Song Remains the Same

Chapter 2 / The Walking Dead

"It's not the grave dates on the tomb.
It's the short and sweet dash between the two."
- Pianos Become the Teeth

Four and a Half Months Later
Sioux Falls, South Dakota

Canned baked beans. Again. Alex shoveled room temperature globs of them into her mouth and then guzzled some tap water, getting breakfast over with as fast as possible. Food didn't really taste like anything anymore and she didn't want to eat, no matter what it was. However, she made herself do it because if she didn't, he would nag. Across from the kitchen table where she sat, Bobby Singer pored over books in his study, a bottle of Jack close by. It was nine in the morning. Alex eyed the whiskey wistfully. Maybe later. The daily hangovers were getting old and she was trying—trying—to drink less. So she started on her third cup of coffee instead.

The weariness went down to her bones. When she did manage to fall asleep after laying awake grieving and drinking for endless hours, there were the usual assortment of nightmares that sent her screaming awake. She never felt rested anymore, ever. All-consuming sorrow, confusion, denial, and anger followed her every moment like shadows, rendering her into a walking ghost of who she'd been before. Every day she wept. Usually multiple times. Sometimes tears of anger and bitterness. Other times, tears of a defeated, broken, empty heart. There were periods of numbness too. Like right now.

Alex took a sip of her coffee, tasting very little.

Her thoughts turned increasingly morbid. She didn't know how to go on living with this all-consuming loss. Nothing could ever fix the damage done and the void remaining. Nothing. Thinking about it—thinking about him—Alex felt the familiar lump rising in her throat. She pushed it down, but it took enormous strength.

Sitting there at the familiar old kitchen table, she couldn't help but remember so many things that had happened throughout her life in this home. Things that now hurt:

…Dean, age twelve or so, parading around in one of Bobby's puffy vests while calling everyone 'idjits' then dissolving into raucous laughter as Bobby folded his arms and almost scowled hard enough tomask the twitching smile behind his beard.

…Alex sneaking to read some of their uncle's top shelf, forbidden-for-kids books secretly in the dead of the night and Dean jumping out and scaring her so much she'd farted—he'd laughed so hard he'd cried.

…Trying her first ever taste of whiskey at twelve—and finding it repulsive. Dean had laughed and called her a pansy when her face puckered and she spat with gusto, but the way he'd called her that was loving.

…Learning car engines with him in the junkyard, target practice contests with tin cans on the fence, makeshift camp-outs in the yard at Sam's request, movie marathons until all three of them draped over the couch snoring and drooling.

Alex could easily remember sitting at this very kitchen table just last year as Sam went on and on about the 'very clear, distinct, fundamental differences' between Star Trek and Star Wars. Dean had mimicked Sam with the most hilarious faces, then argued absurd points, trolling his brother just to get a rise. When Sam had realized his siblings were both in on trolling him, he'd gotten adorably angry.

Things had been so simple back then. Alex had never realized how much so. The kind of moments she had taken for granted were now gone forever and the house felt unbearably empty. She had thought she understood how much she loved Dean when he was alive. Now that he was gone… it felt like she hadn't even begun to grasp his importance until it was too late.

Every day, all day, Alex was left incomplete and halfway gone. Forever asking: What am I supposed to do without my best friend?

The thoughts were becoming too much, and so Alex got up quickly, imagining that she could physically walk away from her suffering. In her hand, she gripped her now empty mug like a vice. She went into the study and the old hardwood floor creaked under her steps. "Anything?"

Preoccupied, Bobby glanced up at her from underneath his ball cap. "Maybe." He turned the page of his book. "Possible werewolf down in Virginia."

Alex didn't need any more details. "Great, let's go!" Anything to get the fuck out of this house and away from her own thoughts.

He didn't share her enthusiasm. He leisurely flicked to another page in his book. "Rufus's already down that way, I'm gonna get him to handle it." He took a swig of his drink and grimaced as he set the bottle down on the table with a loud thud. "'Sides, we just got back from smokin' that nest of vamps—take a breather."

Alex's jaw tightened. Revenge was what she wanted. "Lilith is still out there."

Bobby finally looked at her this time, a note of caution to his eyes. He sat back in his chair slowly, making her endure a brief beat of pointed silence. "Yeah. She is. And runnin' ourselves ragged ain't gonna magically get us where we can kill her, is it? We need to get a feel for what we're up against. We're talkin' a whole mess of time, research, prep, time. But you know all that." Yeah. Of course she did. Bobby softened at the look on her face. "Look I know it ain't easy waiting. But trust me. If it's the last thing we do, we'll get the bitch." He pushed his book away, leaning over it to study her closer. His voice was gentler now. "You okay, kid?"

Alex's emotions displayed plainly on her face. She said nothing. Bobby already knew she was nowhere near okay. And who the hell would be?

Dean is dead.

No matter how hard she tried to find ways to sidestep or deny or numb away what had happened… her big brother—the anchor of her life—was gone. Every hour of every day, she fought to understand where he had gone, and why she was supposed to accept it. No amount of alcohol, weed, hunting, grieving, anger, revenge, whatever—would change the fact that he was six feet under. His screams as he'd been ripped apart floated back, tearing at her inside with frightening intensity. She could still see the lifeless stare in his blank eyes when it had all been over. And that haunting image triggered her all over again.

Alex wordlessly turned and fled blindly out into the salvage yard, the forgotten coffee cup at her side. She wept with ferocity, her soul sinking down into that sunless place beyond escaping: grief. The weight so beyond carrying. The despair so beyond describing.

Why didn't you save him? Why didn't you do something?!

In a sudden burst of rage, she hurled the mug of coffee blindly with a choked scream. It crashed and shattered against a rusted Chevy—and sinking down to her heels, Alex put her hands against her mouth to get herself to stop crying.

This isn't right. This will never be right!

Shutting her eyes, Alex focused everything on quieting herself. Finally, the sobs subsided and she was left with a wet face and slowing hard breaths. Exhausted from this constant fight, her tired eyes opened listlessly… drifting… then came to a halt just a few steps off.

She hadn't made the connection before. But this was the exact place where Dean had flown off the handle about Dad's death. This was the place he'd had his own moment like this one. It had been sunny that day and Alex had been sitting in the shade of a junked semi rig. She'd stared unseeingly at the laces of her faded Converse shoes while listening to Dean and Sam argue. Sam demanded to know why Dean wasn't grieving Dad's death. Dean had given his brother some dickish heartless response and Sam had gotten pissed then stormed off. Alex remembered studying her oldest brother, who hadn't realized she was there. His shoulders had been tense, his breathing weird. He stared at his car a long moment, the crowbar hanging limply at his side. And then in a fit of absolute helpless rage, he'd reeled back then smashed a window in. That hadn't been enough for him—it seemed to set him off in fact—and he'd started beating on the car, tearing apart what he'd rebuilt. Alex jumped up and grabbed onto him to hold him back, startling him. She'd shaken her head no! while turning him then grabbing his agonized face in her hands, wishing so badly she could talk out loud and tell him it was going to be okay, that he shouldn't blame himself, that she couldn't let him do this… but after a second of softness he'd tried to push her away. She'd refused to be pushed and shaken her head 'no' again, almost warningly this time, then yanked the crowbar away from him and threw it aside. His front dissolved when she did that. He broke down and hugged her tightly, pressing his face into the top of her shoulder. He'd shaken with sobs and clung to her. "It's my fault," he'd choked out repeatedly. "It's my fault."

And it hadn't been, but that was Dean. He blamed himself for everything. Always.

Alex's grief surged. For her entire life, Dean had been the one thing that had never changed. Everything else, a catalogue of letdowns and losses: Sam had been come and go, hit or miss. Dad had been absent and distant, more of a drill sergeant than a father. He'd said he was proud of her like once her whole life. Once. Nothing had ever remained permanent for Alex. Nothing except her oldest brother. Her first hero, her best friend.

She sniffed, wiping her cheeks off, growing stony and numb, feeling so hollow. As if she was cold, her arms circled around herself. For the past four and a half months, she had drowned in her grief alone. It was hard to face the facts, but her family was pretty much gone—only she and Sam had survived, and, hell, at the rate they were going, the two of them would probably be dead soon too. Sam might be dead already, she didn't even know. They hadn't spoken to each other once in four months. Her stomach turned guiltily.

I should call him.

She had that thought every single fucking day, and every day she almostdid it—then stopped herself. She already knew how it would go: badly.

She stood slowly, zombie-like, looking across the junk yard blankly. They fought three days after Dean's funeral. Things had been rocky in their brother-sister relationship for a long time now. But after burying Dean, things went from bad to absolutely terrible.

… Late into the night, the two surviving Winchesters were awake nursing whiskey in Bobby's study. Alex had the bottle and stared at it miserably. "I still think we need to go back. We gotta salt and burn. Just to be safe."

Sam glanced her way impatiently. "We've been over this—we need his body for when I bring him back. Gimme that."

Alex glared a warning at him, clutching the whiskey. "If you say that one more time..."

Sam gave her one of his more exasperated expressions. "He's our brother, Alex. I'm finding a way." His tone was increasingly acidic.

"He told us not to," Alex reminded, voice growing hostile and tight. "He made us both swear."

"Yeah well I take it back!"

Alex didn't bother to hide her disgust with the picking-and-choosing when to stick to his word. "Sounds about right."

Clouding over, Sam returned the verbal jab. "Look, I don't expect you to take the lead on this, we all know you're just a follower at the end of the day."

His cruel words hurt deeply just like he knew they would."...What is wrong with you?" Alex tried to hide the hurt she felt.

"What's wrong with you?" Sam countered intensely. "This is your big brother, Alex! You can do something about his death, but you're sitting here taking commands from him even after he's dead and gone! That's rich. Where's your backbone?"

Anger made her cold. "This isn't about backbone, this is about using your head," she snapped. "There isn't a way to bring someone back from the dead that won't make things worse—you know that—I know that—Dean knew that! Which is why he made us promise! Were you lying to his face when you swore?" She crossed her arms disdainfully. "I wasn't." She regarded him doubtfully. "So what's your big plan, Sam, huh? How're you gonna do the absolute impossible?"

Sam stood up, throwing his arms wide in agitation as he lost patience. "I dunno, but I'll figure it out."

Alex stood up too, putting the whiskey down with a loud clunk. Even though she was five foot eight inches, he still towered over her. "What, with dark magic? Witches? You gonna sell your soul? Work with a demon?" Alex's anger kept climbing. "Does any of that sound like something Dean would want?!"

Sam took a long pause and stared into her eyes for a long beat before answering with quiet fire. "Pretty sure it beats Hell, Alex." Her jaw clenched at the excellent point. Her twin's expression was final, daring her to go against him. "I'm not leaving him there, period. And honestly, it's pretty disgusting to me that you're fine with leaving him there."

The accusation made her see red. "I'm not fine with any of this, you know I'm not!" Her voice was approaching a tearful shout.

"Well you could've fooled me!"

"Don't you think I've wracked my brain until I can't see straight?! THERE ISN'T A WAY!" At this point, Alex was breathing so hard you would have thought she just sprinted up a hill. "We can't DO anything—!" That was where she choked on a sob as her anger gave way to despair. Of course she didn't want to leave Dean in Hell—and it fucking killed her—but there was no way to bring her brother back that wasn't laced with dark, demonic consequences. That and Dean had made them swear that they wouldn't try and come after him. Alex had meant what she promised, as hard as it had been to agree to.

A muscle jerked in Sam's cheek as he fixed his sister with narrowed eyes that seemed to despise her. "You really don't give two craps about him, do you? After all he did for you."

Offended, Alex's eyebrows shot up. "Excuse me?"

"All I'm saying is if he could see you now, how you don't even wanna try to bring him back—" Sam's face twisted vehemently. "When we both know he would do anything for either of us!"

"You're one to talk about loyalty," Alex fumed, losing control of herself in the storm of red-hot anger. "You know what, fuck you, I never abandoned my family like you did! So don't lecture me when all you ever did for him or me was walk away!"

For a second, Sam was stung. Then he scoffed. "You're really that jealous of me having a normal life, huh?"

Exasperated, Alex threw her hands in the air. "That's not what this is about!"

Sam's mouth drew into a thin line, unconvinced. "Yeah, like hell it isn't. I know you've always been pissed at me for, I dunno, going off to college, living my own life, leaving you with Dean and Dad." His face twisted in an ugly expression. "You know just because you were disabled didn't mean I was obligated to waste the rest of my goddamn life babysitting you like Dean did." Wounded, Alex's face fell in shock. Sam immediately regretted his choice of words, fumbling. "I-I'm sorry, I didn't mean..."

Alex felt her eyes stinging with crushed, heartbroken tears. And then she was abruptly so enraged she couldn't see straight. She jumped across the space between them, grabbing him by the front of his shirt and punching him in the face for all she was worth. It still sent them both falling over and crashing into furniture, where she socked him a few more times with angry shrieks as he flailed and put hands in front of his face. They scrambled back up once he shoved her off. Alex shook her head, breathing hard. She had half a mind to keep hitting him, but she decided words would hurt more. "You don't even deserve what Dean did." Her eyes glittered with tears. She hit Sam where it hurt, both with words and a hard shove to his chest. "He should never have made that crossroads deal for you!" And then five words that came out of nowhere, screamed at the top of her lungs: "I wish YOU were dead!"

The words hit the air and they created a dead silence. Alex immediately realized she had gone too far—but it was too late. Sam's face went cold and dark and he stared at her wordlessly for several terrifying seconds. Then he made a disgusted face and shook his head. "You know what? I don't need this crap from you." Without another word, he turned and stalked toward the door. Alarm bells rang in Alex's mind. For the briefest of seconds, she almost chased after him and begged him to forgive her outburst. But pride and pain kept her rooted in place. And she dug the hole even deeper instead.

"Predictable," she accused with rising volume, "Leaving like you always do, fucking coward!"

Sam slammed the door out hard enough to break something and sent several items knocking to the ground. Panic rose. Again, Alex almost went after him, taking two running steps forward—and then she stopped. A couple seconds later, she could hear the Impala as it started up and tore out of the driveway.

Shock settled in. Both brothers. Gone.

Her hands came to hold either side of her head in a moment of so much burgeoning anxiety she could have had a panic attack. Enraged, Alex smashed the whiskey bottle on the table, then immediately cursed herself for yet another instance of zero self-control. She sank to sit, her body trembling with adrenaline and nausea.

Past the sound of her own hard breathing, she heard soft footsteps behind her. "Jesus, you two were about to bring the whole house down." Bobby sounded uncomfortable. "What happened?"

Alex swallowed hard, mortified and hurting beyond what she knew was possible. "He'll... he'll come back," she managed tersely, then got up and brushed roughly past Bobby, hiding away for the rest of that night in an emotional hellscape.

She'd told herself Sam would return, because of course he would, right? But he didn't come back. He didn't call, or text, or check in whatsoever. Not with Alex, not with Bobby. Alex had stewed and licked her wounds for a week, waiting to hear from him. But she never did. Before she knew it, the week had turned into weeks, then months. Now, almost four months later—it felt too late to make amends. Sam hated her. And could she really blame him? Ever since middle or high school, their relationship had been flimsy and difficult. Now, she finally understood that he had viewed her as a burden all that time. It hurt. But she'd suspected as much.

Dean would have been heartbroken to see them not speaking.

Sam's absence was just further confirmation to Alex that he just didn't want to be part of the Winchester family. He'd walked out on Alex just like he'd walked out on the family at eighteen. Sure, Dean had dragged him back into the life a few years back and Sam had stuck around since then. But Alex should have known that it was just a matter of time before he left again. Dean had been the only thing keeping the family together. Apparently she wasn't someone worth sticking around for.

Alex realized how self-centered her thoughts were and got mad at herself all over again. Kicking a discarded beer can, she heaved a sigh of disgust and sank down to sit against a rusted car shell. At least she still had Bobby. But it just wasn't the same. Absently, she listened to the faint pattern of his house phone ringing inside for the second or third time. She hoped it was someone with a job for them. She wanted to be hunting something. Anything. Killing, capturing, beating someone's face in. And more than that, she wanted to be hunting down Lilith. Maybe after a couple more months of getting her head right and hunting alongside Bobby, she'd find ability to set her pride aside. Then she would go find Sam, try to apologize, and they could work together on taking down that evil bitch together. It would be the least they could do in memory of their brother. As turbulent as their connection was at times, despite it all, Alex didn't want to lose the only living relative she had left.

But maybe you already have, said a quiet, dark voice inside.

As she had done so many times since he died, Alex pulled her phone out. Embarrassed, she glanced around to make sure no one was watching. Then she dialed Dean's number, knowing the number by heart. They prepaid their phones yearly, so the line still worked. The physical phone was somewhere unknown and dead, so the call went straight to voicemail like it always did. This was the only way she had left of hearing his voice. She closed her eyes.

"You got Dean's phone—you know what to do."

Beeeep. The silence hung for a few seconds. "Hey. Me again." Her voice was hoarse and weak. She let her head fall back against rusted metal, judging herself and also feeling sad for herself. Her frustrated eyes opened to take in the cheery blue sky above. At her ear, silence demanded speech. But how could she even begin to express the reality of her completely broken heart? "I just wish you were here," she managed softly, throat halfway closed from emotion. "Nothing's right with you gone, it's like this isn't even real—like it's just some bad dream, some stupid joke. And every day I feel more..." it was hard to even put to words what she was getting at: every day she felt more alone, listless, angry, sad, lost, helpless, frantic, confused, depressed, anxious. Done. "…Like giving up I guess," she murmured, eyes aching with hot tears. She tried to lighten things with a weak laugh. "I don't even know what that means." Her composure began to fail. "It just… hurts so bad being here without you." Her face screwed up. "There's s-so much I never got to say to you. And now with Sam gone... it's like my life's over too."

No reply came. Alex dashed away at her tears. "I wanna keep my promise but... Dean, I'm really starting to have doubts." Could she really let him rest in peace? Could she really continue down the road of life without him? Even the thought of it was wrong, never mind the agonizing reality. "How am I supposed to be here without you forever?" Her wretched whisper felt so loud. A thousand memories of her big brother flooded her mind. He was too big a part of her to lose. He was too integral to everything. "I don't know how to live like this," she admitted, increasingly despairing as she spoke the words aloud. "Maybe Sam's right." Maybe they should resurrect Dean no matter the cost or risk. Again, her eyes searched the huge, empty sky. "I just need a sign. I just need to know what to do. I miss my brothers." Her voice broke on the word brothers.

And then without warning, an automated and pleasant robotic voice cut in. "The voice mail box is now full. Good-bye!"

The call dropped, right along with Alex's heart. Stung, she let the phone drift away from her ear. It trembled in her hand. If she could have summoned rage, she would have thrown it. But all Alex could do was drown in sorrow.

She bowed her head and let the phone fall to the ground as she put her face in her hands. Opting out of life was appealing more and more. Because what good did she add to the world? She wasn't even herself anymore. He'd been too big a part to lose.

"Help me please," she whispered out loud to nothing and no one. A desperate wish from a defeated soul. For a moment, she listened to crows calling in the distance. Her body echoed with heartbreak. And then there was a sudden shift in sensation. A warmth, a presence, something that soothed her and made her inhale sharply and look around for the source of the sensation. The junk yard was the same. No one was there.

"...Hello?" she breathed, voice softer than a whisper. No reply came. Just a gentle breeze that stirred her hair and prickled her skin to goosebumps.

And then she heard footsteps crunching on gravel. Startled, she looked up and forgot the mysterious sensation.

Bobby approached. "Ya'all right?"

His familiar sight necessitated her to act like everything wasn't falling apart inside her mind. Alex stood stiffly, picking her phone up and pocketing it. She kept her face stony. "I guess."

His frown deepened. "Been out here for almost an hour."

Alex blinked in surprise. Hadn't felt that long. "Guess I lost track of time," she said uncertainly. She'd done that a lot lately. Attempting to look less unsettled than she was, she cleared her throat. "Who uh, who called?"

"Some jackass," Bobby muttered. "It wasn't anything."

Alex studied him closely. She knew him well enough to hear when he was hedging. Which he was now. But instead of pushing, she dropped it. If it were important enough, he would tell her.

Bobby was about her height and built stocky. Bearded and careworn, he always wore the same things: a flannel shirt with a puffy vest, a ball cap, and a disgruntled expression. To look at him without knowing him, you might judge him as being crotchety and country. And he was both those things... but he was also cunning, intellectual, and brilliant. A real softie deep down, too. His daily tasks and expectations for her participation helped keep her going.

Speaking of: "Look, those salt rounds ain't gonna pack themselves." He jerked his thumb in the direction of the house.

Alex winced apologetically, realizing she'd spaced. "Oh yeah. I totally forgot. I'll get on that."

Bobby gave her a crooked little smile and patted her awkwardly on the shoulder. "I'm makin' more coffee. Lemme know when those rounds are packed." He turned to go inside and Alex made to follow, but a flash of light in her peripheral vision caused her to stop and squint—she could have sworn, for a millisecond, that someone had been standing there. But there was nothing and no one. She frowned at herself, retreating into the house with a few mistrustful backward glances. She really needed to get more sleep.

Bobby's home was a cluttered place that was tidy in an untidy way, if that made sense. The same stuff had been here since Alex could remember—same faded tartan couch, same kitchen table, same solid oak study desk. She had always really liked that sameness. Going downstairs into the ramshackle basement, Alex got to work packing shotgun shells full of rock salt. She got lost in the routine of the task.

She filled shell after shell, relaxing into the strangely therapeutic quality to the rhythm. The salt emitted a familiar, comforting smell and took her away from her more painful thoughts. The relief wouldn't last all day, but she'd take the breaks where she could get them.

After a while, she heard the shuffling of feet on the floor over her head—two pairs of feet. Huh. She hadn't known Bobby was expecting company. She kept on with the shells, mildly curious but not enough to break her steady workflow. Hunters did tend to stop by from time to time, so it wasn't odd exactly.

That's when she heard sounds like something had knocked over. Then the sound of shouting and a chair scraping across the floor. Something was going on. Alex's heart rate leapt into high gear and she bolted up the stairs without a second thought, a shotgun already in hand. She shoved a round into it as she went then pulled the end of the firearm tight into her chest, one single thought driving her sprint: Bobby.

After rounding the corner at the top of the steps, she skidded to an unplanned stop. Her face went slack. She almost thought she was imagining things for a split second, because what she saw didn't seem possible: Bobby was standing in a facedown with Dean. The guy who was supposed to be dead. The second Dean saw her, an indescribable expression passed over his features and he made to move toward her. Alex took a terrified step back, gripping the shotgun harder as her adrenaline surged wildly. "Don't move!" Dean—or whatever it was—froze. The shotgun shook in her grip. "W-what is this Bobby?" she managed in a petrified whisper. "Who is that?!" Alex thought she might be sick. What kind of sick joke was this?!

"Al, it's me." At the sound of his familiar gravelly voice so gently beseeching her, Alex lost some strength. The shotgun's aim drifted down a couple degrees as her throat choked and her breaths grew shorter and faster. She looked at Bobby questioningly. He was carefully reaching for her weapon, his expression astounded.

"Gimme the gun, kiddo. I... I think it really is him."

Alex jerked away. She held the weapon with doubled aggression. "No," she said through gritted teeth, even though every cell in her body begged for that to be the case. "Not possible."

Dean kept his hands out and up to show that he meant no harm. "It's really me, Al," he said softly, being careful and pleading. "You gotta believe me."

Alex shook her head, feeling sicker every second as her eyes filled with tears. "I watched you die. I saw you buried! How could you be—" she couldn't catch her breath, "how could you be here again?!"

Dean shook his head anxiously. "I dunno how, but I'm here. And I'm me."

Alex's frantic eyes searched the face of her older brother for a surefire way to know. Whoever it was in front of her did look exactly like Dean Winchester: tall and broad-shouldered, built solid, strong, and brawny. His eyes were startlingly green and looking at her with a wounded yet hopeful expression. The lightest smattering of freckles veiled the bridge of his nose. He looked like Dean, he sounded like Dean. He even stood like Dean, slightly bowed legs and all. Alex's heart twisted in her chest with love and pain alike. She wanted it to be him, oh god she wanted it to be but how was this possible?

She struggled to hold the shotgun level at his chest. Is that really him? How the hell can it be? She began to look over him head to toe, searching for proof. That was when she looked at his hands and saw it: at both his sides, he held them in closed fists. Clenching and unclenching compulsively, over and over again. Alex's grip on her weapon softened as hope rose and realization dawned. That—that little nervous tic she had seen a thousand times during their shared lifetime—that was something a demon or shapeshifter would never think to implement.

This was Dean. Somehow—this was him.

A thought that struck her like lightning, leaving her to reel. But she had to be sure. Surer than sure.

"When's my birthday?" she asked softly, hardly able to believe it.

"May second," came the immediate answer. "Nineteen eighty-three."

The shotgun kept lowering slowly as her heart beat faster and faster. "What's my favorite cartoon?"

Dean's face softened into the beginnings of a smile. "Wile E. Coyote, duh."

Alex's eyes began to brim with tears. A disbelieving smile began to grow. "Pizza topping."

"Plain cheese, you freak." Dean was now grinning through tears of his own. "I could name your favorites all day, Al, but can I get a hug first? Just got back from being dead and stuff."

"Y-you're really you," she said in a stunned daze. It was both a question and a realization.

He nodded, smiling tightly through tears. His features wavered. "Yeah kiddo."

A happy sob sounded as Alex crashed into her big brother, arms around his neck, shotgun still in her hand. "Oh my god, oh my god!" That was all she could manage through the onslaught of joyful tears. Dean buried his face in her shoulder as he broke down too, embracing her so tightly in his strong arms that she could barely breathe. For a moment they stayed like that before Alex pulled back to grin at him again—just in time to see water splash across his face.

Deadpan, he blinked, spit, then made a face. "Not a demon either, Bobby." The Winchesters looked in unison in Bobby, who shrugged sheepishly.

"Sorry. Can't be too careful."

The reunion was a moment out of dreams she'd never imagined possible. For a few foggy and dreamy moments, brother and sister just raptured wordlessly in being reunited. And then all the unanswered questions began to plague Alex. She wasn't the only one.

"H-how the hell are you back, Dean?" she asked as they followed Bobby into the study.

"Your guess is as good as mine." Dean sounded as dazed as she was. She couldn't stop looking at him or wondering if she was dreaming.

Bobby crossed his arms with a serious gaze. "Dean. Your chest was ribbons, your insides were slop. And you've been buried four months. Even if you could slip outta hell and back into your meatsuit—"

"I know, I should look like a Thriller video reject." The humorous comment fell flat.

Something was very off about this entire situation. Alex hovered close to her brother, kind of afraid that if she walked away, he'd disappear.

Bobby grew gentle. "What do you remember about what happened?"

Dean shook his head, reluctant. "Not much. I remember I was a Hellhound's chew toy, and then... lights out. Then I come to six feet under, that was it." He switched subjects. "Sam's number's not working." He looked at Alex as a sudden terrible thought occurred: "He's... he's not...?"

Alex's eyes dodged away as she realized she was going to have to explain what had happened.

"Oh, he's alive," Bobby assured. "As far as we know, anyway."

"What do you mean, as far as you know?"

Bobby glanced at Alex uncomfortably. Reluctant, she took the cue to explain. "Well. We, uh, we haven't heard from Sam. Not since a few days after you died."

Full of disbelief, Dean's gaze jumped from Bobby to Alex. "You're kidding. You two just… what, let him go off by himself?"

Alex hesitated. "Well... he didn't really ask for permission."

Dean frowned, his big-brother lecture tone making an appearance. "And you just let him him leave? The hell were you thinking?"

Alex's bitter eyes scanned the floor in front of her. "Things fell apart pretty fast after you died."

Bobby now sat at his desk, drumming the surface thoughtfully with his fingers. When Dean and Alex remained silent, he went ahead and gave his two cents. "These last months haven't been exactly easy, y'know. For any of us. We had to bury you. Your brother and sister, they just couldn't hold it together. We all took it hard."

Dean wasn't convinced, but didn't spend more time on it. "Yeah fine," he muttered, then refocused. "Why'd you bury me, anyway?"

"Well—" Bobby began delicately. "Alex and I wanted you salted and burned. Usual drill. But... Sam wouldn't have it."

Briefly surprised, Dean seemed to realize it had worked out in his favor. After a second, he made a weak joke. "Well, I'm glad he won that one." There was deep guilt on Alex's face when he said that.

Bobby shrugged ruefully. "He said you'd need a body when he got you back home somehow."

Dean grew suspicious. "He said that?" He looked at his sister, frowning deeply.

And then, there was a sinking feeling. Had Sam done this somehow? Worries grew. "He told me a bunch of times he'd find a way to bring you back. I tried to talk some sense into him, Dean—but he wouldn't listen. Turned into a huge fight. And then... he left." She drew a heavy breath, dreading his reaction. "I, uh, I didn't try to follow or find him. And I still haven't."

Dean's expression was strange—disillusioned, hurt. Disappointed. And that was incredibly hard to look at, so Alex looked away.

Bobby let out a heavy breath through his nostrils. "Well, I tried to find him, even though your sister wouldn't hear of helpin' me. Sam wouldn't return my calls, lost me pretty fast when I tried to track him down. Didn't wanna be found."

As he began to understand the situation, Dean shook his head and sighed, a gusty and loaded sound. "Dammit, Sammy." He rubbed his face in a hand briefly. "Well whatever he did, it's some kind of bad mojo."

Bobby's eyes narrowed. "Whaddayou mean?"

"You shoulda seen the grave site." Dean's eyes grew distant and deeply apprehensive. "It was… I dunno, like a nuke went off. And then there was this... this force, this presence. Blew right past me at a fill-up joint. And then this." He stood up and pulled his jacket off, yanking up the sleeve of his shirt. There on his shoulder, a chillingly clear red handprint had scarred itself into his skin.

Bobby and Alex both rose to their feet in unison, staring in shock and mild fear. What was that?

"It was like a demon just yanked me out," Dean theorized before pausing darkly. "Or rode me out."

Alex reached out and gingerly tested her fingertips across the raised scar tissue, then met Dean's gaze, deeply troubled. "To hold up their end of the bargain," she surmised, filled with fresh worries and fears.

"Looks that way," Dean replied grimly, and pulled the sleeve of his shirt down again.

"Krishna and Zeus," Bobby breathed. "Ain't no tellin' what we're up against here."

Dean was putting his jacket back on, his expression dark. "I'll tell you one thing. We need to find Sam, and quick."

Alex's anxiety rose several degrees but she nodded, swallowing down her reaction. She'd known facing Sam was inevitable. And she had to focus on the good: Dean was here. He was alive. And she was never gonna watch him die ever again.