Rumors of my Death
K Hanna Korossy

Dean Winchester pulled the Toyota to the side of the dirt road and peered through the windshield at the house down the hill. The Impala was parked in front of it, and the knot in his gut loosened. It had been a while since he'd been here, but the place was as close to a childhood home as he'd ever had, and it would be eternally, sentimentally familiar. Especially now that its owner was gone, killed in the vicious sweep of loved ones the demon and its "kids" had perpetuated a few months before.

Dean wasn't thinking about Jim just then, though, or Caleb, or even their dad. His mind was on the one other survivor of the massacre, the only person left he still cared about. The one, oh, God, he hoped he was about to finally find.

He put the car into park and pocketed the keys, unable to stop the momentary moue of distaste. A Toyota. Talk about adding insult to injury. He had to track his little brother down just so he could ride in something decent again. Although, if he could get Sam back only without the Impala, he'd never complain. Well, not really.

Dean glanced at the cane on the seat beside him, weighing the benefits of sympathy points versus freaking Sam out, and finally decided to leave it. He could move all right without it, just limped a little harder and moved slower. After more than six weeks, he could stand a few minutes more. There was nothing else to take, nothing he had except for borrowed clothes and a borrowed car, so with that settled, Dean swung the door open and got out.

The Minnesota air was clean and heavy with frost. It was starting to get dark, and Dean knew that despite the calendar's claim it was spring, glistening ice would limn everything in sight the next morning. He probably should get his cane…but he wanted to go and couldn't wait anymore. Buoyed by anticipation and need, he set off down the hill at an almost normal pace, favoring his left leg as he walked.

Sammy. God, his heart ached to see the kid again. He had to be here. The car was here. The smoke plume that one day on the satellite image. And Dean had no place else left to look.

His bad leg almost buckled as his gait unconsciously picked up, and Dean made himself slow down. Falling down the hill wasn't exactly the first impression he wanted to make. Besides, his lungs were still a little iffy and already he was panting from the strain. Just…one step at a time. That was what they'd always said at the hospital. That was what he'd told himself, too, as he'd spent the last two weeks, when he was finally strong enough and conscious long enough, to start looking. One step at a time. Eliminate each place Sam wasn't, starting with the West Virginia hospital, until Dean found where he was.

Man, he was starting to sound like friggin' Yoda.

But, please, he had to be here.

Dean reached the bottom of the hill, and there was his baby in all her shining black glory. There was no sign of the dirt road on her, her paint job gleaming even in the twilight. Dean slowed a step to run a reverent hand down her side, give her a pat on the grill. A lump lodged in his throat at the sight of his car, the duffel bag in the back seat, the tape sticking out of the tape deck. He'd wished, wanted, needed, hoped. But he hadn't quite believed until that moment. The cold metal under his palm, he looked up at the house and swallowed, then kept going. No looking back.

The porch sagged a little more than he remembered, but it matched his awkward step as he pulled himself up the wooden railing. Quietly, because, even injured, he was a hunter. And then he was at the door.

Dean stood and stared at it, something in him reaching past the wood and glass to see if he could sense anyone beyond it, trying to brace himself for possible disappointment. But his heart was pounding, his mouth was dry, and thoughts and memories crowded his head. He couldn't think beyond desperate desire as he raised a hand to knock.

The door was flung open before his knuckles even connected.

Sam.

And a shotgun. Pointed at Dean.

He wanted to say something clever and light. Had even practiced a few things on the way. But all that came out now was a croaked, "Sam."

His brother's heartfelt response: "Christo."

Dean's eyebrows warily rose. "Okay, not exactly the warm welcome I was expecting…"

"Shut up." The shotgun hadn't wavered, but the face behind it had. Already thin and tight, it pinched a little harder at the eyes and mouth. It almost didn't even look like Sam, and for a second Dean thought maybe he was wrong, maybe Sammy was the one who'd died and come back different. Then he realized why. Sam had never looked at him like that before. Not even in Rockford Asylum, because even then through all the hate, he'd known it was Dean.

"Sam," he tried again, gentler this time. "It's me, dude. I'm not dead."

"I said, shut up." The shotgun poked his chest once hard for punctuation, making Dean wince. Still-healing ribs and chest muscles protested the treatment. But his brain had gone silent, uncertain. He'd expected some disbelief, but then hugging, maybe some tears. He would've even put up with some clinging. Heck, he might have even originated some. But not…this.

Dean eased his stance so he stood hipshot, taking the weight off his bad leg. Okay, ball was in Sam's court. He'd wait for his brother to make up his mind how he wanted to play it. Just another few minutes, right?

Sam's hand, the one not poised on the trigger, lowered and reached into his pocket. Dean watched with weary patience as his brother pulled out a flask. Holy water, he was guessing, and screwed his eyes shut when he got a faceful. All he needed now was salt in his eyes.

Rock salt followed, a handful dug out of another pocket.

Dean grimaced. "Anything else you want to try now? Sanctified oil? Hyssop? Maybe a camcorder, 'case I'm a shapeshifter? It's me, man—you know me."

Sam didn't answer, face hard and unyielding. Which was also weird, because usually the kid broadcast his every emotion like a freakin' radio. Of course, he was hunting right now, and he could be as fierce a hunter as John Winchester would ever have wished him to be. Especially when his brother was at stake. He had that in common with Dean.

Then Dean glanced up into his eyes, and felt the full force of six weeks crash down on him.

Because Sam's eyes were empty. Not wounded or enraged or brimming with tears. Blank. Like he was the one who wasn't the real deal here.

Like something inside him had overloaded and shut down.

"Sammy," Dean murmured.

"Step inside," came the curt command, and Sam backed up slowly, gun never wavering.

Dean hesitated, then obeyed. His leg hadn't liked standing so long and hitched as he moved, and Dean saw his brother's eyes flick down to acknowledge the limp, then swing up again, unaffected.

"Keep going."

Dean had lifted his hands a little away from his sides, unthreatening. Having a gun on him always made him twitchy, made him reflexively tense and want to reach for the gun at his back, but there was neither gun nor reflex today. It was just him and Sam, and if he couldn't get his brother to lose the Stepford look and believein him, the gun wouldn't matter.

Dean took two more steps in, fully inside the living room now. And for the first time, Dean saw the shotgun wobble a little, lower ever so slightly. Frowning, he looked down, then up, back.

Ah.

He smiled at Sam. "Devil's trap—not bad, little brother. Got one painted over the back door, too?"

Sam was suddenly moving, and if Dean hadn't been slowed by old injuries and new drugs, he might have put up a defense. Then again, considering it was Sam, probably not. Instead, he just flinched when the hunting knife that had swiftly replaced the shotgun slashed across the back of his arm, above his wrist. Blood immediately welled and started to drip from the shallow cut.

Which was probably the point. Shapeshifter skin tore, and revenants didn't bleed.

His brother was staring at the cut, eyes wide in a pale face. The knife slipped to the ground without either of them reacting to the thud; Dean had other concerns right now. Like the very real possibility his taller and heavier brother was about to pass out, with Dean in no shape to catch him.

He pressed his bloodied arm against his leg and lifted the other to skim just over Sam's hand. "It's okay," he said quietly. "It's okay, it's me. Really."

"Dean?" The cold forcefulness was gone, the one word hoarse and hurt and Dean's little brother now instead of John's son. And when his eyes lifted to Dean's, they were far from empty.

"Sammy," he whispered again, because this he recognized. Sam was wired into him more deeply than hunting or saving people, and that look, that grieving and lost expression, Dean knew by heart and reacted to by reflex. He raised his arm a little higher, tacitly inviting.

And Sam folded, face crumpling, body sagging, until he took up far less space than he had a moment before. He should have just fit under Dean's chin, his bowed shoulders under Dean's arm.

Instead, somehow Dean ended up in the crushing hold, his nose bumping against a collarbone and his hand clamped around the flannel at Sam's waist and his leg finally giving up to tip him completely against his brother, who took the weight like it was nothing. Sam silently buried his face in Dean's hair and just held on, his grip so tight, it hurt a little.

They stood there so long that Dean's right leg buckled, too, and he swayed when Sam finally started to pull back. Hands instantly fisted in his shirt and jacket and practically lifted him the few steps to the couch, the same way Dean remembered lifting his baby brother away whenever Sammy got too near the guns or the stove. The role reversal might have twinged if not for the look on Sam's face. He still needed his big brother, taller and stronger and healthier or not. And Dean needed to be needed.

Those big hands eased him down on the couch, dug out a handkerchief to wrap with care around his bleeding arm, and patted his chest very gently. And then Sam, still bright-eyed and too quiet, turned away and strode out the front door.

Dean groaned, head tipping back against the couch. Figured. Nothing was easy with Sam when it came to emotions. They'd hugged, maybe even sniffled a little because, hey, six weeks, not sure the other was alive: they were entitled. Now Dean was ready to move on. Sam, Sam was just ready for round two. Probably the guilt round.

Then again, an hour before—and the last four weeks—he would have taken Sam back on any terms at all. If this was the cost, a little estrogen-soaked conversation, Dean would pay and be grateful for it. The memory of the alternative was still too fresh in his mind.

With a sigh, he slowly pushed himself to his feet, using the couch arm and coffee table as props. Wishing for the first time he'd brought his cane with him, Dean shuffled out after his errant little brother.

Sam hadn't gone far, at least, hands spread against the hood of the Impala, head hanging below his shoulders. Still waters ran deep in the guy, and Dean wasn't sure he wanted to know what his brother was thinking. It didn't slow him down in the least.

The stairs were harder going down than up, and he winced with each step. With Sam's back to him, Dean allowed himself a slightly more uneven walk, an occasional flicker of pain. He kept it out of his voice, though, when he spoke.

"At least you took care of the car."

Sam, surprisingly, laughed. Unsurprisingly, the sound was about the least reassuring thing Dean had ever heard. "I almost trashed it. You swore you'd haunt me if…"

Dean cursed silently, but forced the continued light tone. "Man, tell me you didn't wax it."

"I've had a lot of time on my hands, Dean."

The quiet bitterness of that jammed another lump into his throat, and one in his gut for good measure.

Sam turned back. "What happened? I mean…I left you hurt back there, didn't I?" He gave an unfunny chuckle. "You needed me and I took off again."

Okay, fine. You show me yours and I'll show you mine. He could do that. "I don't remember much," Dean said honestly. "Checking out the cave, not finding the bones, but I think I met some kind of homeless guy or something. Next thing I know, I'm waking up in the hospital and it's two weeks later and my leg's in a cast up to my ass, and people are looking at me like I'm the Second Coming or something. They said someone found me by the road. I tried to call you soon as I could, but…" He shrugged.

"I broke my phone," Sam murmured. "They found a body, Dean. It took three days and a bulldozer to dig it out. There wasn't much left, just, uh… I threw the phone at the wall."

He was flinching from the memory, but the tiny motion pulled him even farther away from Dean, and Dean couldn't tolerate the distance just then. He hobbled forward a little more until he could lean against the car beside Sam, hands crossed nonchalantly over his chest, breath visible in the air.

"Here." Sam reached up to slip something from around his neck and over Dean's head. He drew back a little to see it but already knew what it was. And why Sam had been so sure he was gone.

Another piece of his life back. Dean clasped a hand around the cool metal of the amulet, felt the Impala at his back, Sam at his side. It was everything he could have asked for.

Except Sam wasn't back yet, not completely, and he was the only one that truly mattered.

"Must've found a back entrance to the mine."

"Yeah, I guess." Sam chewed on his lip, glanced sideways at him. "Your leg?"

Dean shrugged. "That got it the worst—guess I got it caught in the rockfall. Tib-fib break. Got a few pins put in—they took off the cast Monday. It's fine, Sam, I just need to work it, get it back up to speed."

"What else?" Sam asked quietly.

Another shrug; he knew Sam needed to know, knew just as well this wasn't really important. "Concussion, broken ribs, internal injuries."

Sam shrank a little more next to him. "God…Dean…"

"You didn't know, Sam. I know you wouldn't have left if you knew."

And he did. The realization had surprised him in the hospital, that he trusted Sam in a way he hadn't before their dad had died. For better or for worse—and Dean had his doubts sometimes which it was—they were in this together now until the end, or until they decided it was the end. Sam had just thought that time had come a lot sooner than it did.

Dean took a breath. "So, you quit hunting?" In a way, he was glad to find Sam at Pastor Jim's. They'd mistakenly thought the other dead a few times over the years, and Dean remembered too well the broken feeling in himself, the broken look in his brother's eyes. One time, Sam had gone over a week thinking Dean was gone before he could find his brother and set him straight, and the younger Winchester had nearly gotten himself killed by then, hunting with reckless abandon. Dean had feared the same this time, especially with Sam's recent mistrust of himself and desperate reliance on Dean to keep him good. No one on the hunter's circuit had seen Sam in the last month, so Dean had clung to hope he'd just holed up somewhere to clear his head. He'd had to make too many decisions based on loss already. Dean would have been grateful if Sam had thought about what he wanted to do this time.

Sam shifted a little against the car, hands buried deep in his sweatshirt pockets. "Sort of. I kept going for a while after— But I wasn't hunting, I was killing, so I just…I don't know, turned off, I guess. Took what I thought was your body home to Mom and then…headed north."

Dean cringed. Yeah, another reason never to go see their mom's grave, with his own right there next to it. And…so not the point right now. "You put something nice on my headstone?" he couldn't help ask with a bare smile.

He instantly regretted it when Sam threw him an anguished look. Right, unsteady ground still. He should have known better.

"Sorry," Dean murmured, brushing his shoulder against his brother's.

Sam's brow had drawn up, like he was trying to figure out a puzzle, his nose wrinkling. "Dean," he said low and tremulously, "I thought you were dead. I buried you, man. And you almost died because I gave up on you."

"You didn't give up on me," Dean protested quickly. "Sam, I never thought that, okay?" Not when he'd started thinking clearly, anyway. Those first few days, knowing only that he was badly hurt and alone… Well, the less said and thought about them, the better. "You were grieving—nothing wrong with that. Things were pretty messed up on both our ends."

"God, I missed you, you jerk," Sam whispered, glancing over at him and trying to smile. It didn't work so well with the brimming eyes.

Dean tilted a little more heavily into him, needing the warmth. "Yeah. Me, too," he quietly admitted. Then reached up and hooked an arm over the ridiculously tall shoulders, pulling them down so that this time Sam was tucked against him. And he did fit just fine, slumped against Dean like he had no strength left. Which was cool, because Dean had strength to spare for this.

"Hugging's not too girly for you?" Sam asked thickly against his jacket.

"Dude, this isn't hugging, it's manly embracing. Dad did it, too, remember?"

"Good, 'cause…I think I might bawl on you while I'm at it."

Dean rolled his eyes, and held on a little tighter. "One-time free pass, Sammy. After tonight, it never happened."

Sam's laugh was more like a sob, and then he just shook soundlessly in Dean's grasp. But no way were those tears that were blurring Dean's vision. He was just tired. He'd been tired for weeks.

Now, he could finally stop and rest.

They leaned against each other a long time in silence and growing darkness. Dean didn't move, letting the car take his and Sam's weight, until a very tired but oddly content voice muttered from somewhere below his chin, "I gave your stuff away."

"Uh-huh," he said dryly, and hitched his shoulder to bump Sam. "I saw the bag in the back seat already, doofus."

"Your tapes?" Hopefully.

"Yeah, you know you love my music. Actually, I just came back for my car."

"I love you, too."

He reached up to swat the back of his brother's head, and smiled at the weary chuckle he got in response. Then winced as he shifted and muscles all along his leg and back protested. "Don't want to rain on the party or anything, Sammy, but my leg's about to give out here. Think we can take this inside?"

Sam instantly straightened. "God, Dean, I'm sorry—you okay? And, man, your arm… Come on, let's get you off your feet." There was a familiar warm concern in his eyes now instead of the emptiness or pain of before. All that worry about him had rankled in the months after Dad had died, even as Dean had clung to it. But now it was just a relief to see it again.

"I'm fine. Quit hovering." Dean shook his head; sometimes Sam forgot who the older brother was. But then, maybe he needed this, too, a chance to help fix imagined hurts. And some real ones. It felt better than Dean could say to lean on someone again, just a little. "I've got a cane in the car," he added absently. Maybe he should have brought it. He could smack Sam with it whenever his brother got that guilty look in his eye.

"What car?" Sam's head swiveled as they walked back toward the house.

"Toyota. Burgundy. Up the hill." His leg reallyhadn't cared for the combo of lengthy standing and taking his hulking brother's weight. Dean winced with each step.

Sam was shaking again. It took Dean a second to realize it was with laughter. "A Toyota?"

"Yeah, well…somebody took my car," Dean grumbled. He swore, it hadn't been this far to the porch before.

"You hotwire it?"

That brought him up short. "Uh, borrowed it, actually." A quick glance at Sam. "Funny, the friends you can make at a hospital when you're there for a few weeks by yourself."

He was half-expecting the guilty look again, but they couldn't tiptoe around this and each other all the time. What he didn't expect was Sam's quiet smile.

"What?" Dean asked suspiciously.

"You made friends, dude?" But it wasn't mocking. It was…relieved. Happy for him.

Yeah, sometimes he forgot how much Sam worried about him, too. Not so much a big brother thing as a brother thing.

Dean just shrugged. He wasn't about to tell Sam how he'd asked the nurses to call everyone he knew as soon as he could talk, how his quest to track Sam down had become the whole floor's, how Ash had received a case of beer for hacking into satellite feed to look for a black Impala every place Dean could think to check, or how Dean had checked himself out AMA as soon as he saw the Impala parked at Jim's place. Not yet, anyway.

Sam's arm slid around his waist, silently taking more of his weight and steadying him. And just like that, they were back, their lives slipping into balance again. The inevitable nightmares, Dad's cryptic warning, the unknown future, it could all wait.

Dean just got home.

The End