AN: Apologies for writing this, when I should have been finishing something else. I will finish the other one.

Army of Dean

"Heya Sammy."

run.

"Let's talk."

Run.

"You can't hide forever, Sam."

RUN!

The Bunker.

It's a maze.

But it may as well be a wide-open road, barren and featureless, for all the cover it affords. Because even if Sam knows all the routes, there's no where he can go. No where he can hide. No where Dean won't find him.

And he can't outrun him, not forever.

It's like Dean heard him think that, and somewhere in the maze, he laughs. A sing-song cadence trickling through the halls, mocking and empty. Each note hits Sam as though it's a cold steel blade bouncing over the rivets of his spine, strumming the nerves like Dean's plucking at guitar strings, coldly assessing which one to rip out first.

It's just a dream. This isn't real. It's just a dream. Wake up.

Sam wants to believe that. Somewhere in the back of his mind he thinks he knows that.

Except… it was real. Last time, it was real. This did happen. And it's happening again.

Unless… what if this time, is the time it's real, and the last time was just a dream? A premonition, or a vision, or something, because he's had those before, hasn't he, and fair enough it's been a while but still, it has happened. It isn't exactly unprecedented. So… what if last time was just a warning and this time it's real? What if this time, there's no Cass to save him? What if this time, Dean doesn't stop? What if this time, Dean wins?

And Dean will win. There's no doubt in Sam's mind. If they face off, one-on-one, Dean will win. He's bested Sam before, more than once. Doesn't matter if no one else knows. Sam knows. Dean knows. What else matters? What else has ever really mattered in their lives, apart from what they know, apart from what they share? Their combined memories, their shared life together, it's been the only thing that feels real sometimes. The only truth Sam has ever fully believed. Like when Lucifer was messing with his head. Of course it was Dean who clarified what was real. Of course it was Dean, because Dean is real. Dean has always been real.

Like now… what if this is real?

"Come out, come out, wherever you are… You know I'm gonna find you eventually."

It's Dean's voice, but it's not his brother. Not the brother he knows. The brother he's trying to save. But when did this flip? When did he go from hunting Dean to being hunted by him? When did he go from saving Dean, to needing to be saved?

He dares a look around the corner, realises too late his mistake. In the back of his mind, something in his subconscious triggers, a subliminal sensor firing on overdrive, and he ducks his head just a fraction of a second, just a fraction of second, in time, as the hammer swings to where his head just was.

And Sam's knife is there, it's ready to take the kill, but he won't. He can't and when Dean gives him that look, they both know it. Dean's won. And Dean's eyes turn pitch black as he smiles, but it's not his brother in there, not anymore, and this time there's no Cass to save him as Dean leans in close, letting Sam's blade draw blood because it doesn't even matter because Sam will always hold back and Dean's already won, and he whispers, inches from Sam's face.

"This is who I am. This is who I'll always be. And you'll never get him back."

He wakes abruptly, sweat pouring off him, heartbeat hammering painfully against his ribs, breaths ragged and Dean's soulless black eyes still burning a hole in his memories. He rubs a palm over his chest, keels over a little, other hand cradling his head, pinching his eyes, trying to gouge the memory from his sight.

It's been the same dream, every night. Every night since… since that night.

He can't shake the dream.

He can't shake the fear, the cold hard terror, that it's not just a dream. That Dean is still lost. That Dean is going to hunt him, and find him, and kill him.

It's not something he's used to, fearing his brother like this. It takes a while to get used to but then he has to remind himself there's nothing to get used to. Dean's back. His Dean, he's back.

But every time he wakes up, he can't help the fear. He can't help the foreboding. He can't help the terror and the panic and the cold hard dread as he builds up the courage to look his brother in the eye again.

For a fraction of a second, he can't help but think, what if it's not Dean anymore?

It subsides, of course, that feeling. A few coffees later, a few jibes thrown back and forth, a beer here, a snark there, the punctuations of normal life, whatever normal is for them, segmenting the day and dulling the dream, and it's like it never happened.

Except…

Except it did happen, didn't it? So. it could still happen. Couldn't it.

And it'll take time, he knows that. It'll pass. He knows that too.

Just need to keep a handle on it, till it's all over. Ride out the storm, get it out of your system.

Sort yourself out, it's just a damned dream.

And he's just not used to this feeling. He's not used to being terrified of his brother. But he has to believe it will pass. He has to. Because he can't live like this forever. Can't be terrified of his big brother forever. Just has to wait it out, is all.

And in the meantime,

don't let Dean know.

He doesn't need to know

Don't ever let him know…

…that I'm still scared to look at him.

-oOo-

Dean knows.

Of course, he knows. He's not an idiot, no matter what some people think. Besides, you don't spend your entire life looking out for someone, to not know when someone's looking off. And when it comes to Sam, Dean practically wrote the damned maintenance manual.

So, yeah, he knows something's off.

Trouble is, he's just not sure what.

Trouble is, he just won't come out and simply ask. Because, well, that would be too easy, and when have they ever done things easy?

But he knows it's got to have something to do with what happened recently. Like he said, not an idiot. Though to be fair, wouldn't need to be a rocket scientist to figure that out; he did just try and smash his brother's brains in with a hammer. There but for the grace of an angel.

But like Cass pointed out, it would take more than that, to make Sam walk. And absurd and as disturbing as that is, Dean knows it's true. And Sam hasn't walked, he's still there.

Except… he's not really. There's something not right.

But Dean won't ask, since he can't simply ask. And Sam won't say, because for all his hippy, emo we-need-to-talk-about-our-feelings crap, he's as shuttered off as Dean is. The hypocrite.

So, nothing will come of it, till Dean figures it out. So, he settles for figuring it out. Quite monitoring. Subtle surveillance. Nonchalant mental note taking, and once he starts doing that, it doesn't take long to see the pattern emerge.

First thing in the morning, last thing at night. Sam's on edge. Sam's acting squirly. He's evasive and anxious and won't for the life of him make eye contact with Dean.

And once Dean figures that out, the rest of the picture practically paints itself.

Nightmares.

Of course, it would be nightmares. Why the hell didn't he realise it sooner? They've both always had them, one time or another. Hell, Purgatory, Lucifer, the Cage. Even before all that actually, from way back when they were kids, now that he bothers to think about it. The life they had, it's not surprising. But the nightmares have always been a feature. It's why, even after so many years, they still share motel rooms when they're on a hunt. With the supercharged credit card Charlie rigged up for them, it certainly wouldn't break any bank if they got separate rooms once in a while. But they never will. They'll never say it, will never discuss it, but they just feel safer with the other around. They feel safer when they're together. Separate rooms in the Bunker was an adjustment, but it somehow felt OK. Maybe it was the warding or maybe it was that they never fully shut their doors, neither one ever openly saying so, but still, their doors were always a little ajar.

Except now, come to think of it, Sam's been shutting his door at night. Because he's having nightmares about a time not so long ago when Dean was stalking him in the Bunker. When Dean tried to smash his brains in. And now he can't look at Dean and that makes Dean sick to his stomach. Because that means that Sam is scared of him. Sam, his baby brother, is scared, of him.

It wreaks all sorts of havoc and then some with Dean's insides, to realise that. And it won't help to confront Sam about it, because Sam knows how much Dean loves him. Even if Dean won't say it out loud, Sam knows. Everyone knows, their friends, their enemies, God and Death and the Devil and the Darkness. Everyone knows. And it would take something like Dean dying, actually really permanently dying, for him to ever look his brother in the eye and be able to say the words that are a constant background noise in his soul; I love you so much, my baby brother.

But he's not dying, so he can't just say that. And he knows Sam knows it, and that's not even the problem anyway. The problem is that Sam is scared and the only one who can fix it is the one who's the cause of it.

If they could go on a hunt, that would fix it. Sam would have to trust Dean and in the heat of battle, the fear would be replaced by trust again and everything could go back to whatever counts as normal for them. But Cass was right about that too; it's quiet out there. Typical.

So, he's not quite sure what to do. Not quite sure how to fix it. And he has to fix it, because that's his job after all. And this time, it was all his fault. And it's worse than that, because no matter how much anyone would want to deflect the blame, the truth is, he remembers what he felt. Remembers how focussed and determined and down-right single minded he was about ending Sam. Remembers how he didn't even give the slightest damn. Remembers, in fact, how much pleasure he thought it would give him, to see his brother lying there, dead on the floor, head smashed in, life spilled out, and eyes, whatever light might have once been in them, dead and empty and lifeless for evermore.

And it makes him sick to know that that's what Sam is reliving every night.

Throughout their entire life, whenever anyone or anything has ever even come close to laying a finger on his little brother, Dean has been ready to rip them to shreds. Some of them he actually has. And though this time he's responsible and he sure as hell wouldn't have a problem beating the crap outta himself, how the hell is he supposed to manage that? How the hell is he supposed to fix it? Hell! It's not like he can just march on into Sam's dreams and…

Except, he can. Of course he can.

Dream Root.

He's angry he didn't think of it sooner, but the instant he thinks of it, it's a done deal. Dream Root. That's the answer. He's gonna do exactly what needs to be done. And he's not gonna talk to Sam about it because he knows exactly how Sam will react. He'll deny there's a problem, and then he'll have a hissy fit about letting Dean in, and then they'll argue and then they'll get worse and then Dean will do it anyway and then things will just go on and on and on and no. No. Dean's taking matters into his own hands. Playing the 'big brother knows best' card.

And if Sam didn't run for the hills when Dean tried to kill him, Dean's pretty sure such a comparatively minor offence as dream snooping won't tip him over the edge.

And as Sam becomes evasive and squirly and on edge again, there's no night like the present to get it done.

-oOo-

The Bunker.

It feels like a maze.

But Dean recognises the un-reality of it, the dream architecture that makes the hallways run Escher like forever, and with that he realises that it's worked; he's in Sam's dream.

And despite the labyrinthian passageways, there's a feeling of dread, a claustrophobic feeling of the walls closing in, a feeling of exposure, like no matter which corner he turns, no matter what path he takes, he's in the constant sight of some unseen sniper who has him in the crosshairs no matter where he goes. And there's a feeling in the air, like the smell of ozone or the hum of electricity. The whole place reeks of fear.

Dean knows this feeling. He remembers it from Purgatory. This is what it feels like to be hunted.

He needs to find Sam and put an end to this.

He's not sure how long he's been walking through the halls, but eventually he catches sight of Sam, glimpses him running across a hallway at a T-junction up ahead and he gives chase. And then he hears his own voice, bouncing through the air.

Except he didn't say anything.

Except that's not quite what he sounds like.

And something about the way the notes carry in the air, it's like they're a cold steel blade working their way over his spine.

It's downright terrifying.

He enters the scene from the side, in time to see Sam look away from him, to look around a corner. In time to see the mistake Sam's made, because Dean, the other Dean, he's there behind Sam, arm raised high, at the zenith of an arc, the end trajectory of which will land the blow full force at the point where Sam's head is, and Dean, the real Dean, moves lightening quick then.

He catches the forearm as it ploughs down, grabbing it mid-blow, even though Sam had already reacted, had already got the knife out and up, and both of them, Sam and the other Dean, both of them stare at him.

"Heya Sammy," the real Dean quips, even as he's holding the other Dean off.

"Dean…? What…?"

And as bewildered and as confused as Sam looks, Dean can't help the flash of joy at seeing that in this dream world at least, Sam is able to look him in the eye once more, even if just for a second.

But the other Dean, the demon version of him, the son of a bitch has recovered from any shock this might have caused, and he's snarling and fighting while Sam still just looks utterly stunned, and it's taking all of Dean's efforts to hold the son of a bitch at bay, so Dean needs to deal with it ASAP.

"This a-hole giving you a hard time?" And he spares Sam a grin and a wink, full Dean Winchester smug laced swagger, before he uses all his might to hurl the asshole across the hall. The bastard lands across the way, sprawled on the floor, but the sprawl is a crouch and he's ready to pounce and Dean has barely enough time to smile at Sam again.

"I got this," he says, before lunging at the bastard, and the two of them are at each other's throats. They're equally matched, which is a relief in one way and an inconvenience in another, because, who's gonna win?

But this isn't the first time Dean's fought some demon version of himself, and the edge he has is that he really doesn't mind beating the crap out of himself. The edge he has is that if anyone ever goes for Sam, they're dead. The instant they so much as think about hurting his little brother, he will put them down, they are dead, so this other guy, this imposter Dean, he shouldn't really stand a chance.

Except that after a while, Dean's painfully aware that neither version of him is winning. Neither one seems to have an edge.

Then he feels something, someone, grab at his arm, urging him back and when he chances a look over his shoulder he sees that it's Sam, desperate and terrified and pulling him away.

"We have to get away," he's saying. "You can't win. No one can win. Run!"

And that's when Dean realises; this isn't how this will get fixed. He can't fix this. Somehow, whatever the fix is, it has to come from Sam. Somehow, whatever ends this, it has to come from Sam. But damn it all to hell if Dean knows what that is or how Sam's supposed to do it.

But Sam looks utterly terrified, and the only thing Dean knows for sure right then is that they need to leave, they need to regroup. He uses all his force and then some to hurl the homicidal Dean as far as he can, and Sam grabs him and drags him and the pair of them turn tail and haul ass.

He doesn't know how long they run. He doesn't know if either one of them is leading the way or if either of them knows where they're headed.

After a while, his voice echoes through the hallways again, taunting and mocking and as just cocksure as the real Dean would ever be, but so much more menacing than Dean had ever imagined he could sound.

Dean pushes himself and Sam thorough a doorway which turns out to be the door into the library and then he grabs at his brother to stop him from carrying on running.

"Sam! Sam, stop! Stop! We need to deal with this."

But Sam's shaking his head.

"We can't. He's coming. We have to run."

"No, we don't."

"Yes! We do! You don't understand! He's gonna kill us!"

"I can beat him."

"No, you can't! No one can. He's coming! We have to run!"

"Sam, stop. Stop! Look at me! Look! It's me. OK? It's me. You know me, I would never hurt you. Look at me. Sam! Look at me!"

And he practically has to grab Sam's face in both his hands and force him to look at him, and then, despite the fear and doubt and panic, when Sam's eyes finally catch onto his, they stay there. There's so much terror running behind those eyes that Dean just wants to scream. But he keeps his gaze steady and tries to channel every ounce of everything he feels into his brother, willing him to believe him.

"I would never, ever, hurt you, Sammy. You know that, right? Come on, you know that. And I am so sorry for what that bastard did, but you know that's not me right? It's not me. C'mon Sammy, you gotta believe me. You gotta... I could never hurt you. Tell me you know that. Tell me how to fix this."

Sam's biting his lip. He looks so confused and torn up and doubtful that it breaks Dean's heart with how helpless he feels. Because Dean doesn't know how to fix this. He didn't come here with a plan. Stupid, idiot grunt that he is, he just charged right in. Not like Sam. Sam who would've prepared ahead. Sam who would have thought this through. Maybe everyone is right, maybe Dean is an idiot.

"I… I know you wouldn't hurt me," Sam's voice is shaky, but he's trying. "I know… but…"

"But what?"

"That's not you. I mean it is you, but it's not you. You can't win. You can't beat him."

"The hell I can't!"

"No, Dean, you don't understand. He's ruthless. He's relentless. He'll never stop. Nothing can ever stop him."

"That's a load of crap!"

"Dean–"

"No! When was the last time I ever let anyone hurt you? Huh? And I know you hate it, but haven't I always done what I could to keep you safe? Haven't I? Haven't I always put you before everyone else?"

Dean's frustrated, and he knows this isn't helping. Hell, it was the whole reason he didn't want to confront Sam out there, in the real world, because he knew they would just end up arguing stupid pointless arguments about how it wasn't Dean's job to look after Sam even though they both damn well know Dean won't change, Dean can't ever change, not when it comes to Sam, because he just can't stop caring for and looking out for and protecting and loving his little brother no matter how much Sam hates it.

His thoughts are tumbling all over themselves and he's getting dejected, so he doesn't notice the change in Sam. Doesn't notice that Sam is reacting to Dean's despondence.

"I… I know you've always stuck up for me," he concedes shakily, then screws his eyes shut, as if he's trying to think of something. "Like… Like when Billy Myers tried to steal my action figure."

Dean doesn't have a clue what the hell Sam is on about, but Sam seems to think it's important, and before Dean can respond, another voice pipes in.

"What a jerk! Who the hell did he think he was, trying to bully you."

Dean is startled enough by the intrusion to let go of Sam and step back. There's a kid standing there between them. Slightly scruffy, slightly short, face full of freckles and mischief bouncing off him in waves and it takes Dean a full minute before it hits him that its him! A 10 or 11 year old version of him!

"And Mrs Keane was so pissed when I punched Billy, you remember? Threatened to expel me. But what did she think was gonna happen if anyone ever bullies you?"

And Sam smiles a little and the kid, the younger version of Dean, grins.

"It's like I always tell you Sammy, no one's gonna hurt you while I'm around."

"Like when Joshua Bennet tried to muscle in on that girl you liked." This is said by someone else, a taller boy, older slightly but still only in his teens, and Dean realises it's him again. "Man! We got him good, remember Sammy?"

And Dean, the real Dean, takes another step back, startled, bumping into yet another version of himself. This one is older, and Dean can barely react because there's another one. And another one. And another one.

Pretty soon the real Dean has been pushed right to the edge of the massive crowd that's gathered around Sam, and he realises what Sam's doing, what Sam's done, whether Sam knows it or not. He's remembered into existence all the versions of Dean that he remembers throughout his life. All the versions of him who have fought for him.

It's pretty surreal to be honest. Dean's not quite sure what to make of it all, except that a part of him has to admit he's pretty damn good looking, especially when he grows into his looks a little more. There's versions of him from throughout his childhood, versions of him from all through his twenties and then some. Versions of him in every guise. Even a version (and he has no idea how the hell Sam can even remember this), even a version of himself that he's pretty sure is the night he carried Sam out of their burning house, the night their mom died.

He's still trying to get his head around it all, when the other Dean, the bastard Dean, bursts though the doors, jet black eyes and seething rage.

Every single other Dean in the room turns to face him. Every single other Dean is crowded around Sam, ready to defend, ready to fight, and Sam grins.

"You don't stand a chance," he smirks.

And he's right.

All the other Deans charge full force at the imposter. They lunge for him, and he struggles, of course he does, but Sam was right; he doesn't stand a chance.

It's like something from the Matrix, all of them just crowding him and piling on top of him and drowning him and they keep coming and they keep coming and Dean has to admit it's pretty damn frickin' awesome! and he just stands back in awe at the spectacle and enjoys the show.

Eventually he steals a glance at Sam.

There's a version of him standing there. This one is the same age as Dean is now, more or less. For some reason, he's taller than Sam though, and Dean can't even begin to get his head round how that would work. And he looks… different. Doesn't quite look like what Dean sees when he looks at himself in the mirror, but Dean can't quite put his finger on what it is exactly that's different. It's him, there's no doubt about that, but he's… softer, perhaps? No, that's not quite right. It's something about the edges, about the features. This version isn't as rough or as angry or as harsh as Dean sometimes feels he can be. And he looks stronger, somehow, bigger, steadier, more solid. God help him, if he didn't know any better, Dean would almost say he looks paternal.

This version is speaking to Sam, but Dean can't hear what's being said. But whatever it is, Sam is nodding, Sam is looking up and with every word, it seems like Sam is getting better and better till at the end, it's like Dean can practically see something broken being fixed like it was never broken at all and Sam and this other Dean hug.

It's one of those hugs they used to have when they were kids, pure and safe and completely unselfconscious and for a ridiculous moment Dean's actually jealous because hell! he deserved that hug, not this other Dean.

But he lets it slide because, seriously, it really is ridiculous, and he decides it's time he left them to it. It's not like Sam will notice one less Dean in the mix.

He spares a final glance at the horde, but there's no way the other Dean will ever get out from there. Not bad, he thinks, for a flash of a second feeling an absurd rush of pride. Not bad at all.

He's not quite sure how he's supposed to leave or wake up or get out from the dream though. In the end he figures he may as well just go to bed, so heads to his room, finding it eventually and just lies down and goes to sleep.

When he wakes up, it's the next day and it's the real world. He knows this because his head feels like he's got a hangover from hell and it's been so long since he had one of those that it takes him a moment to identify the sensation. He'd forgotten the aftereffects of Dream Root. He gets up gingerly, tentatively makes his way to the kitchen, and hopes it's been worth it. He hopes Sam is fixed.

-oOo-

Sam is awake.

Dean's hoping this is a good sign, though it could just be because he couldn't sleep or the dream turned bad again or maybe he doesn't even remember it so it might be like it never even happened.

Dean's still worrying about all of this, whilst wrestling with his hangover, when Sam turns to face him.

"Morning!"

And he looks at him. Right square in the eye, not a flinch, not a quiver, just looks at him, unwavering, and for a moment, for the life of him, Dean can't feel a damn thing. Not the pain in his head, or the worry in his gut, or the anxiety or the trepidation or anything else that's ever worming around inside him. It's all gone and all there is, is Sam, looking at him without flinching, and the relief and the joy Dean feels right then is indescribable.

But of course, it doesn't take more than a split second for him to get uncomfortable with how emotional he might get.

"What the hell's got you so happy?" And he didn't mean for it to sound so gruff, honestly he didn't, but when things get emotional, it's like a knee-jerk reaction with him; he just can't help it. He moves to the coffee machine, turns his back to get some coffee, also just so he can look away.

"I just had a good night's sleep," Sam says to his back.

"Oh yeah?" Dean asks over his shoulder, still not looking at him, worried all of a sudden that he's been found out. But he turns to face him eventually, raising an eyebrow as he raises the cup to take a sip. "Brad or Angelina? No wait, don't tell me. It was Brad wasn't it?"

Sam rolls his eyes. Turns back to the stove. But he's grinning.

"Put some toast in," is all he says and Dean quietly obliges.

Sam doesn't know.

Sam will never know.

And that's fine by Dean, as long as Sam is safe.

-oOo-

It's several months later.

Sam is tidying up their supply room because, well, someone has to and it sure as hell won't be Dean. He's making note of everything they're running low on, everything they should replenish, when the jar catches his eye.

Dream Root.

There's still plenty left, but that's not what caught his eye. What caught his eye is that it's in the wrong place. Sam has a system; a place for everything and everything in its place. And this most certainly is not the Dream Roots place. He doesn't know how it would have moved. He can't remember the last time they had cause to use it. He ponders it for a moment, before putting it back on the shelf above where it belongs.

It could have been his own mistake, he supposes, the last time he was organising the shelves. But he doesn't think so. And Dean certainly wouldn't be rummaging around in here, certainly not for Dream Root. Why would he?

And the instant he thinks that, he doesn't know why, but a dream he had a few months back suddenly pops into his head. It was a good dream, a great dream. It was the dream that fixed the nightmares he'd been having. A dream where Dean, every version of Dean, turned up.

And he stares at the jar.

Couldn't be.

Could it?

Dean wouldn't.

Would he?

And the instant he thinks that, he knows the answer. Of course, he would. Of course, Dean would. There's nothing Dean wouldn't do for him. Nothing. If Dean would sell his soul for him, which he has done in the past of course, he certainly wouldn't think twice about kicking back some Dream Root and invading Sam's dreams, if he thought he needed to.

And he wonders if Dean would even think of it, but that too, he instantly realises, of course Dean would. Dean is a damned genius when he puts his mind to it.

And say that is what happened, say that is what Dean did, shouldn't Sam be angry? Shouldn't he be fuming at the intrusion?

He supposes he would have been, a few years ago. Maybe even a few months ago. But now? Now. Now things are different. Now he's experienced what it's like to have a brother who doesn't give a damn about him. Now he's experienced what it's like if Dean didn't care at all.

Compared to that, any version of Dean, even one who would overstep the line once in a while, is a saviour.

If, of course that is, Dean even did anything.

He finds Dean sitting in the library where he left him an hour or so ago, staring at the laptop.

He's about to ask him about it, to accuse him almost, but something makes him stop. Something makes him just stand there and watch his brother. Something makes him realise the truth, one he always knew. Dean would do anything for him. Dean always will.

That's a rare and precious gift, from one human to another.

And there might have been a time when Sam would have resented that, but now? Now all he feels is gratitude. Gratitude and safety and security beyond measure.

Before he can think on it any longer though, Dean catches him staring, then instantly pulls a face.

"Thought you were making lunch!"

"No, I told you, I was cleaning out the… never mind."

Dean sort of scowls a little, then pulls out the last two beers from the cooler by his feet, holding one out for Sam.

"Not that you deserve it," he mutters when Sam steps up to accept it.

And Sam stares at the beer in his hand for a long time, longer than is warranted, because he's not even really sure he's right about what he thinks Dean may or may not have done, there's no way to be sure. But even if he's wrong, even if Dean didn't actually do anything, that's not really true is it, because Dean did do something. Throughout his whole life, Dean has always done something. It's the reason why there were so many of him there in that dream. Why there was a whole damned army. They've always been there, Dean's always been there, saving him, his entire life.

"Thanks Dean. I mean it," is all Sam says in the end. He looks Dean right in the eye though, holds the look, and after a split second, he knows that Dean catches on to something more riding beneath it.

Dean squirms a little, frowns a little, then shakes his head, turning back to the laptop.

"You're so weird," he mutters, then louder: "Make yourself useful and grab us some lunch!"

And life continues normally after that, whatever normal is for them.

Except that every now and then, Sam takes a bit of time to look at his brother. To really, truly look. And he takes a little time to appreciate the fact that he isn't afraid, not anymore.

He never will be again.

Because this is what his brother is. This is what he's always been, what he'll always be.

Nothing can ever take that away from him.

Nothing can ever change that between them.

And that, after all, is the only truth that has ever really mattered.

The End

Thank you for reading.

If anyone who reads this is reading and waiting for an update on Roads Untraveled, Paths Unseen, I intend to continue with it. All I can say is that I'm sorry for the delay. I went through a slump, I just couldn't stand to think of it. This story was my way of getting my head back in the game. I'm going to finish RUPU, just needed some time to get back to a head space where I could pick it up again without hating it.