Title: Lonely Light of Morning

Chapter 10: The Peace You Could Never Find

For the first time you can open your eyes
And see the world without your sorrow
Where no one knows the pain you left behind
And all the peace you could never find
Is waiting there to hold and keep you
Welcome to the first day of your life
Just open up your eyes

Chris Daughtry, Open Up Your Eyes

In the silence that followed, Sam wouldn't have been surprised if the whole room could hear his pounding heartbeat. He swallowed hard, rubbed damp and clammy palms together absently. For the first time since Chris had agreed to help save Dean, he wasn't thinking about his older brother. After what he had just seen- what he'd just heard—

You're practically my father.

Chris's words wouldn't leave him alone. He had known for some time now that he meant a lot to Chris in the future, but he'd somehow assumed that meant they were good friends. He had never imagined something like this; would have thought Chris was lying if he had told him he'd been his mentor, his guardian. Because the man he knew now- the one who was guarded, and hard as nails, and snarky, and secretive- in no way resembled the boy he'd seen grow up in the images of the Circle.

But Sam had seen it happen with his own eyes- as he grew older and his face got more lined and his hair more gray, he'd seen himself loving Chris like a son; taking responsibility for him. He'd seen himself become Chris's father, his guardian, his whole world. And then-

His thoughts stuttered to a halt. He couldn't go there.

But there was still some vindictive voice in the back of his mind, bitter from the days after Dean's death that told him it was his fault – that told him that everything was his fault – which told him exactly what the rest of his mind couldn't bear:

He had killed Dean – his own brother.

And then he had killed himself.

The deals with demons, with reapers – it had finally ended. In Chris's future, they had finally met their ends. For all their renown, for all their battles over good and evil, innocents and monsters, for all their narrow victories that filled the next moments with that delirious happiness that made even Dean's lame jokes hilarious, the Winchesters were gone.

Unless Chris succeeded.

Sam swallowed hard again and forced himself to look over at the young man who had lost almost everyone he'd ever loved to Dean – and then everyone, finally, to Sam himself. Even as he made himself look, Sam didn't know how he could ever face Chris again knowing all this.

Chris looked visibly ill and didn't even glance in Sam's direction. His face was chalky white, and the only thing keeping him on his feet appeared to be the table. Finally, after all the stresses of the trial, a thin crack had begun to splinter in it under Chris's grip.

Sam had no idea from his shut down expression what he could be thinking about – except maybe vomiting. Was he angry? Hurt? Did he regret bringing Sam here and reopening all these ragged wounds for himself?

Blood started to flutter outwards from Chris's palms, trickling into the cracks in the table and sliding along those.

Sam wanted to reach out and stop him, take his hands and tell him – tell him something. That it was alright – that he was sorry. But it wasn't alright, and Sam hadn't done anything yet; his apology wouldn't mean anything.

He wasn't the Sam Chris needed right now.

The words stuck in his throat, and Sam clasped his own hands together, stopping himself from reaching out to Chris. It took several more moments to realize that, over his inner chaos, the Tribunal had been talking quietly amongst themselves.

And then they turned back to the plaintif.

"We have reached our decision," said Adair.

Sam and Chris's heads shot up. Wyatt, who had watched the memories of Sam and Chris with a closed, unreadable expression, glanced up calmly. A quiet, dangerous aura loomed in the air around him. Whatever the verdict would be, he would leave this trial planning Chris's death, Sam knew. And again, Sam wondered what exactly their relationship was.

"Dean," continued Adair, "will be resurrected." At the saving words, Sam was hit with a wave of joy and relief so strong that his knees nearly buckled. He barely registered the rest of Adair's speech over his own shaky breathing. "However, we know how the Winchesters react to the deaths of family. If Dean is to die again before this oncoming war, which is more than likely with your history, he is to stay gone. There will be no more deals, and no repeat of what you have done here today, with selfishness disguised as divine balance."

The floating heads turned as one to the center of the room, where pillars of light shot once more from the Circle of Truth. But no projections of memory arose from the light. The light simply grew brighter and brighter, a blinding blue white that made Sam shield his eyes –

And Dean staggered forward, wearing the same clothes Sam had buried him in and clutching his head as if suffering one of his particularly bad hangovers. He stumbled, fell to his knees, and suddenly Sam was beside him, supporting him, his mind still in such shock that he couldn't recall standing from his chair and rushing forward.

Wyatt said something to Chris, but it was quiet, and Sam couldn't hear over the rushing in his ears, couldn't see except for the sight of his brother's face.

"S-Sammy?" croaked Dean, squinting around in confusion. "What…?"

Words failed Sam. He gripped his brother in a bone-crushing hug, tears slipping down his cheeks, and still too stunned and confused to move, Dean let him.

Sam couldn't remember the Tribunal or Wyatt leaving, but they must have, because the next thing he knew, Chris was at his side, saying something about orbing home; and the hoarse words echoed in the emptiness.

He didn't release Dean until the cold glass of the trial room floor became cool stone floor of P3 under his knees.

Chris lurched into the adjoining bathroom, slamming the door behind him, and that more than anything snapped Sam back to his senses.

"Dean!" Sam said, clambering back to his feet. He helped a dazedly protesting Dean up onto the couch and hovered anxiously. "Here – what am I thinking? – let me get you some water. Hold on –"

"I'm going to need something a whole hell of a lot stronger than water, Sammy," said Dean, voice scratchy. He shot a cursory glance around the room, his eyes clearing slightly of the confusion and showing more of the cataloguing calculation he used on jobs. And then he snapped his attention back to Sam. The confusion had vanished entirely as he returned to his senses; it morphed into outrage. "Sam, what the hell did you do? I told you! I told you not to cut any more deals with demons! I told you to let it end with me! Goddammit, Sam! What were you thi–"

"No, no, no!" said Sam. "Dean, no. I didn't, I swear. Here, let me get you something to drink and I'll explain everything. Just calm down and hold on a minute."

Dean opened his mouth to argue some more, but brotherly habits returned to Sam like riding a bike. He ignored him and loped out the door, leaving Dean's angry, dirty remarks to fall in an empty room.

Even through Dean's ranting, however, as Sam passed the bathroom door, he could hear the unmistakable sounds of someone being violently ill. Chris.

Guilt and uncertainty gnawed at Sam's heart. He slowed down just outside the door, hesitating.

Dean had just returned from the dead. Chris had just relived some of the worst moments of his life. And there was only one Sam to help them both. After a moment, Sam decided there was very little he could do for Chris at the moment, and returning from the dead was probably the greater trauma. And… Dean was his brother. He hadn't seen him in two years.

Sam finished the distance to the bar in quick strides. He pulled out a bottle of whiskey, filled a regular-sized glass halfway, and put the bottle back. As he strode back toward the makeshift bedroom, he nearly plowed over Chris, coming out of the bathroom. The young man looked more like a living corpse than any of the vampires Sam had ever seen. His face was whitish green and damp with sweat, his hair sticking to his forehead and the back of his neck. He looked like he hadn't slept in weeks, and Sam had no idea how he was still upright.

"Chris," said Sam in shock. "Oh – God – let me, um, get you something, too. Just…" He twisted around, handing Dean the glass of whiskey, and started back around Chris for the bar again, but Chris shook his head and pushed past him.

"Don't bother," he muttered. "I've put demon hunting off to prepare for the trial for two whole days. I've got a schedule to make up for."

"Chris, you're in no shape to –"

Chris orbed away.

Dean jumped to his feet but still somehow maintained a steady grip on his drink. "What the hell was that?"

Sam stared after Chris for several seconds, torn, before he realized Dean had even spoken at all. His mind took a moment to repeat it, and then he shook his head, trying to clear it. He had a lot to explain.

"That was Chris," he muttered. "Chris Perry. He's a whitelighter from the future."

Dean stared at him. Sam stared back. Dean blinked, realized he was still holding a half-full glass of alcohol, and quickly remedied that. When the glass was empty, he sank back onto the couch and said thickly, "Okay. I'm back from Hell, you didn't make a deal, and there's a white-thing from the future that looks like more like he just got back from a lower circle of Hell than I do. Did I miss anything?"

"About two years worth, actually," said Sam, sinking into the desk chair across from Dean.

Dean stared at him again. Sam stared back. Then Dean looked down at his empty glass as if repeating the previous process could make it full again. When it didn't work, his hopeful expression turned mournful.

Sam sighed and took the glass from him. He went back to the bar to refill it, making a mental note to pay Piper back later. She might as well just start a tab with Dean's name carved in stone on it. He wondered distantly what they were going to do about living arrangements. Two people in the backroom had been a precarious enough balance as it was. Three people?

Hotel, Sam thought. Just like old times.

"Hey, and you moved into a bar, too," said Dean, following. He looked around the club with approval and punched Sam in the shoulder. "I knew I'd eventually make a man out of you. Too bad I had to die to do it."

Sam sloshed some of the whiskey out of the glass as his hands jerked. He didn't look up. "That's not funny."

"Yeah, well, you wouldn't know Funny if it bit you in the ass. Two years ain't gonna change that one."

Sam ignored that and handed Dean the glass. "A whitelighter," he said, continuing his explanation, "is like a guardian angel."

"Funny, he looked more like hell than Heaven."

"Ha ha," said Sam. "Your astonishingly rapier wit is out of practice, bro."

Dean casually flipped him off and sat down on a bar stool across from Sam. "So, Chrissie-boy is an angel. That explains his 'demon hunting' excuse for leaving. He yours?"

"Don't call him that," said Sam. Involuntarily, his mind flashed back to the memories he had seen in the trial. Somehow, demon or human, Dean apparently had an inclination to call him Chrissie-boy. When Dean only gave him a look of bewilderment, Sam shook his head. He sat down on the bartender's stool and poured himself a glass of coke. "No," he said, taking a draft. "He's the Charmed Ones' whitelighter. They're these three prophesized good witches. One of them is my whitelighter, Paige. Except neither of them are actually full-blooded whitelighters. They're both part witch."

"Good witches?"

"Good witches," said Sam. "Trust me; I was skeptical, too, but I found a reference to them in Dad's journal, and I've been working either with them or near them for the past few months. They're legit. Good witches."

Dean quirked his eyebrows, blinked a few times, and downed his whiskey. Sam set the bottle on the table, and Dean helped himself.

"This is Piper's club. She's the oldest. I've been staying in the backroom with Chris because credit card fraud strikes them as immoral for some reason."

Dean smirked, but it didn't last long. "Okay, so this is what you've been up to," he said. "What about me? You didn't do a deal?"

His expression was entirely too knowing for Sam's liking. "No," he said, shaking his head. "No deal. I was all up for it right after you…. But no demon would take me. Apparently our family has a reputation with crossroads demons. So, after that, I started researching everything. I never gave up. Except, somewhere along the way when I was hunting, I guess... I just lost it a bit. I, um… I didn't… I didn't… make sure enough."

That was all he needed to say for Dean to understand. Pain flickered behind Dean's eyes, and he looked down. "Oh," he said.

Sam swallowed hard, feeling his brother's disappointment and guilt like knives in his gut, and forced himself to continue. "So Paige showed up, and she's trying to help. It's – it's good. To have people to talk to, ya know. To have people you don't have to lie to. People you can trust. It's helped a lot, I think."

Dean nodded, though his expression was still dark. "So they knew a magical way to bring me back?"

"Not them," said Sam. "Bringing you back, that was all Chris. He called a hearing with the Tribunal, which is the most powerful force of magic in the world – until Piper's son, at least – and convinced them that bringing you back was a matter of maintaining the balance of good and evil. In Chris's future, Piper's son sped up your, um, demonization process and… well… it wasn't good. In that future, you… you were a demon. You killed… and tortured… and… well…." He trailed off and looked down at his coke. After a second's thought, he reached down under the bar, pulled out a bottle of Jack Daniels, and upended into his glass. Those memories didn't bear thinking about, let alone explaining. He took a long draft and continued, "Chris convinced them that Wyatt – that's Piper's son – having you as his first lieutenant tipped the balance of good and evil too far towards evil. So, to stop you from becoming a demon in the future, they resurrected you now."

"That's… really roundabout," said Dean.

Sam gave a one-shouldered shrug. "Say all you want, but it worked when nothing I tried would."

Dean conceded that one with another eyebrow quirk and finished his third glass of whiskey. He set the glass down and eyed the bottle speculatively but didn't pick it up. "So this Chris guy. How'd he convince the most powerful force of magic in the world? He looked like he tried to duke it out with them or something." He started to smirk but then stopped, a startled look coming over his face as he considered the idea for real. "He didn't, did he?" he asked, clearly disgruntled at the thought. "'Cause I don't need anyone fighting my battles for me, angel or not. I mean-" he stopped, realizing how that had sounded, and then clarified, "I'm grateful that he saved me, but if this means I have some kind of magical debt to him–"

"No, no, nothing like that," said Sam. "There's this thing called the Circle of Truth. It projects memories, because I guess memories themselves can't lie. He and Wyatt just showed a ton of memories that were… relevant. Chris showed how, because of you, Wyatt could overthrow the entire world and make it into this Hell-on-Earth, and Wyatt tried to show that Chris was doing this just for personal reasons, and it wasn't a matter of good and evil."

"Personal reasons?" said Dean. "I don't even know the guy. This Wyatt guy must have had a shoddy argument. Don't know why I'd work for a dumbass like that in the… oh. I knew Chris in the future?"

Sam smirked at the confusion battling across Dean's face. "Don't think about it too hard," he said. "It'll make blood shoot out of your ears. And yeah. 'Knew' being kind of a loose term."

Dean raised his eyebrows.

Sam winced internally. Dean should know. Chris would probably act weird around him, and Dean deserved to know why. And it hadn't even happened yet, so it wasn't Dean's fault. There was no reason he'd have to feel guilty. Right? But even as Sam thought it, he knew the way his brother's mind worked. Dean hadn't even met Chris yet, but he would feel guilty for this.

Sam sighed. "You were a demon, Dean. Chris was in the resistance against you and Wyatt. He came back to the past to change everything – to stop Wyatt from ever turning evil – because… because there was nothing left for him in the future. You and Wyatt killed everyone he ever cared about. His fiancée. His grandfather. His child cousins and their fathers. You just… you didn't leave anyone for him." Except me, he wanted to say, but the words stuck in his throat. But I killed you, Dean, and then I killed myself.

Sam didn't have to wonder why those words wouldn't come. He stared down into his Jack and Coke and then drained the rest of it in a huge gulp. Dean's gaze on his face felt like a spinal tap needle: sharp, penetrating, and it made him squirm in discomfort. He wasn't lying, but Dean always knew when he was hiding something, too.

He let it drop, though, and the brothers sat in silence as they stared at their empty glasses. It was the most companionable silence Sam had known in two years. Just the sheer comfort of just sitting together like this, sharing a drink in a bar…after so long…

He closed his eyes for a moment, feeling overwhelmed with sheer relief that his brother was out of hell and alive and breathing beside him. That he wasn't and never would be the demon of Chris's memories. That the nightmare of the last two years was finally over.

And then Dean said without looking up, "Sammy?"

"Yeah?"

"I…" Dean stopped, tried again. "You know I…"

Something hot stung in the back of Sam's eyes, and he swallowed around the sudden mass lumped in his throat. "Yeah, bro," he said tightly, "Me too."

…

TBC…