AN: Not much to say, but this is the end! "There is no real ending. It's just the place where you stop the story." – Frank Herbert
resolution def: (n) the movement of a note or chord from dissonance (disharmony) into consonance (harmony)
Things weren't perfect. In life, Dean had discovered, there were very few magic bullets or overnight cures. Sam still slept more than usual, and he kept getting lost in the bunker, or Dean would find him standing in the kitchen with a lost look on his face, unable either to find what he needed or unable to remember why he'd walked into the room. And Dean refrained from mocking him about it until he realized that Sam expected it – it normalized things somehow.
But Sam was reading and researching again. He even read the Supernatural books, so Dean's disgust. "They actually helped a lot," Sam admitted. "They've filled in some blanks." And Sam apologized to Cas for his thoughtless words, apparently remembering what he'd said about the angel.
Finally, three days after Cas put Sam's memories back, Dean relented about the bare cupboards and went to town for a supply run. And, after an internal debate, left Sam at the bunker. It wasn't logical to expect that Sam would disappear again. He was well able to look after himself and very unlikely to leave anyway, especially in the short time Dean would be gone.
Knowing that didn't make it any easier.
Dean went anyway, and answered questions about the cuts on his face and hands four different times, amused that he could tell the truth, mostly. Crows, man. No, it was like this whole infestation. No, we don't need an exterminator, but thanks. I just shot at 'em until they flew off, then made sure they can't get back in. Yeah, I know. You should see Sam's hands.
And he didn't speed back at all. Well, not much more than usual.
Then Dean walked in and saw Sam sitting in that chair, with his head pillowed on his head, in the exact position that he'd passed out, dying from having Robin take a psychic ice cream scoop to his memories. Dean's heart stuttered and he froze, arms full of grocery bags.
"I'm fine, Dean," said Sam, picking his head up and wiping at his eyes, looking like a toddler. "Just still a little sleepy. Want help with those?"
Dean didn't even look down at the groceries. His heart needed a minute to catch up with his mind. Everything's fine. He's fine. He intended to tell Sam that he'd gotten everything inside in one trip. Instead, his mouth said, "You remember me, right?"
Sam didn't get mad. His eyes softened, understanding and sympathy in their depths. "Yeah, I remember, you, Dean. I know that you hate socks with holes in them, but never throw them away. I know that you cook when you're worried and you watch movies in your downtime because reading too much gives you a headache. I know you like to dip steak fries in ranch dressing, but you think blue cheese dressing is gross. I know you play Air Supply when you want me to fall asleep in the car, and sing along when you think I'm sleeping. I know you have pictures of Kevin and Charlie in your wallet. I know that you've got my back. And I know that you're Dean, my big brother."
Dean set down the bags one at a time, gently, like they were fragile. Because he felt rather fragile. While he was doing that, Sam stood and came around the end of the table. By the time Dean realized what he was doing, it was too late to escape. "C'mere, jerk," said Sam, hooking Dean with unfairly long arms.
Dean hugged back against his own wishes. "Bitch."