MAGNIFICENT SEVEN

It felt a bit cheap, to give Dean a chance to… do whatever he was doing with those two redhead women, as an atonement for him giving up his soul for Sam's life.

It wasn't exactly as linear as that, but in that right moment, while Sam was alone in the Impala, it certainly felt like that. It felt like everything that Sam could possibly do to make Dean's… last year… as easier as he could, would always be too little, too pathetic when compared to what Dean had done for him.

Surrendering to the gesture that had become a compulsion ever since he'd found out about Dean's deal, Sam picked up the hidden file he kept on his duffle and opened it. Inside were the first pieces of information that they'd ever gathered on crossroads' deals, a case they'd both worked months before.

The one where people ended up cut into shreds by hellhounds.

The picture of the lifeless and mangled body of Silvia Pearlman, the surgeon lady who had made a deal at Lloyds' bar, was on top of the pile of papers. Her legs had been ripped open, cut into ribbons by an animal that none of the forensic specialists had been able to name.

Dean's smiling face filled the open windows of their room until he pulled the curtains closed, giving himself and the girls inside an illusion of privacy.

Sam put the file away, picking up a book instead. When he got Dean out of that deal, long before his brother could look anything like Silvia, Sam vowed that nights like this one wouldn't cease to exist.

It's just one of the many promises that Sam makes that year.


THE KIDS ARE ALRIGHT

Dean comes back a lot sooner than Sam would expect him to. Given the horny way he'd been acting since making the deal, Sam had figured that the 'conversation' with Lisa would take, at least the rest of the day.

When Dean walks into their room, just minutes after Ruby had left, silent and doing his best to avoid looking at Sam, Sam knows that there's something up.

The trip down Dean's sex-memory lane, turned hunt for changelings… had turned into something much more serious it seemed.

Dean looked like he'd… lost something.

His mind occupied with what he'd found about their mother's family and friends and with their mysterious protector who had turned out to be a demon, had kept Sam from making the connection before. But he could see it now. Ben, with his absent father and age just about right for Dean's last encounter with Lisa, might've been more than just Lisa's kid and one more child to rescue from the mother changeling.

Sam's heart sunk to the floor as he realized that Dean might've just discovered that he had a son… on the last months of his life.

Of all the unfair things fate had thrown their way….

"We could stay," Sam offered, hoping that was what Dean wanted. "Even if we can't stop the deal, you'll still have a few months with yu-" 'with your son' Sam stops short of saying, "-with Ben. It's more than what you had before."

"Ben's not my son," Dean corrects Sam, his tone dry and… longing.

Sam's heart clenches inside his chest. He sees it now. Dean isn't mourning something he lost; he's mourning one more thing that he'll never have.


BAD DAY AT BLACK ROCK

"I never knew you played baseball," Sam's surprised words broke the silence that had settled while they worked. In his hand was a small picture, frayed around the edges.

Dean took the picture from him, holding it against the light of the naked bulb on the ceiling. A small smile jerked his lips up. "I guess I did, in another life," he said, looking at his three or four year old self, in full uniform, holding a bat that was, at least, as big as him. "I have no idea why dad kept this."

"He kept my soccer trophy too," Sam reminded his brother. "... and our school reports," he added with a frown, holding up a pile of papers yellow with age.

"Dad was really proud of you," Dean said, seeing the puzzled look on Sam's face. "You know that, right?"

"I'm starting to see that," Sam answered with a sad smile. "Too bad I'm too late."

Sam looked around, at all the stuff that their father had compiled in that small storage. Besides the personal things that they had barely begun to uncover, there were items that neither Sam nor Dean could guess at a origin. Like the coffin in the corner.

"Maybe we can sell some of this stuff... it's not like we're gonna use land mines in the near future..."

"I can think of someone I'd use a land mine on," Dean muttered.

"Dean..."

"I can't believe I let that bitch get away with all of our money."

"You have to let that go. It was just... bad luck," Sam said with a smirk, unable to restrain himself.

"Haha... very funny, Sam," Dean let out, anything but amused. "Those prized tickets were just about the only good thing we could've gotten out of this whole mess... and that bitch took them away."

Sam put the school reports back on the shelve where he'd found them, stealthy keeping Dean's photo and slipping it inside his pocket.

"Oh... I wouldn't say the only thing."


SIN CITY

"You okay?"

Dean kept looking at the pool of blood, spreading large enough to cover the broken devil's trap. Casey and Father Gil and the demons inside them. All dead.

"Hey, Dean? You hearing me, man?"

Suddenly, Sam's face was right there, inches from Dean's nose, hiding the blood and bodies from view, eyes bright with the rush of adrenaline and something else, something that Dean couldn't name.

"Is that the Colt?" Dean finally whispered, looking at the gun in Sam's hand rather than at Sam. "Bobby's here?"

"Yeah, he's upstairs," Sam said with a nod, offering out his other hand to get Dean to his feet. "You ready to go?"

Dean nodded, leaving behind the one demon that had defended his life and had been repaid with death.

What goes around comes around, Dean figured.


BEDTIME STORIES

"There's a support group on Wednesdays, you know?" The woman behind the nurses' station offered.

Sam's head snapped back from where he'd been watching Dean walk away, down the corridor, trying to imagine what it would feel like to see him walk away for the last time. "Sorry?"

The woman, white hair tied in a ponytail that crowned her head, grabbed a folded flyer from the stand and hand it over to Sam. "Grief counseling group. Meetings are each Wednesday, at ten, in the second floor's library."

Sam looked dumbstruck at the paper in his hands. "I don't... why would I go there?" he asked, more curious than offended by the nurse's offer.

"You have that look on your face," she said, voice tender with care. "We see it all the time, in the faces of terminal patients' relatives. If you don't mind my asking... how long does he have?"

Sam blinked away the tears that had somehow returned to his eyes. "He's not dying."

The nurse opened up the flyer and pointed to one of the bullet pointed items.

Denial.

"When you're ready to reach this one, come and find us," she simply said.

Sam stared at the single word on the page; a word that said to him the same things that Dean had just told him: Acceptance.


RED SKY AT MORNING

Dean keeps a list. He believes that Sam knows nothing about it, but Sam has seen it. One day, when Dean wasn't around, Sam has even managed to read it.

There's about thirty items on that list, things that Dean wrote down, things that he's never done or never had. Things he is trying to accomplish before his number is up.

A bucket list.

Not all of the items on that list are deep and profound things (Dean has already crossed out 'having kids' and 'climbing to the top of the Himalayas' anyway), things that one might think about when the end is near. Some of them are such mundane things that Sam resents the fact that his brother never had a chance of living a normal life. Because, who else would put 'mowing the lawn' and 'having a tool shed' as bucket list items?

Some of them are pure Dean, like 'doing twin redheads' (that one he'd already checked as done) or 'hit a bulls-eye with eyes close' (which isn't checked yet, but Sam doesn't want to be even near any of the tries).

There was one that surprised Sam, because he'd never thought of his brother as a fashion person or having any sort of proneness to care about fancy clothes. Dean had actually made fun of Sam when he'd dressed up for his prom night. So, Sam had to read it twice, but it actually said 'Wearing a tuxedo and going to a fancy party'.

Which is why, when Bela suggests that they go with her to the Museum's party and tells them in no uncertain terms that she'll be providing the clothes they'll be wearing so that they wouldn't look like 'a pair of ragtag scavengers' –her words, not his- Sam did his best to not smile and look offended at the offer.

Bela never saw the eager and pleased look on Dean's face. But Sam did.


FRESH BLOOD

"You better keep away from me, Dean."

Dean raised his head in surprise, barely looking away from where he was trying to get a closer look at the deep scratches in Sam's hands. The fact that he couldn't quite focus, no matter how hard he blinked his eyes, was beginning to annoy Dean. Sam's nonsense talk wasn't helping matters.

"And why the hell would I do that? Not my fault you decided that barbed wire gloves was the new fashion hit this year."

Sam raised his bloody hands, pointing out the obvious. "Because I have Gordon's infected blood all over my hands and you have too many opened wounds on your bleeding neck."

Dean blinked one more time, trying to figure out what Sam was telling him. "You're right," he finally nodded. "We should wash all that blood off of you right... now."

Sam had to physically restrain himself from catching Dean when his eyes rolled back mid-sentence and he fell to the ground.

Gordon had been more interested in maiming than feeding when he went for Dean's neck, and between what the newly-vampired hunter had drunk and what Dean had already lost, Sam was sure that there couldn't be much left. He had, however, hoped that they'd been able to reach the car before Dean's body did the math.

Sam figured his options now were between 'sucky' and 'suckier'... no pun intended.

He could either leave Dean there, go wash up and sanitize himself and come back for him later, which would most likely result in a dead Dean; or he could hope for the best and just grab Dean now and risk the both of them turning into vampires.

Despite what Sam knew Dean would want, he picked his brother by the arms and slung him over his shoulder. And hoped none of them would come to regret this choice.


A VERY SUPERNATURAL CHRISTMAS

The idea came as an afterthought. Gift exchange was never what you might call a priority amongst Winchester men so, the thought of actually getting Sam something for that particular Christmas hadn't exactly been planned. In fact, it only occurred Dean to do so when he was at the cashier, waiting to pay for the tank of gas he'd just fed the Impala.

The gas stop shop, tiny as it was, was filled with Christmas paraphernalia, from chocolate reindeers, to stuffed Santas, to Hula-Up dolls holding a pair of Christmas' tree balls... for some odd reason.

Dean ignored those. This was going to be his last gift for his brother. He needed something special, something that told Sam how much pride Dean had in the man he'd become; how much Dean trusted him to be okay on his own when Dean was gone.

The porn selection of the tiny shop wasn't anything to brag about, but it had some. And the shaving cream was a brand that Dean was sure to give a rash even to a caveman.

They were, however, perfect. Dean was sure Sam would get the message.


MALLEUS MALEFICARUM

They return to the motel just for long enough to pick up their things. There's a gutted mattress on one of the beds and a large stain of red on the carpet at the foot of the other. Neither of them wants to stay there for much longer.

"You know... before," Sam stammers, picking up his bathroom stuff and stuffing it in a too small bag. "You know I only left you to go after those witches. Because it was the only way to stop the spell before it killed you. Right?"

Dean remains silent, folding a pair of jeans into one long roll so that it can fit inside his duffle without much trouble. He's not even sure if the jeans are his or Sam's.

"I know that's what you want to make yourself believe... but you and I know that ain't true."

Sam's mouth falls open for a split second, the time it takes him to readjust from 'seeking Dean's reassurance' to 'Dean stole the carpet from under my feet'.

"What? Ho—how can you think that?"

"Because I know you, Sam," Dean said, no recrimination in his voice. "Sometimes, I know you better than you know yourself."

"And what's that supposed to mean?" Sam asked, defensively.

"That you'd rather fight to the last minute than to just sit and watch me die."

"Of course I—"

"I just need you to keep something in mind, Sam," Dean cut through his protests.

"What?"

"That when the time comes, you'll stop fighting."


DREAM A LITTLE DREAM

They both wake up with a gasp and stare at each other. Dean has no idea how Sam was able to stop it, but he's thankful beyond reason that it stopped when it did. He can't say that to Sam, not without raising some questions about what he saw in there, questions that are amongst the last things Dean wants to talk with Sam about.

No... as far as Sam knows, Dean's dream was as vanilla as they come, possibly tantric and sweaty, with no mentions of facing himself or about Dean's fear of becoming a demon.

Sam admits only as far as saying that it was over and that Jeremy wouldn't be using the dream root anymore. He says nothing about the way he took control of the dream, or about how he managed to summon Jeremy's father to action. Sam certainly will never say a word about the fact that he could control the father's actions. Or what those actions were.


MYSTERY SPOT

The next stop they make, Sam walks into the motel room with every weapon that they have. He sets them on one of the beds, pulls a chair closer to the comforter and starts cleaning them all.

There is absolutely nothing out of the ordinary about that, except for the fact that Dean's usually the one in charge of that particular task and, when he does it, he never takes the whole damn thing with him.

More disturbing than that, is the way Sam completely disconnects with every thing around him when he starts cleaning those weapons. He goes to so far away that he actually jumps and points the gun in his hands at Dean when Dean, tired of the silence, clears his throat.

"T'hell, man?"

"You're here," Sam whispers, slowly lowering the gun. It sounds like a surprise to him, like Dean hadn't been there for the past three years.

"Where the hell would I be?" Dean asks, still dumbstruck at the fact that Sam had actually pointed a gun at his face.

"Gone."

The single word is said with such longing and desperation that Dean finds himself crossing the room and shoving the weapons aside so that he can sit on the bed, in front of his brother. "I'm here."

Sam's eyes fill with unshed tears and he looks down, because all of a sudden the gun-oil stain in the rag in his hands is way more interesting than Dean's intense gaze.

"I'm here," Dean repeats, holding Sam's shoulders. In the quiet of his mind, he curses the trickerster for putting that look in his brother's face.

Sam slowly leans forward, not stopping until his head is resting against Dean's, his tears finally failing to baptize them both. "For now."


JUS IN BELLO

"You're sure you don't want that looked at?" Sam offered one more time, catching Dean's pained flinch when he moved his arm the wrong way.

"Am I sure I don't want your giant paws poking around the hole—" Dean starts, biting the rest of his words out as he remembers that that was exactly what Meg did when she was possessing Sam awhile back. The memory of those dark events and Sam's whitewashed face turn the intended sarcasm and playful tone completely useless. "Yeah, I'm sure."

Sam smiled in appreciation for the cut-off words, making himself comfortable on his bed. "Just asking, you know... before you drop down like a sack of potatoes because of the raging infection caused by a wound not cleaned properly."

"You doubting fair Nancy's skills?" Dean asked with a smirk and a wiggle of his brows that clearly said that nursing skills was not what he was talking about.

"Get your mind off the gutter, Dean," Sam replied with a chuckle. "I'm surprised that girl remained a virgin after breathing the same air as you."

"Hey!" Dean protested over-dramatically. "I'm a gentle man," he offered coyly. "Ask any of the women I've been with."

"You got her phone number, didn't ya?"

Dean used his uninjured arm to pull a folded piece of paper from his jeans. "That I did."

"You're a dog," Sam concluded. "A horny dog."

"Well, I figured that for someone who was on Federal custody, shot by a FBI director, trapped in a jail under demonic siege... to come out on the other end breathing, in one piece, with the majority of the possessed people A-okay and with the FBI off our tracks for good," Dean said, counting the pros and cons of the day. "I'd say it's a day worth celebrating."

"You're seeing her later, aren't you?"

"That I am," Dean confirmed with a satisfied smile. "Just waiting on her to call me up to set the place."


LONG DISTANCE CALL

There were very few times in his life when Sam wished he could clone himself on cue. Usually, when there was any need to be in two places at the same time, Dean was there to be his second pair of hands or eyes.

This time though, Dean was the reason why Sam needed to be in two places at the same time. In one hand, Sam knows he needs to go to Lanie and stop something terrible from happening to her or her brother; and on the other, Sam also knows that Dean's head is not in the right place right now, which leaves Sam terrified at what Dean might do while he's away.

It's really not a choice at all. If Dean was thinking straight, he would agree with Sam.

It hurts a little though, something that Sam will admit to himself alone if to nobody else; but for a whole year, he'd been trying his best to keep Dean's hope alight and doing his best to save his brother. And one single call from someone impersonating their father is what brings hope back to Dean's eyes.

And the hardest part of it all, is that Sam's the one who will have to be there when that hope dies.


TIME IS ON MY SIDE

Sam takes off as soon as they're done with Doc Benton's grave.

It's not a 'taking off' as he's done before, with bags in hand and a goodbye on his lips; it's a temporary ' taking off'.

This time around, Dean knows exactly where Sam is headed. So, he gives his brother a good head start before going after him. Books a room for them, gets their stuff inside, stocks up on the aspirin and water bottles.

There's a bar not far from the place they left Benton counting earthworms for eternity. Sam's sitting on a stool at the front of the bar, nursing a glass filled with scotch too yellow to be any of the good stuff.

Dean wonders if this is how Sam will deal with his disappointments from here on after. He takes one step forward before figuring out that it won't do Sam any good to be reminded of the safety net that's being taken away. Instead of picking up Sam before he can drink enough to get himself a nasty hangover, Dean turns away and leaves.

He hopes Sam can find his way home on his own.


NO REST FOR THE WICKED

Dean's body feels broken when they try to move him, like pieces and important strings are missing or cut and whatever is left is not enough to keep him together without falling apart.

Sam and Bobby can't grab his arms because the flesh on Dean's chest is cut too deep, too widely, and they fear it will all come loose if they put too much strain there; they can't grab his legs for the exact same reason.

From where he's standing, Bobby can see Dean's hipbone, white against all the red. It turns his stomach.

Sam has finally come around to close Dean's eyes, a gesture that Bobby couldn't appreciate more. That boy's soul had always been too close to the surface in those big green eyes of his, plain for all to see; Bobby feared that, had he looked into those eyes now, he would get a glimpse of the place Dean's soul was right now. The sight of Dean's mangled body was more than enough; Bobby didn't needed to see the torment his soul was going through on top of that.

They end up wrapping Dean in a comforter before moving him. There's a red quilted one over the couch. It looks handmade, probably a family heirloom.

Bobby doesn't consider any of that as he snatches it from is place and sets it gently around Dean. His only thought is that the thing doesn't look warm enough. It keeps Dean's pieces together though.

He doesn't try to pick Dean up either. Bobby knows Sam wants that burden for himself and he won't share it with anyone else.

Instead, Bobby walks ahead of Sam, opening doors and sending hard stares at the crowd standing outside.

No one will say anything; they're all still dealing with their own shock of finding themselves possessed by a demon and then abandoned to the consequences of their actions.

Bobby warns them to back off anyway. Sam's defeated steps and the bloody body that a red quilt can't quite hide are none of their business anyway.

The perfect mowed lawn has a trail of blood in it now. That too doesn't concern Bobby. He starts his truck and looks at the backseat one last time.

The world is a sadder place now. There should be some mark left behind.