Part 4

The zombies come out of the river just as Sam and Dean are getting dressed and packing up the car. There are three of them this time, and they're in the worst shape of any they've seen so far. One is missing most of the skin and muscle on the right side of its body, a few stringy tendons left clinging to muddy bones. Another one has a sizable chunk gone from its skull, brain visible and glistening like the inside of a clamshell.

All three of them are missing an eye.

"Oh come on," Dean groans as the first undead shambles its way onto the gravel shore, its abdomen open and its intestines tangling around its knees. "We just went swimming in there. That's so gross." He opens the trunk of the Impala and digs around until he finds their scimitar. "What do you say, Sammy, I'll be Athos, you be Porthos?"

"Okay, except we only have one sw— ah!" Sam doubles over as his head suddenly feels like its being ripped in two. The creatures in his mind launch into a frenzy, throwing themselves against the crack, trying to force their way through. "Dean, there's a creature," Sam manages to get out past the thousands of wings clogging his throat. "You take the zombies, I'll—"

"Sam!" Dean yells, but then one of the zombies gets close enough to make a grab for him and he gets distracted, swinging the scimitar so fast it whistles through the air.

Sam turns to face the creature where it stands in the shadow of the steel bridge. With the sun set and the area surrounding the river bereft of lights, the creature is almost invisible, except for its eyes which glow like bullet casings fresh from a gun. But even if he were blind, Sam would be able to tell exactly where the creature is. It pulls on the dark piece of his mind, magnetic and undeniable. Just like it knows him, Sam knows it.

And it's waiting for an order.

OPEN ME. The voices in Sam's head are even stronger this time, screaming with fangs out and bodies tensed for action. Sam swears he can see crooked legs out of the corners of his eyes, skittering over his skin and up into his hair. Let me take over. Let me be your strength.

No. Sam's strength is knee-deep in the river, stabbing a zombie in the neck with a sword. The creature starts advancing on him, and the voices become so loud Sam's teeth rattle in his jaw. He drops to his knees, digging fingernails into his scalp until blood is trickling down his temples. The pain barely registers, and the creature gets closer.

It won't hurt him, Sam knows. It is still waiting for him to issue instructions, to crack open his skull and let the darkness inside flood out, turning him into the person Lucifer always wanted him to be. A person who can lead armies, command souls, tear down Heaven, and raise Hell.

The creature is waiting for him, but that doesn't mean it's patient.

Dean yells as he is dragged from the water and thrown onto his back on the shore. The creature doesn't move, just flashes its iron-hot eyes at Sam, but Dean yells again and starts writhing as if his sword has been thrust through his stomach and is pinning him to the ground.

I can make it stop, the voices hiss as sticky feelers with sharp ends wriggle into the spaces beneath Sam's cheekbones. YOU can make it stop. Open me. Open me and you can have the world.

"I don't want it," Sam tries to say, but it comes out garbled, a series of bitten off noises and half-formed breaths. He coughs and spits, trying to clear the wings and scales from where they're lodged in his throat. He drops his hands to the gravel under his knees, fingers spasming. The creature is close enough now to be in his line of sight even as he hunches over, chest to thighs. Dean howls until it turns into a gurgle, thick and wet. Sam can't make himself look to see if there's blood.

One of his wildly clenching hands closes over a rock. The voices are getting ready to spill from his eyes and nose and mouth like tar that will cover Sam's body until he and the creature are indistinguishable. He raises the rock and brings smashing down on his other hand.

The splitting of skin and the snapping of bones is just what Sam needs. He bundles up the pain and shoves it white-hot at the things in his mind. As they wail and slither back into their holes, the creature in front of him vanishes without a sound.

Sam slumps over on his side, facing Dean.

"Fuck," Dean is saying as he pushes himself to his hands and knees. "Fuck fuck mothingfucking fuckity fuck."

Sam would agree, except his mouth won't work and there's something wet dribbling past his lips. He thinks he might have bitten through his tongue.

The moon has risen now, lighting the area in cold silver and blue, making it beautifully depressing once more. The river sparkles like diamonds under the bruise-colored bridge, but Sam's last sight is of Dean, crawling towards him across the gravel.

Remember when you kissed me? Sam wants to ask, but he passes out instead.

It takes Sam two days to regain consciousness. Once he does, it's another three hours before he can pull himself together enough to remember who he is and what he did. It only takes him half an hour to recognize Dean, but his mind is so scrambled he keeps mistaking the figure seated at the edge of his bed for a corpse. It sends him into such panics attacks he has no choice but to keep his eyes closed and retreat back into the chaotic mess inside his head.

Finally Sam is able to open his eyes and see his brother sitting on the end of his bed rather than some figure with rotting skin or exposed bones. His self-awareness comes back in a flood. He knows his name is Sam Winchester, he likes apricots, the ocean, and Dostoyevsky, and he's back to killing creatures from Hell with his mind.

And his left hand really, really hurts.

"Hey," he croaks, wincing as his voice comes out sounding like he's been drinking bleach. Dean practically flies off the bed, hands rising into a position that is almost defensive, for reasons Sam really doesn't want to consider. When he just lies there, quiet and limp, Dean relaxes.

"Hey," he says back. "You gonna puke this time?"

"I don't think so." Sam's muscles feel like jelly. He doubts his stomach is currently capable of even taking in food, much less expelling it.

Dean sets aside the newspaper he has crushed in one hand and moves around to Sam's side of the bed, pulling up his shirtsleeve as he goes so he can rest a forearm on Sam's brow.

"You have a fever," Dean declares as though it's something Sam has done on purpose. "How's your hand?"

"Sore." Sam tries to flex it under the covers but the slightest movement sends daggers of pain all the way up to his shoulder. "What did I do to it?"

"Broke three of your fingers in two places each." Dean is shaking Tylenol from a bottle with short, furious jerks of his arm. "I splinted them for you."

"Thanks." Sam takes the Tylenol and glass of water Dean all but shoves into his hand. He thinks about reminding Dean that smashing his hand was how he was able to kill the creature and save both their lives, but he has a feeling that will only make Dean more angry, not less. He tries to sit up instead, hampered by the throbbing lump of pain that currently constitutes his left hand. Dean lets him struggle for a full minute before sighing gustily and leaning in to help.

Once they get Sam propped up against the headboard Dean sits down next to him on the bed. He doesn't take his hand away from the back of Sam's head where he put it while he was adjusting the pillows. The pads of his fingers stick slightly in the matted strands of Sam's hair.

"So," Sam says.

"So," Dean repeats.

Up this close, Sam can see how exhausted Dean looks, red-eyed and unshaven. He passes his thumb over Dean's cheekbone where there's a faint bruise he doesn't remember seeing at the river.

"So what now?" Sam asks.

Dean lunges forward and Sam is ready for him, meeting his lips with an open mouth. They kiss like an argument and an apology. Sam is fierce in his righteousness, confirming his victory with every desperate move of his lips. Dean is restrained in his worry, drinking down Sam's intensity with unwavering strength. They kiss like they're coming apart at the seams, their hands on each other the only things holding them together. They kiss like they're dying, like they might already be dead.

Sam wrenches his mouth away when he can't take it any longer, and buries his face in Dean's neck. He can still smell the stench of the rotting zombies on Dean's skin, making him wonder if Dean's showered or even left Sam's side at all since that day. But it's okay, because even though death clings to Dean, death doesn't have him. Sam does.

"I think we should get a house," Dean murmurs into his hair.

"What?" Sam tries to pull back enough to see Dean's face but Dean doesn't let him, holding him tighter against his chest.

"I've thought about it while you were out," Dean continues. He walks his hands down Sam's back in what Sam first thinks is some sort of caress until he realizes Dean is pausing as he moves from spot to spot, waiting to see if there's a place that elicits a wince or groan of pain. "These things are going to keep coming after us, you were right about that. And if we're not going to run—"

"We're not," Sam interjects.

"—then holing up somewhere makes the most sense. We find somewhere away from any major cities or town, somewhere isolated that we can fortify." Dean can't help a little bit of excitement creeping into his voice. "We'll zombie proof it!"

Sam laughs, shaking his head against the softness of Dean's t-shirt. "Okay."

"Okay?"

"Yeah. It's a good plan." Sam pauses, then adds a little wistfully, "We've never had a house before."

Dean extricates himself carefully from Sam's arms and pushes until Sam lies back against the pillows. "We're going to do some research, Sammy, figure out a new way to kill these things."

"Dean, look, they're connected to me, this is the only way—"

"Pretty soon you're gonna run out of body parts to break," Dean interrupts him, face serious and tone leaving no room for argument. "Please just say you'll help me look. Come on, geek boy. It's research." He gives Sam's shoulder a light punch. "You love research."

"Alright, fine, we'll look." Sam kind of wants Dean to kiss him again, but he doesn't know if it would be weird now since the thank-god-you're-alive-and-not-a-jibbering-mess fervor has faded. "Do you suppose there's a website that has both zombie bunker real estate listings and advice on ganking Lucifer's minions?"

"Oh, I uh… I already found us a house." Dean blushes as Sam stares at him, and Sam's desire to kiss him deepens. "You were comatose, man, and I couldn't fucking sit still."

"Where is it?"

"Kansas." Dean correctly reads the tightening of Sam's shoulders, adding, "It's not near Lawrence. It's not near anything, really, but it's not near Lawrence."

Sam nods, short and brusque, then tries a smile. "Do I want to know how we're paying for this?"

Dean grins back at him. "Probably not."

Sam hmms, and fuck how weird it might be, he's still feeling a little woozy and he wants another kiss. He reaches for Dean, ready to lick the smile right off his mouth like candy, and Dean isn't resisting, he's letting himself be pulled down, he's closing his eyes— and the faintest breeze passes over them, accompanied by a deep voice saying, "Sam."

"Jesus Christ!" Sam sits up so fast he nearly knocks Dean on the floor. The nausea he wasn't feeling swoops in all at once, and it's only through supreme effort that he manages to avoid puking all over the angel's shoes. "Castiel."

Despite the awful timing Sam feels absurdly glad to see the angel, and he stands up to greet him with a smile, expecting to Cas to be looking at him with his usual vaguely perplexed expression, or maybe even a hint of happiness at seeing Sam back from the dead.

What he's not expecting is for Castiel to be staring at him with such wrath and sorrow his vessel struggles to contain it. His eyes burning briefly white and it hits Sam like a punch, sending him stumbles backwards.

"Sam," Castiel says, his voice a similar mixture of human and divine; even though he's speaking softly the windows rattle and Sam's glass of water falls off the nightstand and breaks with a dull sound against the carpet. "This is an abomination."

"Well hello to you too," Sam mutters weakly. He's pretty sure with the way Cas is talking only to him the abomination he's referring to is Sam's new creature extermination methods, not the fact he's now had his tongue in his brother's mouth more than once. Cas takes a step forward and Sam takes several more backwards, hitting the solid wall of Dean's body.

"Sam, this cannot go on." Castiel pauses, and somewhere in his dreadful tone Sam thinks he hears a bit of regret. "I have to stop you."

"But I'm doing the right thing here!" He glances over his shoulder at Dean, hoping for some back up, but Dean won't meet his eyes. "This isn't like the demon blood or anything. I came back with a piece of Hell inside of me, yeah, but I'm trying to fix that!"

"This cannot be fixed." Cas steps forward again, and Sam's never seen him look like this, like if angels could cry, he would be sobbing. "What you've become, Sam, it is… it is intolerable. We should never have brought you back."

"Cas, I'm not evil!" This hurts, way more than when he first met Castiel and the angels all condemned him. Since then Cas has been his friend, Cas has offered him redemption when Sam never thought he deserved it, must less would be granted it by a servant of Heaven. Cas gave him back Dean. Sam would always owe him for that, and it aches now to think Cas wants him dead.

"I am sorry, Sam," Cas says, and he sounds like he means it. "This is largely my fault. I knew the risks involved in bringing you back, but Dean did not wish to hear them."

"Cas, I swear, I'm going to fix this." Sam's aware he's begging now. He would go down on his knees and pray if he thought it would help. "I'm not going to let Hell win."

Cas is pale, almost translucent as though he's wishing himself away from this motel room, from what he's about to do. "Me neither," he whispers, and he doesn't sound like an angel anymore, he sounds fully human and like his heart is breaking. He raises his hand towards Sam's face.

Dean explodes into action, pushing something wet and cold into Sam's grip then slamming his hand down on the sigil he traced on the top of the dresser. Cas vanishes like he was never there, but Sam can't wipe the angel's final expression from his mind so easily. He looks down at the penknife in his hand, glistening with Dean's blood.

"I'm sorry," Sam says. Cas looked like he wanted to cry but didn't know how so Sam is going to do it for him right now, tears slipping hot and fast down his cheeks. "I'm so sorry, Dean."

"Pack your shit," Dean orders by way of answer. "He's not going to stay away forever."

"Dean, maybe he was ri—"

Dean rounds on Sam, seizes two handfuls of his shirt and throws him against the dresser hard enough to send it slamming into the wall. Sam feels Dean's blood seep into the back of his shirt. Dean gets right up in his face, tears in his own eyes, and growls, "Pack. Up. Now."

Sam packs. Dean goes to check them out, and they're flying down the interstate in less than twenty minutes. They don't speak. Sam cries all the way into Kansas.

Their house is a two-story farmhouse that sits on a slight hill, the only hill in what is otherwise quite possibly the flattest place on earth. The road in front of their house is packed dirt. It's ten minutes to drive to the highway, another thirty to get into town. Across the road in a massive cornfield; on one side is a field where crops grew once that is now overgrown with weeds, on the other side it's all grass.

The floors inside are are wood, worn and creaky with a special ability to trap the nighttime chill and refuse to let it go. There's a living room, a kitchen, and an office on the first floor, bathroom, bedroom, and guest room on the second. There's a basement with laundry, a furnace, and water damage. The wind howls outside almost constantly, and a great deal of it finds its way into the house, sneaking under doors and rattling past windowpanes. The paint on the walls is chipped, the furniture left by the previous owner is ancient and shabby.

Sam loves every inch of it.

The first and only time he ever came close to having a place to call his own was the apartment he shared with Jessica in that final year at Stanford, lifetimes ago. But even that had been student housing on a six-months lease, and it hadn't felt permanent. This feels permanent. This house with its leaky kitchen faucet and sagging front steps feels permanent. No matter how long he and Dean actually end up staying here, Sam thinks this house feels like home.

His delight, however, is nothing compared to Dean's. The first night they get there they spend several hours laying hasty protection, painting devils traps, tucking away hex bags, rubbing salt into the floorboards. Then they collapse together onto the master bed exhausted from the long drive and the giddy surreality of standing still. Sam is all set to pass out, but Dean starts talking.

He tells Sam about his plans for home improvement that range from zombie-protection to new tiles in the kitchen. He tells him what they're going to buy in town the next day, how they're going to rearrange the living room, what meals they should cook first. It's a side of Dean Sam has never truly seen before, and it makes him feel briefly guilty as he thinks back to Lisa. Dean could have had all of this living with her, without the extra drawback of a brother dragging Hell around behind him.

But then Dean rolls over and pulls Sam close and murmurs, all warm and breathy in his ear, "We're gonna make it work, Sammy. You'll see. It's gonna be good."

Sam never could deny Dean when he was making promises like that. He curls up into Dean's side, as tightly as his size will allow, and falls asleep to the soothing rumble of Dean's voice talking about carpets.

It becomes abundantly clear the next day in town that, for all their enthusiasm, neither of them really knows what they're doing.

They split up to do the shopping. Dean fares slightly better, with a recent year of domestic living experience under his belt, and comes back with dish soap and laundry soap and bathroom towels. But he also buys too many cups and not enough plates, coffee grounds but no coffee pot, and forgets silverware entirely.

Sam does the groceries, but two minutes in the store without a plan and he starts to get overwhelmed, grabbing things almost at random. He buys sheets and blankets and pillowcases too, but he forgets to buy the pillows.

The only thing they both get entirely right is the tools and weaponry for zombie-proofing the house. And they both buy a plant.

Sam can't help but grin when he makes his way back to the car and finds Dean leaning against the hood, clutching his own brown pot with its little tuft of green jutting proudly out of the top. There's an unspoken understanding between them that plants are something normal people own, people who can afford to stay in the same place and water them everyday.

Sam holds both plants on his lap for the ride home, the rest of their mismatched purchases piled in the backseat.

"Bet mine's gonna be bigger," Dean smirks.

"Maybe," Sam replies, running his hand over the plant. It's short and spiky, and reminds him of Dean's hair. "If you can even manage to keep it alive."

"I'm doing okay so far with you," Dean counters. He means it as a joke but it hits a little too close to home. He freezes, hands going rigid on the wheel, but at that moment they're pulling into their driveway in front of their house and the sun is setting on their overgrown fields, so Sam just flicks the springy leaves of his little plant and says, "Yeah, you are."

It takes a few more trips to town, with Sam insisting they "make lists, Dean, so that way you don't come back with another fucking chainsaw," before they really start to settle into the house. Sam buys Dean a TV, Dean buys him a bookshelf, and they set to work on their improvements. Sam, limited because of his three broken fingers, works mostly on interior things, like repainting the walls or scrubbing the mold from the shower, while Dean goes all out making the house into a zombie fall-out shelter.

The first ones show up on the seventh day, while Sam is helping Dean put an electrified fence all the way around their property. Dean leaps up and brandishes his sword like action hero, Sam hunches in on himself and tries to shut down the voices in his brain.

He knows the second the creature appears even though he's got his eyes shut and is rocking back and forth on his knees. He thinks he's almost figured out a way to attack the seething masses in his mind without physically harming himself, but he loses concentration at the last moment when he hears Dean yell, and ends up using their discarded nail gun to put a nail through his right foot.

He's only unconscious for an hour this time, and knows who and where he is twenty minutes after that, but he gets a fever and a wicked cough that last for a week. Dean confines him to the couch in a fury, disappearing for several hours before returning to dump several large tomes quite painfully in Sam's lap.

"Research," he orders.

Sam dutifully pages through the books and reads about Hell whenever Dean comes stomping through the living room, either on his way to the kitchen or to the office, which he dubbed "the War Room" after converting it to a veritable weapons bunker. But Sam finds nothing new written on the ancient pages, and when Dean's not around he sets the books aside and practices pushing against the black pit in his head, seeing if he can't get all the slimy, jittering things that live in there to scream.

They watch movies at night when Sam's fever is at it's highest and Dean's concern outweighs his anger. Tonight it's Fight Club, one of Dean's favorites. Sam lays on the couch underneath his favorite blanket, ironically not one of the new one's he's bought but an old ratted one from the trunk of the Impala that smells like gunpowder and road dust. Dean starts the night sitting on the floor, but after Sam coughs until he gags and Dean makes him swallow half a bottle of cough syrup, he moves to the couch. It's a bit of a mess getting situated, given that they're both over six feet tall and Sam is half-drunk on Robitussinbut eventually Dean gets them settled with himself propped against the arm of the couch, Sam between his legs and laying against his chest.

On the screen, Edward Norton is about to get his chemical burn. Pain twinges through the broken bones in Sam's own hand, and he thinks about how much Dean is like Tyler Durden. Unpredictable, irresistible, and so goddamn beautiful. With a smile and a .45 Dean could take down a city, and Sam would be more than happy to stand at his side and watch it burn.

He doesn't realize he's speaking out loud until Dean puts a hand on his chin and kisses him, cutting off his rambling words. The cough syrup makes it cherry-flavored and sticky sweet. Dean takes his time, going deep and thorough, kissing Sam like he's trying to tell their future in the shape of Sam's mouth. Sam finds himself feeling hot all over.

"Dean," he whimpers, not quite sure what he's asking for, but Dean just makes shushing noises and smoothes his hands down Sam's chest. Sam's fever is making him sweat, and his t-shirt is sticking to his skin. He kicks off his blanket then grabs Dean's thighs, suddenly feeling the need to be anchored to something.

"Dean," he says again, the cough syrup making his tongue thick and unwieldy. "They want me to be their leader. They want me to let the darkness out, and—"

Dean shushes him again, and presses a light kiss to his neck. "Maybe you should," he murmurs. "They can't hurt you if you're their king, right?" His hands slip under Sam's t-shirt and brush over his stomach, but when Sam makes a choked sound and twitches against his chest he starts to pull away.

"No, Dean, please…" Sam tightens his grip on Dean's thighs. He still doesn't know exactly what he wants, he just knows he needs this, Dean holding him, touching him, making him feel human. "If I give in, then it will take over, and it won't be me anymore, and I won't—"

"Hey, it's alright." Dean puts his hands back on Sam's skin, palms sliding over his hipbones. The only light in the room is coming from the television where the narrator and Tyler Durden are making soap, and it makes Dean's skin look grey and unnatural. "I've got you, Sammy."

"Not leaving," Sam mumbles, reaching one arm up to curl it around Dean's neck. "And I'm not evil."

"I know." Dean kisses him again, soft and sweet. There's so much love and desperation in Dean's every move Sam wants to cry. "We'll figure this out, Sammy, I promise."

Sam's head, with all its monsters and regrets, feels too heavy to hold up, so he lets it drop back against Dean's shoulder. His eyes drift closed as Dean continues moving his hands across Sam's skin, Sam pushing into them and then back against Dean's chest. His fever and the meds and the voices in his head all swirl together and leave Sam drifting in a haze. He thinks he could fall apart like this, crumble into ash like the bones they burn. He's clinging to the edges of life with anger and heartbreak like a vengeful spirit. He was never meant to last this long, and he can feel himself starting to fade away.

The only solid thing is Dean, beneath him and around him. Sam rocks harder into Dean, needing to feel this is real. His head is so confused with black-winged creatures trying to climb the walls, leaving sticky strands of blood-soaked memories in their wake. Hell is still trying to claim him for its own, but it tried for centuries when Sam was in its grasp and it never succeeded. Someone else had got there first.

On screen, Tyler Durden is kissing the narrator's hand and pouring on the lye. Dean's touch is similarly taking Sam apart piece by piece. But Dean always puts Sam back together again. No matter how broken Sam is, even when it would be easier— and it would so much easier— for Dean to walk away, he'll get down on his knees every time and pick Sam up instead.

Sam tries to tell Dean he knows what he's doing for him, but his breath is coming fast and hard now and he can't get the words out. For a second he can't hear Dean breathing and his feverish brain thinks wildly I've killed him. I've finally become so broken he couldn't fix me and he died trying. He arches off the couch with a groan but Dean pulls him back, and Sam realizes he is breathing, he's panting just as hard as Sam is, smothering it against Sam's neck.

This is your life, Tyler Durden tells them from the screen.

"It's okay, Sammy," Dean says against his jaw, as Sam shudders and clutches at Dean, trying to pull him closer, pull him through his skin and keep him safe there forever.

And it's ending one minute at a time.

"I've got you."

END PART 4