A/N: Well, I said I wasn't going to write this - absolutely-not-no-way-Jose-not-gonna-do-it - and now here I am with Chapter One. I'm such a losechester. Anywho, lots of warnings here. Spoilers abound for the entire series, all the way through the finale of S5. It will be rated M in later chapters for sexual content, including both Wincest and Dean/Cas pairings. For those who like to be surprised, I won't spoil by giving away the final pairing. But, for those who don't want to waste time reading a pairing they hate (and trust me, I totally understand that), just shoot me an email and I'll give you the lowdown.

Disclaimer: I do not own. Please don't sue. I have their best interests (getting laid, staying alive) at heart.

Lisa leaves him six months and fourteen days after he watches his brother throw himself into the pit. More accurately, she hands him his duffle and a card for the nearest rehab, tear-filled eyes hooded and resigned. Ben is spending the night with one of his soccer buddies, and Dean is desperate with the need to say goodbye, even though he knows this is probably all for the best.

He hugs Lisa hard, and she cries on his shoulder, and he can't help but think of the night he showed up on her doorstep, broken and beat down with a single phrase playing on endless repeat in his head: Keep your promise, Dean. Keep your fucking promise.

He tells her he's sorry, and he is. She accepts the apology and then looks at him with such pity it's almost easy for him to beat a quick retreat out the door. He fumbles with the keys to the Impala, too drunk to drive, too embarrassed to ask to stay one more night. Instead, he drives slow, both hands on the wheel, creeping out of the cul-de-sac and onto the main road whispering prayers he knows no one will hear.

There's a bar on the corner of the county line road, and he pulls into the parking lot, resting his forehead against the steering wheel until the world stops spinning. He takes a long pull from the flask inside his jacket - the flask that used to hold his holy water, back when the world was ending - and winces at the burn.

Inside, he picks a fight with the first douche bag popped-collar college boy he comes across, and winds up with a fat lip and a possible civil suit for his trouble. The rush of adrenaline sobers him up enough to haul ass before the cops show, and he hightails it for the state line.

There's another bar, a rough-looking roadhouse situated a mile or so off the highway. Dean's been here once before, when he and Sam were passing through a few years back, and it's as good a place as any. There's a motel nearby, and while it ain't the Hilton, he figures it'll do well enough for a night or two.

He orders a beer and a shot of Jack, and though the bleach-blonde bartender gives him the stinkeye, she serves him quick enough when he pulls out a wad of cash. It's twenty minutes to last call, and Dean figures he can kill three, maybe four more beers and at least a couple more shots between now and then.

He's pulling out his wallet again when he sees a rustle of movement out of the corner of his eye. Someone sits down at the barstool next to him, and Dean thinks that's really kinda shitty, seeing as there isn't a single other person at the bar. Annoyed, Dean leans away from the stranger, keeping his gaze fixed firmly on the lacquered wood grain of the bar.

"Two Buds, two shots of Jack," the man at the bar says, and Dean chances a quick sideways glance, catching his breath when he sees shaggy dark hair and a stupid Carhart jacket. He looks away, dizzy from the booze and the breakdown of his whole fucking life, and wonders if he'll be able to walk when he pushes himself off the barstool.

Before he can slide off the vinyl seat and skulk away into the night, the stranger beside him has shoved a shot glass and a beer in his direction.

"No thanks," he says roughly, noticing for the first time that his hands are clenched around the edge of the bar, fingers bloodless and white. "Cuttin' myself off, man."

There's a dark chuckle from the stranger, and Dean blinks slowly, trying to place the sound. It's familiar. Soothing, almost.

"Doesn't look like you've cut yourself off for a long time now," the stranger says.

"Yeah, well, I guess I'm ready to clean up my act."

"Are you, Dean?"

Dean whips his head around, sucking in a gasp as the room tilts and spins dangerously. He rights himself, bracing against the bar for balance, and finds himself looking into a pair of eyes that he knows even better than his own.

"Dean," Sam says, hand closing around Dean's, a worried look on his face.

"Great," Dean says with a laugh. "So on top of it all, I'm going fucking crazy, too."

"Dean, you aren't crazy -"

"No? I watched you, Sammy. I watched you throw yourself into hell and get sealed up in a brimstone locker for all eternity. So you're tellin' me that seeing you here now, sitting in a bar in Bumfuck Egypt, buyin' me a beer is not the definition of fucking crazy?"

The man wearing Sam's face frowns, eyebrows knit together in concern. Dean almost laughs at the absurdity of it all, and then he starts to cry. He doesn't want to be crazy. He doesn't want to be a drunk, and he doesn't want to have to look at Sam's fucking face when he knows he can never have him back.

"Dean, hey. Hey, man, c'mon…"

Sam's arms are around him them, and goddamn it all , he feels so fuckin' real. Dean shudders and pushes the man away, scrubbing a hand over his eyes as though he might be able to wish away any glamour or illusion being worked on him.

"Go away," he says, but his voice is weak and his words slurred. He suddenly feels very tired, and all he wants is to sleep. Tomorrow, he thinks to himself. Tomorrow he'll check himself into that place on the card Lisa gave him. He'll talk to someone, a doctor or something, and he'll get himself straightened out.

He doesn't stop to think that he's in a bar in the middle of nowhere. He doesn't consider the fact that he's all alone in the world and he's slowly but surely losing his goddamn mind. He merely puts his head down on the bar, closes his eyes, and ignores the hand on his arm as the blackness rushes up to meet him.

*oOo*

"Morning, sunshine."

Dean sits bolt upright, then slaps a hand against his forehead, reeling as the headache seems to split his cranium in two. There's a ringing in his ears, and for one brief, hysterical moment, he wonders if there's an angel in the room with him.

Then he remembers the night before, the fight with Lisa, and the man who looked like Sam. A terrible weight sinks into the pit of his stomach, and he cracks open an eyelid, looking over at the chair in the corner.

Sam is sitting in it, plain as day, hair damp and clean, wearing a fruity button-down with a pink paisley pattern. Dean's mouth is open and a ready insult almost leaves his lips. Then he realizes he's officially gone cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs, because he's mostly sober now and it's broad daylight and he still sees Sam.

"You wanna get cleaned up first, or do you wanna talk?" Sam asks, and Dean looks down, realizing for the first time he's in a motel bed, sheets tangled around his legs, his duffle resting beside him.

He looks up, eyes narrowed suspiciously. "How'd I get here?"

"I brought you. Wasn't exactly easy. You gained weight?"

"Who the fuck are you?"

Sam's half-smile slips. "You know who I am."

"Do I? Thought you were spending eternity working on your suntan by the lake of fire. So what, Lucifer? Hijacking my brother wasn't enough for you? Had to come back and rub it in my face?"

"Dean, that's not -"

"Isn't it? You said yourself that I'm not crazy. Way I figure it, if I've still got all my marbles, and you're really here, that means some demon dick busted you out of the big house, and you're hear to complete the Winchester set."

Sam looks down, fingers twisting in his lap in a way that is entirely too human for Dean's liking.

"It's not Lucifer, Dean. It's me." He looks up then, eyes wide and beseeching. "It's Sam."

Dean stares at him for a moment, swallowing down the little burst of hope that flames to life in his belly.

"No," he says firmly, clenching his jaw.

"I know it's hard to believe -"

"What? That my baby brother has been brought back to life for the second time? That you caged Satan and they just let you walk?"

"It wasn't exactly like that…"

"What then? You save the planet and you get a heavenly redo?"

Sam shrugs. "Something like that, I guess."

Dean looks at him incredulously. "You really expect me to buy that load of crap?"

Sam's nostrils flare, and a little part of Dean wants to cry when he pulls out the bitchface.

"Look, Dean. All I can tell you is what I know, which isn't much. I fell down the rabbit hole and before I know it, I get yanked back out. I don't know who did it, or why. All I know is my body's back here on earth, and Lucifer is still locked up tight."

Dean sits back, shoulders relaxing a fraction, though he still doesn't dare let himself believe. "And Michael?" he asks, crossing his arms over his chest.

"I don't know. Still in there with Lucifer, I guess. I didn't… I looked around for a while, thinking maybe they brought back Adam, too. But I didn't… I never found him."

"Why should I believe you?"

"I don't know, Dean. Look, I didn't expect you to come running into my arms or anything. I just… if you need to douse me in holy water, or start chanting Latin, rub me down with garlic… whatever you need to do to convince yourself I'm real and I'm really human, I don't care."

Dean gives him once last look before reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out his cell phone.

"Who are you calling?"

"Bobby. Whatever you are, he needs to be in on this."

Dean glances up just in time to see the pained look flit across Sam's face.

"Dean, I - Lucifer… he killed Bobby."

Dean nods. "Yeah."

"And Cas."

"Yep."

"But then, how -"

"Guess Lucifer's no match for the big guy's mojo. He brought Cas back and then Cas healed Bobby."

Sam's eyebrows shoot to the top of his forehead. "So then Cas -"

"Back in full-on angel mode," Dean confirms, pressing the speed dial. He listens to Bobby's voicemail, frowning as he clicks the off button. He stares at the phone a minute, wishing he still had a direct line to Castiel, when he hears a soft snuffling noise coming from the corner. He looks up, and his heart jumps into his throat. Sam - or whoever he is - is crying, huge wracking sobs that shake his entire body.

"Thank God," he whispers brokenly, swiping a hand over his eyes. "I thought I - I thought…"

"Don't get too excited yet there, princess. We might have stopped the apocalypse, but it isn't all sunshine and roses. We still haven't gotten Bobby's soul back from Crowley, and Cas has been AWOL for the last six months."

"Where -"

"Working his way up the corporate ladder, I guess. Whipping the heavenly host into shape. Who the fuck knows?" Dean looks away, the old anger over Castiel's disappearance resurging inside him. He's pushed it down these last couple months, almost managed to forget about it - at least on the good days - but now here it is, back and fiercer than ever.

"Dean," Sam says, and something in his tone catches Dean's attention. "How can I prove to you it's really me?"

Dean swallows past the burn in his throat, shrugging a shoulder in the careless way he's perfected after months of hiding his torment. "I don't think you can, man. Sam's gone. I watched it happen. So either I'm completely loony tunes, or you aren't what you seem to be."

"Those the only options?"

Dean snorts derisively. "What else is there?"

Sam reaches into the front pocket of his jacket and slowly pulls something out. Dean's heart slams against his chest, then seems to come to a complete stop. The room is dead silent, and Dean thinks it must be a trick, even though he's already up and moving across the room.

"How did you -?" he whispers, dropping to his knees in front of Sam, looking up at him in wonder and fear.

Sam smiles gently, sadly. "I picked it up out of the trash can. You were already out the door, and I couldn't let you just leave it." He dangles the amulet in front of Dean's face. It's a little tarnished, a little worse for wear maybe, but still the same as ever. A rush of memories tumbles through Dean's brain, and it's all he can do not to reach out and take it, reach out and touch Sam.

"I meant to give it to you… before…" Sam goes on. "But there was never a good time. And then there was no time at all. Worth it, though," he says with a small smile, "to be able to give it to you in person, now."

"Sam," Dean says in a strangled voice. "It can't -"

"It can," Sam says, dropping the amulet over Dean's head and straightening it against his chest. The touch sends a spark through Dean, even through his t-shirt, and before he knows what he's doing, his arms are around Sam's legs, his face pressed into Sam's lap, and he's crying out all the long months of horror and loneliness.

Sam's hand is in his hair, and he's muttering soothing nonsense as he leans his face down close to Dean's ear. They stay like that for what feels like an eternity, and Dean says a silent prayer of gratitude to whoever made it possible. Good or evil, he doesn't care, because he's got his Sammy back and finally, finally, the world is starting to make sense again.

He's jarred out of the moment by the loud ringing of his cell phone, and he crawls over to the bed, sniffling and embarrassed. It's Bobby. He holds the phone up and points to the caller ID.

Sam nods. "Answer it," he says. "We've got a lot to talk about."