A/N: Big thanks to those who have reviewed! So glad you're enjoying. Long chapter for you here, and probably the one you've all been waiting for…

"Ladies and gentleman, we have landed at Palo Alto Airport. The time is 3:52 in the afternoon, the temperature approximately 70 degrees Fahrenheit. Thank you for your cooperation, and have a very pleasant rest of your day."

Sam grunts as he peels himself out of his seat, tense muscles protesting and stiff joints popping. He grimaces but makes no movement to reassure the young woman who tosses a concerned glance his way—he's not exactly feeling social, right now. The pain washes over him in dark waves that make him grit his teeth, mouth flattening in opposition to the excited grins of the other soldiers scattered around him. He doesn't know any of them personally, but their joy is unmistakable, and no wonder; they all have family and friends waiting for them just a few steps away, and comfortable homes to return to. His jacket has slipped down to the floor by his feet some time during the flight, and his back twinges as he bends slowly and hooks a finger in the collar, slinging it on. He pauses, head down and eyes closed, before looking up and realizing that everyone is waiting on him. With more resignation than relief, Sam Winchester makes his way down the aisle, across the ramp, and towards the terminal, where the shouts and calls of delighted voices are already ringing clear.

All the khaki soldiers' bags have already been collected off the carousel, and his is by the front, easily in reach. The familiar weight of his duffle grounds him a little more, and with a breath, he steps into the terminal.

And stumbles back a little in surprise.

After the low lights of the plane, the brightly-lit terminal makes him squint. A far cry from the shabbier airport on the other side of his journey, this one is massive, high vaulted ceilings and plush red seating illuminated by searing overheads.

Most overwhelming, though, is the crowd.

Mobs of people are shouting, waving neon signs and violent gesturing, some jumping up and down and others covering their faces to hide the tears. Sam's fellow soldiers' faces are glowing with excitement, some shiningly wet but all ecstatic. One gruff-looking man in a navy blue uniform darts forward and collides with a little girl in pigtails, who screams in excitement as he tosses her up onto his hip and clasps her in a hug. A younger soldier walks slowly forward, and clasps a grizzled older man, most likely his father, in a long handshake. More camouflage suits run forward and tackle children, parents, partners, and friends, signs and banners flying up and showering down like confetti as their holders find a warm body to grasp. But there's no one here for a lonely Winchester, and why would there be, anyway? Not like they've got any contact left—Sam broke the last of that, months ago. John was pretty clear that he wasn't going to provide the support Sam asked for, and Dean? Well, Dean, whatever his mixed feelings, stood with John. That was enough for Sam.

It's too much to handle.

The sleek black car veers into a spot in the indoor parking lot, Dean out almost before it stops, slamming the door uncharacteristically impatiently. He's more jittery than the time he drank an inadvisably large amount of Red Bull and caffeine in the space of a few hours, eyes darting frantically, legs twitching, fingers clenching and unclenching. John doesn't allow his emotions to manifest so obviously, but even he is nervous and anxious, face tight and lined but eyes burning with an unreadable something.

They take the lot at a run, loping gracefully around cars, ignoring the frustration of the drivers. John and Dean push through the swing doors and pause, Dean twisting in a full circle as they scan the crowds for one particular figure.

A soft growl of anxious worry rises in John's throat as he searches desperately. Dean runs his fingers frantically through his hair, clasping his hands behind his neck, then suddenly dropping them to point a finger.

A familiar and unwanted heat pricks behind his eyes and something in his throat slides down like a block of ice to his stomach. Sam turns and heads out away from the crowds, pushing and shoving his way through when the mob doesn't give and ignoring the curious and pitying looks aimed at his retreating back. They don't understand. Hell, he doesn't understand much of anything anymore, and the only thing he can think of is that he needs a motel, a drink, and maybe a year of sleep.

The exhaustion, misery, and despair hit him like a ton of bricks. The crushing weight is not only mental but physical, and as the live reality bears down, so does the old pain. Sam stumbles and flings out a hand, grabbing a rail on the glass wall and clutching it with a shaking hand.

He draws in a breath, and lets his head hang down.

And snaps it up as the sound of one well-known voice travels above the babble of the busy room.

"SAM!"

Oh, god, they're there.

Oh, god, he's here.

Sam's vision flashes white for a moment, then clears and tunnels, and suddenly all he can see are the two figures standing side by side on the other end of the room. Somehow, even from this distance, he can see the moisture in two pairs of eyes, the wrinkles and tense shoulders that suddenly drop in pure relief.

Time slows down, freezes, and then suddenly picks up again. And the figure on the left is running towards him, legs pumping to cross the giant distance, pounding feet eating up the floor. Sam wants to hold his ground and stay standing, a torrent of emotions assaulting him and telling him to stay back and run forward and hide and come, but his legs give way and he feels himself sliding to the floor, spine pressed against the wall and head tipped back.

Warm hands grab him before he hits the floor, arms like bands of steel hooking over and around his chest, easing him down. They pull him in, wrapping him up and pulling him, enveloping him and shutting out the harsh lights and sounds. A calloused hand gently draws his head down to a warm bed of flannel, and a voice whispers over and over again: "Sammy, Sammy, I gotcha, ok, I gotcha, you're right here with me, it's Dean, I'm here, I gotcha, Sammy, you're gonna be just fine, I gotcha, I'm here little brother, I gotcha, Sammy, I gotcha."

Finally, finally, the pressure loosens, the ache gives way, and the tears come. They have a home now.