Lor waited in his shack in the woods. It was chilly, having been ransacked twice in less then a week, but his young form could handle it. Lor grinned to himself yet again, and ran a hand through his now thick hair. Yes, he had everything…well, almost everything. All he had to do was wait for Sam to show up…
Wasting no time with etiquette, Sam kicked the door in. It crashed down, hitting the floor with a bang. Sam pointed his shotgun straight forward, aiming between Lor's eyes.
"Calm yourself." Lor said, not looking remotely bothered by the gun aimed at him.
"Give back Dean's life force." Lor chuckled.
"Why Sam? Does that make any sense?" Sam didn't reply. "Dean's dying in a few months anyway, what's the point?"
"Dean won't die." Lor laughed again, Sam stood, frozen.
"Why not Sam, are you going to stop it?" Sam didn't need to reply to that. "You can't. Plain and simple. Which is why I went for your brother and not you. This way, it's less like taking, and more like…recycling." Sam pumped his shotgun.
"Shut up."
"Or what? You'll shoot me? Sam, let me tell you something. I'm living off Dean's life force. If I die, he does too." Sam gulped.
"Why are you telling me this?" Lor grinned.
"I don't want to get shot, partly. And partly because, I like you Sam. You have real…promise." Lor let the words trickle out of his mouth, slowly seducing Sam.
"What do you mean promise?" Sam didn't lower the gun, but Lor heard an interested tone in his voice.
"I mean, you would make a decent sorcerer, given some training. I've been looking for an apprentice." Sam gritted his teeth.
"So you used Dean to get to me." Lor didn't foresee this particular topic of conversation. It could end badly. Sam sensed his indecision, and knew he was right.
"No deal." Sam said. He shot the warlock, hoping he had been lying about Dean's life force.
Dean drew in a deep breath and sat bolt upright in bed. He looked down at his hands, his old man's hands. Before his eyes the wrinkles faded, the liver spots shrunk, and the arthritis-y knuckles reversed their swelling. Dean felt all his muscles slowly stop aching. He brought his hands to his face and felt the wrinkles recede as his vision cleared.
"Holy shit!" Bobby said, walking into the room. Dean looked up at him and grinned, feeling like his old--young-- self again.
"Way to go, Sammy."
Sam must've broke at least five speeding limits on the way back to Bobby's. Miraculously, he didn't see any cops, or many other drivers. He pulled into Bobby's driveway, hearing the Impala's tires screech against the ground. Oh well, Dean could yell at him about it later. Maybe.
Sam walked up to the front door, and it was flung open in his face.
"Tell me I did not just hear my baby's tires make that sound." Dean said, glaring at Sam. Sam stared at him, almost not believing he was real. He pulled his big brother into a hug. Dean let him, but seemed too uncomfortable to hug back.
"Don't go all chick-flicky on me." Dean mumbled.
"I just saved your life, Jerk." Sam replied, not letting go. Bobby cleared his throat behind them, causing Sam to, reluctantly, let go of Dean.
"'Ja shoot him?" Dean asked, his voice gruff and macho to compensate for the hug.
"Yeah."
"Good, now gimme me my keys." Sam grinned at this blatant Dean-ism and pulled them out of his pocket.
"Here," he said, putting them in Dean's waiting hand. They headed inside, and stayed on more night at Bobby's before heading out for their next hunt.