A/N: Thank you all so much for reading and sharing in this journey! Would love to know what you think! Also, shout out and super thanks to Mo; it was always such a morale boost to see your reviews when I logged in to post-really kept me going! Much love to all.

Chapter title is from song by Kim Richey.

CODA

A Place Called Home – Kim Richey

Dean shifted his weight on the bed, trying to find a comfortable position for his hip. He could hear Sam talking to someone in a low voice just outside his door, but couldn't make out the words. His hearing had been shot for a few years now, after so many rounds of shots fired without hearing protection. He laughed a dry laugh to himself. He could just see what Dad would say about that. Ghosts and werewolves and shifters weren't going to wait for you to put on muffs before tearing your throat out.

Of course, most hunters didn't hunt for sixty odd years. Neither he nor Sam thought they'd be around this long, but here they were, house in the suburbs, the whole nine. It wasn't his house, to be fair. His place was out of town. A ways out.

He liked space. He liked quiet. He liked the booby traps and jerry-rigged this and that that kept things at bay. It wasn't Bobby's and it wasn't the bunker, but it was home and it suited him.

No, this was Sam's place. Sam and Abby's. Still had the salt lines embedded in the door frames, under the rug demon traps, holy water on tap, and a few strange spices and oils in the kitchen, but Sammy quit. He quit as best he could, and that turned out to be pretty good after all, for a monster magnet. Sam had grandchildren now, which was hard to imagine. His kids worked normal, boring jobs with normal, predictable hours. When they wanted to cross the country, they flew, for God's sakes. Something had clearly gone haywire with their upbringing.

Dean didn't tell them they'd come this close to being born and raised in a 1950s era bunker, because Sam was a wuss and had a near meltdown when Abigail was pregnant with their first. There were more wards and sigils painted onto the house in tone on tone paint and worked into the curlicue designs in the wallpaper than a polka had dots. And Sam still wanted to move to the bunker, at least for the birth, and maybe a few months more "to see". Abs was made of tougher stuff though, and no amount of puppy eyes or reasonable hysteria was going to shift her. She'd looked at her husband with that sort of unflappable confidence she had in him, and said, "Whatever comes at us, Sam Winchester, I know you will take care of it."

And that was that.

Dean gave her points for that. He had tried to tell Sam that if he wanted to raise his kids with a normal apple pie life, maybe the bunker and its giant collection of supernatural knickknacks was not the best place to start. Sammy listened to him about as much as always, which is to say he got nowhere at all.

And now here he was in Sam's downstairs guest room, dying of old age, of all the ignominious things to die of. The doctors called it something else with a lot of syllables and no meaning. Sam wanted him to take pills and get shots and let them poke around his insides, but Dean informed him curtly he'd had enough with people poking around his insides for several lifetimes, thank you. Some part of him wanted to be at home; his home, with the quiet and the solitude and just the occasional call from some young buck who wanted to know how to gank a rugaru. But this was good too. The kids and the grandkids came by, Abs hovered judiciously, and Sam talked. Yeah, this was okay.

The door handle turned and the floorboards creaked a little under the weight of the man that walked in. A hunter. Dean could tell that much right off, even though the guy's shirt was crisp and his slacks were perfectly pressed. It was something about the walk, that he was making less noise than a normal person in the polished loafers, careful where he put his weight, and left his hands relaxed and loose by his sides. He looked up, and the face-the face he'd seen before, but not for a while now. In a minute, he would be able to place it, if he weren't distracted by Sam hovering at the door, anxiety rolling off him in waves. Viking blond hair, sky blue eyes, hard cheekbones, and Navy Seal arms.

Toby.

Dean half sat up. Sam rushed forward, but Toby was there first. Well, naturally. He felt the younger man's arms lift him to the sitting position he was looking for without any effort, and settle him gently against his pillows.

"Hello, Dean."

Toby must be in his late thirties now, and he was a lady killer. He'd somehow managed to pick up Sam's trust me eyes and still look like you didn't want to mess with him in a bar fight. He sat down on the edge of the bed. Dean noticed he still had that ridiculously long girlie lashes, and that he'd picked up a wicked scar on the back of his left hand at some point.

"You heard, huh?" Dean harrumphed. The fact that news of his own impending demise, by natural causes, was making the rounds on the hunter's circuit was really kind of morbid if he stopped to think about it. The thought of it made him wish he were back at his place, with the booby traps, except Toby he did want to see. He looked him over critically, checking for other injuries, and tapped him on the hand. On the scar, to be precise. "What's that?"

Toby gave the angry line that bisected his hand a casual look. "Nachtkrapp." he replied, with a little bit of a smile. "I was careless. The knife was hot."

Dean read that as "all hell broke loose and I was lucky to get out" but he just made another harrumphing noise.

"How are you, old man?" Toby asked.

"Eh." Dean met his eyes. Toby always did talk with his eyes when he felt like talking. He read the concern in them, but it was a different concern than Sam's concern. "It'll be okay." Dean said, resisting the urge to pat him on the hand. "You should come out to my place next time. Check my traps."

"Yeah. That'd be good. Xavier's got some new ones too."

They lapsed into a companionable silence. After a while, Toby shifted. Dean smiled to himself. Death really was a conversation killer. Toby caught his look and the corner of his mouth kicked up wryly. Then he sobered, his face growing serious.

"I wanted you to have something." Toby said, his voice grave. He reached around his neck and started tugging at a leather strap just below his collar, pulling it over his head. Dean's breath halted as he looked at it. He knew what that strap was attached to, and it almost pained him to breathe.

The amulet swung free as Toby extracted it from inside his dress shirt. As Toby held it out between them, it caught in a stray bit of sunlight. Dean held out his hand for it, their positions a mirror of that scene so long ago. Toby set the amulet down gently in his palm, and Dean closed his fist around it, tightly. He knew he was making Sam anxious because he had started breathing hard, but he didn't know how to tell Sam not to worry, because this was a good pain.

Toby was talking again, his voice low. He put his own hand around Dean's fist, a benedictory, comforting warmth. "Do you remember, when you used to tell me about her?"

Dean nodded. He wasn't sure he could talk around the frog in his throat just now, so he nodded.

"Do you remember how you first met? Not the time with me, but the time before that?" Toby held his gaze as he said it, vibrating with intensity and emotion, as if Toby were just a kid again. When he nodded, Toby leaned forward. "And do you remember telling me what the very first and very last thing she ever said to you was?"

Find me.

Her voice whispered it in his mind, as clear as day, as if she were standing right beside him. His breath stuck in his throat, as hope, impossible hope, bloomed in his chest. He looked up at Toby, at the shining faith in Toby's eyes. He didn't break Toby's gaze, didn't look at the doorway where Sam was now leaning with his cellphone in one hand, ready to dial 911. He put his other hand over Toby's, and squeezed. Toby smiled, a faint smile, full of sadness and acceptance. Toby let go of their clasped hands.

"See you around, old man." Toby said gruffly, giving the bed a final pat. He got up and walked to Sam, putting his arm around him and guiding Sam down the hall, talking to him with that easy charm and warmth he had. Dean was grateful for that, because he needed a sec. He opened his fist and looked at the small metal shape in silence for a long while, then looped the cord over his head and settled the amulet carefully against his skin. When he looked up again, Sam was leaning against the door frame, Sam's arms crossed defensively in front of him, watching him carefully.

Dean wrapped his hand protectively over the amulet. His voice came out raw, all the years of longing scraping across his vocal cords. "Every day, Sam. Every damned day."

All the fight whooshed out of Sam as Sam deflated. "I know, Dean. I've known." Sam's lips twitched, wry. "I figured you hadn't taken up with morning drills again for nothing."

It'd been something to do. A way to hold on to a dream, trying to trap a fragment of time. His was more of target practice and gun cleaning variety, but the effect was the same. It was a time when he didn't need to talk, didn't need to pretend, didn't need to feel. One morning had turned into two, two turned into three, and then it was just something he did.

Sam dropped his arms down by his sides with a sigh, because Sam had always seen through all that. Sam's glance slid past him to the brightness of the day outside.

"You know, I always thought that in the end, we'd…" Sam stopped there and stared out the window, before Sam smiled wistfully. "But then, if anyone can do impossible things, Dean, it'd be you. Don't you think she knew that?"

"Sammy."

Sam sat down in the spot Toby had just vacated. "You've done good, Dean. This life," Sam's smile widened as he cocked his head to the sound of the grandkids making a racket down the hall, "It's been a good life, Dean."

And then Sam huffed, sly amusement crinkling the lines the years had drawn on his baby brother's face. Sam raised an eyebrow. "Plus, Toby said." Dean held his breath. "You needn't worry, because he'll watch over us."

Dean snorted. As if Sam couldn't hold his own. But Toby...the thought made him grin as he eased back into the pillows. The sharpening shriek that was Robbie getting chased around the house by Cassie brought Sam to his feet.

"I should..." Sam said ruefully. "...before they kill each other."

"Yeah."

Sam hesitated, standing there. "Abs made apple pie."

He looked at Sam, not really trusting himself to speak. "Yeah."

Sam crossed the room. When he got to the doorway, Sam stopped, putting one hand on the door before turning back. There was a tremor in Sam's voice.

"We'll be waiting, Dean. Wherever we are. You know that."

His throat was tight. "Yeah. Yeah, I do, Sam. I do." He summoned up a smile for his brother. "Now go, before she tears all his hair out."

Sam flashed him a lightening grin and headed down the hall. He knew, that despite all Sam's brave words, Sam would be back in a minute. They'd bring him dinner; he'd take his pills. They'd talk for a while, and the kids would be by to collect their kids and it would be all screams and laughter and family. It was good. Sam would come back and talk some more. Maybe Cas would show. Then he'd close his eyes and settle in for the night. He rather thought the next time he opened them, some friend of Tessa's might be there.

He looked down at the amulet in the center of his palm, warmed now by his skin.

"I'm gonna find you." He smiled. "Always."