Yeah, I couldn't wait until tomorrow.

Final Authors Notes at end.


Be All Our Sins Remember'd

Epilogue


Even Dean can admit that he's a mess, and he's got a lot of sleep to catch up on. He enjoys a long stretch of dreamless, unbroken slumber and eventually wakes slowly with a floaty, gauzy feeling. He twists his wrist free of the blanket and in the meager offering of light, blinks at his watch until the face comes into focus, confirms that he's been passed out for…damn. Yeah, he's gotta piss pretty seriously, so that seems about right.

His head thrums and there's some lingering soreness in his bruised side that protests as he drags himself upright in bed. He wraps his right arm around his middle with a wince, shifts his fingers to gingerly test the tenderness in his ribcage and hisses as a pain in his hand makes itself known. Dean stares dumbly at the healing, circular burn on his palm, and the events of the past several days come back to him with freight train force.

He scrubs at his face with his left hand and looks to the door, which suddenly seems so much farther from his bed than it usually is, the stretch of bare concrete between creating an insurmountable distance.

Fuck it. Dean flops back to the mattress, throws an arm over his eyes, and quickly falls back into a drifting, agitated, uncomfortable sleep. At some point, he's vaguely aware of Sam cautiously jostling and encouraging him awake, and an ensuing stumble down the hall to the bathroom for a much-needed leak.

Dean tosses restlessly once back in bed, helplessly as his subconscious shuffles the deck of recent emotional trauma. He dreams of the Darkness, a poison fog rolling in to scour the world of all its light.

He dreams of Dad, grinning cruelly with yellow eyes as pain rips him apart from the inside.

He dreams of a proud grin from the other end of the bench of the Impala, a squeeze of his shoulder and "perfect landing, son."

Of his dad grinning widely up at his own father, an innocent child himself.

Finally, Dean wakes again, twisted in blankets. His headache is gone, but his mouth is painfully dry, and he couldn't possibly sleep any more. He pulls himself from his bed with minimal resistance from his recently collected aches and pains. His muscles are tight and there's a crick in his neck, but a brief stretch and a satisfying series of pops from his spine leave him feeling loose-limbed as he crosses to the sink. He avoids his reflection as he splashes his face with a palmful of cold water.

He cuts the tap, water dripping from his chin with a plip into the basin as he finally lifts his eyes. The man in the mirror no longer looks like a ghostly, burdened stranger, so Dean's got that going for him, but he's still taken a hell of a pummeling. Between rabid Cas beating the tar out of him and crashing into the rocky shallows outside the fort in Louisiana and the ghost-throttling in Pennsylvania, his skin's been a veritable palate of contusion hues. But time and rest have put some of the natural, healthy color back into his face and allowed much of the visible damage to fade away. A small bloom of purple bruising still colors his cheek under his left eye, but when he presses two fingers to the spot he's not overcome with the urge to vomit, so he figures he's just about back to one hundred percent.

Just about.

Dean brushes his teeth at the sink, rustles up some clean clothes and heads down the hall for a long-overdue shower.

He pads into the library in a clean t-shirt and jeans, rubbing the back of his head. His brother is at one of the tables, staring intently at the screen of his laptop. There's a coffee mug next to his hand and his leg is jiggling beneath the table, but his shoulders are relaxed and rounded, and the lines of worry and stress have eased out of his features.

Sam doesn't seem to register his approach. Dean stops next to the table, waits another beat. "Morning."

His brother grunts, then looks up as though on some kind of delay. He jerks, shuts the lid of his laptop and straightens in his seat. "Uh, yeah, sort of," he says, glancing at his watch. He leans back, narrows his eyes appraisingly. "How you feeling?"

"Human," Dean answers, shrugging. When that doesn't seem to satisfy his brother, he adds, "I'm fine." He lifts the mug and sniffs the contents, recoils and sets the cup back down on the table. "How the hell long have you been up?"

Sam laughs, a heartier sound than Dean's heard from his brother in weeks. Maybe months. And God, it feels good to hear it. "Dude, you've been passed out for like two days." He raises his eyebrows. "Again."

"What can I say, I needed my beauty sleep."

"Yeah, I can see that." Sam narrows his gaze further, likely zeroing in on that stubborn-ass bruise at his eye.

Dean winces in spite of himself, fingers twitching to probe the spot. "It's fine, Sam." He moves to the mini-fridge and pulls out a pair of beers, sets one on the table and gestures to the computer. "What are you doing? Porn?"

"What? No, Dean, I don't – " He huffs, slides the beer into his hand and rolls his eyes. "I was just checking to see if what went down made the news or the papers. You know, if it got past us." He shifts, looking guilty.

"Yeah." There's no way that no one saw the fireworks that went off in that warehouse. Dean twists the top of his bottle and tosses it to the tabletop. "So?"

Sam lifts a shoulder, holding his own unopened beer. "Believe it or not, everything seems quiet."

"Hm." Dean takes a pull from his beer. "Nothing from Ellie?"

She eyes them with a mix of fear and suspicion as Sam unlocks the cuffs. "You're really letting me go?" she asks, rubbing her red-ringed wrists.

"We really are." Dean twists on the bench seat to keep an eye on her hands as she steps out of the backseat. "I can hardly believe it myself."

Sam drops back into the car and shuts his door, and Ellie leans down to peer in through the open window. His brother clears his throat uncomfortably, leaning away from the witch. "You think, maybe under different circumstances…?"

Dean hooks a hand over the steering wheel, and a smile spreads across his face. "Yeah, maybe."

"Really?"

He drops the grin. "No. Absolutely not." Ellie pouts as he throws the Impala into reverse. "Stay outta trouble, Ellie. I ever see you again, I'll kill you."

The tires spin, spitting gravel from the berm as they leave her standing on the side of the road more than hour outside of town, her pretty face tight with annoyance.

"Nothing." Sam shakes his head. "What are the chances Duncan and Serina just took each other out?"

"That sounds way too neat and tidy for us."

"Yeah," his brother says with a sigh. "You're probably right."

"I'm always right."

Sam huffs but grins, gaze drifting toward the hallway. "You checked the car over before you crashed, right?"

"'Course I did."

His brother nods. "And? Any sign of another tracking token? Or a tracking anything?"

Dean blinks. "Yes, Sam. I found a magical tracker in the car and decided to wait two days to tell you. For fun."

Sam glares.

He drags the back of his wrist across his forehead, momentarily ignoring the rising grumbles of his incredibly empty stomach. "Dude, I've done everything but take the seats apart." He swallows uneasily. "You think I should take the seats apart?"

"I think she probably took Duncan apart after we high-tailed it out of there, man." Sam looks around the reinforced concrete of the bunker. "Besides, Dean, we live in a friggin' fortress. Safest place on Earth, remember? He'd never have been able to get through the warding. And if Duncan knew about the bunker he would've set up shop here long before we did."

"Man, do I hope you're right." Dean takes a long pull from his beer as he sinks into a chair at the table. He picks idly at the label of the bottle, gaze circuiting the otherwise empty library. "How's Cas doing?"

"Maybe forty – fifty percent?" Sam returns his beer to the table, scratches at his cheek. "Sort of hard to tell, because – "

"Angel?"

"Yeah," Sam says with another huff of near-laughter. "I think it really set him back, trying to take that crap off you." He rubs at the back of his left shoulder, frowns. "Not to mention this thing."

"Saved your ass." Dean relaxes in his chair, tips back his beer.

"Yeah, maybe. And as soon as he's up to it, you're gonna get one just like it."

He stiffens at the thought of being branded – of being marked – again, even for good reason.

Sam notices, and quickly moves on. "Anyway, he'll be okay. Just needs a few more days." He leans back in his own chair, elbows propped on the armrests. "What about you? You really okay?"

Dean rolls his head on his shoulders, sighs. Honestly, he wouldn't mind a few more days himself. He's nearly fully recovered physically, but his head's not in the game, and as has so recently been masterfully demonstrated, that's a good way to end up dead.

At Dean's silence, Sam narrows his eyes. "Well, I think we should take it easy," he says. "Stick close to the bunker for a few days. Just until things are settled."

Dean makes a face, lifts a hand. "Hey, I'm not fighting you on that." He salutes his brother with his bottle, polishes off what's left. His head feels light, slightly buzzy, and his thoughts rattle loosely, slide like ball bearings.

All of those good memories of Dad have floated to the surface, pushed aside barked orders, traded lives, and the parts of Dean's childhood he never really had a chance to have. Dad had a childhood stolen too, and lived his whole life believing his own father had abandoned him. And it turns out that was their fault.

He knocks his knuckles on the tabletop, scratches at his eyebrow. "Hey, you remember when Dad used to take us to those wrestling shows?"

Sam chuckles. "Yeah, I do. That was pretty much the only time Dad actually looked relaxed. Why?"

Dean swallows. "I dunno. Been havin' weird dreams, I guess."

Dad had been innocent once. And he'd always been human. Imperfect. He'd never pretended to be anything else; it was Dean who'd put him on the pedestal. And just because the man's dead doesn't mean he's gone. He lives on in the way his sons choose to remember him, and for all his faults, Dean owes his father more, and better than how he's been remembering the man the past few years.

Sam shifts in his chair, drops his eyes. "You wanna talk about it?" He's not pushing, just offering.

Dean stares down at his hands. "Not really."

"If you change your mind…"

"Yeah." The library falls silent, which makes the next growl unleashed by his demanding stomach seem all the more dramatic. "Think I'm gonna find some food."

Sam snorts. "Sounds like a good idea. No, wait," he amends, as Dean is pushing to his feet. "It's pretty slim pickings in there. Give me five. I'll go grab something."

Dean waves a hand, makes a face. "Nah, you always try to sneak in extra veggies or some fake meat crap."

His brother rolls his eyes as he stands and gathers his laptop under his arm. "Okay, okay. Nothing you don't like. Scout's honor."

Dean sinks back into his chair, eyes on the computer. "You said you were looking for anything that got past us."

"Yeah."

"Anything about the Darkness?" An icy tendril of dread wraps around Dean's chest, heart fluttering from the mere mention, or the anticipation of bad news.

Sam shifts his weight, follows Dean gaze down to the computer under his arm. "It's quiet. For now."

They just went through a whole mess of crap, but at the end of the day it was just a complicated distraction from a far more dangerous threat that they can't even begin to fathom. "This isn't over, Sam. You got that thing off me, and I don't want you to think I'm not grateful for that, but…" Dean rubs at the unmarred skin of his right forearm, where the Mark of Cain burned and tempted and changed him for more than a year. "But it cost a hell of a lot." There's blood on both their hands, and he doubts they'll get off scot-free killing Death. "Other than bad, we don't have any ideawhat the Darkness is."

"I'll keep at it. And, yeah, this is bad, but we'll handle it." Sam smiles, but it's forced and too tight. "We've gotten pretty good at it."

"Yeah," Dean says noncommittally, dropping his gaze to the water ring collecting around the unopened beer his brother has left on the table.

"Dean."

He stubbornly chews the inside of his cheek, but raises his eyes back to meet Sam's stern look.

"Don't you ever," his brother says forcefully, "tell me it might not have been worth it."

Dean thinks Sam's got his chips down a bit early on this one, thinks they've both probably got a lot of bad ahead, and probably sooner than later. He flattens his palm on the tabletop and drops his gaze without responding.

I guess we'll see, little brother.


Sam succumbs to cabin fever in less than forty-eight hours.

Although, to be fair, he'd already spent his share of time basking in relaxed boredom waiting for his brother to emerge from his much-needed and well-deserved coma. After crashing for a good fourteen hours, he'd dragged himself from his bed to check on the others. Cas had been sitting eerily still in his room, trancelike, or deep into some kind of angelic recharge ritual. Dean had been a different sight altogether, tossing restlessly and tangled in his blankets, a fine sheen of sweat on his face as he muttered incoherently through his dreams. Sam had carefully – and from a safe distance – coaxed his brother into a mostly-awake state, convinced him to drink some water and be guided down the hall to the bathroom. Then he'd deposited Dean back atop his mattress, where he'd sprawled loosely and begun snoring loud enough to wake the dead.

He'd looked relaxed, but Sam knew it wouldn't last. His brother is skilled in many ways, and causing himself undue mental anguish is one of them. The torturous dreams surely returned after Sam left the room, but no matter their severity, he knows he's unlikely to ever really be privy to what's going on inside Dean's head.

He hasn't seen much of either brother or angel over the past couple of days. They've all been keeping to themselves, healing mind or body as necessary. Sam's spent an unhealthy amount of time scrolling through Netflix and or fruitlessly researching the Darkness, and he's growing restless. And if he's feeling caged and twitchy, then Dean's gotta be climbing the walls by now. He starts to search for a hunt, something small-ball, something just to test the waters, and finds an animal attack in Oregon. It's not much to go on, but if Dean is even flirting with the same sort of cabin fever he is, it'll be enough.

His brother's room is empty, and oddly…neat. The box that had been full of the clothes Sam laundered last week is still on the floor next to the desk, but it's empty now. A brief, tentative survey of the room confirms that the clothes aren't gone, they're put away.

Holy shit.

Dean cleaned his room.

Yeah, it's definitely time to find a gig.

Sam finds Dean in the garage, washing the Impala. He stands on the threshold for a long moment, silent and unnoticed and feeling not a little like a creepy lurker. His brother wouldn't like being watched this way, being studied and sized up, but if Dean wants to be indignant about the uninvited attention then he damn well better be on top of his game enough to notice Sam standing in the doorway. And he's clearly not, so Sam takes advantage, uses the time to take a quick inventory of his big brother.

Dean seems to be moving around easily enough, no lingering stumbling or overly cautious movements that he can see. Sam's searching gaze goes straight to the stubborn bruise curling around his brother's left eye, accentuated by the unforgivingly bright garage lighting. The bruise is the last visible evidence of the hell they've been through, not just this week or this month but since Dean took the Mark from Cain. That last knuckle-shaped contusion that won't let Cas off the hook, won't allow any of them to move on. Even so, it's time to put the Mark of Cain behind them. To trade fleeted, guilty looks and tense silences for hunting. Doing what they do best, and doing it together.

Sam takes a breath and steps down into the garage. "Hey." He stoops, grabs a sponge from the bucket of water at the front of the Impala.

"Hey." Dean throws another spongeful of soapy water onto the windshield, shifting around the hood of the car, and Sam's focus shifts with him.

He wrinkles his nose. Okay. So maybe he didn't do enough of his brother's laundry.

"Dude. What's up with the shorts?"


The End


Author Notes:

I started this project with a list of 93 prompt lines to incorporate, and I managed to include 90 of them. Here are the three that eluded me, for one reason or another:

Sam levels a glare, now visibly shivering. "Where did you learn that word?"

"Which one don't you…floccinaucinihipilification?" Eyebrows pulled together, like Dean is supposed to know what the fuck he's saying.

"Demon-you didn't seem too worried about it."

I was bested by these whackado prompts. :P

There are some inherent issues with writing a WIP story. You've got to keep the creative juices flowing throughout the process, you've got to keep the readers interested enough to stick with you in between sometimes excruciatingly paced postings, and you've gotta keep yourself interested enough to keep plucking away at a story that first got you excited weeks or months or years ago.

I'm sure there are plot holes. I'm sure there are details that don't match up perfectly with SPN canon. I'm sure there are things that could have been delved into deeper. I won't deny or refute any of these complaints. The events of this story dragged out quite a bit longer, in terms of real-time, than I'd originally outlined. A story that I thought was going to be confined to a single week bled out a bit, and I think if I went back and rechecked, we're clocking in at something like 11 or 12 total days of plot here. And I know that's more time between 11X03 and 11X04 than you might be willing to allow.

There were a couple of things I wanted to accomplish with this story. From the jump, I wanted to break 100k words, for no other reason than to say that I finally did. This was a mark that seemed impossible for me, as I tend to write quickly and excitedly, usually glossing over plot points that could handle some expansion and missing a lot of small, nuanced things that could be included in a story. I wanted to try to blend the narrative as seamlessly as possible into the beginning of season 11, while giving a little more texture and fallout to whole MoC debacle, since it was basically glossed over on screen to get the guys back to working together. Finally, I wanted to pack some emotional punches as far as John Winchester is concerned, to give a little background oomph to this turn in Dean's thinking about and remembering his father. Because the first shift happened mid to late season 2, and the it shifted back in season 11, as evidenced in eps like "Beyond the Mat."

I couldn't have done ANY of this without Nova42. Not only did she help me come up with the original plot, and some of the little tangents, but she was the one who read through all of those 93 stories and pulled out lines she thought could be used to weave a story. She's also the best damn beta you will ever have for a piece of writing.

I had a phenomenal time writing this story. I am not the same writer, or even the same person as I was when I started. Two and a half years ago, I didn't think I would ever actually have an original story to work on, and now I'm not only regularly participating in short story and flash fiction contests, but I'm prepping to write the first draft of my first novel for NaNoWriMo next month. I can't guarantee I'll ever write another 50k+ word multi-chap SPN story, but I CAN guarantee that I will ALWAYS be here for tags and oneshots. I just can't seem to quit these boys.

(Also, how about that season 14 premiere?)