It was done. Three times over, it was done.
The kiss. Sam's eyes opening, filling with spirit that was all his own, dragged down from that Hunter Heaven in the sky. The Hellmouth closed and John Winchester's soul free.
Three times done.
Dean lay in bed, watching Sam from beneath his eyelashes. He didn't want him out of his sight—wanted to replace the memories of his lifeless body on that table to the man pacing the hotel room now, muttering at his cell phone.
"Be nice if she gave Ted a freaking phone so I could freaking get in touch with her when she's doing freaking who knows what!"
Dean pulled the blanket higher over his shoulder. "Probably just need to chill, Sam."
"Chill?" Sam brushed his hair out of his eyes so he could better glare at Dean. "My girlfriend thinks I'm dead and I have no way of telling her I'm not!"
"That just – you're making it sound worse than it really is."
"Worse than it really is? What the hell, Dean! She's one of two who could get you out of this deal!"
Dean sat up then. "Sam, I told you already. Just stop. I knew what was happening when I got into in the first place. You keep talking like this, they won't wait for the one year mark to drag me to hell."
Dean frowned at Sam. He had his too-determined-for-his-own-good face on. He held up a warning finger. "No stopping this train, Sammy. Please."
Sam pressed his lips tightly together and turned away. His shoulders shrunk inward. "I just want to get ahold of Hermione."
She'll be here when you're gone, said a part of him, the only tiny sliver in his body that he could ever label unselfish.
"Well," Dean said, raising his hand to rub his scalp. He hated admitting this. He didn't want to see Sammy's face when he did. "Um. I may have pointed a gun at her and told her to leave for good when you were…"
Sam turned around. Clenched his jaw. Then he raised his face to the ceiling and shook his head.
"OK, well I'll just wait for her to read my texts." He sat down in a huff and pulled his laptop toward him. "All twelve dozen of them."
Dean adjusted his pillow under his head and stared at the ceiling. The tap-tap-tap of keys on the keyboard reminded him of rain on an old tin roof.
His hands shook, even under his head.
One year. One year to fix everything. To prepare Sammy.
He closed his eyes.
Before he fell asleep, he heard Sam's phone ring.
fin.