AN: This takes place after episode 15.19, but before the events of 15.20. It was written as part of SummerGen2021 and previously posted on my AO3 page (under QueenBagelcat.) Special thanks to my beta shadowhauntingdauntlessdemigod for all her wonderful work and kind support.
Sam stared out the window as Dean drove, admiring the remnants of the magnificent rainbow that hovered in the damp dawn sky. It had been a very long night. He was tired, sore, and eager to get out of the rumpled suit he'd been wearing and into a hot shower. A quick glance to his left and Dean looked just as tired. Sam had to wonder if part of their exhaustion was related to the spell the witch had used on them. At least this time he hadn't been knocked into unconsciousness by a clock to the back of his head. It was nice to avoid the familiar crushing headache that usually followed. In fact, except for the small circular burn on the palm of his right hand, they had emerged from this hunt miraculously unscathed. Still, he was careful to avoid touching anything with that hand. He didn't want Dean to notice the wound and fuss over it. Dean was still a little uneasy whenever Sam used magic.
"You wanna grab some breakfast or something?" Dean asked.
"I'm not really hungry, but we can stop if you are." Sam wanted his bed far more than he wanted something to eat.
"Nah, I'm good," Dean said as he made the final turn towards the motel. A few minutes later Dean maneuvered the big car into the spot in front of their room.
Once inside, Sam carefully locked the door behind them. "Well as hunts go that one was a little…" he struggled to find a word that encapsulated the past few crazy days. He couldn't really count it as a win. Four people had died, and in the end, he and Dean had done very little towards taking down the bad guy. "Weird," he finished lamely.
"What part? The drag queens, the fact that we saved an ancient Greek goddess, or -" he paused and caught Sam's eye - "the fact that you conjured fire out of thin air?" Dean's tone was even and calm, but Sam felt oddly guilty regardless. Would there ever be a time when he didn't crave big brother's approval?
"Yeah, uh… I've been working on a few little spells from Rowena's notebooks," he stammered. Honestly, it was stupid to let Dean's hang-up about magic bother him. There was nothing wrong with using some of the tools available to them. He was far from a natural, and it wasn't like he'd gained power through some kind of demon deal. Really it was a simple spell that anyone could learn to do with a bit of study. "I know you're not a fan of magic -"
Dean cut him off. "Hey, I don't have a problem with magic; it saved our bacon last night. But I do have a problem with you getting hurt," he said, tossing his chin toward Sam's hand. Sam had to smother a smile, of course Dean would have noticed his injury.
"It's fine, Dean." His brother was occupied with his phone, so Sam took the opportunity to peel off his suit jacket and shed his dress shirt. Sitting on the side of the bed to toe off his boots was a mistake because he could feel inertia exert its influence. He really needed a shower, but the idea of simply crawling under the covers and falling asleep was growing more tempting by the minute. Dean sat down across from him, still focused on his phone.
"Everything okay?" Sam asked.
"Huh? Oh yeah. Eliot sent me a pic of Miracle." With a grin, Dean held out his phone which showed the shaggy dog, adorably sprawled on his back with his feet in the air, fast asleep. Sam had to admit that it was a pretty cute photo. Originally, he wasn't sure it was fair to the friendly mutt to keep him in the bunker, but Miracle seemed comfortable. Besides, having a pet brought out a contentment in Dean that Sam had never seen before. And anything that made his brother happy was a good thing.
"We can pack up and head back now if you want?" Even though Sam was exhausted, if Dean wanted to go home, he'd go along with it.
"No, I'm beat, and Miracle is fine." Dean put his phone away along with the remnants of his smile. All business again, he gestured for Sam's sore hand. "C'mon, let me take a look."
"It's fine," Sam repeated even as he stuck his arm out. Dean manipulated his hand gently, turning the palm towards the light and probing the undamaged skin with a careful fingertip. The burn had blistered, forming a perfect circle not much bigger than a quarter. For such a small area it hurt a lot, but Sam was no stranger to pain. He knew that it was likely a mild second-degree burn. Dean made a "tsk" noise, but eventually released his hand.
"After your shower, I'll wrap that for you. Make sure you don't pop that blister if you can help it." Dean smacked Sam's knee. "Get a move on princess, and don't take all the hot water."
With a low groan, Sam pushed himself to his feet, gathered his sleeping clothes, and shuffled to the bathroom as instructed.
Twenty minutes later, Sam was climbing under the covers, eager for some shut eye. Dean had applied antibiotic cream to the burn and expertly wrapped it before heading into the bathroom for his own bedtime prep. The curtains were tightly drawn against the morning light, so he should be falling asleep to the familiar sounds of Dean's bedtime routine. Instead, he was staring up at the ceiling. If he were honest, he would admit that, as tired as he was, he was afraid to sleep.
Nightmares had been a part of his life on and off, for as long as he could remember. Logically he understood that they were simply a result of his amygdala working overtime to process the traumas he had experienced in his life. But emotionally, well let's just say he didn't enjoy reliving them. It was draining to wake, night after night - heart pounding, sweat rolling down his chest, the taste of blood on his lips or the sounds of screaming echoing in his ears. This recent post-Chuck increase in nightmares was particularly aggravating because other than the dreams, things were good. He sighed and shuffled into a more comfortable position, hugging the pillow into the right shape. Consciously he took some deep breaths and focusing on each muscle group, willed his body to relax. Sleep began to pull him under by the time he heard Dean crawl into the other bed.
xxxxxx
Just enough daylight came through the green curtains that Dean could see what he was doing, but not enough to stop them from catching some much-needed sack time. Moving quietly around the room, Dean put away his shaving kit, stuffed his dirty clothes into the laundry duffle and then checked the door lock, salt lines, and protective symbols. Those last two precautions probably weren't necessary anymore, but old habits died hard, and it was always better to be safe than sorry. With a glance at Sam, he pulled back the covers and climbed into the other bed. Based on his easy breathing, it looked like Sam was finally falling asleep, and Dean crossed his fingers that his brother could get some rest without another nightmare.
Despite being tired, Dean found himself too wired to sleep. There was very little that could surprise him anymore, but this case had certainly been one of their more unusual ones. They had rescued an ancient Greek goddess which was a bit unusual. The last few deities they had met had been trying to kill them. Of course, according to Sammy, Iris was the Greek goddess of rainbows, not exactly one of the more terrifying gods in the pagan world. Apparently as long as people liked rainbows, she got enough worship-like mojo to keep going. Everything Sam could find on her said that she didn't need human sacrifice or kill people - well except for the dickbag witch that had trapped her and was draining her to death. Iris had used the light Sam had produced and zapped the bastard to smithereens. But Dean gave her a pass on that one considering that if he'd had a chance, he would have killed the witch himself.
His thoughts turned towards the conversion he'd had with Sam. He had sort of lied to the guy. He did have a problem with his brother using magic, but not because he didn't trust him. Magic, like a lock pick or a gun, was a tool of their trade and Dean wasn't hypocritical enough to deny its usefulness. And, after all these years, he trusted Sam to know what he was doing. If there was anyone who could resist the lure of power that magic provided it was Sammy. The kid had a good heart and Dean had no doubts about his brother's intentions.
No, if he was being honest, his problem was that he was kinda jealous. It was stupid to be jealous of magic, but it was just one more thing that separated them, something Sammy had that Dean wasn't involved in. Not that he needed to live in Sam's pocket, but… Dean easily acknowledged to himself that Sam was smarter, kinder, and better than or equal to Dean at practically everything. He was incredibly proud of the man his brother had become. But without Chuck's manipulations keeping them together, they were finally free to choose their own path. What if Sam wanted a different life, a life without Dean? Sure, this newfound interest in magic probably wasn't the thing that would have Sam moving on, but maybe it was only a matter of time. Sam could do so much better for himself than a secret bunker, a pile of books and a life with his aging brother. It sounded pathetic and selfish, even in his own thoughts, but as much as Dean wanted Sammy to be happy, he couldn't imagine his life without the kid.
Dean tossed and turned and eventually was able to wrestle his feelings back into the dark pit in his gut where he stored his worries. It was temporary, but for now, Sam was right there, not five feet away, snoring gently. Eventually, Dean let that comforting sound lull him to sleep.
xxxxxx
It was the light that Sam became aware of first, dragging him from his sleep. At first, in that hazy half-awake state, he assumed that Dean had turned on the lights or opened the curtains. It was far too bright in the room. Cracking one eye open with a grumble, he was poised to complain when he recognized Dean's form still sprawled in the other bed. Something wasn't right.
Lurching more fully awake, Sam sat up to look around, the covers pooling in his lap. "Holy crap," he whispered as he took in his surroundings. The two queen beds appeared to be sitting in the middle of a beautiful meadow. The sun was shining warm on his skin, bringing the green of the grass and the colours of the wildflowers that dotted the meadow into sharp, almost surreal focus. Instead of the dingy blue wallpaper of the motel, there was a mountain in the far distance, rising majestically into a crown of clouds. To Sam's left, there was a sparkling river. The whole scene looked like something out of a movie.
"Dean," he hissed at his brother.
Lifting his head off his pillow, Dean looked at him, eyes scrunched against the bright light. "What? Turn off the light, man," he groused.
"Wake up!" Sam didn't know whether it was the urgency in his tone or the slight thread of fear that he couldn't entirely keep out of his voice, but Dean gracefully flipped over, his knife clenched tight in one hand. Awake now, Dean looked around in amazement.
"Where the hell are we?"
"No idea," Sam answered, pushing his legs from the covers. Looking over the edge of the mattress, there was nothing but lush grass where the dirty motel carpet should have been. Across from him Dean had shoved away his blankets too and was carefully scanning the horizon for threats.
"Okay, well are we really here? Or is this some kind of illusion or glamour?" Dean asked.
A gentle breeze ruffled the hair across Sam's forehead. The hyper-pastoral scene had scent and texture and a realism that would be hard to replicate through magic. And a glamour of this size would be extremely difficult to conjure.
"I don't know, but it seems too real to be just an illusion." A huge iridescent blue butterfly flitted by Sam's head, close enough that he could see the tiny hairs on its body.
"Well then what, someone mojo-ed us and both beds here? What kind of being has enough juice to do that?" Dean's eyes grew wide, and hope crept across his face. "Wait, you don't think Jack…"
Sam's heart leapt for a second. The idea of seeing Jack again was incredibly appealing. He had so many questions, but more importantly, he fiercely missed the boy who was now God. But then his brain kicked in. Jack had promised that he'd be "hands off" and Sam believed him. Besides, something this flashy really wasn't Jack's style.
"No, I don't think it's Jack." Dean's face fell briefly at his answer although his brother shuttered it away quickly. "But I have a guess who it might be." They literally had contact with a goddess a few hours ago, so Sam's money was on Iris. He just didn't know what she could want or why she'd go to this much effort.
As he often did, Dean seemed to read his mind. "Right," Dean nodded. "Iris, of course."
Just then a delicate tinkling noise, like the sound of dozens of tiny bells began to echo through the meadow. He exchanged a glance with Dean who shifted his grip on his knife. Sam didn't like being without a weapon of his own, but his gun was presumably still sitting back on the side table in the motel. Thankfully both he and Dean were dressed in the soft sweats and t-shirts they usually slept in. It would have been embarrassing to handle whatever was approaching in only his boxers.
The light grew brighter still for a moment and then the end of a rainbow suddenly appeared in front of the beds. The spectrum of colours grew almost tangible before coalescing into the figure of Iris.
When they had seen her last night, she had appeared as a woman about his age. Pleasant looking, but unremarkable. Once she'd used the light Sam had magically produced to break down the door of the dungeon she had seemed to crackle with energy, but still looked more like a pissed off soccer mom than a powerful deity. But as the figure of light grew more corporeal, Sam realized that the goddess was appearing in her more traditional form.
Iris shimmered into existence in the guise of a beautiful young woman with flawless olive skin and dark eyes. Her hair was gathered on her head in a cascade of ringlets and curls held with a golden circlet. She wore a white gown of a gauzy material that was draped and cinched around her in a way that emphasized her ample figure. Emerging from her shoulders were golden wings. Smaller than angel wings, they were so luminous that they were difficult to look directly at. Overall, Sam felt a combination of awe and lust that made his hands shake and brought a flush of heat to his cheeks. With a smile, Iris seemed to recognize his distress because suddenly she stopped shimmering and although still incredibly beautiful, Sam was able to gain control of himself.
"Sam, Dean," she said as a greeting to them both.
Sam swallowed hard to try and bring moisture to his dry mouth. "Iris, where are we?" he was finally able to ask.
"You are at my home, Sam," she answered with a sweeping gesture at the surroundings.
"We're on Mount Olympus?" Sam was stunned, his brain scrambling to keep up, but Iris just laughed, an ethereal peal that echoed the bell sound from earlier.
"No, not Olympus. Some of my cousins do not think kindly of you and your brother for the role you played in the death of Zeus and other of our kin." Sam shifted uncomfortably. Although Prometheus was really the one who killed Zeus, Sam had killed Chronos and Calliope himself. "We are with my brother, Hydaspes," she continued with a loving glance at the nearby river.
"So, what do you want from us?" Dean demanded sharply.
With a motion of her hand, a carved marble chair shimmered into existence and Iris gracefully sat, smoothing her gown as she did. It was obvious that she was not going to be rushed.
"I am Iris, goddess of sea and the sky. I can travel from one end of the earth to the other with the swiftness of a storm and from the underworld to the peaks of Olympus. There is nothing you have that I could want," she said rather coldly to Dean. The sky above them seemed to dim slightly and the breeze momentarily grew cool. She settled herself and the weather went back to its previous perfection. "However," she continued, "I owe a debt to you both for your help in freeing me from the witch. Because you so generously offered the light that I needed, I have a gift for you, Sam."
Sam swallowed hard and tried to school his expression to something other than fear. "I uh, I'm honoured, but that's unnecessary." Gifts from powerful beings had a bad tendency to be dangerous and with the future at last uncharted ahead of him, Sam had no interest in tempting fate. The goddess fixed her gaze more firmly on him.
"Do you know what my role was during the Titanomachy?"
"You carried messages for the Olympians during the war." Sam ignored the scoffed "nerd" coming from Dean's bed. Iris smiled at him again warmly.
"Correct. Messages are my domain. It is within my power to access every message spoken or written by god or human. Technology has certainly increased the volume," she chuckled lightly, "but for the most part human communication has remained the same over the millennia. Mundane minutiae of day-to-day life, moments of fleeting joy and happiness, sorrow, fear, anger, love. It's all ephemeral. But occasionally, very rarely, a message changes the course of history."
xxxxxxx
Dean was getting tired of this. Sure, Iris was gorgeous, but damn, the goddess liked to talk. Not that it wasn't nice to get a thank you occasionally, but ultimately, he didn't trust her. They didn't just get free of Chuck to start hobnobbing with a different kind of deity. Whatever it was that she wanted to give Sam was just as likely to blow up in their faces as be helpful. Of course, Sam was hanging onto her every word, but all her talk of messages was a little cryptic for Dean's taste.
"That's interesting and all, but what does that have to do with Sam?" Any reverence he'd had for divine beings was long gone, so he didn't bother to hide his irritation.
She gave him an inscrutable look. "You do not find it interesting, but you should. Ultimately this gift came from you." Her smile was a little smug, but she politely turned to Sam when he cleared his throat to catch her attention.
"What do you mean?" Sam asked respectfully.
"I'm sure you remember, Sam. There was a night, a night where you made a choice that shook the world. A choice that you made after receiving a message from your brother." Iris nodded her head in Dean's direction, but he ignored her. He was too busy watching as the colour first drained from Sam's face and then flushed his cheeks. Whatever she was talking about had rocked Sam to his core.
"Sammy, what's going on?" he asked, wishing he were close enough to get a hand on his brother. Sam wearily dragged his unbandaged palm down his face and Dean noted that the kid wouldn't meet his eyes. He glanced at Iris, but the goddess simply sat and watched their exchange impassively. "Sam?" he tried again. Sam took and held a breath before letting it slowly go, his expression a mask of self-reproach.
"Uh, I'm pretty sure she's talking about the night I killed Lilith and, uh, freed Lucifer."
"So?" demanded Dean. All that crap had taken place ten years ago. He knew Sam still felt ashamed, but as far as Dean was concerned none of it was really Sam's fault. Sammy had been jerked around by Ruby and the angels - hell, they now knew that Chuck was probably pulling their strings even back then. It had been a long time since Dean had really thought about any of it. Sam just shook his head, hiding his face behind his hair.
"That night you left Sam a voicemail." Iris continued. "This is the message he heard." And with that, Dean heard his younger voice fill the air in full-on surround sound.
"Listen to me, you bloodsucking freak. Dad always said I'd either have to save you or kill you. Well, I'm giving you fair warning. I'm done trying to save you. You're a monster, Sam - a vampire. You're not you anymore. And there's no going back."
Dean gasped. He didn't remember exactly what he'd said back then, but it sure as hell wasn't that. He did clearly remember just how desperate he'd been to reach Sam, to apologize for the horrible ultimatum he'd thrown at him. The whole time he'd been stuck in that heavenly green room, he'd been thinking about Sammy, about making things right with his brother before the end. But, looking at Sam now, Dean immediately knew that this message wasn't new to him. This is what he'd heard that night. For over a decade he'd believed that Dean thought he was a monster.
On the next bed, Sam was sitting amid the crumpled covers, his knees pulled up towards his chest. Despite his size, somehow he managed to look like a little boy. His face was a mixture of regret, pain and a shame that tore at Dean's heart.
"No, Sam, that's not… I uh..." He stammered over his words, horrified.
Sam just shook his head again. "It's okay, Dean. It's fine. That was a long time ago," he offered with the ghost of a smile.
It sure as hell wasn't okay, but Dean didn't know how to fix this. Silently he cursed Iris for bringing up all this crap. Sure, he and Sam had some stuff to work through now that they were free from Chuck, but how do you apologize for a ten-year-old misunderstanding? How could anything he said now make up for the pain Sam had been carrying all these years? The few feet between the beds felt like a wide gulf separating him from his brother. He slid to the edge of the mattress and considered how best to get to Sam, however Iris stopped him with a gesture.
"Sam," she called gently and waited until he lifted his head to look up at her. "That was what you heard, but it was not what Dean said. Would you like to hear the real message?"
Dean held his breath. If it were up to him, he would demand that the goddess play the real thing and make Sammy listen. But it was up to Sam. The days of making decisions for his brother were over. Watching closely, he saw a glimmer of hope creep into Sam's expression. When Sam nodded at Iris, Dean let himself exhale, almost lightheaded with relief.
Again, his younger voice filled the air, but this time instead of being angry and hateful his tone was regretful and soft.
"Hey, it's me. Uh...Look, I'll just get right to it. I'm still pissed... and I owe you a serious beatdown. But... I shouldn't have said what I said. You know, I'm not Dad. We're brothers. You know, we're family. And, uh... no matter how bad it gets, that doesn't change. Sammy, I'm sorry."
Dean's eyes were glued to Sam but the kid wouldn't look at him. Instead, Sam was focused on Iris. A quick glance showed the goddess, her beauty marred by a slightly greedy expression, watching Sam for his reaction. She was relishing the drama she had resurrected, but Sam was sporting his best poker face.
"Thank you for your gift Iris," said Sam with a fake smile that Dean recognized as the one he used to charm officials and witnesses. "I appreciate your generosity." Dean realized that Sam wasn't going to give the goddess anything more. Whatever Iris had been hoping to get out of this little stunt, she was going to be disappointed. If there was a battle of wills to be had, Dean's money was always going to be on Sam.
For a long moment, the goddess simply stared at Sam, and everything grew still. Even the faint gurgle from the river seemed to pause. Fingers inching towards the knife he had laid aside, Dean tensed, ready to back his brother. Just when the strain stretched almost to breaking, Iris smiled and the world around them resumed. She sat back on her marble throne.
"Of course. You are most welcome, Hunters," she intoned formally. "I wish you well."
Then, with a wave of her hand the magnificent landscape disappeared, replaced by the grimy blue wallpaper of the motel room. Swivelling his head to take it all in, Dean noted that everything looked the same. Sunlight peeked around the edge of the curtains, and he could hear the daytime noises from outside their room. The cheap digital clock on the nightstand read 10:27. Dean dragged his fingers through his hair and swung his feet off the side of the bed, glad to feel carpet under his socked feet.
Sam was still sitting in the middle of his bed, and Dean let him have some space. The kid hadn't dropped his game face yet and was picking apart a loose thread on the blanket.
"Sam," Dean began with a sigh. Where to start? Sam cleared his throat and spoke first.
"Hey, uh, since we're both awake now, why don't we just pack up and head out?" Sam said in a rush. He slid off the other side of the bed and yanked his duffle up onto the mattress. "We can grab some breakfast on the way out of town. If we hit the road, you can pick Miracle up and we can be home by dinner." Although his voice was cheerful and light, Dean wasn't fooled. For one thing, Sam's movements as he dug through his bag for fresh clothes were jerky and hurried. For another, the kid wouldn't look at him. But Dean would play along for now.
"If that's what you want," he capitulated. Dean knew his brother. Sam was struggling to avoid freaking out, and as he grabbed a pair of jeans and escaped into the bathroom, Dean couldn't help a smothered groan. Oh, they were about to have a doozy of a chick flick moment.
xxxxxx
With the door firmly shut Sam slumped against it, all the energy draining out of him. He knew Dean was worried about him, but he needed some space and a few minutes to process. For ten years he had regretted his choice that night. He had been blindly stupid and arrogant, believing in Ruby, thinking that he could accomplish what angels could not. And although he had never blamed Dean for his bad decisions, that voicemail had reverberated through his soul for years. After he got his soul back, he had made it his mission to atone, to make it up to Dean and to prove to himself that he was better than what he had done that night.
The words of that message had burrowed deep into his psyche and played a part in every decision he had made since that day. It was part of how he had found the strength to drag Lucifer back into the Cage. It was part of why he had been willing to die to close the gates of Hell. It was part of why he had sacrificed everything to save Dean from the Mark of Cain and then been willing to take it on himself. And it was all a lie.
Clenching the sides of the vanity, Sam stared into the mirror. He should be ecstatic, he should be over the moon to learn that even in one of the darkest times of his life, Dean never gave up on him. And he was, truly. But right now, his whole world had just shifted on its axis. His mind was whirling, his thoughts all over the place. After the experiences of the past few years with Chuck, he should be used to this kind of seismic shift, but he wasn't. This one had thrown him for a loop. A combination of joy and hysteria threatened to bubble up and he wasn't sure if he wanted to laugh or throw up.
"Sammy," Dean called, rapping lightly on the door.
"Be right out," Sam called back, wiping away tears he had barely noticed shedding. Turning on the tap, he splashed his face with cold water, drinking a little in the hopes of settling his stomach. Then he scrambled into his clothes and took a steadying breath. He could do this. If he just kept moving, he could stay ahead of the emotional wave that threatened to swamp him. Once he was home, back in the familiar comfort of his bedroom, then he could fall apart.
xxxxxx
Sam moved past quickly, stuffing his sleep clothes and shaving kit into his duffle. Dean had opened the curtains earlier so the room was flooded with sunlight, illuminating the dust motes floating in the air and exposing the bags beneath Sam's eyes. This wasn't the first time Dean had seen his brother overtired and emotional, but this time Dean was determined to talk about it. With the world always on the line, they both had learned to shove their feelings down. But that wasn't going to cut it anymore. They were finally free and there was no reason to soldier through the hard stuff. Not that he was eager to have a chick flick moment, but he'd do anything to wipe that shattered look from Sam's face.
Dean could be patient. Leaning against the door jamb, he watched as Sam gathered his few things, darting around the room haphazardly, a far cry from his usual casual efficiency. He knew Sammy, and eventually the kid would run out of busy work and fall apart. A few more minutes went by and then, as he predicted, his brother stuttered to a halt. Sam stood by the side of the messy bed looking lost as he twisted the collar of his jacket between his big hands.
"Sammy," Dean said again softly. Gently he pushed on Sam's shoulder until his knees folded and he sat heavily. Dean joined him, sitting close enough that he could feel how rigidly Sam was holding himself through where their elbows touched. Still, he waited, watching the dancing dust motes until Sam was ready to talk.
"I thought it was real," Sam practically whispered, his eyes dark and anguished. "I thought you hated me and that you were going to kill me." Dean leaned a little closer, offering what comfort he could. "I wanted to stop, I really did but…" he trailed off, and then buried his face in his hands for a second and took a shuddery breath. He looked at Dean. "If I had heard what you really said… I don't know. I was pretty far gone at that point and it might not have changed anything but..." Sam's lip trembled, and his voice was horse with misery. "But what if it had, Dean? What if I had stopped? Everything that happened after, all of it with Lucifer - the pain, and death and horror. Because of me." Sam choked, unable to continue. There were tears running down his face now, breaking Dean's heart.
"Look Sam, it wasn't your fault. None of it was your fault. The angels were playing you, playing us both, long before that night." Sam just shook his head, so Dean tried to appeal to his logical side. "C'mon. Even if you'd heard the real message, do you think the angels would have let you stop? They needed you to break the last seal to kickstart their title match. No way they would've let you just bail out at the end." Sam still looked unconvinced, but he dragged the back of his hand across his wet eyes. Dean gave him a smile.
"Besides, I could never hate you, Sam. Maybe I'm not so keen on every decision you've made, but I meant what I said ten years ago. You're my brother, my family, and that's never going to change." Sam sniffed so Dean pulled his bandana out of his pocket and handed it over.
"As far as I'm concerned, this is all water under a very long-ass bridge, okay?" Dean nudged Sam's knee with his own for emphasis. His brother's eyes were still a little bit haunted, but Sam nodded and wiped his face. "So, let's blow this joint and go home."
Thirty minutes later, Sam was fast asleep, snoring softly, his breath fogging up the passenger window. Dean glanced over at him fondly. All his earlier worries about Sam choosing a different life seemed stupid. Family was always going to be family, no matter what his brother decided to do. It wasn't a choice; it was just an indisputable fact. And right now, they both were right where they belonged, together.