doesn't know what I'm talking about.

"All those things that I said you needed to confess, that you needed to feel guilty about – those were all things that – none of that is on you, Sam. You know? How could it be? How could it be your fault that you were soulless? How can I blame you for killing Lilith when that's what everybody – me and Bobby, heaven and hell – wanted you to do, what we told you to do?"

"Because I should've realized. I should've - " he sighs and rubs his face. He's tired. After hours of sleep, he's exhausted. "I should've done things differently."

"I shouldn't have broken in hell," I say and his eyes blaze at me and he starts to tell me how that's a pile of crap. I cut him off. "Should I? Shouldn't I have held on until Cas came to pull me out?"

"You didn't know Cas was coming."

"I knew Cas was coming just as much as you knew killing Lilith was the last seal."

"I didn't know," he emphasizes, for my sake not his.

"And I blamed you for it anyway," I say. "For a long time. And for a lot more than that that wasn't your fault. I never should've said any of that to you at the church. Just like Penny Markle was my fault, I was blaming you for things that I'm guilty of."

"No, Dean – no. How could any of it be your fault? It wasn't your fault I was soulless."

"Was it yours?"

Instead of answering that, he ventures onto safer ground, "Ruby was my fault."

"Was being soulless your fault?" I ask him again.

"It was my fault – my choice – that I was in hell…"

The evasions are pissing me off. "Was being soulless - "

"No. No, all right?" he barks at me. "Being soulless wasn't my fault. All right?"

"And still I blamed you for it."

"I didn't look for you in Purgatory," he says then.

"And I never tried to get you out of hell."

"No, you –"

"Read books. Yeah. Wow. I didn't answer my phone that whole year. I didn't talk to Bobby. I didn't talk to any other hunters. How much good did that do you? Do anybody? How were you supposed to look for me when you had no clue where I was? I knew where you were and I didn't try one damn thing to get you out."

"I didn't want you to try," Sam says, and he barely looks at me when he says it. "You were happy."

"Happy? You think I was happy, knowing where you were and what was happening to you?"

"You were safe." He opens the car door and evades me reaching out to stop him. "We should get inside."

So I follow him out of the car and through the front door and into the Bunker. He's slow and unsteady walking down the stairs and trying hard not to be and I keep a close watch on him until he's off the stairs.

And then I keep a closer watch on him when he doesn't have the stair rail to keep him upright anymore. But he doesn't move. He stands at the library archway and doesn't move another step. He looks around like he's never seen this place before.

Or maybe like he thought he'd never see it again.

"Sam?"

He twitches like I startled him, "I'm gonna take a shower," and starts his unsteady way to the bedroom hallway.

"I'll make you something to eat."

"No, I'm not – I can't – I'm – no."

I hear what he says and I watch him until he's down the steps to the bedrooms and I go to the kitchen anyway to make him something to eat. Clear soup and saltine crackers, I'm thinking. Something easy to keep down.

Something easy to clean up if it doesn't stay down.

Sam's shower lasts long enough that I'm just about to check if he fell asleep or passed out when I hear him going back to his room and I follow him there.

He's sitting on his bed, folded up like he kind of forgot how, dressed in clean clothes, with a blanket pulled across himself like he gave up halfway. He's got gauze and tape and he's doing a lousy job of rebandaging his hand.

"Hey, here – let me do that." I take the gauze and sit on the edge of his bed to get started. His hands are still shaking.

"I'm sorry," he says.

"You made a good start," I tell him. "I'll just take it from here."

"No – I'm sorry – what I said at the church. I'm sorry. I'm sorry what I said."

"You're apologizing to me?" I have to ask.

"Yeah. Yeah. I'm – yeah. I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"For – for that crap I told you at – at – at the church. About Cas and – and about Benny." He looks confused and contrite both at the same time. "I shouldn't have said – any of that. I'm sorry."

I sigh.

"Okay, you know what – you're suffering from blood loss and being thrown out a window and – and – everything, so," I keep bandaging his hand and needle marks and bite wound. "So, you have no clue what you're talking about."

"No – Dean – please."

"Please what, Sammy? Hunh? You wanna be sorry? Be sorry for – for – for – " Sam's looking at me like whatever I say, no matter what I say, he's going to immediately apologize for it. " – nothing. All right? There's nothing you need to be sorry for. You know? How could there be?"

I finish bandaging his hand and arm and I stand up. "I've got some soup and crackers for you, I'll be right back."

"Dean -"

"What?" I turn back and the look he's giving me – I know that look. He wants to argue, he needs to argue.

But he asks, "Is it in the kitchen?" because he knows I'm too tired to argue."I'll get it. You need a shower and some rest, too."

Yeah, I can hear hot water and a warm bed practically screaming my name, but not yet.

"As soon as you're set for the night. Or the day. Or whatever time it is. Let me get it for you."

But I'm not even to Sam's bedroom door and he's on his feet, following me, and when I stop to stop him, "Dude," he walks past me and heads to the kitchen.

"Take a shower, Dean. Get some sleep."

I follow him to the kitchen. He's barefoot, and even though the floors aren't cold, are never cold, I want to tell him to put socks on. He walks slow and unsteady, veering off the straight line and back again every few steps and I want to put his arm over my shoulder and help him back to his bed. His shoulders are hunched and he's holding his left arm close to his chest and I want to wrap a blanket around him and check him for fever and load him up with painkillers and antibiotics and ice cream.

But I bide my time and curb my impatience and follow him to the kitchen.

I tell him, "All right, take a seat, I'll get it for you," and he does what I ask without arguing. He sits slumped and silent, and slumped and silent he accepts the soup and crackers and painkillers and anitbiotics that I set in front of him.

"You gonna keep that down?" I ask when he's had a few mouthfuls of soup.

"Mmmm...you should eat, too."

"Mmmm..." I'd rather have a cheeseburger and a beer but the soup and crackers are right here right now so I join Sam in his midnight – midmorning, whatever – snack. And it's not a cheeseburger and beer but it makes me feel more alive than I've felt since –

"Hey – "

Sam looks up at me and when he looks up I realize that's the only reason I said it. His face has more color and his bloodshot eyes have less and he's sitting across from me when he could've been dead.

And I want to wrap a blanket around him and check to be sure his fever is really gone.

"You want more soup, some more crackers? Something else?"

"No, thanks. This is all I can handle. But – thanks."

We're both so tired we finish eating without any more talking and when I tell Sam it's time for bed and to leave the dishes, he does it with no argument. I follow him and his barefeet back down the hallway to his bedroom and I follow him into his bedroom and to his bed.

Sam picks up his blankets and pulls them apart, beginning an attempt at making his bed. "C'mon, man. I can put myself to bed," he says.

But I have to see him go to bed and go to sleep even if I don't know how to put it into words so I shrug and Sam shakes his head and shakes out the blankets which doesn't really accomplish much.

"You know," he says, with the blankets hanging from his hands and puddling around his feet. But that seems to be all he's got, too. He gets into bed and pulls the blankets over himself.

The argument is over but it's not finished, they're never finished, but they're never the important thing, are they?

I reach out to adjust the blankets and check him for the fever he thankfully doesn't have anymore.

"Yeah, I know."

The End.