This is the Supernatural ending that makes the most sense to me personally. Started writing this less than 24 hours after the finale to give myself some solace. Eat a dick, Supernatural writers 3
God falls, and in the morning, they make toast for breakfast.
They're both familiar with a forced feeling of normal after an apocalyptic near-miss. Repress the memories, shrug off the fear, move forward. Don't talk about it. Pretend nothing ever happened. Find the next hunt and forget, forget, forget.
This doesn't feel like that. Dean expects a feeling of restlessness to permeate his bones, expects to find Sam glued to his laptop screen early in the morning to find a hunt, expects the bunker to feel too big, too silent, too cold with Cas and Jack both gone. Instead, Sam is in the kitchen making toast and eggs and bacon, and they sit together eating and drinking coffee, in no hurry. They don't have to be anywhere or save anyone or do anything.
Sam does laundry in the afternoon. Dean walks the dog.
It's Sam who finally brings up hunting again, nearly two weeks later, and he does it with a casual, tentative voice, almost an offhand way like he's hoping Dean will shrug the idea off. "Where?" Dean asks. He leans back in his chair across the table, glass of whiskey in hand. "Is it close by?"
Sam glances at him over the top of his laptop. "Not really," he says. "A few hours from here. Sounds like ghost possession, right?"
Dean nods. It's textbook ghost possession, and it sounds like a pretty simple hunt overall. Normally Dean would be jumping at the opportunity, eager to escape the confines of the bunker and rev the engine of his car and race down the highway at 80 miles an hour. Instead, he balks, restlessness warring with the unexpected feeling of peace that's settled in him.
Sam's brow furrows uncertainly. "I know it's been a bit," he says. "I wasn't even really looking. I just thought…" He shrugs. "Maybe it's time to get back out there?"
Dean considers for a few moments, swirling his glass errantly and gazing at the rippling surface of the whiskey. "Sure, okay," he says eventually. This is what they do, after all. They've had enough time for rest and relaxation, it's time to focus back on the next hunt, next city, time to move forward. Dean can't shake the hollow feeling that rattles inside him at the thought. "We can head out in the morning."
Sam nods. He smiles briefly and stands up from the table. "Hungry?" he asks. "I'm going to heat something up for dinner."
Dean nods distractedly. Once Sam is gone, Dean rotates the computer until the screen faces him. He looks over the articles Sam was perusing, rubs at the stubble on his chin as he skims. He drains his whiskey, and sets aside his empty glass. Sam is right—it's clearly a haunting, though low-grade, nobody dead as a result, just some very frustrated real estate agents.
Still, it's worth looking into before it gets worse. Dean sighs and closes the computer, and pushes himself up to refill his drink.
The hunt goes as badly as a hunt has ever gone before.
They were wrong about how serious the situation is. The spirit isn't only restless, but actively vengeful. Worse than that, there are two of them, and they're both extremely unhappy about Sam and Dean being in their house.
It probably doesn't help that Sam and Dean are both a little out of practice. After Chuck, Dean assumed, naively, that anything else would be easy breezy. As he's slammed bodily through the wall of a living room, head cracking into the floor and pain sparking along the nerve endings all along his spine, he has to admit he might have been wrong.
Sam yells something. Dean groans, and tries to raise his hand to the back of his head, where he slammed it into the ground, but when he tries to lift his arm another pain makes itself known in his side. A piece of wood is sticking alarmingly out of his flesh, the shard torn free from the broken walls of the house.
"Dean." Sam is in front of him now, kneeling down next to him. It's dark, but the worry in his eyes glows beneath the light of his flashlight. "Are you okay? Can you get up?"
"Fine, I'm fine." Dean reaches out and Sam grips his arm, heaving him upright. Dean catches his breath at the pull in his side. "Where is it?"
"I don't know. It disappeared when I shot it. We need to get the hell out of here."
They burn the bones in a pitch-black cemetery, battered and bruised but determined to finish the job. The ghosts aren't done with them, apparently, because they reappear while their graves are being dug up. By the time the bones go up in flames, Sam is cradling a dislocated arm and Dean's shirt is sticky with blood, clinging to his chest.
They drive back home in silence, hurting and exhausted and covered in dirt, and lick their wounds back at the bunker. Dean sets Sam's shoulder back into place and Sam helps patch up the wound in Dean's ribs, and then they sit in the middle of the library afterwards to have a drink, too tired to shower or change out of their dirty clothes.
"Sam," Dean says eventually, his voice rough and quiet but somehow piercing in the silence. "We really got our asses handed to us back there, man."
Sam nods his head in a resigned sort of way. He leans his arms on the table and gazes at his beer. His hair is an absolute nest around his head. "I know." He takes a deep breath, squaring his shoulders in a familiar look of determined stubbornness. "We were just a little rusty. Next time we'll do better."
Dean shakes his head slowly. He feels so tired, and it isn't just the hunt. It goes bone deep, and it's screaming at him. "Sammy, we almost got ourselves killed by a couple of vengeful spirits," Dean says. "We're not just rusty. I think we need to give it a rest."
Sam stares at him, as though Dean has grown two heads. "Give it a rest?" he says. "Since when do you give it a rest when it comes to hunting?"
Dean hunches a shoulder. It's as bizarre to him as it is to Sam. Dean never thought he'd feel the urge to step away from this life. He still isn't sure he'll find anything else that feels right. But for the first time in a long time, he wants to look.
"Just for a little while," Dean says. His mouth ticks up in a half-smile. "You know, man, I…something felt different, after Chuck, after that whole thing went down. Feels lighter. Like I can breathe for the first time in…in years."
Sam stares, and for a moment Dean thinks he's going to get pissed and call Dean a liar. Instead, Sam nods slowly.
"Yeah," he says. "I know."
Dean sighs. He reaches up to rub at some drying dirt on his face, drags his fingers through his hair. "I'm not saying forever," he says. "I just wanna see what else is out there. You know. Write our own story."
Sam smiles, then, and it fills Dean with something warm, to see it. "Yeah," Sam says. "Okay. That sounds good."
They stop hunting. It's easier, so much easier than Dean ever would have expected.
They lock up the bunker, search for a real place to live, find a house for rent someplace nearby. Sam takes care of the nuts and bolts of that whole transaction, and Dean busies himself by job hunting, not sure what exactly he's looking for. Mechanics are hiring, and that seems like the obvious choice. For some reason Dean isn't sure it feels right, though.
After they move in, Dean nests, decorating the space from top to bottom. Sam rolls his eyes whenever Dean walks in the door with a new bag from Target or Michaels or whatever, but he never protests, probably because the place looks fucking great. The bunker is nice, yeah, but it is also underground and dank and dark and old as hell. This place feels almost like a real home.
Sam finds a job right away, obviously. He never finished law school, but that still left him with plenty of credentials on his resume. He finds a job as a paralegal, good pay and benefits. Dean almost would be jealous, except the idea of working at a law firm makes him want to set himself on fire.
Dean does eventually take a job at a local mechanic, and he likes it. He gains regular customers, a lot of them with gorgeous, classic car models that Dean gets to keep in top shape. He gets to work with his hands, still, gets to feel a sense of accomplishment at the end of the day, gets to help people. And when he comes home Sam is usually there, sometimes cooking dinner, sometimes sitting with a beer in front of the TV, an extra one on the coffee table for Dean.
The heat in the house doesn't really work so well, so it grows uncomfortable as the seasons dip. They try to fix it and argue over instructions and youtube videos and Dean's limited knowledge of heating systems. Sam tries to insist they call a professional and Dean tries to insist that he knows what he's doing, and neither of them really win.
Sam calls a professional in the morning and Dean quietly accepts defeat. Sam doesn't rub it in. Secretly, Dean appreciates Sam giving him a quiet out.
Dean sometimes wonders if Sam will go back to school eventually, finish that law degree and get his life back on track. He's a little afraid to ask, dreading the idea of living alone in this house and watching Sam walk away again. He won't protest, if that's what Sam decides to do, but the idea still hurts.
Sam seems content, though. He makes money at his job and he likes his coworkers and he's good at what he does. When he finally brings up school, it isn't at all in the way Dean was expecting.
"You know, if you wanted to, I bet you could get into a pretty good engineering program," Sam says after work one night. He's leaning on the dining room table and gazing at his laptop while Dean cooks some burgers at the stove. "This one here offers scholarships. Probably wouldn't cost that much, and there are always loans."
"You want an engineering degree all of a sudden?" Dean says, bewildered, turning away from the snap of oil on the stove to stare at his brother. "Is law not hard enough for you, college boy?"
Sam rolled his eyes. "Not for me, you idiot," he says. "For you."
Dean snorts. He turns back to the stove. "Dude," he says. "I'm almost forty. College isn't in the cards for me."
"Says who?" Sam spins the computer around so the screen is facing Dean's direction. "Dean, just look at this for a second. You could take most of your classes online and live here, and I could take a bigger chunk of the rent."
"Dude," Dean says. He flips the burgers onto a couple of buns. "Where is this coming from? Since when do you want me to go to college?"
"You're smart, Dean," Sam says. "If Dad hadn't forced you into the hunting life, forced you to fit into some mold and be just like him—"
"Sam—" Dean sighs and sets down two plates on the table. "This isn't about Dad."
"No, it's about you," Sam says. "You work with cars because you don't have another outlet, Dean. You're brilliant with tools and you know how things work, you can figure it out just by looking at it. You made a homemade EMF machine, man. You could be capable of so much more than mechanical work, I know you could."
Dean stares at him, taken aback by Sam's impromptu speech, and if he's being honest, a little touched. He sits at the table and looks at Sam's laptop screen. The browser window is open to a nearby school, and smiling faces beam out at him from the rotating stream of pictures—sitting on a picnic blanket on a grassy, sun-soaked field, sitting at desks with pensive looks on their faces, laughing with their arms around each other in sweatshirts with the school logo.
Dean frowns. He taps his nails against the keyboard. "Looks nice," he says. He spins the laptop around and shuts it again. "But I don't think it's for me, man."
Sam's face falls. "Are you sure? You don't even wanna think about it?"
Dean smiles at him, amused. He sips from his beer. "Fine, I'll think about it," he says. "Happy? Now eat your damn burger."
Sam's face lights back up. He reaches for his burger, chomping down with unnecessary gusto.
Time passes. Days turn into weeks, and then into months.
Sam doesn't push the whole college thing, and Dean lets it slip to the back of his mind. He wasn't particularly interested in the first place, even though he appreciated Sam's encouragement. And admittedly, Sam is probably right about the whole thing—if it wasn't for their father, pushing his insane desire for revenge on both of them, everything in their lives could have turned out differently.
It isn't all their father's fault, of course. Destiny is a bitch, and their lives were laid out for them from the moment they were born. Azazel and Michael and Lucifer, none of them would have let them have normal lives. Even if they'd grown up without hunting, they still would have ended up here, still would have gone through hell and back. At least, that's what Dean has convinced himself of. That's what he's told himself for years to stay sane.
Dean does take on some extra hobbies, however. He doesn't need a degree to prove himself so he teaches himself new skills during evenings and weekends. He tinkers with electronics and builds home mechanics to make their lives easier and learns to modify weapons. He barely notices time passing by, so caught up on his work and his projects and his evenings at the bar with his coworkers.
Sam makes his own friends at the law firm. They meet together the bars sometimes, where Dean embarrasses Sam by calling him Sammy and Sam rolls his eyes and pretends to be annoyed. They drink too many shots of whiskey and stagger home together laughing about nothing, gripping each other by the arm to keep from keeling over.
Months later, Sam runs downstairs breathless and grinning, his phone clutched in one hand, rambling about something that Dean can barely make out. "Slow down, Sam," Dean says, pushing himself reluctantly off the couch. "What's going on?"
"Eileen," Sam says. "I found her. She's alive, Dean."
Sam apparently had feelers out for months to find Eileen, unable to call her or contact her. They drive all the way to Portland, where Eileen apparently turned up several weeks earlier. Dean drives, Sam bouncing his knees in the passenger seat, his hands twisted together in his lap. Dean wants to remind him that they could be wrong, that it might not be Eileen. After all of the disappointment and death and all the people they've lost, Dean doesn't want to watch Sam get hurt again after getting his hopes up.
Dean's worries go unfounded, however. Eileen is in Portland and she and Sam reunite with relief and joy, embracing hard and long. Eileen turns to hug Dean as well and Dean has a momentary pang at the center of his chest that he can't quite identify at first. It takes him a while to realize that he misses Cas. Sam gets a reunion, and Dean never will.
It's hard to stay sad about it, though, when Sam is so happy. He and Eileen smile at each other and chat all evening in a combination of speech and sign language, and Dean is mostly content to sit back and drink and stay largely quiet while Sam recounts the past few months. Eileen apparently just showed up in Portland when Chuck died, and she stayed here, living in a small but cozy apartment and working as an office assistant.
Eileen offers to have them both stay at her place overnight, but Dean waves her off. "You two go ahead," he says. "I'll see you in the morning."
Sam tries briefly to protest, probably worried about Dean sleeping in the Impala, but Dean insists. He finds a motel instead and settles in for the night, and tries really hard not to think about leaving Portland alone the next morning, because he has a sinking feeling that might be the case.
Sure, Sam has a nice job back home and their place is pretty nice now, too, but, well…it's Eileen. She and Sam, they kind of just work together. And more than Dean wants to keep Sam nearby, he wants Sam to be happy. They both deserve it.
Dean drifts off, buzzed with whiskey, the sound of 80s sitcoms on the TV fading into the background. He's startled awake by the sound of the door opening, and sits up in bed, blinking and disoriented, to see Sam stepping into the room. "You need to remember to lock the door, man," Sam says, kicking it shut behind him. He's balancing two coffees in one hand and is clutching a bag of donuts in the other.
Dean runs a hand over his face. His head is hurting. "What are you doing here?" he says. "How'd you know I was here?"
"Cheapest motel near the bar we were at," Sam says with a grin. "You think we're fucking strangers?"
Dean rolls his eyes and takes the coffee Sam offers him. "Okay, fine," he says, after he's taken a long drink. "But that still doesn't explain what you're doing here. Shouldn't you be with Eileen?"
"She had work," Sam says. "And I figured you'd already be sick of Portland, so I assumed you'd want to get out of dodge." He nods to the bag of donuts. "Best in town, according to Eileen."
Dean crosses the room to take a look inside the bag. The donuts are in weird shapes and colors and designs, and Dean narrows his eyes suspiciously. "So," he says, lifting the least offensive one from the bunch out of the bag, "you trying to get rid of me that soon?"
Sam blinks. "Huh?" he says. "I'm not staying here, Dean, I'm heading back with you."
"Oh." Dean frowns. "Dude, if you want to stay here with Eileen—"
"I don't," Sam says. "I mean, I do—I miss her a lot. But I don't want to stay in Portland. I have a job, man."
"Yeah, but—"
"She's going to come visit," Sam says. He's smiling a little. "She's kind of sick of Portland anyway, so…" He shrugs. "Maybe she'll come move nearby. Who knows."
Dean nearly sags in relief. He nods. "Okay," he says, taking a bite of his donut. "If that's what you want."
Sam's smile widens. He sits down at the rickety motel table and pops the top off his cup of coffee, taking a sip. "Oh gross," he says, making a face. "I took yours."
"I was wondering why mine tasted weird." They exchange cups. "I was about to accuse you of being a shapeshifter or something."
A few months later, Eileen comes to stay permanently.
She and Sam find their own place close by. Dean isn't particularly down about it—Sam is still within walking distance, barely half a block away, and as it turns out, Dean kind of likes having the house to himself. Especially since he's met someone himself.
They met at a bar, during one of Dean's many after-work stints. Dean wasn't really looking to hook up, hasn't been interested in that for a while. But the bartender was cute and flirty and gave Dean free drinks, and when they went home together after closing time Dean realized how long it had really been.
The bartender's name is Matt. He's around Dean's age and he's been living in the area for his entire life. Dean can't imagine staying one place for that long, but Matt seems really content, in a way Dean wouldn't think is possible. Matt likes the city and he likes the people and he's satisfied with his life, and the domesticity is surprisingly comforting.
Dean thinks it will just be a one-night stand and that will be it, but then Matt asks Dean to grab dinner with him. Dean agrees without thinking twice about it, expecting brief dinner and then a night of casual sex, but instead they end up just sitting on the couch in Dean's living room all damn night and talking. And it's, uh, nice.
Dean finds himself spending more and more time with Matt, meeting him at the bar at work and showing up at his apartment and bringing him over for dinner. Sam asks about it one night, wondering who Dean is texting all the time. Even though Sam isn't living with him anymore, Dean should have expected him to notice something is up.
"I know you've been having someone over all the time," Sam says, pointing his fork accusingly at Dean across the table. Eileen grins from next to him, a glass of wine cradled in her hand. "You can't lie to me, Dean. Are you going to let me meet them?"
Dean wants to refuse, because that would mean there is something serious going on, and Dean doesn't do serious. Somehow, however, Dean finds himself at a bar the following night with Sam and Eileen and Matt against his better judgment. Dean blames Sam's stupid puppy eyes.
"I like him," Sam says afterwards, as they pull into Dean's driveway. "He's funny and confident and friendly. Seems good for you."
"We're not getting married," Dean says testily, turning off the engine. "So don't start looking at wedding venues just yet."
Sam just grins at him. He opens the passenger's side door and climbs out of the car.
So maybe Dean isn't ready to put on a wedding dress, but he also enjoys being around Matt, so he doesn't let himself worry about the future. Sam doesn't seem concerned about that kind of stuff, and Dean has always been a one-day-at-a-time kind of person anyway.
That doesn't mean Dean's relationship with Matt is perfect. Dean's life comes with baggage, and a past that he tells almost no one. And moreover, Dean's life comes with Sam.
They're an unspoken package deal. It's hard for outsiders to understand when they don't know Sam and Dean's history. It's even hard for people close to them to understand, sometimes. Hell, sometimes Dean doesn't even fully understand it himself. It doesn't matter. Sam is a permanent facet in his life, a loadbearing pillar, and Dean doesn't question it.
Matt notices something is different about Dean's relationship with Sam pretty early on. He stares in bewildered confusion when Dean exchanges silent glances of conversation with Sam, frowns with discomfort when Sam and Dean grin at each other with an inside joke, and even complains once or twice when Dean announces he's going with Sam to grab drinks.
"It's Friday night," Matt says, "and you're going to drink whiskey and play pool all night with your brother?"
Dean shrugs. He pulls his jacket on. "Sure," he says. "What's wrong with that? I thought you were hanging out with friends tonight."
"Yeah, but…I was going to invite you to come with. Would you really rather go hustle money from strangers?"
Dean sighs with his hand resting on the doorknob. What he can't explain to Matt is that having these nights with Sam gives him a semblance of normal. There are things Dean doesn't miss about their old life—the disgusting motels, for one, and the middle-of-nowhere restaurants where the food dripped with day-old grease—but there are times that he genuinely misses it. The constant moving, the shifting of their environment, new locals to hustle money from, new ghosts to vanquish, new people who needed help.
Yeah, Dean misses it. Not enough to give up what he has, but enough that he needs nights like this sometimes.
"Just ask Sam to come out for drinks with us instead," Matt says, but that's still missing the point. "What, he can't let you out of his claws for one fucking night?"
Dean bristles at that. It isn't like Sam is tethered to him. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"Come on, man, you guys hang out all the time. I mean, I get that you're family but it's like you're always putting him first, above me, even above yourself. It drives me crazy sometimes. I mean, he has a girlfriend, but he still clings to you like a damn puppy."
Anger simmers at the pit of Dean's stomach. He turns so they're facing each other from opposite sides of the room. "You don't know shit about me or my family," Dean spits. "And you don't know shit about Sam, either."
"Yeah, because you don't tell me anything," Matt says, throwing his hands in the air. "Every time I try to ask, you just shrug me off, or evade the question, or change the subject. Sometimes I feel like I barely know anything about you, and it seems like you're never going to bother letting me in. What are you so scared of?"
Dean clenches his hands at his sides. What are you so scared of? Where does he fucking start? He's scared of Matt becoming another Cassie. He's scared of facing up to everything that happened to him, of facing the parts of himself that are broken and frayed. He's afraid that if he reveals all the darkness in him and everything he's done or been forced to do, Matt will run screaming.
"I'm going out," Dean mutters. He yanks the door open. "Don't wait up."
Dean is off his game all night and loses two rounds in a row. He gives up in frustration and orders a double shot of whiskey, slumping against a table next to the wall. Sam follows him there with his beer, smirking in amusement. "You're such a sore loser," he teases. "You're like a little kid."
"I'm out two hundred bucks, man," Dean says. "That's money that won't be going to my rent."
"Fuck off. You know you would have just spent that money on booze or fast food."
Dean rolls his eyes. He tosses back his drink, gazing out at the hazy low light and sticky wooden tables. "Matt and I got into it before I left," Dean admits, without looking over in Sam's direction.
Sam raises his eyebrows. "You did? About what?"
"I don't know, man," Dean sighs. "Everything that always comes up with non-hunters. They don't get us, our life, our past—they feel like we're hiding things from them, even though we're hiding those things for their fucking benefit." He shakes his head. "You're lucky about Eileen, Sam. She already knows about the monsters, you can't scare her away."
Sam gives a mirthless laugh. "That doesn't mean we live in a freaking fairy tale," he says. "It's hard, man, trying to live this life, trying to start from scratch. I always imagined it would be…easier than this. But it's not."
Dean stares at him, surprised. It seems like it all comes naturally to Sam, this new normal, and it's oddly a relief to hear that he's struggling with it too. "Yeah," Dean says after a moment. "But, hey. Better than dying on some stupid hunt."
"I'll drink to that." Sam raises his beer, and they clink their glasses together and drink. Some old-ass rock song started on the jukebox, the sound humming at the back of Dean's eardrums. "Eileen wants to get a cat."
Dean chokes on his whiskey. "A cat?"
"What? You've been hoarding the dog all to yourself, I might as well get a pet of my own."
"Yeah, but a cat? Come on, man."
"Cats are nice! They're good to cuddle with. Why are you so down on cats all of a sudden?"
"They're mean," Dean corrects. "Cats and I don't get along. If you get a cat, I'm not coming over to your place anymore. I'm probably allergic."
"Fine," Sam says. "Your place is nicer anyway."
Dean drains his drink. His glass thuds against the surface of the table when he sets it down. "Man," he says. "I miss Cas."
Sam hums his agreement. It feels like Cas's absence is an empty space in both of their lives, and it's something Dean tries, mostly, not to think about. He especially tries not to think about Cas's final moments and all that he said. It's painful to consider, an ache that won't go away.
"Me too," Sam says. "Maybe he's still out there somewhere. We don't know for sure."
Dean shrugs. "Yeah, I guess." He isn't super hopeful. Cas's absence has a permanence to it that Dean is struggling to accept.
"If he ever comes back, you'll have a few things to explain to Matt," Sam says, voice light and teasing again. Dean is always impressed how he manages to do that, shake off the heaviness and just smile again like it's nothing.
"God," Dean mutters. "Don't remind me. It's been weeks and I still have no idea what I would have says in response."
"Such a romantic, you are."
Dean stumbles home at two in the morning, and Matt is asleep on the living room couch. Dean sleeps off the whiskey and the next morning he and Matt act like nothing happened, but Dean can't quite forget their fight.
It doesn't matter. He's great at shoving his emotions down and moving forward, and this isn't any different.
He and Sam still go on road trips sometimes. Real road trips, not ten-hour car rides to the next job without even stopping to pee.
Since they both work, it's hard to find time. But whenever Dean's relationship with Matt feels strained or when Sam starts feeling too restless, they make the time. Sometimes they just drive, without any particular destination in mind, listening mindlessly to loud music and gazing out the windshield as the scenery speeds by. Sometimes they search for a random spot on a map somewhere or online and stop wherever they want along the way, at stupid tourist traps and at restaurants advertising the world's best double cheeseburger.
They drive a hundred miles for some pie festival thing Dean insists on going to, and gorge themselves on slices of apple and cherry and blueberry, arguing over which one is the best. Dean insists vehemently it's the apple. Sam says it's the cherry. They both bring home an entire one of each, so nobody really wins. Or maybe they both win. Take your pick.
Dean takes up baking at some point, inspired by daytime cooking shows maybe, or by the constant craving for pie at the back of his throat. He learns to make pie crust from scratch and experiments and tweaks the filling until it's perfect. He forces slices of his creations on Matt and on Sam and on Eileen, none of whom are very helpful. Eileen just tells him everything is good and Sam refuses to try them half of the time, complaining about gaining fifty pounds. Matt is the only one who tries to be honest, but his feedback is confusing and unhelpful.
Instead, Dean starts bringing his food to work. Mechanics like their food, and the baked goods disappear with startling rapidity. With an audience, finally, Dean starts to branch off, baking scones and cinnamon rolls and chocolate-filled pastries. His house smells like butter and sugar every weekend. It's awesome.
When summer hits, he starts hosting backyard barbecues, something he's always wanted to do. He invites his coworkers from the shop and Matt's friends from the bar, and even lets Sam bring some of his snooty law firm coworkers. They drink beer and eat burgers and watch their dogs fight with each other on the lawn. It's the closest thing to normal Dean has ever experienced.
Sam lingers and helps clean up afterwards, even though Dean tries to shoo him home. "Least I could do," Sam says as he scrubs dishes in Dean's sink. "After you went to all this trouble."
"Yeah, flipping burgers is a real chore," Dean says, but secretly he appreciates Sam's company. It's like a constant, even as everything around them has changed, that Sam is still nearby when Dean reaches for him, still stays behind to help without being asked. "Did Eileen head home already?"
"Yeah, well, she had enough wine that she was swaying on her feet. I told her to get some rest." Sam shakes water off his hands and pulls the plug on the sink. His gaze is thoughtful when he turns in Dean's direction. "I never thought you'd be this guy. You know, the, uh…hosting backyard barbecues guy."
"Why not?" Dean says, shrugging. He shoves aside some Tupperware in the fridge to make room for the leftover potato salad. His neighbor, Marlene, brings it to every one of these things and it's disgusting, so nobody ever eats it. But Dean hasn't quite built up the courage to tell her. "If we're gonna be here for a while, might as well settle in, right?"
Sam smiles. "It's just, you seemed resistant to the whole domesticity thing before," he says. "I'm just, you know, happy it's going easier for you."
Dean taps his fingers against the edge of the counter. "You know, when we were kids," he says, "all I wanted, for years, is something like this. A house, family dinners, Christmas…" He watches water drip from the kitchen spout, noting errantly that he needs to get it fixed. "I wasn't resistant," he says, after a moment. "I just didn't know how to walk away from hunting anymore. Not while people are still in danger."
"You deserve it," Sam says quietly. "We both do."
Dean tips his head in agreement. They saved the world more than once, after all. They should be able to have this. There are other hunters out there, other people who can keep the world safe.
Dean clears his throat, straightened up. "You want some leftover potato salad?" he says.
"Hell, no. Throw that shit in the fire."
Dean finds a hunt in mid-September.
He doesn't mean to. He isn't looking for one. He saw a few potential hunts pass by in the last year or two, just whispers of activity, nothing close by and nothing serious. This one, it's both.
And sure, he could have called another hunter, ask them to handle it. He could have ignored it outright, even. But it's five miles away, maybe less, and it's a hunt Dean has done a million times. There's no point in waiting for someone else to show up, no point in letting anyone else be in danger. No point in dragging Sam into a hunt that Dean can take care of by himself.
He loads the Impala with supplies and takes it across town, where he thinks he's hunting a werewolf. When he gets there, instead he's greeted by a very creative shapeshifter.
The fight is brief, but it's brutal. Dean is unprepared, without the correct supplies. By the time it's over, Dean is bleeding from a nasty head wound and bruised to hell up and down his ribs. He staggers back to the impala, swaying from the blood loss, and is dizzy and lightheaded by the time he finally arrives home. He almost doesn't make it to the door, falling to his knees at the welcome mat with his keys in hand.
He pauses to catch his breath, swearing and cradling one arm against his throbbing ribs. He sits there for a second, leaning back against the door, panting as the pain fades. His head is sticky with blood and it just keeps leaking out of his head wound, making tracks down his face.
"Dean? What the hell?"
Dean tilts his head, rolling it against the door. He blinks dimly as Sam kneels next to him, his face swimming in front of Dean's vision. "Hey, Sammy," Dean mutters.
"What happened to you?" Sam demands. "Did you get in a bar fight or something?"
"Or something." Dean groans and straightens. "Help me up."
Sam helps patch him up in the kitchen, checking Dean's head to see if it needs stitches while Dean presses a frozen bag of peas against his aching ribs. Sam doesn't speak much at first, but his expression hardens as he works, mouth pressing into a flat line. "You were hunting, weren't you?" Sam says finally, as he sets aside the first aid kit.
Dean sighs. "Sam…"
"Don't you lie to me, man." Sam's voice is tight, trembling. Dean blinks at him in confusion. "Don't, Dean. You didn't get these in a fucking bar fight. I know what a bar fight looks like on you, and it's not this." He squares his shoulders, facing Dean directly. His hands are squeezed into tight fists. "You went on a hunt. You didn't even tell me first."
"It wasn't like that, Sam," Dean says in exasperation. He shifts the bag of peas against his ribs and winces. "I thought I'd just take care of it. I didn't want to drag you back into—"
"No." Sam practically shouts the word. "You don't get to do that, not anymore. You don't get to run off and throw yourself into danger, and not tell me just because you want to keep protecting me."
"Sammy, that's not—"
"Dean, I get it, I know you're restless. I am too. Hell, sometimes I even miss hunting. But that doesn't mean I'd run off on you just because I'm desperate to kill something."
"Sam. Hey, hey." Dean catches Sam's shoulders, grips tightly. "Hey, man. Calm down. I'm not throwing myself into a freaking chainsaw massacre, okay? It was supposed to be an easy hunt. I only went because it was close by, because I didn't want anyone getting themselves killed. But I'm not looking to hunt, okay? I'm not suicidal."
Sam clenches his jaw. His voice trembles again when he speaks. "Next time, you tell me."
"Okay, Sam."
"Promise me." Sam glares at him. "If you're going to go out on a hunt, then I'm going to come with you. All right?"
"All right." Dean squeezes Sam's shoulders and drops his hands, nods. "All right, Sam. I promise."
Matt suggests moving in. Dean thinks it will be nice. Turns out, it's the final nail in the coffin.
The first few weeks are good. Dean likes having someone else in his space more than he expected. He spent so long with he and Sam in one another's personal space, that living with Matt doesn't feel very different. But it isn't long before he and Matt start fighting, and then fighting more, and then they always seem irritated by each other. Matt, by Dean's lack of ability to be vulnerable. Dean, by Matt's sappy need to be all puppy love romantic with each other.
They break up after the first month. If he's being honest, Dean is relieved.
Things are good, anyway. His work is going well. He hosts house parties and dinner parties and barbecues. He spends his evenings at bars with his coworkers—bars where Matt doesn't work—or at Sam and Eileen's place, or in the garage working on his car.
Nightmares start again. They come and go, like everything else. Sam gets them a lot too, Dean knows he does. They have an unspoken ritual, on really bad nights. Sam will knock at his door, or Dean at his, and they just sit on the couch together with a couple glasses of whiskey, sometimes in complete silence. There's something calming about it, sitting close by to one another, knowing they're both still alive. They don't even have to talk about it. It just makes sense.
Sometimes they talk, too. About everything—about mom, and about dad, about growing up, about hunts they forgot about and hunts that went wrong and hunts that were some of their best work. They talk about the apocalypse and how the angels and demons manipulated them, about the things they were wrong about and the things they never said to each other, the things they should have said while dad was still alive.
Sam's voice hangs heavy with guilt and regret on some of those nights. He relays some of the worst memories he has, why they've stuck with him, why he can't shake them. Dean listens and feels it as his understanding branches off into new territory, and he marvels at it, that he could know everything about Sam down to the tiny twitches of his facial expression when he's lying, and yet nothing about all these different hidden facets of his mind.
"I still remember," Sam says one night, "this hunt we went on, when we were teenagers. It was one of the first hunts dad let the two of us go on by ourselves, and he only agreed to it because he was going to be so close by." Sam's gaze is distant, as though remembering. Dean remembers this hunt too, and it turns his stomach to think about it still, even now, after everything. "I got myself injured, and you practically threw yourself in front of a werewolf to protect me and nearly got yourself killed." Sam's face twists. "And all I could do was yell at you for it. You were bleeding out on the drive home and I had a broken rib, and all I could be was angry. It was like my default emotion back then."
Dean closes his eyes briefly at the memory of Sam thrown back into a hard boulder, the horrible crack that followed the impact, the instinctive terror that had turned Dean's brain to pure static. "You were just freaked out," Dean says. "We both were."
"No," Sam says. "I was angry. But not at you—at Dad, at the life, at all of it. I wanted out, I wanted the hunting to stop, so you wouldn't feel the need to throw yourself in front of me to keep me safe."
"Hey, it was only that one time. Besides, I was fine."
Sam levels his gaze in Dean's direction. "Selling your soul for me was about the same level as throwing yourself in front of a werewolf, don't you think?"
Dean winces. He'd like to say that he didn't have a choice, that there was no other option, but it isn't true. There was a choice, and Dean would choose the same thing again if he had to. Maybe that's what the angels were getting at, about destiny. About fate.
"I'm just like Dad, sometimes," Sam continues, voice quiet. "I didn't really realize it, until Mom came back—she's so much like you, and I'm too much like Dad. Whenever he was frustrated with me, he'd take it out on you. And I'd do the same thing."
Dean shakes his head. "No, man," he says. "It never felt like that. I know you and I fought a lot back then, but—"
"I'm just trying to say thanks, I think," Sam says, cutting him off. He speaks quickly. "For...putting up with all of it. For still looking out for me, and, you know, basically raising me."
Dean blinks. He clears his throat. "Yeah, well," he says. "Look at the bang-up job I did. Let you throw yourself into hell and everything. Great parenting."
"You shouldn't have needed to be my parent," Sam says. "You should have only needed to be my brother."
"Yeah, well." Dean sips his whiskey. "Good. Because you're a pain in my ass, and as your older brother I'm obligated to be a pain in the ass back."
Sam grins. He raises his glass and sips from it as well.
Dean isn't the only one with relationship troubles, he discovers, during those late-night chats. He assumed everything is hunky dory with Sam and Eileen, but he discovers he's wrong.
"I forgot what it's like," Sam confesses over his whiskey that night. "Being so vulnerable with someone. I forgot how hard it is."
"You did it with Jess," Dean points out.
"I didn't, really," Sam says. "She never knew about our past. I did it to try and protect her, but it didn't work."
"At least Eileen knows about the monsters already," Dean says. "She can take care of herself. She can handle knowing about it."
"But even with Eileen…" Sam shakes his head. "She knows, but she doesn't know. She doesn't know our past, everything we went through."
And it is we again. It is their past, because their lives and their destinies are so closely intertwined that there's no detangling them. "You could tell her," Dean points out.
"I know." Sam's voice is heavy. "Maybe."
He could tell her every detail, Dean knows, and she wouldn't ever get it, not really. Like you can't really understand Hell unless you've been to Hell.
"She loves you, Sammy," Dean says, not knowing if it is actually true but figuring it's the right thing to say.
"Yeah," Sam says, as though that makes it even worse. "I know."
Sam and Eileen don't melt down the way Dean and Matt did. They fight for their relationship, but Dean knows it's hard. Being a hunter, seeing what they see, and then giving yourself to someone else—it's not supposed to happen. Dean never thought it would happen for either of them. He admires Sam for fighting for that.
It's late September when they hear about the hunt.
"Vampire nest," Jodi tells them over the phone, on a dim, cloudy afternoon on Saturday. "A couple of them got taken out, but there are still few left. I wouldn't ask—I know you don't really hunt anymore, but—"
"We'll take care of it, Jodi," Sam says immediately, because it's Sam. "Just text us the location."
They drive there together in the Impala. Sam tells Eileen they're taking another of their road trips, which is odd, because Dean expects him to tell her the truth.
"Don't want her to worry," Sam says. When Dean opens his mouth to call bullshit, Sam waves a hand and says, "I know, I hear the hypocrisy. But it's different. You and me, we go into these hunts together, we always have. Eileen is different. I can't even really explain why."
Dean lets it drop. They get takeout on the drive and listen to music as they eat, sipping soda and exchanging fries and onion rings. It feels like old times. Dean feels his old self pulling at some edge of his consciousness. He hasn't tried to push away that part of himself, exactly—whatever the hunter part of him is. He hasn't exactly managed to meld it with whatever the current version of himself is, either. They coexist in his brain, not warring, just existing, sitting. Waiting.
They argue about music and about where to stop for coffee and about how Dean is going 20 miles an hour over the speed limit. Sam tries to switch the radio station and Dean tosses a half-open ketchup packet at him in retaliation, and Sam complains all the way to the next rest stop about Dean staining his favorite shirt.
"You shouldn't have worn a shirt you like on a hunt, dumbass," Dean says in the bathroom as he washes his hands. It's almost completely empty, too late at night for the regular crowd. They're the only two people at the sink and Sam has a look of pure petulance on his face as he dabs at his shirt with a wet paper towel. "Did you forget how this works?"
Sam just glares at him, but he admits, as he turns back towards the mirrors, "Maybe. It's been over two years since we hunted."
"Since you hunted," Dean corrects. "I'll be fine. You, on the other hand, better not get your out-of-practice ass killed."
"I'll do my best," Sam says sourly. Dean grins and shoves at him lightly as they exit the bathroom, and Sam tries unsuccessfully to trip him in response.
They load up on snacks from the vending machine, chips and sodas and Sam's favorite Skittles, and speed through the rest of the drive, passing bags back and forth across the front seat. There's something about vending machine Coke that tastes different from any other type of Coke, and it makes Dean feel nostalgic.
"How many did Jodi say?" Dean asks as he and Sam load their guns at the trunk of the Impala. They're within walking distance of the coordinates Jodi gave them, maybe a quarter mile away.
"Five," Sam answers. He snaps the chamber of his gun into place and pockets it. "Maybe six."
"No problem." Dean tosses a stake in Sam's direction and then shuts and locks the trunk. He cracks his neck and rolls his shoulders, and Sam snorts at him. Dean ignores him. He's actually sort of looking forward to this. "Let's do this."
The vampire nest is in some old barn, run down and splintering and molded. It's empty when they get there, and they stand for a few moments in the entrance, the smell of dust tickling Dean's nostrils, the creak of the wood making him uneasy. He hears a soft noise from the far end of the barn, and he and Sam glance at one another.
Dean gives a short nod of his head, and he and Sam aren't out of practice enough that they don't still understand each other's signals. Sam nods back and approaches the side of the small closet-sized shed on the far end of the barn, the source of the noise. Dean, meanwhile, approaches head-on, gun at the ready. He and Sam hold their respective positions and Dean glances over at his brother, who tips his chin slightly in another nod.
Dean yanks open the door. Two high-pitched cries of terror startle him, and he looks down at the ground in surprise to find two small figures curled up together at the back of the shed. They're both young boys, maybe ten and twelve, the older one gripping the younger one tightly against his chest as though trying to protect him.
"What the hell?" Dean mutters.
"Please," the older kid says, his voice shaking and breathless but not without bite. "Please, don't hurt us. Let us go home, I just want to go home."
"Whoa, hey." Dean pockets his gun and holds up his hands. "I'm not gonna hurt you. What are you doing in there?"
"Hiding," the older boy says, looking a tiny bit relieved. "From the monsters."
Dean looks over at Sam, who's gaze darkens. "All right," Sam says, turning back to the kids. "We're going to get you out of here. We have a car nearby, we can get you someplace safe. What are your names?"
"I'm Alan," the older kid says. "This is my little brother, Dash."
And yeah, Dean is enough of a sap in his old age that he feels a little pang when the younger kid clings more tightly to his older brother, like he'll fly off and disappear if he lets go. "Okay," Dean says. "Come on, Alan, Dash. Let's get you two out of here."
They help the kids up—they seem unhurt, just shaken up—and usher them to the doors of the barn. They've just barely managed to get out when Dean hears it—shouts, loud noises, barely a few yards away. The vamps know they're here.
"Get them out of here," Dean says to Sam, shoving at his shoulder. "Get them somewhere safe."
"No way." Sam glares at him briefly, and then turns to the kids. "The car is half a mile in that direction—hurry, run. We'll meet you there. Run!"
The two kids look at each other in terror for a moment, and then the older one takes the younger one's hand, and they race off into the darkness. Once they're gone, Sam and Dean head back into the barn, retrieving their weapons. They don't have to wait long for the nest to attack.
Two vamps, three, four. Dean takes out a couple of them in one swing of his sword, but they just keep coming. Five. Ten. Twelve. So many Dean loses count, so many that his only thought is to get out of there. He and Sam fight through them as best they can, standing nearly back-to-back in an attempt to cover one another, but it's barely working. Dean's best machete flies out of his hand and out of reach and he yanks his backup weapon out of his belt, but he's too slow. He stumbles. He's forced to duck away from Sam.
Sam shouts in pain.
Dean whips his head around, eyes blowing wide. Sam is caught between three separate vamps, and he's fighting against all of them at once, and he's losing. One of them yanks at his arm, and a sickening crack reaches Dean's ears. Sam screams. Dean sees red.
"Fuck!" Dean shoves one of the vampires aside and tries to make his way towards his brother, but something stops him, something sharp, sinking into his shoulder. He yells and tries on instinct to jerk away, which only tugs at the thing still buried in his flesh, and the resulting pain has him seeing white. There's a moment where he's back in hell, hooks in his flesh, screaming Sam's name, before he snaps back into reality.
He swings wildly with his weapon, but a cold hand catches his wrist and twists and the weapon clatters to the floor of the barn. The vamps are laughing. They're enjoying this.
"Dean!" Sam yells.
Sam. Sam. Dean swings madly again, struggling to get any leverage, anything at all. He can't see very well with the dark spots in front of his eyes, but Sam is a shadowed figure somewhere in front of him, his clothes blotted with red and his expression a mask of terror and pain. "Sam," Dean croaks. It's meant to be a yell, but it barely makes it out of his throat instead. "Sam—"
There's another scream, choked and wet and aborted. Dean feels the sound in his ribs, like broken glass, and he knows, he knows what that sound means, but it can't, he won't let it happen again. He won't. He tries to wrench free of the arms that have him pinned, and only manages to sink deeper into pain. His throat is torn open and blood flows freely along his skin. The pain is so blinding that he doesn't even have it in him to cry out.
The hands holding him down are gone, then. He passes out briefly, maybe. By the time he regains awareness he's on the floor, coughing and choking and bleeding. He reaches up with a shaking hand, pressing his palm against the place where the pain is the worst, a deep gash in his throat. Blood oozes from between his fingers and a lurch of nausea makes Dean curl in on himself.
"Dean," a voice says. "Dean? Dean, can you hear me, man?"
The voice is soft, pained. Dean raises his head, vision swimming. Sam is slumped against a pile of burlap sacks and old barrels, his hand pressed against his stomach, his hairline sticky with blood.
"Sam," Dean rasps. "Sammy."
Dean crawls his way over to his brother, legs dragging on the cold wooden floor. Up close, the damage is more clear, and Dean has a visceral, horrible flashback of Jo sitting on the floor with a bandage pressed against her ribs, the only thing holding her insides inside her body. Sam…Sam looks even worse than that.
"They gone?" Sam whispers.
Dean nods. He kneels next to his brother, hands hovering over his torn stomach, fingers trembling horribly. "Fuck, Sam," Dean breathes. "What happened?"
"Dunno. Everything happened too fast." Sam looks Dean up and down once. "Don't look so good yourself."
Dean swallows. The wound on his neck is still bleeding, he can feel it, soaking his clothes and his skin. It will probably just keep on bleeding unless he does something about it, but he has to take care of Sam first. He has to get Sam help first.
Dean tries to stand up, and a rush of dizziness takes him by surprise. He catches himself on the barrels and bags, slumping against them. "Son of a bitch," he pants, leaning back, letting his head be supported by whatever they were leaning against. "Son of a bitch."
Darkness is already threatening at the corners of his vision. His legs won't support him long enough to walk out of here, and they're miles and miles from the closest hospital. He shakes off those thoughts, forces his hands into his pocket for a stray piece of fabric. "Here, gotta put pressure, stop the bleeding," he says, leaning over, but Sam won't move his hand. "Sammy, come on, help me out here."
"It's okay, Dean."
"It's not okay, your guts are all over the fucking ground." Dean's hands tremble somewhere above Sam's bleeding abdomen, covered in red—Sam's blood, his own blood, what's the difference at this point—and Sam is just gazing at him, in pain but unbothered, no fear in his gaze like Dean is expecting. "Sam, come on. Gotta—gotta stop the worst of the bleeding, get you patched up—you'll be fine, we'll call an ambulance, get you to a hospital."
"Dean." Sam catches Dean's wrist, holds him still. Their gazes lock. "I'm telling you it's okay."
Dean blinks at him. His brain isn't working properly. It jams somewhere in between I can't feel my legs and help Sam. The two won't correlate. They're diametric opposites, opposing forces.
"It's okay," Sam repeats. "Just stay. Stay with me."
And Dean feels it then, the blood loss, the pain, the wounds slowly seeping away at him. It hits him, diametric opposites unfurling, re-entangling until something clicks into place, something that makes sense: this is it. This is where it ends.
Dean slumps. His back thumps against the burlap sacks and barrels and he stays there, staring at the far end of the darkened barn, marveling. This. Right here. This is the way they go.
He must have said part of that out loud, because Sam gives a half-cough, half-laugh, and says, "Yeah. Damn vampires. Isn't how I thought we'd go."
Dean rolls his head, looking over at his brother. Sam's face is pale and drawn and tacky with blood, but he smiles over in Dean's direction anyway. Dean exhales, and he almost smiles back, because it doesn't matter. They're going out together this time. The unprecedented peace in Sam's expression makes sense now, and Dean feels a rush of affection, grateful, warm. Sam is here with him. They're together this time.
"I dunno," Dean says. "This is more or less what I expected." He pats his pockets, wishing he'd brought a flask so he could have a last drink or something. "Oh man. My fucking shoulder hurts. Who's Stu going to hire to take over the shop?"
"Nobody as good as you are, that's for sure."
Dean closes his eyes. It's a warm night, shockingly warm for September, he thinks. It's nice. Comfortable. Sam's shoulder is pressed against his, and Dean can feel him breathing, still clinging to the last few minutes. They're quiet for a little while, listening to each other's raspy breathing, just feeling the air and smelling the musty, grassy scent of the barn.
"Did I ever tell you," Dean mumbled, cracking his eyes open again, ignoring the way they resisted, "about that night I came for you when you when you were at school? You know, when dad hadn't come back from his hunting trip?"
Sam turns his head, blinks at him. He nods. "The woman in white," he says.
"The woman in white. That's right." Dean lets his eyes slide closed again, remembering the cool night air and his brother's familiar floppy brown hair and the way something finally, finally just lifted off of him when they first laid eyes on each other. Whoa, easy there, tiger. "I must have stood outside your place for hours…because I didn't…I didn't know what you would say. I thought you'd tell me to get lost, or…or get dead."
Sam keeps staring at him. His eyes gleam in the dim light, his jaw clenched tight against the pain, or the emotion, or both.
"And I didn't know what I would have done," Dean continues. The words tumble out of him, simple, effortless. "If I didn't have you. I was so scared, man. When it all came down to it, it was always you and me. It's always been you and me."
Sam nods. Tears trail down his bloodstained face, settle in the bristles of his beard. His hand flutters, the one that isn't pressed to his bleeding stomach, and he reaches over until his knuckles brush Dean's wrist. Dean turns his hand over so Sam can grip it. Sam's fingers tighten with surprising strength, given the blood loss, like Dean is an anchor, like they're keeping each other from vanishing, just for a few more seconds.
"I wouldn't," Sam whispered. "I wouldn't have."
Dean smiles, then, a real smile, a wavery smile. "I love you so much," he whispers, because Sam needs to hear it, and Dean needs to say it before they go. In case there isn't anything waiting for them. In case heaven won't let them through. Dean gives a brief, wondering shake of his head. "My baby brother."
Sam gives a choked sound, like a sob. His face is screwed up, pain and anguish and emotion finally cutting through the peace in his expression. He leans over until his head touches against Dean's, his temple warm and sticky with blood against Dean's hairline.
"Fuck," Sam breathes. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Dean."
"Hey." Dean squeezes his hand, since he can't really move anything else. "Don't."
"You were happy. These past few years. All of that—if I hadn't agreed to this—"
"No," Dean says. "No more guilt, Sammy, not anymore. Not now. This is just our ending, man." He tries to swallow again, the words stuck somewhere inside his throat. He thought, at the end like this, he'd have regrets, but he doesn't. He's proud of both of them, of what they've done, of who they are. "We wrote our own story. I wouldn't have done anything differently. Not one thing."
Sam gives a shuddering breath. "Yeah," he whispers, and his voice is calm again, certain, settling into peace again like Dean's words had unraveled something in him. His hand doesn't loosen, even as Dean can feel him drifting, and Dean doesn't let go either. "Yeah. Me either."
