Winchesters & Goliath
K Hanna Korossy

"I can't believe I fell for a love spell," Dean fumed, hobbling around the room tossing stuff from the shelves into a duffel bag. He could see Sam biting his tongue to keep from telling Dean to be gentle with the Plum sisters' magical treasures, but Dean couldn't give a rat's ass right now about breaking something. His knee felt broken: how about that? All he wanted to do was finish up and get out of there, go home and soak his leg.

"Yeah, well, join the club," Sam said from across the room, sounding rueful.

Oh, yeah. Dean had forgotten about fangirl Becky. Sam had actually gotten married to that bitch, and…all that entailed. Okay, fair enough. He grudgingly toned his irritation down a notch. "She wasn't even that hot," he grumbled under his breath as he dropped a really ugly mosaic picture into the bag.

Sam laughed behind him, the rat bastard. "Right. Because that's what matters here."

"Just sayin'." Dean finished with the display case and scanned the bookcase next to it. "Think we're gonna need a box for all these books."

Sam came over to take a look. "I don't think we need to take most of these, but—whoa!"

The last was directed at Dean, who had pivoted away to reach a glazed bowl he'd just noticed, only to find his leg had no interest in turning with him. He started to pitch to the floor, only to find an arm looped around his waist, holding him up.

"She did a number on your knee, huh?"

Dean shoved at him, embarrassed. "Get off me." Sam did, but not before they were both sure he was solid on his feet. Dean didn't comment on that. He should've been less antagonistic but, well, he'd seen what Sam had done with the page Rowena wanted from the Black Grimoire. They were so going to talk about that later.

Sam went and found a box and did the last of the clean-up while Dean slowly made his way out to the car. He edged around the growing puddle of blood around the Plum sisters, and the body of zombie Mommy. He shook his head: some family. Their mom must've been so proud, when she was still breathing.

That reminded him soberingly of Mary, and her unknown location or condition. Jack's intel had brought Dean hope, even after Jack himself disappeared to the other side, taking with him their best chance to cross over. Still, if Mom had made it this far, Dean would've put money on her staying alive.

He passed Sam in the courtyard as his brother headed back into the house with their gas canister. It was a shame to burn down the nice house, but their DNA was all over the ground floor; better to erase their presence along with the scene of what had happened here. The Plum murders would remain an open case, but whatever, they'd certainly left enough of those behind. Dean was even kind of curious what CSI would think when they found the remains of Mother Plum, who'd died who knows how long before.

There was a phwoom of flame hitting gas, and then Sam was hightailing it back to the car. He opened the passenger-side door as he passed, clear on his intent to not let Dean drive, and even though Dean made a face, he didn't argue as he awkwardly slid in. His knee already looked like he'd stuffed a grapefruit in his jeans. They were just leaving the neighborhood when they heard the first distant sirens.

Outside Stillwater, Sam pulled into a gas station parking lot. Dean looked a question at him—he'd filled Baby up on their way there—but Sam just got out and went into the mini-mart. He returned with a plastic sack.

"You get M&Ms?" Dean asked.

Sam dropped two bags wordlessly into his lap, M&Ms and jerky, then pulled out a rattling cup and a bottle of water. He quickly poured the ice from the cup into the sack, then stretched his long arm into the back for a towel and wrapped the bag in it. He draped it over Dean's knee, then fished out the bottle of painkillers they kept in the glove compartment and offered three with the bottle of water to Dean.

Dean wanted to make a joke about mothering little brothers, but Sam's pinched face didn't invite humor. He just said a quiet "Thanks" instead, and noted how Sam's face smoothed out a little before he turned on a country radio station and pointed them back to Kansas.

So it was gonna be that kind of trip home.

Sam was weighed down by the whole missing-Mom-and-Jack thing. Even as Dean had regained hope at proof of life, his brother had lost it again, floundering without a plan now to go save Mom: Dean had seen it in his eyes. And then Kaya had died saving them. And Rowena had brought all those great memories of Lucifer back. And who knew what kind of feelings dealing with a love spell had also unearthed. Sam was struggling. That was the only reason Dean hadn't called him on giving Rowena the power-up spell she wanted.

They had a five-hour drive back to Lebanon, stuck in the quiet car together. Dean fully intended on prying some of Sam's worries out of him and talking them through. It wasn't Dean's way of coping, but it was Sam's, and that was mattered.

But his leg was throbbing, the painkillers were making him drowsy, and the Impala had been soothing Dean his whole life. Even as he tried to figure out the conversation, he fought being dragged under.

He lost the fight.

Sam woke him in the garage, looking a little less careworn, a little more caring. He helped Dean just enough to avoid him faceplanting while still letting him save a little face. Not that Sam hadn't seen him at his absolute worst and there was any shame left between them, but still. Big brother here. There was an image to maintain, even if it was completely for show.

Settled in the kitchen with a fresh icepack on his knee, Dean finally tackled the werewolf in the room. And Sam pretty much told him what Dean already knew: with his plan and Jack gone, he was off the rails, lost. Giving Rowena the spell was just a tiny bit of control he could still take back. But he was drowning. And without a plan to offer, Dean didn't have much of an argument, besides that they would come up with a plan.

"Yeah," Sam said, zero confidence in his tone. "'Night." He walked out without a glance back, shoulders hunched.

Dean shut the grimoire and sighed deeply.

One of the reasons the two of them were so good together was that they took turns keeping the faith for the other. Sam had scraped bottom before, when he was losing his mind to hallucinations, or when he'd been sure he was supposed to return to the Cage. And God knows there'd been times when Dean had been ready to give up, like when it seemed his playing host to Michael was a foregone conclusion. And a month or two before, after losing Mom and Cas like that. Sam had been the one to carry him then.

So it was Dean's turn now, and he was good with that. Always had been, giving Sam whatever he needed, but after all they'd been through, all they'd weathered, even more so. If it was just down to the two of them, even temporarily, Dean would be there for his brother.

He washed a hand down his face. He just wished he knew how. Obviously, pep talks weren't gonna cut it, not until Dean had an alternate plan to share. He could and would see to it that Sam had a few decent nights of sleep and good food to eat and was physically solid again. Dean's bum leg would come in handy for that; he could claim he needed recuperation time until he was sure they were both rested up. And he would be there for his brother, make sure Sam knew he wasn't dealing alone. But how did you restore someone's hope when it had drained away? How had Sam…?

Dean sat up. Huh. Sam had gotten through to him a few times not with a plan for the future, but a reminder of the past.

That…that was something Dean could do.

He glanced around the kitchen, eyes finally lighting on the Post-it pad they kept on the little table by the door. It was mostly for Sam's epiphanies and Dean's bored doodles, and it was just what he needed.

And it was fifteen feet away.

Groaning, Dean slowly levered himself up, catching the ice pack as it slid off. He'd taken new painkillers at home, and the ice had done its job: his knee no longer felt like broken bones were rubbing against each other in there, only like everything was bruised to Hell, as Sam had confirmed. Still, he made a face at each hop-step to get to the little table.

"Need help?" the holler came from down the hall.

Seriously, the kid had the ears of a bat. "I'm g—" Well, not good, but "—okay," Dean yelled back. He could handle this. But it warmed him, just a little.

Now let's see if he still had his big brother mojo and could do the same for Sammy.

Leaning heavily on the little table, Dean wrote a precise line on a dozen of the Post-its. Then he gathered them up in one hand, the ice pack in the other, and started limping heavily down the hall.

One stealth fraternal mission, then he could put his leg up and sleep these crappy last few days away.

00000

Sam slept heavily, worn out, for a few hours, then woke sometime around one-thirty. Then again a little after three. And again before five. At six-thirty he gave up and pushed himself up to sit on the edge of the bed, rubbing his hands briskly over his face. He still felt exhausted. Sighing, he started to stand.

That was when he saw the pale green Post-it on the nightstand, stuck to his lamp. Frowning, he flicked the light on to read the one word on it.

Azazel.

Ice water dumped into Sam's blood. He hadn't thought of Yellow-Eyes in…well, a while, but not long enough. There was, oddly, a checkmark next to the name, but that didn't weaken the power of the reminder. No way was Azazel coming back and leaving, uh, memos to say he'd been there, right?

Sam snorted. Right, because that was how demons usually announced themselves. And in Dean's handwriting, too. No, this was some stupid joke of his brother's. Sam shook his head and stood, leaving the poisonous Post-it behind.

There was another stuck to the dresser drawer he reached for, and Sam briefly snatched his hand back. He yanked this one off, and grimaced to see it said, Lucifer, first time, with another checkmark. What was this supposed to be, a reminder of how much worse things could be? Sam crumpled that one up and pulled out the drawer.

A spring-green square rested on the pile of folded t-shirts. Leviathan, check.

Jaw tightening, it joined the previous Post-it in the corner.

There was another on the drawer that held his jeans, and then under Sam's phone. Eve, The Great Wall of Sam, both checked off.

How deeply was he under last night, anyway, to totally miss an overnight room invasion?

Sam started to crumple the notes but hesitated. Laying them side-by-side on his bed with the first one, he glanced around the room.

There, another propped on his boots by the door. And one on the doorknob. Grabbing them and the two he'd balled up, he read through Dean's ridiculous collection.

Azazel. Lucifer, first time. Leviathan. Eve. Great Wall of Sam. Trials. Metatron. All checked off.

All challenges they'd faced. All of them defeated, one way or another.

Sam shook his head: he got it, and some part of him was touched by his brother's efforts. But it wasn't that simple. Yes, they'd faced a lot of really big challenges along the way, and found ways to deal with them. But some of the victories had been Pyrrhic at best, and some had led to all new crises. If anything, this was just a reminder of how much they'd screwed up and carried and lost, and Sam felt…tired.

He felt really, really tired.

He left the notes on his bed and headed down to the bathroom.

Dean wasn't finished, apparently. Sam wearily pulled off a square on the outside of the bathroom door—The Mark—and another from the mirror above the sink: Amara. The hot water tap bore one more note.

Lucifer, the second time.

Sam's hand trembled as he peeled that one off.

He washed up mechanically, remembering those fights. His desperation to save Dean from himself, then from Amara. Saying goodbye to his big brother before Dean went off to play suicide bomber. Facing Lucifer in the cage again, and then in Cas, and then in the President, before Mom drove him through the Rift. So much fear and sorrow and panic and worry. So little time to celebrate the victories.

Hair dripping water onto his collar, Sam trudged back to his room. He huffed at finding one more Post-It on the outside of his room door, where he hadn't noticed it before. BM(OL), it said. Check. Yeah, well, at least they had checked that one off, hadn't they. And that had just been a few months before, so presumably they were done now with this little trip down memory lane.

Sam pulled on a flannel shirt and headed to the kitchen, passing Dean's closed room door on the way. He'd probably been up late with his craft project and would sleep in. Fine by Sam.

He got it. He did. It wasn't the first time one of them reminded the other of all the seemingly unbeatable monsters they'd beaten, all the Hail Marys they'd come up with. Sam felt lost, and his brother was trying to help him find his way back. And he was grateful and moved by it, really. But this was their mom. And sort of their kid. And their best friend. And as crucial as Dean was to his brother, even Dean couldn't overcome all that loss, all that hopelessness. Certainly not with a stack of Post-its.

Rubbing a hand back through his hair, Sam stumbled into the kitchen, heading straight to the coffeepot. And stopping with a hard sigh when he saw the blaze of green on it. Great, he'd really thought they were done now. He ripped it off even as he glanced around the kitchen, but he didn't see any more. Maybe this was finally the last one. He took a breath and looked down.

Saving me, was all it said. But every square inch was covered, drowned, in checkmarks.

Sam stood still, stupidly staring at the paper.

Of course they saved each other, practically on a daily basis. It was part of their job. Sometimes even when it seemed impossible, or the price was staggeringly high.

That wasn't what Dean meant, though, Sam knew. It wasn't, because that wasn't what Sam would have been thinking in his place.

Dean's impossible victories list snapped into new focus. Demons, monsters, angels, attacks from within and without: they hadn't had a plan for any of them. They were two humans who were outgunned by any one of those threats and shouldn't have been able to come up with any kind of victory. And yet they'd always won because they did have something the backstabbing, hateful, ruthless, selfish other side did not.

They had each other, and all those they cared about, whom they'd been willing to die for and who had been willing to die for them. They loved. And they saved each other, over and over.

Sam's vision blurred. He hated this, he sniffed. Every victory came with a loss. They got Mom back for less than a year, only to lose her again. A whole other world now needed saving, as if this one weren't hard enough. It was one challenge on top of another with no end in sight.

But Dean with his bum leg and GED and can-do attitude had crept around their home the night before and laid out all the reasons they had to be proud, too. His factual argument for hope. The rope he dropped down into Sam's well of despair for him to grab.

Saving him back.

And…damned if it ease the pain in his chest a little.

They still had no plan. Mom and Jack were gone. And if they did find a door to Mom and Jack, they'd open it to Lucifer, too. Their life sucked in so many impressive ways, and it would probably be hard to get up tomorrow all over again.

Sam drew a shuddery breath, the paper crinkling in his hand before he smoothed it out again.

But Dean believed in him. And, God help him, Sam felt the same way. And that made today seem possible, at least.

Sam slid the Post-it into his back pocket, grabbed a mug of coffee and protein bar, and headed out.

He had work to do.

00000

Dean rolled over in bed, half-asleep, then all the way awake as pain shot through his leg. He lifted his head to look at the swollen joint, then dropped it back with a groan. Awesome.

He rubbed gritty eyes, sifting through the memories that crashed back in. Jack and Mom were trapped in apoca-world. Cas hadn't been by in weeks and called less and less frequently. Sam was there, but without any spark in him. Which left Dean, literally with a leg he couldn't stand on.

He sighed heavily and rolled over, careful, starting to push himself up. Couldn't hide in here forever. Sammy had probably been up for hours already, getting an early start on brooding.

Up on his elbow, Dean stopped. There was a Post-it propped against his clock.

He had to squint to read it; one of these days Dean would have to cave and get reading glasses. But it wasn't hard to see, just four letters, in Sam's blocky hand.

Jerk.

And suddenly the weight didn't seem quite so crushing.

Smiling, Dean slid the note into the nightstand drawer and eased himself up, ready to face the new day.

The End