Over the next few weeks, Sam keeps taking out his phone and getting halfway through dialing Dean's number before stopping himself; every time he checks his email, he opens a draft, types Dean's address in the "to" bar, and stares at it for a while before deleting it. Dean will call him if he wants to talk. On the other hand, Sam is well aware that, despite the fact that it's Dean's turn to make a move, Dean is probably telling himself that Sam is the one who needs to initiate contact.
Amelia sees Sam struggling and arranges her schedule so she's home when he is as much as possible, asking him to watch Netflix with her, read to her, would he like to sign up for a cooking class with her?
It's been a long time since Sam has felt so loved.
He gets a call from Garth one day. "Hey, Sam, first of all, I have to say, I sure am glad you're OK. What with you and Dean disappearin' at the same time all the Levis lost their get up and go, none of us were sure what happened to you. Anyway, it took some convincing before they said I could call you, but I just thought you should know the Trans are all right."
"Really? That's great to hear, Garth."
"Ain't the fanciest accommodations, but it's safer than houses and warded up the wazoo."
"Thanks, Garth."
"Hey, Sam?"
"Yeah?"
"For what it's worth, there's nothing wrong with what you did as far as I can see. Sometimes we just need to take care of ourselves, and that's not a crime."
"You've talked to Dean, haven't you?"
"Nope, just Kevin. Why?"
"No reason. Forget I said anything."
"OK, hombre."
Sam chuckles. "Talk to you later, Garth."
"You bet."
Sam breathes a deep sigh of relief, then decides he finally has an adequate reason to give in to his desire to call Dean.
The phone goes to voicemail. "This is Dean, leave me a message."
"Hey, it's, uh, it's Sam. I just thought I'd make sure you knew that the Trans are safe. I put them in contact with Garth, and he's got them set up in a safe house or something. I don't know the details. Anyway, that's all. I hope you're OK."
He leaves the voicemail on all Dean's phones that he still has the numbers to, trying to convince himself that it's just to make sure Dean gets it, and not because he's hoping Dean will eventually pick up. All he gets in response is a text from Dean's main phone: "message received so quit calling." Well, at least he's alive and kicking enough to be annoyed.
Sam is shocked when, a few weeks after that, Cas shows up.
"Hello, Sam," Cas says in his straightforward way when Sam answers the door. Sam is suddenly very, very grateful that Amelia is out with friends.
"Cas? But . . . Dean said . . . well, not much, actually, before . . ."
"Yes, I am aware of your fight. I do not believe a day has gone by without Dean mentioning it, and although he constantly reassures Benny and I that he will no longer talk about it, he has yet to keep that promise. May I come in?"
"Oh. Yeah, of course," Sam says, opening the door and leading Cas to the couch. "Who's Benny?"
"The vampire who helped Dean escape Purgatory. I believe you and he would get along. He is a good man who overcame his nature and ceased drinking live humans before being killed by his own kind and sent to purgatory. He seems to be able to keep some of your brother's worst tendencies in check."
So someone else was . . . Sam can't quite halt the train of thought before it hits - in his place.
"OK, so Dean's hunting with a vampire. And you?"
"I am with them, at least for now. Though I expect Dean will insist I leave when he learns what I have done."
"And what's that?"
Cas reaches into his coat and removes something wrapped in cloth. He pulls back one of the layers, revealing a tablet. "We were recently able to retrieve the demon tablet from Crowley. I believe we should get it to Kevin, who is its rightful keeper. Dean insists that we only do so if Kevin agrees to collaborate with us and keep us informed of his location and activities."
Sam grimaces. Yeah, that sounds like Dean. "So, why bring it to me instead of straight to Kevin?"
"I tried to find the prophet, but wherever he is seems to be warded against angels. We cannot find him, either."
Rock on, Garth. "So, you want me to pass it along?"
"If you would be willing."
"Sure thing, Cas," Sam says, reaching out to accept the tablet.
"Thank you," Cas says, and is gone with a flutter of wings.
"One more time," Amelia says, arms folded.
"There's this kid, Kevin who got involved in some of the same stuff my brother and I did."
"Which you won't tell me the details of because you think I'll think you're crazy."
"Right. So there's this thing that will help him do something important, and some very bad people had it, but Dean and his friends just got it back."
"But Dean's being a stubborn jackass and playing the 'my way or the highway' card."
"Yeah. So, since I know how to get ahold of the guy who knows where Kevin is, our friend Cas brought me the thing to pass on to Kevin."
"Which is why you need to leave right now to go to a sketchy-sounding meet-up and you won't be back for a couple of days."
"That's it in a nutshell."
"Remind me again how you managed to be surprised that I thought you were creepy back when we were first getting to know each other?"
Sam smiles, kisses her swiftly, and finishes packing.
Garth's safehouse, it turns out, isn't so much a house as it is a boat. Sam chuckles when he sees the name, remembering Garth's oddly effective sock puppet.
Garth greets him with a hug and a smile. Sam wonders whether the hat Garth wears is a genuine Bobby or just an excellent imitation.
"Come on in," Garth says. "They're eager and waiting."
Sam raises his eyebrows.
"Not everyone holds a grudge the way Dean does," Garth says.
Sam blinks.
The interior is much nicer than the outside suggests, and Sam suspects it's mostly Linda's doing.
"Sam, this is Linda, Linda, Sam. Sam and Kevin, you two already know each other, of course," Garth says by way of introduction.
Linda and Sam shake hands. "Thanks for the tip about witches," she says, her grip firm. "From everything I've learned, you really saved our bacon."
"You're welcome," Sam says. "This place looks great."
"All things considered," she adds, arching an eyebrow.
Sam smiles, relaxing a little, and she winks.
"Hey, Sam," Kevin says, approaching. "I hear you have something for me?"
Sam pulls the wrapped tablet out of his bag and passes it to Kevin. "Listen, Kevin-"
"Water under the bridge, dude," Kevin interrupts.
"Seriously?"
Kevin looks up at him then, really looks at him, and what he asks isn't what Sam expected. "Is it true you got out? That you have a dog and a house and a girlfriend and a normal job that involves no monsters at all?"
"Uh, yeah. Yeah, that's . . . but Kevin, I should've-"
"No, man. I mean, I hated you for a while, but if you got out, even after everything, then that means I can get out. So stay for dinner, sleep in whatever motel you checked into, and go home to your normal life so I can keep thinking it's actually possible."
Sam looks at Kevin, really seeing him for the first time. The poor kid is so much like him: he didn't ask for this, it was put on him, and all he wants is out. But he's got his mom, and Sam suspects that a woman who can jump into this world, hide from demons, figure out how to put an (admittedly ill-advised) ad for a witch on Craigslist, and get a crappy boat to feel this homey is more than a match for whatever tries to get between her son and the life he wants.
"Can do," Sam tells him. "But you gotta promise me you'll try not to obsess, OK? Because believe me, no matter how good and important your goal is, tunnel vision gets you nowhere good."
It's Linda who answers. "Don't worry. My son is getting out of this alive, human, and functional, and with helping close down Hell forever as a feather in his cap."
Sam raises his eyebrows, and Kevin shrugs helplessly. Sam grins.
Kevin will be fine.
A couple months later, Cas arrives at the door. Amelia is home this time.
"Sam, you need to come. Dean is asking for you."
He can hear it in Cas' voice: something is wrong. "Why? What happened?"
Cas glances past Sam to Amelia, who is watching them, brow furrowed. Sam shoots her an apologetic look and follows Cas outside.
"The spell to close the gates of Hell involves a series of trials, which Dean has undertaken. He is about to begin the third and final one, and he wishes to see you before he does."
Cold dread washes over Sam. "Cas, these trials: what happens when Dean finishes them?"
Cas avoids his eyes. "Cas!"
"Dean will die. If he completes this trial, the gates of Hell will close, sealing every demon inside forever, and Dean will die."
Sam closes his eyes, fighting nausea. "And does Dean know this?" he asks, opening his eyes to watch Cas carefully.
"Yes. He knew when he agreed to undertake the trials. He has been rather . . . emphatic about one life in exchange for all those that will be saved being more than worth the exchange. It has not been easy. The trials are more than just tasks. They have weakened Dean physically, made him ill, forced him to reflect on his life and his choices. He has changed, Sam."
Sam can't tell from the way Cas describes it whether that's a good thing or a bad thing, but he knows one thing without doubt: Dean is going to die, and he wants to see Sam before he does. More than that: he doesn't actually think that Sam is so far gone that he would deny Dean such a request.
"Do you know how long this trial is supposed to take?" he asks Cas.
"Eight hours from start to finish. I do not know how long Dean will wish to talk to you before he begins."
"Right. Let me tell Amelia and pack a few things, then we can go."
"I want to come with you," she says when he tells her he needs to go see Dean for a couple of days.
"Amelia—"
"I'm tired of being out of the loop on all this cloak and dagger stuff. We decided to be in this together, Sam, but ever since your brother showed up, it hasn't felt like that. And don't feed me any bullshit about it being for my own safety or how I'll think you're crazy or something. I saw your brother, I see your weird trench coat friend. I want to come, and I want to be there for you."
Sam stares at her, and thinks about how much better it will be to face this with her, to finally be able to come clean. And yeah, there's a chance she'll run screaming, but he really doubts it: Amelia isn't the type.
"OK," he tells her. "Pack what you need for a couple of days. I'll check with Cas that it's OK to bring Riot, too."
"And that there's enough room in the car," she calls after him. Sam grimaces. He doesn't think that's going to be a problem with their mode of transport.
"I don't like it," Cas objects.
"Tough," Sam says, folding his arms.
"This is not an ideal situation for introducing someone to the supernatural."
"Right, because ideal situations actually exist."
"Sam—"
"This isn't up for debate, Cas."
Cas sighs. "Fine. But I expect you to deal with the consequences."
"Not a problem."
Amelia emerges from the bedroom with Riot on his leash. "Everything OK?" she asks.
"Yep," Sam tells her.
"So, we should load up the car, right?"
"About that," Sam starts, but Cas reaches out and touches their foreheads before Sam can finish preparing Amelia for angelic teleportation.
"What the hell?" she gasps, looking around. They're outside, next to a deserted road near what, based on the lights in the distance, appears to be a small town. Sam puts a supportive hand under her elbow.
"Cas is an angel. He just teleported us to—where are we, Cas?"
"Lebanon, Kansas, just outside the Men of Letters bunker that your brother and Kevin have made their base of operations. Follow me."
"I'm sorry, did you say angel?" Amelia demands as they follow Cas through a door built into the hill by the road.
"Yeah," Sam says, suppressing his own questions so he can answer some of Amelia's as they pause in a dimly-lit entryway. "Basically, nearly everything you've ever heard stories about going bump in the night is real or based on something real, and so are angels and demons. There are people out there, hunters, who know what they are and how to fight them. That's what Dean and I were raised to be, what we were. I never really wanted to be a part of it, but when I was a kid I didn't have a choice, and then once I got back in after leaving Stanford, what with one thing and another I never felt like I had other options then, either."
"My God, no wonder you were worried I'd think you were nuts."
"Yeah, especially since . . . you know what, never mind. That's a story for later."
"Bet there's a lot of those. So who are the Men of Letters and why do they have a bunker?"
"No idea. Cas?"
"They were an organization devoted to the study of the supernatural. They saw themselves as detached observers, rationally chronicling the parts of the world most people did not believe in." Cas goes on to recount his and Dean's discovery of the organization, which apparently involved time travel, a Knight of Hell, and Sam and Dean's paternal grandfather.
"I'd say from the look on your face that that's nuts even by your standards," Amelia says when Cas finishes.
"Yeah," Sam replies weakly.
"We should go in," Cas points out. "I'm sure Linda and Kevin will be willing to answer whatever other questions Amelia has, and Sam, you should go see Dean."
"Yeah, OK. Lead the way, Cas."
They go down a short hallway, then come out onto a landing overlooking a large room.
"Wow," says Sam.
"Yes, it is impressive. I believe you would enjoy the trove of information and lore to be found here," Cas replies. Sam isn't sure how to respond to that.
They follow Cas down the stairs and deeper into the bunker, towards what is clearly a library. Kevin and Linda are seated at one of the tables.
"You're back!" Kevin says, jumping up. "Hey, Sam."
"Hey, Kevin. How are you?"
"Can't complain, especially considering . . ." he trails off.
Right. Because Dean is . . . fuck.
"Is that Amelia?" Kevin asks.
"Yeah. Amelia, this is Kevin and Linda, his mom."
"Hello," Linda greets, standing as well. "I'm guessing you're new to all this?" she says to Amelia.
"Yeah, I found out angels were real like two minutes ago when trenchcoat here touched my forehead and I was outside this bunker instead of in my living room."
"Well, have a seat and we'll answer all the questions we can. Dean's in his room," she directs at Cas. "Benny's with him."
"Thank you," he says. Sam looks at Amelia, about to ask if she's OK, but she glares at him and makes a shooing motion, so he turns quickly to follow Cas.
They go down a hallway lined with doors, stopping at one of them. Cas knocks lightly, and a big bearded man comes out.
"Well now, you must be Sam," he says in a soft southern drawl, holding out his hand.
"And you're Benny," Sam says, shaking the proffered hand.
"Guilty as charged. Now, I don't know how much Cas has told you, but you need to be prepared. Dean, well, he's different. And I gotta say, when it comes to his attitude it's definitely an improvement, but . . . he ain't in good shape. We're all used to it, more or less, but you haven't seen him since before he started the trials, so just know that what you see really is what passes for normal for him these days."
"And you . . . you're on board with this? Him finishing the trials?" Sam asks.
Benny cocks his head, scrutinizing Sam. "It's his life, and he's doin' what he's doin' with open eyes. From what I've seen, he ain't wrong about it bein' worth the sacrifice. Do I wish it weren't my friend? Sure. But honestly, he needed to find some purpose or other. Part of me thinks maybe him goin' out this way is for the best."
"What do you mean?"
"He's been pretty messed up since you had your fight. Personally I think he was near completely in the wrong when it comes to you, but he was also sufferin'. Truth is, I'm not sure he knows who he is in this world if he ain't huntin' with you. Not sayin' it's healthy, just that it is. But he got some of his sparkle back once he started these trials, 'cause at least he knew what he was doin' and why he was doin' it, know what I mean?"
"Yeah," Sam says, feeling sick. "Listen, Benny, thank you. Thank you for having his back and . . . being there for him when I wasn't. I should've—"
"Oh, now, don't you start too. Especially not before you hear what your brother wants to tell you." Sam's brow furrows in confusion. "You'll see. Now get on in there."
Sam opens the door and steps inside. Dean is propped up in a bed, wrapped in several blankets. Sam can't help but stare: Dean's skin is an unhealthy pallor, his eyes are bloodshot and red-rimmed, and his face is thinner than Sam's ever seen it. Benny wasn't kidding. And this was normal? What the hell were these trials doing to Dean? Well, besides . . . oh, right.
"Hey, Sammy," Dean says softly from the bed.
"Hey, Dean." Sam continues to hover by the door, not sure whether he should approach.
"Come sit," Dean says, indicating the chair by the bed. Sam does. "They bring you up to speed?"
"More or less. Men of Letters, huh?"
"Yeah. Wish you could've met Henry; you would've liked him. Add him to the list of reasons I'm doin' this, you know?"
"Yeah," Sam says, suddenly reminded of how he'd been thinking about things when he was preparing for the final, and he had believed fatal, run at Lilith. "Dean—"
"Sam—" Dean starts at the same time. "No, Sammy, you gotta let me go first this time." He's looking into Sam's eyes, an earnest, pleading expression on his face, and Sam thinks that right now he'll do anything, absolutely anything, Dean asks.
"Yeah, sure. Whatever you want."
Dean chuckles, then coughs and quickly grabs a tissue from the box on his nightstand. There's blood on it when he finally lowers it from his mouth after the coughing fit ends.
"Jesus," Sam mutters.
"Yeah, I'm a hot mess," Dean says with a grin.
"That's one way of putting it."
"Anyway, Sammy, I've been doing a lot of thinking. I don't know if it's part of the trials, or just me having too much time to think about what you said or what. But I want you to know I'm sorry. For what I said, how I treated you. Not just last time we saw each other, either. I just . . . I haven't done so good at really listening to you, you know? Really letting you be you. And I'm sorry for that, and I wanted to make sure you knew."
Who are you and what have you done with my brother is what Sam thinks. "Wow, Dean. I . . . I don't know what to say. That means a lot, man," is what he says.
"Hey, how about only one of us break the chick flick moments rule at a time, OK?" Dean quips.
"Dude, you're on your fucking death bed. The chick flick ship has sailed."
"No, man, it's not the same thing. I'm dying heroically, fighting the good fight, blaze of glory. This is a war movie, not a chick flick."
And just like that the banter is over, because their lives as a war movie is a little too on the nose for joking as far as Sam is concerned.
"So you're really OK with this? With . . . what's going to happen?"
"Yeah, man. You're not gonna try to stop me, are you?"
Sam smiles sadly. "No. It should be your choice. If this is what you want, then . . ." he blinks back tears. "Dammit, Dean, how many times am I gonna have to mourn you?"
The words slip out before he can stop them. He's not sure how to interpret Dean's expression, but before he can open his mouth to apologize, Dean says, "Sorry doesn't really begin to cut it with what I've put you through, does it? I kept secrets, I made that deal and made you go through the same shit I went through when Dad made his, I didn't trust you, I pushed you away. I've been, like, the world's shittiest brother a good half the time, haven't I? And now I'm gonna leave you all alone again."
"Dean, where is all this coming from?" Sam asks in bewilderment.
"Man, I told you, I've had way too much time to think lately. And, well, I have to, uh, purify myself for this last trial. Like, confession. So I guess I've been thinking about my sins, and the more I thought about it, the more all the ways I've done wrong by you moved up to the top of the list. And I know I always told you and told myself that I was doing it to protect you, but I'm not so sure anymore. I think maybe I was, I don't know, trying to protect what I thought you were supposed to be instead of what you actually are. Talk about shitty of me."
"Dean," Sam says softly.
"Don't try to make me feel better just 'cause I'm dyin', Sammy."
Sam can't stop the tears this time, and one of them falls onto Dean's hand, lying on top of the blankets. Dean grabs a tissue and dabs awkwardly at Sam's face.
"Hey now, little brother. My choice, remember? Damn, I wish I'd learned to understand how important that was, like, forever ago."
Sam smiles through his tears. "Better late than never, jackass."
Dean smirks back at him.
Sam rolls his eyes but lets it go. "So tell me about these trials; Cas didn't give me the details of what they were."
"Typical, leaving out how fucking awesome I am."
Sam rolls his eyes, and Dean launches into an account of killing a hellhound and sneaking into Hell though a back door in Purgatory.
"Dude," is all Sam can think to say when Dean finishes.
"Right?"
"So what's the third trial?"
"To cure a demon."
Sam blinks. "Wait, as in—?"
"Make one human again, yeah. Turns out these Men of Letters geeks figured out how to do it, too, so at the end of the day old grandpa Winchester had pretty good timing, giving me the keys to the kingdom when he did."
That little part of Sam that still, even after everything, wants to believe in a higher power working for the greater good perks up, but he shoves it down because it isn't going to help at the moment.
"So, what, you just nabbed a random demon and you're going to make it human again?"
"Not exactly. We actually had a volunteer."
"What? Who?"
"Meg."
"No way."
"I shit you not. Turns out Crowley's been having her tortured nearly non-stop since he nabbed her at Sucrocorp. She wants revenge, and she isn't keen on getting shut up in Hell with him. She's waiting in the dungeon—which we have, by the way—for the party to start."
"Wow."
"Yeah, I know."
"So, how does this cure work?"
Dean tells him.
"Holy shit."
Dean shrugs.
"So, uh, when are you going to start?" Sam asks, not knowing what else to say.
"Well, I was pretty much just waiting to talk to you before getting the show on the road, so . . ."
"So this is it."
"Yeah, I guess so."
They sit in silence for a moment.
"Would you believe I've never done the 'forgive me Father' thing before?" Dean says eventually.
"Yes."
"Shut up."
Sam grins, but then he thinks of something and his smile fades. "Do you . . . do you want . . . help?"
Dean avoids his eyes. "Actually I was wondering if maybe . . . can I confess, you know, to you?"
"I'm not a priest, Dean."
"Yeah, but you're the best person I know. And I think for this one it's more about the act of confession itself—or at least I think that's the bullshit Cas was going on about, I tuned him out once he really got going."
Sam shakes his head in fond exasperation. "Yeah, OK. So, is this happening right now, or—?"
"Uh, yeah, sure, might as well get on with it."
Sam swallows. "OK, but first I want to give you something. Well, technically give it back." He reaches into his pocket, glad he followed his whim to bring it with him, and pulls out the amulet Dean threw away after their disastrous trip to Heaven.
"Jesus, Sammy. Did you . . . did you fish that out of the garbage?" Dean asks, and Sam notices tears building in Dean's eyes.
He shrugs. "Yeah. I guess I hoped that someday you'd want it back, or that I'd want to give it back to you, and, I don't know. Maybe now it's both?" he asks, holding it out.
"Yeah, definitely both, though I definitely don't deserve it," Dean says, cupping the strange little figure. Sam lets go of the string, dropping it into Dean's hand.
"You said sorry, and you want me to hear your confession and—" Sam clears his throat. And you're about to die hangs between them.
"If it's good enough for you, it's good enough for me," Dean says, and slips the amulet over his head. "So, you want to teach me how to do this all formal, or should I just start listing sins?"
"Which do you want to do?"
"Hey, you're talking to the guy who bought a Spongebob placemat for a seance, remember?"
"Oh my God."
"Language, Sammy."
"Start confessing before I take it out of your ass."
"Like you could."
"Dude, I'm pretty sure a five-year-old could take you right now."
"Whatever."
They both stare at each other, and Sam wonders how much it matters, really, everything that's ever been wrong between them. No, that's not it: he knows it matters. It's just . . . his brother. His stupid asshole brother who always, always greets death with a shit-eating grin. Sam finds himself remembering singing along to Bon Jovi in the Impala several lifetimes ago. He blinks back more tears.
They lock eyes, and Dean begins his confession.
Sam walks with Dean to the dungeon, where everything he needs is laid out and ready. Meg is sprawled in a chair in the middle of a devil's trap.
"Hey boys. Ready to make me a real girl?"
"That's the plan," Dean tells her, and takes the first of the sterile syringes laid out for him and draws blood from his arm. Meg tilts her head to expose her neck, and Dean pushes the needle in probably more forcefully than strictly necessary.
"That tickles," Meg says as he steps back.
"One down, seven to go," Dean tells her. He and Sam walk out to the library to tell the others that it's started.
Amelia locks eyes with Sam as soon as they get there, and he can tell that they told her what the consequences of the final trial are. He knows she sees the redness of his eyes, and whatever his other tells are that let her know he isn't all right. He shrugs minutely, trying to tell her without words that it is what it is.
"It's the final countdown!" Dean sings, breaking the tension.
"Dude," Sam and Kevin groan at the same time.
"My last night on earth, my rules," Dean says.
Cas cocks his head. "Does this mean you will be pursuing sexual intercourse? Because I think that might mar the requisite sanctity."
There is a moment of silence, and then everyone starts laughing at once. Sam restrains himself to a brief chuckle, mostly for Cas' sake, but Benny and Dean are both bent double and wiping at their eyes. But then Dean starts coughing, and the laughter ceases as quickly as it began while Linda quickly gets Dean a tissue.
It's a strange night. In the hours between injections, they sit in the library, sometimes in silence, sometimes talking quietly. Dean apologizes to Amelia for thinking badly of her and asks her about her life. As the night progresses, the hours in the library somehow morph into a kind of reminiscence, with everyone taking it in turn to share stories, all of which happen to feature Dean. Benny is the best story teller, but Sam has the best stories, and he brings out as many funny or embarrassing ones as he can.
And every hour, Sam goes with Dean to administer the injections. For the first several, Meg is her usual cocky, snarky self. But at the sixth hour, something changes.
"I'm sorry," she says as they turn to go. They both turn back.
"Come again?" Dean says.
"I'm sorry," she repeats. "For what I've done to you both over the years. Killing your friends, possessing Sam, kidnapping your dad, all of it. I'm sorry. Do you think . . . do you think there's any hope for me? Once my human life is over? Or will I just go back to hell and become a demon all over again?"
She looks sad and desperate, and she's been an ally for a while now, and Sam can't help the wave of compassion that washes through him.
"I guess there's only one way to find out," Dean says impassively, and turns to leave again. Sam wonders what he's thinking, but does not ask.
The final two hours slide by. "I'll see you all on the other side," Dean says. "And it better be later rather than sooner." He shakes hands with Amelia, Linda, and Kevin, and hugs Benny and Cas. Sam, as at every previous hour, accompanies him to the dungeon.
They pause just outside the door. "Sorry I'm a jackass," Dean says, trying to smile.
"Fuck you," Sam says, and pulls him into a hug. Eventually they break apart, and Sam follows Dean in, standing behind him as he says the modified exorcism. When Dean slices into his palm, Sam sees the glowing power; he doesn't try to stop the tears that flow freely down his face as Dean puts his palm to Meg's lips and she drinks. The brothers watch as she convulses, gripping the edge of her chair. The light glowing in Dean's arms grows brighter and spreads to his entire body. Sam grips his shoulders firmly in one final act of support and solidarity.
There is a great crack like thunder, Meg slumps in her chair, and the light streams out of Dean and away. Dean collapses against Sam, who gently lowers him to the floor, where he cradles Dean's head in his lap, stroking Dean's hair with one hand and checking for a pulse with the other. He finds none. His brother is gone.
It's over.
Sam is only vaguely aware of Meg coming to, getting up, and quietly leaving the room. He thinks maybe he'll just sit here forever, holding Dean's body. Sounds like a good plan.
He's not sure how much time passes before Amelia comes in with Riot and sits down next to him without a word, rubbing his back. Riot sniffs curiously at Dean's corpse and whines softly.
Amelia and Riot. Right. That's why he isn't going to sit on the floor with his brother's body for the rest of his life. He has a life with Amelia and Riot in a small town in Texas.
It's when he accepts that, some time soon, he will have to get up off the floor, have to take care of Dean's body, that the tears come. Great wracking sobs that bend him double, tears dripping onto Dean's face. How many times am I gonna have to mourn you? he'd asked. The answer is both "once" and "infinite," because he will never finish this mourning, never finish missing his brother; that's not how it works with them.
Except that a woman who understands grief, the way it rears up to swallow you whole just when you think you're finally past it, is rubbing his back and not saying a word, and a dog who is his is licking his hand, and Ashley who lives across the street is thinking about applying to Stanford, and Everett's dad is almost done with his treatments, and he's turning into a decent cook and . . .
Maybe this time will be different.