7 – We Are All Ghosts

When Charlie showed Sam the story that ran in the local paper, he couldn't believe it. It was time to mothball the Impala, wasn't it?

It seemed that a surviving employee of the store attacked by Phobos had seen the car pull up, and recognized it as the one in those Sam and Dean books. And she told the paper Sam and Dean were indeed real, and fought the "death god" who ran rampage in the shop. There were so many errors in the story he had the brief impulse to call them and set the record straight, but got a hold of himself before he completely lost his goddamn mind. The reporter who wrote the article added there was "no conformation" of this, and if that wasn't a warning flag to retire, Sam didn't know what else could be. "But you could go public," Charlie said, mostly kidding. "You could be a nationally renowned monster hunter. Ooh! Tell them you killed War! That's gotta be good for a reality show, maybe on basic cable."

He mentally filed that away as Charlie having a snarky/cruel streak. He couldn't think of a worse fate than ending up on a reality show. Okay he could, but it was right up there near the top. He was suddenly glad he'd rented the house under an alias.

Sam had a nice talk with Castiel while Dean was recharging. He was holding up his end of the bargain, keeping Dean sane, if not completely safe. He didn't blame him for Dean's reckless charging into battles that he maybe wasn't up for, because that was Dean. The day he stopped doing that was the day he became someone different entirely. Sam also agreed that it was probably for the best that the Dagger of Mot was broken up again, and scattered across the Earth once more. He didn't want to make it easy for someone to kill Death.

He agreed to look in on Claire from time to time, make sure she was okay. She'd already asked Sam about becoming a Hunter, which he just knew was coming. But he saw no harm in giving her some pointers, if only to defend herself. It was clear that being a Novak came with a certain set of dangers, and if she was willing to face them, he wasn't going to stand in her way. Even if he thought the Hunter lifestyle was dubious at best. If she tried to work this out on her own, she might get hurt.

Sam didn't see Dean again until the next night. He was having a weird dream involving a hurricane and a library – dreams could be so strange – and he was looking out a window wall at the oncoming clouds. They were grey-black and funnel shaped, and bending the trees almost horizontal. It was crazy dangerous to be anywhere near a window, but it was a dream, right? This window probably shouldn't have been intact.

"This never happened," Dean said. "Or did it while you were at college?"

"California isn't known for hurricanes," Sam said, turning around. Dean was sitting on a table, flipping through one of the books. It looked like a graphic novel of some sort.

"Well, with global warming, anything's possible," Dean said. He put down the collection of Sandman, and got off the table. "So, did I miss much?"

Sam shrugged. "You may have gotten out of the hunting game at the right time. People have figured out the Edlund books aren't fiction."

Dean groaned dramatically. "We are never living those down, are we? I mean, in a manner of speaking."

"Well, Cas did say they'd become gospel eventually."

"I was really hoping that was a joke."

Sam pulled out a chair and sat down. "Cas has still not mastered jokes. Give him another century or so."

"I think you're shooting low," Dean admitted. "More like four or five."

Sam smirked. "You miss my sense of humor."

"Nope, not at all. If you're around angels long enough, you begin to realize Cas actually is the funny one. And that's like cosmic levels of sad."

Weirdly, Sam could kind of see that. "How are you doing?"

"All juiced up, ready to go kill some more gods." Dean gave him a smart ass grin he knew so well.

"I don't seem to have any handy."

"I can wait." Dean kept smiling. He was in a good mood. But being the last remaining Horseman probably had that effect on you.

"Part of me can't believe our half-assed plan worked."

Dean chuckled. "I can't believe any of our half assed plans ever worked. We seemed to do best when we barely knew what we're doing."

"Speak for yourself. All my half-assed plans are meticulous in their half-assery."

"Okay, I'll give you that."

The library was so dark, it was like they were sitting inside a dirty aquarium. Sam wondered if he could lighten it up, since it was a dream after all, then decided it didn't matter. They were Winchesters, and they had little black clouds following them everywhere. "Know what Famine said when I found him?" Dean said. "He said 'I should have known'. Do we count that as confirmation I was always doomed?"

"No. Take it as confirmation he always knew he was doomed."

Dean's smile became slier, sadder. "We're all just doomed. Full stop."

"Speak for yourself." Sam picked up the nearest book, and saw it was a book of mythological lore. It seemed grossly unfair this type of stuff followed him into dreamscapes.

"Yeah, I thought you were supposed to get a life here."

"I'm working on it. Turns out, when you've been hunting most of your life, you need a transition into regular life. Regular life is really weird. Did you know most people can't knife fight, and also use salt in cooking?"

"No. We've been living wrong all these years."

"Tell me about it." The next book Sam picked up was a law textbook. He was pretty sure he'd done too many illegal things to ever think seriously about doing that again. He wanted a simple job that kept him off the trouble radar. He had yet to decide what that was. At least he had a lot of skills to draw upon. "I can't believe I'm going to say this, since I was pretty much sick of your crap by ten, but I kind of miss you."

Dean shrugged. "Why? I'm always here. Somewhere."

"I know. I think I need therapy."

"Dude. If therapists see us, all they'll see is summer homes and vacations to Grand Cayman for the next fifty years. We're like walking turkey drumsticks to starving cartoon dogs. Just epically fucked up. There aren't enough drugs in the world."

Sam chuckled at the image. Yes, he could totally see that. He could also see a therapist walking out when he said "The first time I died …" He glanced at Dean, who looked the same as before, except no more flannel shirts for him. He was just wearing a black t-shirt to go with his long black leather coat and worn jeans. Maybe this was his conception of death attire. "Don't take this the wrong way, but being Death kind of suits you."

"Holy shit, I know. It's freaking me out a little. I mean, I remember trying it once and hating it, but … I don't know. Something's different. Ascension maybe. Or Cas still has training wheels on me, which is more than possible. He doesn't want me to get overwhelmed."

Good for Cas. He knew he could trust him to look after Dean. "You're doing well. I'm glad to see it. Just … watch the god slaying for now."

"No promises."

Sam smiled, and wondered how weird it was going to be on the day he gave the Bunker to Charlie completely, and walked away. It was a thrilling and daunting idea at the same time. No more of this. He could be a regular person ... Or could he? He still wasn't sure. But he had been for brief spurts in his life, so maybe it was like riding a bike. He just needed to do it to remember how it went.

As if picking up on his general air of melancholy. Dean said, "Whenever you need me, just summon me or call Cas. It takes more to get rid of me than becoming Death."

"Don't I know it. Take care of the universe, Dean."

"I'm tryin'. Take care of yourself."

Sam really didn't think Dean would go in for the hug, but surprisingly, he did, and Sam stood and hugged his brother goodbye. It felt permanent, but he knew it wasn't. It was just bye for now. Life had finally pulled them apart, and sent them off in different directions. He never would have bet he would be the last surviving Winchester, not in a million years.

Dean let him go with a final manly slap on the back, and turned to walk down the nearest aisle. Sam watched until he faded into heavy shadows, almost like he was born to them. At least he was a part of them now.

And then Sam woke up, ready to live again.


The End (no, really this time)