Title: Beginner's Luck
Characters: Sam, Dean, Castiel
Genre: H/C, pure indulgent schmoop
Rating: T
Word Count: 6300+
Warnings/Spoilers: S9 spoilers, 99.999% definitely going to be AU after the finale. Also, my fics rarely have language warnings because I have some known underage readers, but it's next to impossible to write SPN without the same words used on the show. Be forewarned, please.

Summary: Fill for the birthday comment fic at LiveJournal's ohsam; the prompt was Give convalescent!Sam a house for his birthday. He can share it with Dean, Cas, Amelia, Jody, Kevin . . . just, not a car, not a family destiny batcave, but a house, one he'll get to keep.

Home interprets Heaven. Home is Heaven for beginners.
~Charles Henry Parkhurst

It all does end: not with a whimper, but with a pretty spectacular bang.

Sam really shouldn't be surprised; if the word Winchester was a website, then Doing the Impossible would be the tagline, and Dean would be the primary contributing editor. As a child, he had watched his brother perform the impossible on an almost weekly basis: somehow finding money for new sneakers and the odd field trip which his father never cared about. And as an adult, Sam had seen him rebuild an entirely totaled Impala, return from Hell, become his screwed-up mind's Stone Number One, follow him into Stull Cemetery knowing full well if and when Sam failed, he would likely become the first casualty in an inter-angel crossfire.

Now, it should not surprise him, but it does; his brother has always been close to superhuman, but nothing less than that Herculean effort will change the outcome of their penultimate battle tonight.

With Metatron having covered all entrances and exits to Heaven, they had focused their attention for the time being solely on ridding the world of Abaddon, the lesser evil. Under a brittle truce between brother, angel, and demon, they had finally succeeded in putting together a desperate plan. Crowley handed the blade over to Castiel, who refused to let Dean touch it until the trap was sprung. Abaddon knew well every security measure which prevented her from penetrating the Men of Letters bunker, and all it took was weakening a few sigils to give a Knight of Hell the power to breach the rest and enter, easier than passing through a Disneyland turnstile.

Unfortunately, neither Sam nor Dean had counted on Abaddon being able to banish an angel with a memorized Enochian spell neither of them had ever heard of, nor that she would willingly offer Dean the Blade after pinning Sam to the wall, helpless to alter the proceedings.

Sam is sure this is their final mistake, because every bit of research he's found on the Mark of Cain has only served to deepen his concern for his brother. The Mark draws its power from the soul; and with each flare of anger, hatred, desire to destroy, a little more of the bearer's soul is drained.

And the final act to seal the Mark as a permanent brand on the wearer's heart and soul? To commit the ultimate murder – that of a family member. Only then, would the Mark culminate the transformation from human to demon.

He remembers this now as he dangles a few inches off the floor, pinned in place by Abaddon with barely a look, as she becomes just another background noise of encouragement in his brother's head. Sam sees the humanity fade from his brother's eyes, leaving only bloodlust and pleasure in causing pain – and for just one second he knows the utter terror the souls in Hell must have felt when Dean Winchester climbed off the rack and began dishing out what he'd taken for three decades.

In that instant, Sam knows he is going to die.

There is no recognition in Dean's cold eyes as they sweep impassively over him, but Sam blinks in some surprise as they continue to the side, finally landing on the shelves over their steel sink. Abaddon had caught them in Dean's precious kitchen, which now resembles a war zone more than a cookery; it's a sad sort of poetic irony, that when this is over Dean will probably never want to step foot in here again after killing his baby brother next to the waffle iron. Sam tries to turn his head, but cannot, and wonders what Dean is staring at.

Then, so quickly Sam can't even follow the movement with his eyes, Dean whirls around in a perfect, deadly arc and brings the Blade slicing decisively through Abaddon's neck. Released, Sam falls to the floor almost on top of the rolling head, whose painted lips and eyes are now frozen in a rictus of complete shock.

Dean looks down at the blade in his hand, and slowly lets it drop to the floor with a dull clatter of bone. Castiel suddenly reappears, angel blade drawn, because spells die with their casters – but there is no need; Dean has done the impossible, and resisted the Mark's ultimate claim on his soul. One more time, they've told Destiny to go screw itself, and lived to tell the tale. Sam is speechless with awe at his brother's strength of mind.

And it is that strength which turns out to be what is killing him.

Cas is close enough to catch Dean when he collapses with a muffled moan of pain. Angry red lines, furious at being so thwarted by a mere human, are already beginning to streak from the brand on his arm down to his wrist, up to his shoulder. They pulsate and glow in a menacing burn of crimson that reminds Sam of Lucifer's flesh-melting touch in the Cage, and he is unsurprised to see that any first aid efforts are entirely useless against what is slowly draining his brother's mental and physical strength in the fifteen minutes since Abaddon's head rolled instead of his.

"It is the Mark rather than the addiction to the Blade, Sam, that is causing this," Cas explains tersely, as they settle Dean on one of the reclined chairs in the medical bay. "The bond between you and your brother broke the bond between Dean and the Blade. But the Curse of Cain is immortality, exiled from one's family. And refusing to perform the ultimate act to make the Mark permanent does break the curse of immortality – but then the second part, being exiled from his family, that is what will kill him, Sam, and very soon."

"Is there a way to get it off of him that I haven't been able to find?"

"Your research skills far surpass mine, therefore I doubt such a way exists. Certainly, there has never been explanation in Heaven's records save that it is a Mark created by Lucifer himself to create the First Demon."

Sam paces a tight circle around the medical bay, hands fisted distractedly in his hair. If it comes down to it, he could always try amputation, although the idea sickens him beyond belief, and he is well aware Dean would rather die than never be able to shoot a gun or drive with two hands again. Besides that, the burning poison has already spread to his brother's shoulder and there is no guarantee that amputation would even halt the spread.

Suddenly he pivots, and grabs the angel's arm. "Wait, angels are able to see souls in their true form, right? That's how you knew about me after the Cage."

Castiel nods slowly. "With full angelic powers, that is an accurate assessment."

"Then couldn't you…I don't know, find where the thing is rooted in his soul and…well…cut it out of him?"

The angel's expression tightens in what looks to be genuine grief. "Were I still in possession of my own grace, Sam, then yes, I could possibly do so, though at painful expense to your brother. You of all people should know, the agony of a fractured soul trying to mend itself. But this borrowed Grace is nearly burned out in my vessel, and I do not currently possess enough power to even make the attempt at such a delicate spiritual surgery."

Sam looks down at his brother, whose head is tossing uneasily from side to side as he mumbles feverishly on the small examination chair. The streaks of angry red are slowly working their way under the neck of Dean's t-shirt, up toward the brain and down toward the heart.

They are out of time, with no known way of fixing this. And despite the words spit at his brother in anger weeks ago, Sam has absolutely no intention of letting his brother die if there is anything – up to and including giving his own life – anything at all, that would save him.

But he is still a lawyer at heart, and adept at finding loopholes; there is one chance that might not cost him his own soul, which he knows would hurt Dean far more than allowing him to finally die with no do-overs. This particular idea is an unpleasant and even terrifying thought, and one he suspects may cost him dearly, possibly fatally.

However, in no universe does he want the last thing he said to his brother to be their actual 'last words.' Dean deserves better than that, and Sam has finally let go of his righteous and self-righteous anger in the prospect of losing the one person who has the power to hurt him so deeply in the first place. Love leaves no room for martyrdom, and besides, Dean isn't the only one who has made mistakes that leave gaping wounds in relationships.

He rummages in a drawer, and then turns back to Castiel, who is doing nothing more than staring down at his brother, eyes wide and glistening with sorrow, the first really deep emotion Sam has seen other than anger since Cas left them to seek out angel factions. Cas glances up, troubled, as Sam pushes the metal box and oversized syringe into his hands and then plants himself in the next chair.

"Sam, you could both die –"

"And that would be the least of our problems, Cas. Now add what's left of Gadreel to your grace, and try to save my brother," he says quietly, and only prays that the process will not kill him before he can say those last two words to the one who actually needs to hear them.

Judging from the amount of swearing bouncing over his head when he struggles back to consciousness however long it is later, it worked; or at least worked enough that Dean is now just thoroughly pissed off rather than dying of a fractured soul.

He cracks weary eyes open, noting the odd wavering of his vision that indicates a high fever. Squinting against the bald lights in the examination room, he takes stock of his surroundings and himself.

Glass shattering behind him; that would be Dean probably hurling the syringe down the stairs.

Five or six muttered Enochian monosyllables, which don't sound like very flattering terms.

So both Dean and Cas are alive and, probably literally in Dean's case, kicking. Good.

Now for his own state…

Yeah, he pretty much feels like crap.

"…'twork?" he mumbles, unsure if he's actually saying the words or just thinking them at this point, his brain seems to be so soupy.

Dean bites off a profanity mid-syllable and suddenly fills his vision – too close, wayyyy too close, ugh. Fever vision sucks, and he tries not to puke because, well, not cool.

"Sam? Sam, stay awake, okay? No no no, don't you close your eyes on me again or I swear to God I will kill you!"

Sam uses his remaining energy on a high-pitched wheeze of ironic laughter.

No, you won't.

It's not until his brother stumbles into the bedroom – wait, bedroom? – scrubbing wearily at his eyes with the hand not holding a mug of steaming coffee and complaining vociferously about friggin' Mondays, that Sam registers that it has apparently been nearly a week since he last regained some kind of lucidity.

That's probably why Castiel is staring at him with giant blue owl eyes, like he expects Sam to just wake up and die. And if the pain in his head is any indication, that hypothesis has some merit.

Dean unceremoniously boots Cas out of his awkwardly solicitous perch on Sam's bed – wait, the mattress is way too comfortable; Dean's bed then – and takes his seat, glaring daggers at Sam's head.

Sam only raises an eyebrow and makes feeble grabby hands at the coffee, which is held firmly out of his reach.

"Nuh-uh. Maybe later, if you keep a Gatorade down this morning."

"Deannnn…"

"I can send Cas to the store for Pedialyte if you'd rather, Tiger."

Sam scowls, though he knows the effect must be mitigated by his complete inability to so much as lift his head at the moment. Even his hair hurts, though he's not about to voice that observation as he does not want to wake up next time with a crew cut.

Dean sighs, sets the cup down on the bedside table; Sam sees it's the one he bought last year at a tacky souvenir shop while they were passing through Pigeon Forge on a hunt. Plain white, with giant blue lettering proudly proclaiming the owner as #1 Bro. He hasn't seen Dean drink out of that one since…well, since Gadreel split them apart with more ease and greater success than Lucifer and Michael ever had. Dean looks like he hasn't slept in a week. At least three days' worth of stubble peppers his face, and Sam has never seen him look so weary. Or so happy, not since before the Trials started.

"I saw that, Sam."

He glances back to his brother, who has also been staring at the mug. "S'what?"

"I saw that," Dean re-emphasizes, pointing at the mug. "When the Blade fused with me for the final time, man…all I could hear, all I could feel was this…desire to kill anything living in that room. And then I looked past you and saw that stupid dorky mug on the shelf over the stove."

Sam blinks, but then nods after a moment of consideration.

"You don't look surprised, bro."

Sam shrugs, as best he can while being buried under so many blankets (and do they even own this many? He's pretty sure the one on top was dug out of a dead guy's armoire in the West Wing). "'M not surprised."

"Come again?"

"The only thing that…broke Lucifer's hold on me, right before the Cage, was th'army-man in the back of the 'pala," he says with a small smile of remembrance, though he's aware that he is still dropping too many consonants to be participant in such a sensitive conversation. "'S fitting…somethin' like that'd work with Lucifer's Mark too."

Dean glances down, rolls up his green plaid sleeve to display nothing more than the shadow of a bruise on his forearm; the Mark is gone, and judging from the fact that Dean's hands no longer look like those of a struggling alcoholic…so are its effects.

"Cas somehow yanked it out of my soul, Sam. Hurt like hell for a few days, but at least it worked. Said I had you to thank for that, by the way. Even if I am gonna stab him with his own angel blade for lettin' you call the shots."

"I believe it is common knowledge among both our species that no one 'lets' Sam Winchester do anything, nor can he be stopped by earthly or unearthly means if he decides a course of action," a voice drones calmly from just out of sight in the hall.

"Humans think it's rude to eavesdrop, Cas!"

Sam grins, trying to stay awake long enough to figure out what kind of shape he's really in. He can move everything, including the foot Dean has no idea he's sitting on. The room has a nice soft glow to it now, which is either the fever or the drugs. "How bad's it?" he asks sleepily.

"You're not dying," Dean replies quickly, warm gratitude coloring the words. "No signs yet of internal hemorrhage, so if you start coughing up blood again we need to know right away, Sam. You're running a pretty nasty fever, and you weren't makin' much sense until yesterday morning, but it's not anywhere near what it was just before the Trials ended. Gadreel must have healed you enough and then his leftover grace fixed the worst of the cellular damage the last few weeks, is the only thing I can think of."

Huzzah for parasitic angel antibodies, he thinks sardonically.

"Basically…Cas said just before his grace ran out that once all the grace was extracted, it looked like you were completely reverting, but his last look inside you apparently saw it was just your immune system shutting down, not all your systems. So you're probably gonna get every virus in the entire world for the next year or so until it gets built back up."

"Awesome."

"This is serious, Sam." Dean's jaw tightens painfully, a vein throbbing rapidly in his neck. "People who have lack of immunity like this…they can die from a cold, or the flu, or a paper cut, or a freakin' bug bite, or anything."

Sam squints one eye open. "You been researching on WebMD again?" he asks mildly.

"Shut up."

Sam's lips curve up gently at the indignant denial. He tries to stay awake, because this is the longest they've talked without stabbing at each other in months…but his eyes flutter helplessly closed again as Dean's memory foam coaxes him deeper.

A hand pulls the patched comforter up tight against his chin. "Guess that means you're done talking, huh?"

He groggily snuggles into the warmth, mumbling a blissed-out Yup into his pillow.

A soft chuckle from over his head, and the clank of the coffee mug being reclaimed. "Get some sleep, Sam," floats lightly from the doorway just before he falls back asleep. "When you wake up next time, me and Cas have a surprise for y– Dammit, Cas! We have had the personal space talk!"

It's almost a month later that Sam finally feels well enough to stumble around on his own. Two weeks back, he'd relinquished Dean's bedroom for his own, and had gradually fought his way out from under the weakness that came from a sudden shift in health, mental and physical. His convalescence has been up and down. One day he will feel well enough to spend the day cataloguing the archives while Dean goes through boxes of relics and antique weapons with childish enthusiasm, and the next he will eat something innocuous that sets off a nuclear reaction in his stomach.

Apparently finally finishing off a whole bacon cheeseburger on this momentous day means he's graduated to a family road trip now, because he barely has registered Dean's ridiculous beaming over his culinary success before Cas is handing him a jacket and prodding him toward the garage.

They arrive at their destination quickly enough, and he turns in his seat to look at Dean as he switches the car off.

"Why are we coming back here?"

"Because –"

"Cas, we talked about this. Sur-pri-ses." Dean enunciates, glaring into the rearview mirror.

"Um…it's not really a surprise since I know what it is. I was there, remember?"

"Not gonna forget that creepy dude and his creepy zoo and his creepy witchy work anytime soon, Sammy. And what kind of moron names their kid Magnus, anyway? Here, heads-up."

Sam barely catches the bowl in time as it's flung at his head with alarming precision. He absently makes a mental note to figure out the proper name for a bowl (not a chalice, not a grail…what's a sacred bowl?) in which magic spells are cast, as he can't file the thing under an incorrect letter while he slowly turns the Men of Letters hard copies into a digital database. He's not even through Ap yet, but then he does enjoy a project.

Cas hands him the ingredients and then steps a safe distance away, as if not trusting the safety of three humans performing magic. (Probably last night's Harry Potter marathon didn't help with that, especially now that Cas actually gets pop culture references and is appalled at the parallels between great power and great betrayal). Sam casts him an odd look, even as he mixes what he needs and speaks the words which will reveal the entrance to Magnus's heavily warded house.

As before, the portal shimmers and then splits open, and despite the oddity of the situation he can't help but feel the same thrill as he did before when he performed such powerful magic by himself, not through any freaky psychic demon powers but simply through his own study and incantation. There is great power in words.

Behind him, Dean mutters something involving witches and stakes (or else sandwiches and shakes, which Sam thinks is equally possible) as he scoots through the opening before the portal closes behind them, locking them safely away from the world's eyes.

Sam stops so suddenly that Cas stumbles into his back with a startled little yelp that is adorably human. He blinks, looking around in astonishment, because the house is nothing like he remembers it being, almost disturbingly polished and uncomfortably elegant, accentuated in size and opulence by magic rather than taste. The difference makes his head spin, and not just because this is the longest he's been standing upright during the last five weeks.

The ornate décor has been taken down, the opulent carvings and carpets and tapestries vanished from the walls and floor. Simple, gleaming hardwood and soft beige carpet pair with chocolate and wood walls for a completely different look – and that's just in the foyer and hallways that he can see. Some of the furniture remains, like the old coat-stand by the door, but there have been new pieces added, like the half-table by the door, holding a small leather tray for key rings or mail. There is nothing on the walls, no personality to the rooms he can readily see. It looks…

It looks like a blank canvas.

He finishes his circular spin and comes to a slow stop in front of his brother, who is…who is actually, honest-to-Metatron fidgeting.

"What is this?" he asks, completely mystified. Has his brother moved on from trying to duplicate cooking shows to attempting the same with DIY home makeovers? "Dean?"

Dean shuffles from one foot to the other, waving a hand aimlessly in the air as if that's supposed to explain what they're doing here. Exasperated, Sam turns to Castiel. "Cas? Why are we remodeling Magnus's house?"

"We are not," the angel replies solemnly.

"Uh…"

"It's already been done, Sam," Dean blurts out, as if he wants to get the next few minutes over with as fast as humanly or inhumanly possible. "The zoo's gone, and wasn't that a fun job by the way; and the rest of it's been de-spelled and de-booby-trapped and de-creepified."

Sam is still just as bewildered as before. "And you did this because…"

Dean reaches behind him, pulls a small envelope from the tray on the half-table, and then flips it at him like a Frisbee intent on taking out his eyeball. Raising a brow, Sam slits the envelope and shakes out a single document. His law-trained eyes skim straight to the most pertinent information first, and when he realizes just what it says he can only stare at it in complete and total shock.

Dean must have seen his hands start to shake, because he steps forward and wraps his own fingers around Sam's icy ones, still holding the single sheet of paper.

"Dean, I don't understand," he whispers hoarsely, feeling oddly dizzy and not due to lingering illness.

"It's yours, Sam," his brother says quietly. His eyes dance up to the vaulted ceilings and back down again. "This place belonged to an ex-Man of Letters, and as a legacy it can legally be given to you. Not me, not us – it's in your name now, Sam."

He can't quite believe his ears, and he still doesn't know exactly what this means; they've not been communicating well of late (isn't that the understatement of the century), and he doesn't quite dare to get his hopes up just yet.

"Dean, I – I don't –"

"Sammy, listen to me." Dean bends his head slightly so they are level, and Sam can see the complete sincerity in his eyes. "This whole crapload of stuff we've had to deal with, since before the trials started killing you slow? It's gotta stop somewhere, before we get each other killed or kill each other," he says earnestly, his grip unyielding. "Sam, I want you out."

"What?"

"You've proven you can survive outside the life, and I – I actually get it now," Dean continues, tone tense with resolve. "You wanted out – you never really wanted back in, I know – and if that's what you want, then I promise I'm going to help you get out."

"But –"

Dean gives him a small smile. "Dude, you are not and never were a true hunter. Don't get me wrong, you're a damn good hunter and there's no one else – no one – I'd trust to have my back during a hunt. But we both know, you're a Man of Letters. Me? I was born to hunt. I'm good at it, I like it, it's who I am and all I know how to be. But not you, man. I wish these supergeeks had survived until we were born; maybe you could have found a place there and not have been forced into being a hunter."

Sam doesn't like the guilt in his brother's tone, because it is completely misplaced, but before he can voice a protest Dean continues.

"I'm not sayin' I don't want you hunting with me, or that I don't think you're capable, Sam. Hear me on that, okay? But Sammy, if you want out, partly or totally – I want to make sure you get out, while you can. While I can help you do it."

Sam's eyes burn, as the realization of what he's being offered really sinks in. Dean sees it and puts both hands on his shoulders, anchoring him to the present and, more importantly, this hope of a future.

"We've paid our dues, Sam. The world can owe us one – owe you more than one. I want you to get out, at least partway. Decorate this house, find friends to hang out with in town, date a string of ditzy girls and call me drunk to come pick you up because you're too wasted to remember the spell for this place. Plant a garden, take some classes at a community college, get a freakin' goldfish or something. Become a real Man of Letters.

Sam, you're the smartest person I've ever met, and you're the perfect guy to become the next Bobby now that Garth has his hands full of were-in-laws. You could be a way better info central for hunters than the old man ever was. If you want that, I'd love to have it. And if you want none of it – I'll be happy with that too."

He's finding it hard to stay steady on his feet, partly from feeling slightly ill and partly from giddy shock, as he finally hears what he's wished for, and steadily relinquished hope of ever hearing, for almost a quarter of a century.

"But Dean…" He swallows hard, because there's one thing he wants more than this, only one. "I don't want to –"

"He will not be alone, Sam," Castiel's deep voice cuts in gently. "I am but human now, and intend to become a human hunter. I am a soldier, Sam; I too was born to do battle, and it is what I know…all I know. Dean will not be alone."

Sam blinks back the tear that threatens to not just break his brother's no chick-flick moment policy, but salt and burn it afterwards. "Dean?"

"He's right, Sammy. And look, I'm not saying I don't want you hunting with me, okay? I'll probably be dragging you out of here more often than not, until we can get a hunter network actually up and running. And your room at the Bunker will always be yours. But it's only for emergencies, capiche? You stay up too late reading old encyclopedias and wanna crash there, that's cool. But this place – this is yours, Sam."

Dean smiles then, a real smile that makes him look ten years younger. "And I'm totally cool with that, long as you take the time you have to until you get your immune system back up and firin' on all cylinders, or at least to the point I don't have to worry about sneezing around you. And I expect you to live off of something other than mac-n-cheese and Chinese takeout, dude."

Sam laughs, really laughs, for the first time in what feels like years, and drops his eyes back to the deed he holds in his hands. He'd never even thought about dropping out halfway, being a Man of Letters and only sometimes actually hunting, because he didn't trust anyone else with Dean's safety – and, to be fair, Dean had never done anything but discourage him from even thinking that way. But having acquired an highly trained battle angel with intense combat skills, currently human or not, he might be able to relinquish that fear for his brother's occasional innate recklessness.

Dean seems to think they've sealed the deal, because he pulls the deed out of Sam's hand, passes it off to Castiel, and then gently tugs him into the first room. He follows, unresisting, but stops short with a soft catch of breath when he sees the desk and fireplace, and then the floor-to ceiling bookshelves lining three of the walls, a library ladder on wheels hooked to the end of the nearest set of shelves. This room had been a music room when Magnus was living here; now, it's the fantasy room Sam has always daydreamed about having in a house of his own.

"Dean… these aren't standard," he says, running a reverent hand along the warm, polished wood.

"Well, duh, they don't carry Yeti-sized bookshelves at Wal-Mart, dude. Y'think I didn't learn anything working construction for a year while you were running around soulless?"

"You made these," he observes in awe, staring up at the expanse of shelves just waiting to be filled. "Dean, they're beautiful."

He watches in fond amusement as his brother's complexion turns a My Little Pony shade of pink. "'S just a bunch of boards screwed together," Dean mutters, hastily tugging him out of the room and into the next, which is completely void of furniture or even décor except for a luxuriously thick rug on the floor in a peaceful sea blue hue. A few plush cushions dot the rug like tiny eggshell islands, and the sounds of the sea drift from a small iDock in a corner socket.

"And this idea comes to you from Heaven's lamest angel," Dean snarks, elbowing the angel in question.

Unruffled, Castiel explains to Sam, "I thought perhaps, you should have a place to…meditate, or whatever is your human preference for reaching a peaceful state of mind and body. I have found that complete silence and quiet colors aid in my own meditation. And we both know what hides in the depths of your mind and soul, Sam; there is no shame in trying various methods until you find the one which brings you peace."

Warmth fills him at the candid but so true words, from the only other person he knows who has made so many mistakes that they sometimes haunt him at all hours of the day or night.

"Thanks, Cas," he says softly.

The Grand Tour continues, with commentary by turns amusing (annnd this is the room where I will beat your ass at pool, Sammy), heart-wrenching (took all the doors off the closets in your bedroom, 'cause I know you hate closed spaces), nonsensical (you know some sucker bought that ugly-ass painting on eBay for $2,000?), and just plain stupid (your face is a Sasquatch-sized tub, Sam). Sam has never felt so overwhelmed in his entire life, and by the end of the tour his brain is already racing away with how he intends to convert a few of the rooms into his own contribution to the Men of Letters legacy – a spellwork lab, maybe a conservatory where he can grow the herbs they use so often in rituals.

Oh, and a guest bedroom with a 48-inch TV and surround-sound, so Dean has more of an incentive to sleep over at nights for Game of Thrones marathons.

Finally they end up back at the start, in the nondescript foyer and hallways that are waiting quietly for him to bring their lives into existence.

"Dean, seriously…I'm speechless. Do you really mean this?"

There is no levity in his brother's voice as he nods, firmly meeting Sam's eyes. "Completely, Sam. Whatever you choose, do it for you, because you've spent three decades having other people make decisions for you. It's time, little brother. We both knew someday things would change; we're lucky we're both alive for it to happen."

Castiel suddenly reappears from somewhere (Sam didn't even see him wander away) carrying a fairly large box loosely sealed with a thin strip of masking tape. He sets it down with care in front of Sam, who crouches down for a curious look at the scribbling on top.

"The house is because you deserve it, Sam," his brother's voice washes warmly over him. "This is because a Knight of Hell gate-crashed your birthday."

"And speaking of Hell –"

"Cas!"

"I apologize." Blue eyes dart around shiftily. "The human concept of enjoying a lack of precognitive knowledge is one I have not yet mastered."

Sam is completely and totally lost at this point, and so he ignores his bickering family and eagerly yanks the lid off the box.

And if he didn't want to stick around this awesome house so much, he might've melted into a six-foot-four puddle right on the spot. As it stands, he rests his arms on the edge of the box, chin propped on the topmost one, and grins from ear to ear as the small puppy inside growls and jumps at him, not even coming close to the top of the box's high sides.

"Sam, you might want to –"

Sam scrambles backward with a startled squeak he will deny until the day he dies, because the tiny puppy suddenly unleashes four-inch claws and rakes as many gouges in the corrugated cardboard. One black eye peeks out of the gaping holes in the side of the box, and then Sam is treated to a very self-satisfied doggy grin.

"The hell kind of dog is that?" Sam peers warily over the top of the shredded box, and extends a much more careful hand, which passes the sniff test.

"As much as we are able to tell from Magnus's acquisition and breeding records, this adolescent canine is half German Shepherd, half Hellhound," Castiel explains calmly.

"HALF HELLHOUND?"

"Sam, chill," Dean drawls. Personally he thinks the whole thing is hilarious, but the circumstances for this particular gift are not, and his tone darkens accordingly. "Magnus had all kinds of sick experiments going on in that zoo, dude. He was breeding animals with monsters…even humans with monsters, although any we saw were already dead."

Sam swallows down a knot of sickness at the thought of what twisted experiments the creatures had to have endured at the man's hands.

"This little guy, though…" Dean nudges the side of the box with his shoe, and grins as the pup snarls a fiercely tiny warning and pokes a threatening claw through the cardboard.

Sam looks down at the puppy, heart clenching. "Dean, he's…he's at least part monster," he says sadly, reaching down to cautiously scratch the dog's head.

His brother is crouched beside him before he even finishes the sentence. Dean's stronger hand covers Sam's where it rests on the dog's small head. "Sam. He is not a monster."

"Dean, he's got hellhound blood, probably hellhound instincts…"

"And having hellhound blood doesn't make him a monster, Sammy. What I see here, is a little guy that's been put through Hell, but came out the other side still willing to give this god-awful world a chance."

Sam doesn't dare look up, because he is well aware they're not talking about the dog anymore, and he doesn't want Dean to see the effect his words are having, after so long doing their dead level best to make each other hurt in the wake of their latest tragic mistake.

"And he just needs – he deserves, a family to love him the way he is, not the way someone else thinks he should be. Who he is now, not what he might have been in the past." Green eyes slide his direction, slightly embarrassed but warm and genuine all the same.

Sam can't brush the tear away before it falls on top of their hands, but he nods silently, letting his hair obscure the emotion on his face before it embarrasses his brother, who has extended this enormous olive branch Sam is well aware he doesn't deserve. And for a few quiet moments, broken only by a low whine from the puppy below, they let the silence heal old wounds that have never quite scarred over completely.

Then the pup sneezes and promptly sets the box on fire.

A few seconds later, Sam sits on the floor cuddling the 'fire-sneezing' dog and laughing his head off as Dean frantically tries to teach Cas how to use a fire extinguisher before the expensive sprinkler system kicks in and drenches the new hardwood.

It's the end of an era.

.

.

Or is it just the beginning?