Technically, this was the last chapter... until my stupid brain made me write an epilogue, which you'll be getting on Monday. Till then, please enjoy the next-to-last chapter :)

Chapter Twenty

Animus

Spots swam before Dean's eyes, but he didn't care. He left the kids, turning his back on them and running full-tilt down the hill and into the quieted masses. The troops stood still, letting him push past, their eyes never leaving the hillside where the two bodies lay.

Dean barreled past Sarah's limp form, dropping to his knees beside his brother.

Sam's body lay at an odd angle, a tangle of long limbs. His eyes were closed, his face peaceful. His chest was still, unmoving, unable to draw any breath. Blood slicked his face in a single path from one nostril to his chin. Dean wiped it away.

The older hunter straightened the young man out, setting his arms and legs into a more natural position, blinking away the tears that burnt his eyes at the ease of the movements he was forcing on the body. There was no sign of protest, no sign of life.

There was no reason to hide the tears. He wouldn't be judged, not here, not now. Not by these things, the ones that had brought death to his family. He had never asked for this.

He sobbed. He sobbed, because he knew that was a lie. He had asked for it, for Sam to take the lead, assume his rightful place, be all that he could be. Hell, he'd practically demanded it. And now his brother was dead.

Dean pulled Sam into his arms, cradling him in an unknown impersonation of the younger man barely four months before. But where Sam had had hope, Dean had none. He wasn't special, couldn't do anything more than a few parlor tricks, and even those left him reeling.

There was no way to reverse this. The crossroads demon was dead. The demon that held the contracts was dead. He couldn't fix it. He could never fix it.

He felt a small hand on his shoulder, soft and young. He turned to see Ben standing behind him, tears streaming down a face that shouldn't have experienced so much loss in such a small span of time, such a short life.

He had his son. His second son. The one that had been left to him by a dying woman who realized too late that lying had been wrong and she might never be forgiven. He'd forgiven, her, though. He'd taken his boy. He had his son.

Dean turned back to the boy in is arms. His first son. The one left to him by his father, shoved into his arms at the ripe old age of four. This was the boy he'd raised, the one that had somehow grown to resent him. This was the one that had left, only to come back again. This was the one he'd died for, the one he'd faced Hell for. This was the one that he'd promised to protect.

Sam was the one he had killed.

He curled away from Ben's touch, curled into his brother's body, and let the tears flow freely.

o0o0o0o0o0o0o

Sam Winchester stared down at his brother, watched the older man shrug the boy away, curl in on himself, close up against everything but the body held tightly in his hands.

It was interesting, having an out-of-body experience. Or, it would have been interesting, if it hadn't involved his death.

He still wasn't entirely sure how that had happened. He could remember opening himself up fully, letting the power take him, channeling it toward Lilith, desperate to stop her before she could hurt his family again. He had felt it flow through him, bursting from his brain and into his veins, from his veins through his skin. It had felt warm, had felt right, and in that single moment, he'd known that Dean had told the truth. He wasn't evil. He could never be evil.

And then it had stopped. It had stopped, and when he had opened his eyes, it was to see Dean running toward him, toward his body.

Sam had been worried at first. Dean didn't do alone well. But then Ben had walked up, had placed a hand on the older hunter's shoulder, and Sam had relaxed. Dean wasn't alone. He would never have to be alone again. He would take charge of the troops, take care of everything. Sam could rest easy.

His shadow spread out before him, which was odd, considering he wasn't exactly corporeal at the moment. He turned around, toward the odd light, and gasped.

o0o0o0o0o0o

Dean curled farther in on himself, sheltering Sam from the roving eyes of the troops, from the elements, from the horror of what they'd done.

He raked rough fingers through his brother's too-long hair, rocking gently back and forth- more of a comfort for himself than Sam. He stared into the still face, the pale face.

All was forgotten. His own pain, his own lacerations, everything but the swirling torrent of guilty emotion that reared its ugly head.

A large tear fell from Dean's eye onto his brother's cheek and he wiped it away with his thumb.

"Please," the hunter muttered, his voice broken and soft, weaker than he ever imagined it could sound. "Please, come back. Sammy, please."

He closed his eyes, his simple plea dying on his lips. What good was being a freak if he couldn't save his brother? What good was moving things without the detriment of touch if he couldn't pull Sam back?

What good was winning the war if he lost the most important thing in his life in the process?

As another tear plopped onto Sam's white cheek, Dean stilled his body and concentrated. Maybe he didn't have to see what he wanted to grab it. Maybe he could reach out and take it back anyway. Maybe he could still save his little brother.

o0o0o0o0o0o0o

They were waiting for him. His mom. His dad. Jess. Sarah. Everyone he'd loved and lost. Everyone that had loved him back.

Sam glanced back at his brother, almost crumbling under the sorrow that rolled off of the older man. He couldn't stay. He wanted to go. He wanted peace and safety and rest. Dean would be ok. Dean had Ben. He would move on.

Sam moved to join his family in the light, only to find that he couldn't. It was like something had a strong hold on his jacket sleeve, something that wouldn't budge, wouldn't let him go.

He spun around, looking for the culprit with the inhuman grip, but found nothing. He shrugged it off, took a step toward the light, and stopped.

It was there again, holding onto him, never letting go. He turned around, and immediately wished he had never looked back.

There was nothing on his arm, nothing anchoring Sam to the world of the living. That wasn't what worried him. It was the fact that time seemed to have stopped, that no one- not the demons, not the kids, not even Dean- was moving. It was the fact that he suddenly wasn't the only person in two places at once.

Dean seemed to be just as surprised as Sam was to be standing outside of his kneeling body. "Sammy?"

Sam just stared, unable to respond as he took in his brother's condition. Ragged cuts sopped blood down both ankles, over shredded feet that shouldn't have been able to support his weight. A large chunk of his side was missing, bone poking through the gaping hold that spilled blood over his body. His collar bone, starkly white against the sweat and grime that had settled on his face, stuck up at a ninety degree angle to its usual position. Blood trickled from his brother's mouth as the older man struggled to smile. "Sammy."

"Dean," the younger man finally managed to breathe. "Man, what the hell happened to you?"

He looked down at himself, his eyes going wide for a moment. He shrugged. "Hell."

Sam looked over his brother's shoulder. "Shouldn't you be…?"

Dean turned, looking back at the scene on the hillside. "I dunno. I think… I think I came to get you."

Sam shook his head. "That's not possible. You… this is…"

The older man smiled. "Man, you look good."

There was no way to respond to that but to look down at himself. Where Dean was covered in dirt, sweat, blood, and bone fragments, Sam seemed whole, not a scratch nor mark on his soul.

His soul…

He was dead. He was moving on, trapped between two worlds. Dean wasn't dead, shouldn't have been there.

"You have to leave. You have to go back."

"Not without you."

"No, Dean," he argued, "you can't. I'm gone, but you-"

"You don't get it," Dean said, an unflattering note of raw desperation in his voice. "You can't leave. Not yet."

"I'm dead."

The older man flinched. "Sammy, you have to help me."

"What?"

"You have to fix me."

Sam shook his head. "I don't… I don't understand."

Dean took a slow step forward, his broken feet protesting the movement. Sam was stung with a sudden pang of guilt-I did that- as he watched the older man struggle. Dean came to a wobbly stop, his body sagging with pain and fatigue. He held up his hands for Sam to see.

They should have been the most broken part of Dean's soul, nearly ripped off when he'd swung down toward the depths of Hell. Surprisingly enough, his hands were almost whole. A single, deep gash marred each wrist to the palm, but that was all. There were no bones popping out at odd angles, no fresh blood trickling across his skin. Just a slash that went clean through, but appeared to be healing.

"Look," Dean said, holding his hands closer to his brother, something like awe in his voice.

"What happened? Dean, what are trying to tell me?" The light behind him shone brightly, inviting, trying to pull him in. But his curiosity had been piqued. He had to stay, just to find out what his brother was getting at.

Dean's voice was soft and low, that astonished quality never leaving it. "You did this. You did it, Sam."

"Yeah, I know. And I'm sorry. I'm sorry, but I had to get you back."

The older man's face clouded with confusion. "No. Sam. This." He shook his hands slightly. "You fixed it. You fixed me. I didn't think anyone could." He sighed. "I thought this," he gestured down at his battered soul, "was it. I thought this was what I had to look forward to, but maybe not. I know it sounds crazy, ok, but I could feel it happening. You can fix this, Sam, all of it. But you need to be here to do it."

Sammy shook his head. "You're crazy. Dean, I can't. It's too late. You were right, I could handle it. And I did. I killed her. Everything's gonna be all right now." He smiled. "Take care of Ben."

He turned back toward he light, toward his family, toward his eternity. He hated leaving Dean, hating walking away after everything they'd been through, but that light was so warm, so welcoming, so nice.

A hand wrapped itself around his arm, fingers clutching tightly at the worn fabric of his jacket. Warm blood, sticky and wet, seeped through the sleeve to his skin.

Time seemed to stop again as Sam stood there, suspended by the feeling of his brother's blood, blood that had stopped flowing because Sam had fixed him. In that moment, he knew what Dean had gone through in Hell. He felt the pain, the hopelessness, the sheer panic rush through his body in a wave.

Grief hit him hard and fast, a torrent of emotion so strong that it threatened to bury him. He knew suddenly, as surely as he knew his own name, that there was something wrong with him. He was marred, covered in sweat, blood, and dirt. He was torn. He was broken, and no one ever stayed to fix him.

His shoulders strained under an invisible weight, a responsibility dumped on them before they were ready, a responsibility that bent and broke them, building him back up into something deformed, something that never could see its worth.

And suddenly, he knew. He knew what Dean had been talking about back at Bobby's, how he had known that Sam was good and pure and everything that he believed that he could never be.

Dean pulled his hand away, clutching it to his chest as old wounds reopened, spilling more blood down his already drenched shirt. What was left of it hung at an odd angle, flesh and bone split down the middle. It didn't even look like a hand anymore.

Sam stared at his brother, at what he was doomed- no, damned- to be for all eternity unless someone was willing to do something, unless someone was willing to fix him. Broken, bloody, dirty, unworthy. Sam had felt his brother's soul, had felt the weight of responsibility thrust upon him, the scars that years of rejection had left, the grooves that the life and soul of another had dug out of him.

He'd felt his brother's soul, and had found nothing good. There was only selfless dejection, misery and pain so deep that it cut at his still heart, threatened to tarnish his own spirit. There was merely a sliver of light, or happiness, of innocence and hopes and dreams and goals and purity left. He had put it there.

He'd felt his brother's soul, and because of that, he knew what he had to do.

o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

Ben shook his father, no longer caring about avoiding the tender wounds that the hellhound had left on the man's back. All he knew was that his dad had gone deadly still, his breath slow and shallow, face paling as blood dripped steadily form his nose onto his brother's face.

Slowly, Dean drew in his breath with a hiss of pain, the first sign since he'd ducked his head that he was alive. He blinked, the world suddenly too bright around him. Almost as bright as Sam had shone before ending his life.

The hunter straightened up, his back protesting the movement with a sharp screech of pain that rattled down his spine. He turned to look at his son, wondering why the kid had been so worried.

He could vaguely remember standing up, talking to his brother, and then…

Dean pulled his hand gently from behind Sam's back, inspecting it for the large tear he could have sworn he'd seen there. The skin was clear of imperfections, slightly tanned and criss-crossed with a tiny network of scars.

"Dad?" Ben asked, shaking Dean out of his slight daze.

Dean shook his head. "Must have nodded off. You ok?"

"You were barely breathing."

The hunter nodded. "Yeah, sorry." He looked back at his brother, fighting back another wave of harsh tears as they clawed at his eyes, begging for release. He sighed. Ben was staring up at him with big eyes, trusting him to know the answers, to know what to do.

A single tear slipped out of his control, sliding down his nose and plopping onto Sam's cheek. He recognized the look, saw his brother in it. It was the same look Sammy had given him all throughout their childhood, especially when their father's explanations just wouldn't suffice.

In childhood, he'd had all the answers. Now, he was lost. He was sad and scared and so tired.

And Sam was dead.

Sam was dead, lying in his arms, long limbs hanging limply at his sides, spilling out of Dean's protective grip as the color slowly returned to his waxen face and his chest rose and fell in short, rhythmic breaths.

"Wait a minute…"

He leaned in close to his brother, pressing an ear softly against a chest that should have been cooling. Instead, it was warm, too warm to be dead. A strong heart beat a rhythm in Dean's ear as he listened, unable to keep a smile off his face.

"Sammy?"

He leaned away, giving his obviously not dead brother space to breathe. Sam's eyes fluttered open, confused green orbs darting back and forth as he got his bearings.

Dean helped the younger man sit up, still smiling like an idiot. "Thought I lost you, there."

Sam looked at him, his expression unreadable. "You don't remember?"

"Remember what?" Dean asked, unconsciously clenching his fingers into a fist, suddenly needing to make sure he still could.

The younger man dropped his voice. "I believe you. I know what you felt. I felt it, too."

Recognition dawned in Dean's eyes as he realized what his brother was talking about. "That wasn't a dream?"

Sammy grinned. "No. And I'm glad." He tried to stand, nearly toppling over in his attempt before Dean wrapped a strong arm around him and helped hoist him up. Once he'd gained his balance, Sam stepped away, slipping his arm carefully from the wounds on his brother's back.

They turned together to look into the valley, assess the damage, and deal with whatever was left of Lilith's army. Both brothers stared in awe at what they saw.

Every demon in the valley had hit its knees, bowing to the brothers, to Sam, to the winner of the war and their new leader.

"Well," Dean commented, wrapping an arm around his son and pulling the boy close to his legs. "That's one way to welcome a guy back from the dead."

Sam pulled in a choked breath. He thought about running away, of leaving someone else to deal with the responsibility that now knelt before him, and then he looked at Dean. He looked at Dean, and he saw the older man's soul staring at him with desperate eyes, pleading with bloody lips.

He stayed.

The demons stood, slowly gaining their feet, and stared up at their new leader, the boy king that had finally accepted his throne. A voice rose from the crowd. "What do we do now?"

Sam sighed. "Now," he said, looking around the valley, at the scattered bodies, the bloody puddles, the limp form of a woman he had loved. "Now?" He wasn't sure. He didn't know what he was doing, what took the top priority. They needed to help the wounded, to bury the dead. He needed to apologize to Sarah.

He looked at Dean, at the sharp lines carved down his back, the blood that had only recently stopped trickling from his nose, blood that was rolling slowly down Sam's own face. Suddenly, he knew what they had to do.

"Now," Sam said, smiling at his brother, "we rebuild."