Dean felt something.

It was other than the habitual self-loathing and despondence he always felt. For the first time in, he couldn't remember how long, he felt… hope.

He knew hope could be a dangerous, treacherous thing. Knew more often than not, it was just the sugar-dust on a poisoned pill, a momentary reprieve from reality which made the inevitable bitterness even worse.

He avoided hope. And up until very recently, that had been easy enough to do; for a long time, there hadn't been much in his life that had given him any cause for it. Even when Sam had come barrelling back into his world, Dean's only hope had been to deliver Sam and his family back into their own lives and out of his as quickly as he could. That had been the first, the only hope he had allowed himself to indulge in years. But perhaps it had been enough, perhaps it was how it started; a door opened, even just a crack, was still a door no longer firmly shut.

And it must have been enough, because it was in him now, more than ever before. Feeble, uncertain, but irrefutably there, embedded somewhere deep inside.

Hope.

For years Dean had felt like he'd been running down a hill. Had been running for so long that at some point the gradient had tipped too far and he'd started falling and he hadn't even realised. Felt his feet had just been cycling through break-fall procedures to stop him from hitting the rock face but he'd had no real control and he'd just constantly been one step away from crashing. Or maybe he'd been falling and crashing all along, right from the start. He couldn't tell.

Whatever it had been, for the first time in what felt like forever, he felt different. He felt like he had a solid footing again in his life, and it scared the hell out of him.

Pain, loss, failure. Regret, shame, guilt. Those things and more he was intimately familiar with. He knew what that terrain felt like, knew how to manoeuvre and exist and function within it. Knew where he was when he was surrounded by that landscape. And he knew from long, long experience, that he could weather it, he could take it. Knew that he deserved it. There was a sadistic familiar acceptance to it all. Like being in Hell; just because you hated it, didn't mean you didn't know where you were. Just because you felt you couldn't stand it, didn't mean you wouldn't have to. Didn't mean you didn't deserve to.

But this was different. This was new territory. Or it was long forgotten territory. Whichever. It left him feeling like a man on thin ice, unsure of his footing within a landscape he didn't fully recognise. Unsure of himself and his ability to navigate.

Stood in front of the bathroom mirror, through the swirling mist of steam rising from the hot water, the condensation wiped away and trickling down, distorting the image, he stared at himself. He forced himself to hold his own reflection for longer than he had in forever. He hated mirrors. Hated the faces of everything he'd tortured and killed reflected in his own eyes. Not just monsters though, humans too, and not just those he'd tortured in Hell. Sometimes, when demons fled or when he'd exorcised them, they'd abandoned the carcass with just enough breath left in it for him to hold the body and watch the fear and pain in the unpossessed eyes linger before the human died in his arms. He saw all of that. Carried all of that. Every face he'd let down, everyone he hadn't been able to save. Every life he'd taken, whether by his own hand or by his failures.

For years, he'd hated having to confront himself, because he couldn't bear to confront them all.

But for the first time in years, when he looked into the mirror that night, through all the hatred and self-loathing and guilt, through the cuts and the bruises and the blood, despite the distortion and obscurity and everything else besides, shone a tiny glimmer of hope. It wasn't much, but it was more than he'd expected to ever see again, certainly more than he'd ever thought he could deserve, and it awakened a realisation.

He had a responsibility, and it wasn't just to Sam, and it wasn't just to the whole world, and it wasn't just to make appeasements for his failings and mistakes. Stood there in front of himself, he gave himself a moment to finally acknowledge that there might actually be more. He'd been willing for so long to die for things, that he'd forgotten what it felt like to live for them. To want to live for them. To hope.

Dying was easy. Well, perhaps not easy, not with an angel who could practically pull his ass out of Hell and heal the bulk of his life-threatening hunt related injuries. But still, finding ways to die, finding things worth dying for, that had never been difficult for him; he had a pretty low bar.

But something to live for? It shouldn't have been a new sensation exactly, but perhaps new was exactly what it was. At least it was for this version of himself, the one that had been pulled from Hell. He sometimes thought of it as a new beginning, like a rebirth. Since that night he'd been pulled out from Hell, he felt he'd been born again. And this new version of him, from that moment on had never wanted to be alive, had had self-loathing and shame coursing through his veins as if it was his newfound blood group. This version had never found anything he thought he deserved to live for, because he didn't deserve to live, period. He had too much hate and guilt and anger for that concession. And while he couldn't say that any of that had miraculously vanished outright, he couldn't deny either that those feelings in his heart had been pushed aside to make room for something else.

He'd do anything for his family. That was perhaps Dean's permanent, underlying blood type. He'd thought though, that Sam was his only real family and that the best thing he could do for his brother was to stay as far away from him as he could. Break all ties and simply not exist. Force Michael to keep Sam safe no matter what and sign his own life away in exchange. Sam, for a while, had become just another reason for Dean to die.

But he was beginning to think that perhaps he'd been wrong, about a lot of things.

His family for instance wasn't as singular as he'd presumed. It had grown, undeniably. It extended beyond Sam now and it didn't end with blood either, even though Dean had a larger blood family now than he'd ever had. He acknowledged that Deanna might actually be fond of him (and damn it to hell, who was he kidding? He adored the kid). And Eric actually seemed to stop crying when Dean held him (and Dean couldn't deny that he loved taking him off Sam's hands and rocking him to sleep). And Kyle. If Dean thought even for a second that his own used up soul was worth a damn to anyone, he'd have traded it in an instant to save his nephew. He knew what Hell was, but he wouldn't even think twice about it, if it meant they could get Kyle back.

And then beyond his blood family there was Jess, who didn't look at Dean with bitterness or fear. And Bobby and Ellen and Jo and Ash, where could he begin? They'd been putting up with his personalised brand of assholery for a hell of a long time, and yet time and time again they still allowed him back to the Roadhouse without resentment or any hint of unwelcome, so…

So.

He began to realise there were a lot of familial ties that bound him. But rather than seeming like restraints, they were beginning to feel like something he hadn't felt in a long, long time. They were beginning to feel like lifelines. And they had woven around him like a safeguard, tethering him to a feeling which he was only now registering: a sense of belonging.

He hadn't felt that since he was a kid. He knew their childhood wasn't perfect, but before Sam had started acting up, it hadn't been an utter crapfest either. They had been happy, more often than not, no matter what Sam said. And Dean's life had made sense to him back then. He was a big brother; he had a kid brother. His job was to look after his little brother, so as long as he kept his brother close, he could do his job, and that was all there was to it. His heart beat easier when he was around Sam, and around Sam was where he belonged. His role and function in life had been so clear, so simple. Like an equation that balanced his life out: Dean + Sam = everything was all right.

After Sam had left for college, Dean hadn't thought he'd feel that sense of belonging ever again, but he was beginning to now, and it made him ache in a way he couldn't explain. It was a longing for something he'd thought they'd lost as brothers but that was now returning, and he felt fear and gratitude and a million other things besides, and they made his heart thrum painfully. But it was a good feeling because for once what he was feeling wasn't something he'd brought back with him from Hell, it was something that preceded Hell, from a time that was way, way better. From a time when he was a kid, and things had been simple and pure and true. When he'd had a purpose in which he'd believed and that he understood and trusted. Emotions he'd honestly never felt in his supposed role as Heaven's warrior.

He stared at his reflection.

He sure as hell wasn't a kid anymore though, and he looked like crap. He couldn't pretend the recent hunting trip hadn't taken a toll, but it was more than. It was something deeper, something missing beneath his skin. Sam was right; Dean hadn't been caring. Not about himself in any way beyond the bare necessities. Apparently, eating and sleeping well didn't make that list of essentials. His eyes had dark circles beneath them, his cheeks were a few missed meals away from being hollow and gaunt, and he generally just looked like a man who was not even really there. A man he realised, he actually no longer truly recognised. A ghost in his own life.

Or a poltergeist more likely. Mean, nasty, angry. Easy to rile, prone to violent outbursts. Antagonistic and vitriolic. He'd been trying to exorcise himself he supposed with all that bluster and belligerence, but in any case, what he'd left in its wake was just a shell, a shadow of someone who wasn't there.

Everything he'd been doing since he'd gotten back from Hell had been just to survive. Not even survive really, when he thought about it, just exist. Not live, exist. Even when he hooked up with some waitress somewhere between jobs, like the night Sam had found him, it didn't mean anything. Worse, deep down he knew it was just a way to pass the night, to keep occupied so there wouldn't be enough time left to dream of Hell.

That wasn't living. He knew that. But it hadn't mattered before, because he hadn't wanted to live. He hadn't really cared at all.

But then Sammy came back.

Sammy.

Sammy, Sammy, Sammy.

Stupid kid brothers.

Stupid kid brothers who kept forgiving and loving him.

Stupid kid brothers who made him feel like he wanted to live again.

Stupid kid brothers who were sneaky duplicitous bastards.

A grin spread across Dean's face at that, splitting an angry, swollen cut on his lips that had just clotted over with blood dried almost black. It stung as it reopened but he didn't care, because Hell didn't own that pain. Hell had no hand in it. That pain was all Sam, and Dean couldn't have supressed the grin even if he'd tried. Despite his anger at the time, he had to admit the trick with the fake spell had been outstanding. While he couldn't believe he'd been fooled by a seagull feather (really? a god dammed seagull feather?!), he had to admit the fact that Sam had gone to such lengths to get to the truth was pretty impressive. He hadn't thought Sam had it in him, thought his kid brother was a straight arrow incapable of doing anything underhanded. Ridiculously, it made Dean trust Sam more, made his brother seem more human and relatable. He'd hustled Dean. He'd played him. Plain and simple. He'd lied and cheated and risked it all backfiring just to do what he felt needed to be done. Just to help Dean. Because he's cared about Dean that much. Dean would trust that kind of behaviour over a righteous smug holier than thou assed angel any day, Cas notwithstanding.

Cas.

When Sam had practically heaved Dean the short distance from the Impala to the Roadhouse an hour or so ago, he'd insisted that Dean request Cas to heal him. Dean had waved that all aside, even though his leg was plenty painful by now, and he couldn't really point to a single part of his body that didn't have some kind of hurt attached to it. But he knew he wasn't dying. He knew there was nothing really wrong with him that a few good beers, a few industrial strength painkillers, a few patch jobs and ice packs, a few hours (well okay, days) worth of sleep wouldn't eventually fix. And if there was something dangerously wrong with his leg, then, well, he'd get Cas to take a look when Cas made a show. He certainly wasn't about to call the angel every time he scraped his knee, and though Sam had looked dubious, Dean hadn't been lying when he'd said he'd survived much, much worse without angelic aid.

Besides, he didn't want to call on the angel just yet. As much as he trusted, and even liked Cas, he needed a little time before he could tell him that he'd changed his mind about saying yes to Michael. And the truth was, he'd been having doubts for a while now, since before Sam had made his emotionally blackmailed case. He felt that Cas probably suspected as much, but still, Dean felt he could at least tell the guy in person. But he would wait until the angel showed, or until there was some life-or-death situation.

In the meantime, there were other people he needed to clear the air with. Sam hadn't been kidding when he'd called him out as a jerk, though in truth, Dean would have used much stronger language to describe himself.

But that could wait. That had to wait.

He stepped under the hot spray of the shower, allowing the heat to envelop him, resisting the urge to step away. It was as though layer upon layer of anger and defence and resentment where being scorched away, leaving he didn't know what underneath, but he was truly too tired to care. He wasn't foolish enough to believe that he was miraculously fixed, but for a moment he allowed himself to accept the reality Sam had been relentlessly trying to drum into him. The reality that he wasn't alone. That he never really had been. He was part of a family, and they were long overdue an apology from him.

That part, he wasn't looking forward to at all.

He closed his eyes against it. Against the guilt and the shame, trying not to think about any of it and instead turned water hotter, letting it almost scald. For a time at least, he could try to scorch all those feelings away. He had till as long as the hot water lasted, he decided, and given the way he'd treated everyone, allowing himself even that, he knew, was more charity than he deserved.


Thanks Kathy & LLBRUCAS :-)

And there was a nod to Iowa Kat in the last chapter. I stole your line, hope you don't mind! :-)