PART FIVE - SAM

Sam's somewhere in southern Minnesota, three hours out from Sioux Falls when he gets the call. The trill of his cell phone is just loud enough to be heard over the heaters running full-blast and Sam digs it out of his coat pocket without taking his eyes off the road. Snow is blowing and drifting and swirling all around him, obscuring the recently plowed blacktop of I-90, making it difficult to see and forcing him to slow down. He hazards a glance at the display before answering. It's Bobby. "Hey," he greets, feeling anxious and high-strung. "What's going on?"

Bobby hesitates long enough that Sam knows he's not calling to bear good news and he can only fear the worst. "It's Dean. He's missing."

"Demons?"

"Looks like. Ellen said he'd gone out to the supply shed for coffee and Jo went to check on him when he didn't come back after a few minutes. Shed doors were wide open, no Dean. No sign of a struggle or anything to make it look like he went unwillingly."

"So, you're saying he walked away with some demon because he wanted to?"

"No, Sam, of course not. There's more. They'd had a customer – Jo said she got a weird feeling about him, that she thought Dean might've felt it too. Guy was unconscious when Jo went to serve him, had no idea where he was or how he'd gotten there when he came to."

"You think he was possessed?" Sam's mind can string the pieces together: possessed man shows up at the Roadhouse, demon riding him jumps ship when he's got the chance and Dean's alone, hijacks Dean and takes him God knows where for God knows what. Could be the same demon Sam met in Wisconsin, could be Azazel's way of luring Sam out.

"Yeah, Sam, I do."

Sam presses a little harder on the gas pedal, visibility be damned. "You found anything to summon this bastard yet?"

"I think I've got something. Ellen put Ash in charge at the Roadhouse and she and Jo are on their way out here as we speak. She's picking up a few things for me in Omaha. It'll be midnight at the earliest that they'll get here."

Shaking his head, Sam can't believe this is happening. Everything's so fucked up right now. "Just... do what you can, I guess."

"We'll get him back," Bobby says with conviction.

"Yeah," Sam exhales. "I'll... I'll see you in a few hours, Bobby."

"Okay." There's a heavy pause, like the older hunter wants to say more, maybe wants to reassure Sam. But he doesn't. "See you soon."

Sam tosses his phone aside and shoves a tape into the deck, twisting up the volume knob until the sounds of Metallica drown out the rush of hot air from the heater vents and the whir of the tires on the pavement. He doesn't doubt that he'll see Dean again – it's whether or not Dean will even be alive when he does, and if Dean is, if he'll have any kind of memory at all. Who knows what Azazel will do to Dean if it means getting Sam to agree to being the leader of his demon army. The thing is, Sam doesn't know how far he's willing to go to keep Dean safe. His brother has already been through enough because of him, things he never should've had to go through – especially alone. Dean's always put Sam first and Sam can actually admit, now, that that's exactly what Stanford was about. Sure, Dean had tried to explain it to him four years ago, but he never wanted to believe it.

This could be Sam's turn to prove himself, that as much as Dean has sacrificed to protect him, he can do the same for his brother. Sam's thoughts circle around that idea the rest of the way to Sioux Falls.

The snow has stopped by the time Sam turns off I-90 onto I-29, racing south towards Bobby's. He blows past semis, foot falling heavier on the gas pedal the closer he gets, and the rear of the Impala fishtails wildly as he takes some of the curves too quickly. He knows he's going to beat Ellen and Jo, that whatever ritual or spell Bobby found can't be performed for hours yet, but he just needs to get there.

The salvage yard is lit up bright enough Sam can see it from a mile or so out, clean white of the flood lights mounted on tall wooden poles around the various outbuildings and the rows of cars reflecting off the low clouds that hang heavy over the countryside. The Impala skids on the loose snow that's completely buried the county road Bobby lives on and Sam's forced to decrease his speed just a bit to avoid sending his brother's beloved car into a ditch. The snow is even deeper in some of the more open places, Bobby's drive included, and it bogs the car down further until he's creeping up alongside the house and stopping around back.

Out past the collection of cars in various states of repair, beyond the main garage, Sam can see a heavy-duty truck working to clear the snow from the yard. He makes his way over, slogging through shin-deep snow and drifts up past his knees, hanging back at the edge of the clearing with his hands shoved into his pockets. The truck makes a few more passes before it rumbles over, diesel engine chugging as it stops next to him. Bobby climbs out of the cab looking tired and ragged, shadows beneath his eyes and windburn across his cheeks. "Hey, Sam," he greets with a grim smile. "Ellen's still about an hour out. Making better time than I figured, now that the snow clearing up."

"Good. That's great. What do you need me to do?" There's a nervous energy buzzing under Sam's skin like heat lightning and he's itching to get started.

"I've got the ritual and the sigil. You should probably get acquainted with it as you'll be the one doing the summoning." Bobby leaves the truck running as he leads Sam back towards the house. The kitchen smells of burnt coffee when they enter. "Why don't you start a fresh pot and I'll go get what we're going to need."

Sam feels himself calm a little once his hands have something to do. It's best to stay busy until Ellen and Jo arrive because, if he doesn't, he might just go crazy from the waiting. A six hour drive across a good portion of the Midwest left him with nothing to think about except how Dean's missing, most likely abducted by a demon king that's got designs of recruiting Sam for his war. If Sam dwells on it too long, he can feel his panic rising and fears he won't be able to keep himself together long enough to get Dean back.

Bobby returns as Sam's pouring the water into the coffeemaker, the machine burbling as the reservoir fills. Sam's reassured by the many things that Bobby's set atop the table. A few sheets of paper; some kind of feathery-leafed, off-white plant; a large piece of chalk; six white pillar candles; a box of matches; a bowl; and a pocketknife. Bobby taps at the sheets of paper. "It's Latin, so it shouldn't be too difficult for you. A lot of the ritual is pretty particular so I've gotta finish with what I was doing outside. Give me a holler or track me down when the coffee's ready, would ya?"

"Sure thing," Sam tells him, picking up the outline of the ritual and giving the details a quick once-over. "If you need any help-"

"Yeah, yeah," Bobby grumbles before disappearing back outside.

Sam settles himself at the table, reads through the list of items necessary for the 'conjuration,' as the ritual calls it. All he can see that's missing is the Oil of Abramelin, some incense, and a few herbs. And sand. The sigil must be drawn in chalk, which will prove quite difficult in the frozen field out back, but Sam figures that's part of the particulars Bobby's working on.

The sigil is simple enough, two X's side-by-side, interior legs meeting to form a diamond between them, a line that bisects them horizontally, circles at either end of that line and at the ends of the exterior legs of the X's for a total of six. The candles go inside the circles, the bowl with the sand, various herbs, and oil should be placed in the bottom tip of the diamond, in front of which Sam will kneel. Once the candles are lit, Sam will begin the summoning with an incantation, which, as Bobby said, doesn't look too difficult. As he focuses on the sigil before him and the words he's speaking, he'll cut open his palm and bleed into the bowl. The last thing is more fire – a match into the bowl – which seems fitting for the demon that killed his mother.

Okay. He can do this, piece of cake. All he needs is for Ellen to get here. He glances at the wall clock – still a half hour before she arrives, according to Bobby's estimation.

The scent of the freshly brewing coffee hits him hard, makes him realize that he hasn't eaten all day, the coffee Bobby had handed him this morning the last thing he'd consumed. He rummages through the cabinets and the fridge until he finds a half loaf of bread and a jar of peanut butter. He nixes the lunch meat he finds on a shelf in the fridge because it looks slightly questionable, even for roast beef. So he slaps together a couple of sandwiches, wolfing the first one down and taking his time with the second.

With the coffee pot nearly full, Sam heads back outside, finds Bobby at the nearer edge of the clearing situating a large sheet of oil-stained plywood on the ground. "Hey," Sam calls out as he gets closer. "Coffee's ready."

Bobby stands slowly, movements stuttering slightly as he draws up to his full height. "Not a word," Bobby says, eyes narrowed, heading off any 'old man' comment Sam can make before the words can even come out of his mouth.

The corner of Sam's mouth hitches in a half-smile, the first one all day, and he can't wait to have this night behind him, to have Dean back.

Once Ellen and Jo arrive, both looking as tired as Bobby and as anxious as Sam feels, things move quickly. They work together to mark out a large devil's trap across the frozen earth with temperamental cans of spray paint, then it's time to get down to business. Ellen and Jo retreat to the well-warded house while Bobby disappears somewhere into one of the outbuildings that line his property.

Sam draws the sigil carefully, places the candles and the bowl, adds herbs and oil to the sand before striking a match to light the candles. He clears his mind of everything but the image of the sigil before him and of his true intent. As he recites the words of the incantation, he lifts Dean's pocketknife he recovered back in New Orleans just a short time ago. With his thumb he flicks out the blade, draws it across his palm, squeezes his hand into a fist over the bowl, and watches his blood trickle, then run into the mixture. He lights another match and drops it into the small pool of blood that's gathered atop the sand and herbs.

The contents of the bowl spark and smoke, wind picking up around him as thunder rumbles overhead. Lightning webs across the sky with a crackle and the lights around the yard and in the house flicker.

Another crack of sound and light and the demon is standing before Sam in the middle of the devil's trap, Dean in his arms.

Azazel's grin is eerie, offset by his bright yellow eyes that flare in the dark. "How very curious," he comments to Sam as he holds Dean in close with an elbow around his throat. "Looks like big brother took all your scary dreams away and short-circuited on the power. I'm honestly surprised he's not a drooling, gibbering mess. But you Winchester boys are made of hearty stock. It's why I chose you, Sammy. Why I was rooting for you. And your bleeding-heart brother had to go and screw it all up." He gives Dean a vicious shake. "Didn't you?" Trapped inside the pentacle from the Key of Solomon, he doesn't have anything but the physical strength of his vessel to use, but that's more than enough to hurt Dean. "I can give you your power back, Sam. It'll be so easy." He reaches his other hand up and splays it across the side of Dean's face. "Just one little snap and we can put your brother out of his misery and make you the man you're supposed to be. What d'ya say, Sammy? Should we end Dean's suffering?"

"No!" Sam interrupts as Azazel adjusts his hand for a better grip. Dean's eyes are wide, shock verging on fear, and his chest is heaving with his short, shallow breaths. Sam can feel his panic like a tangible thing. "If you kill him, I swear I'll end you."

Azazel throws his head back and laughs, an open, disturbingly joyful sound. "You and what army?" It's a joke, Sam knows. If Azazel gets what he wants, Sam will be nothing more than a half-breed pawn of hell to lead a legion of demons.

"I don't need an army. Just a very special gun."

"Oh ho," Azazel mocks, jaundiced eyes lighting up even brighter. "You got your hands on Samuel Colt's gun? I thought that was just a tale hunters passed down the generations like their very own mythical Holy Grail."

"It's not a myth. Let Dean go now or you'll find out firsthand just what it can do."

"Promises, promises," the demon grins.

It happens so fast. Sam's always thought life-changing moments slowed time down, but that's clearly not the case because between one heartbeat and the next-

Sam watches from just outside the circle, a safe distance from the demon that puts him too far away to do anything. Azazel's fingers grip the curve of Dean's jaw and pull – the crack is loud as a gunshot and-

Both bodies are going down and Sam can't keep himself from running over to Dean's crumpled form, breaking the circle. But- "Oh, God," Sam breathes. Dean shifts, moving weakly as the demon's vessel is seizing on the ground, lit up with orange fire from the inside.

"You idjits okay?" Bobby asks, lowering the Colt as he steps out from the rusting side of the small shed Sam thinks houses a multitude of spare headlights and taillights and other, random, indicator lights.

Sam's still clutching at Dean when the older man approaches. "I think so. He's alive, breathing. But he's not waking up." Panic rises once more in Sam's chest, warring with his adrenalin from facing off against the demon, and it all makes him dizzy and weak-kneed.

"Boy's a Winchester. He'll be just fine," Bobby says, not nearly as convincing as Sam wishes he were. "That was an astoundingly stupid plan," Bobby tells Sam, handing the Colt over and stooping down to get a hand beneath Dean's shoulder. "Barely even half-assed and you had no idea if the gun would even work on a demon strong as Azazel."

Sam is thankful for the normalcy of the admonishing, tries to let it calm him as he stashes the Colt in the back of his jeans and leans down to help Bobby hoist Dean upright. "I didn't have anything else left to lose."

"Yeah, well, you boys are damn lucky," Bobby grumbles as they turn and make their way over to the house.

Ellen and Jo are standing inside the kitchen door as they approach, moving out of the way so they can get Dean inside. "You're all alive so it must've gone okay," Ellen says with a weak smile, gaze soft and worried on Dean's face.

"Better than I expected," Sam admits.

"The demon?"

"Dead."

"So the gun worked?" Jo asks as she and her mother trail them through the house and pause at the foot of the stairs.

"Surprisingly well," Bobby says, relinquishing Dean's weight to Sam because there's not enough room for three to pass and it's clear Bobby's too tired to carry him much further.

"I'm gonna put him to bed," Sam says, feeling kind of foolish through his slight hysteria for the way he's talking about his unconscious brother ,who's just been kidnapped by a demon that tried to kill him, like he's a sleepy child. He lifts Dean over his shoulder in a fireman's carry and takes Dean upstairs, nudges open the door to the room he'd slept in just the day before, and gently settles Dean across the bed nearest the door. After working Dean out of his jacket and boots, Sam sits at the edge of the mattress for countless minutes, mentally urging Dean to wake up. But Dean remains motionless save for the shallow rise and fall of his chest as he breathes slow and even.

Bobby, Ellen, and Jo are sitting around the table in the kitchen with mugs of coffee and a bottle of whiskey when Sam gets downstairs. He lowers himself into the empty chair, releasing a deep, relieved breath, as he pulls the Colt out of the back of his waistband and sets it on the scarred surface of the table.

Ellen reaches for the revolver, fingers tracing over the metalwork on the barrel. "Maybe you should let Ash look at this, see if he can find out what makes it tick."

Sam wraps his hands around his warm mug of coffee and glances up at Ellen. "Sure. There's less than half a dozen bullets left – it'd be nice to have a weapon that can kill anything and an unlimited supply of ammunition."

"What're you expecting to take on?" Jo asks, nudging the bottle of whiskey across the table towards Sam.

Ellen's the one to answer that question as Sam uncaps the bottle and pours a healthy amount into his mug. "There'll be more demons where that one came from," she says, nodding her head towards the back door. "They won't stop coming."

Sam knows Ellen's right but, right now, all he really cares about is that Dean is upstairs, alive and safe.

PART FIVE - DEAN

He slowly wakes, afraid to open his eyes and make the throbbing deep in his head between his ears even worse. So he lays in the bed, curled up on himself, and breathes in counted measures until the edge of pain softens to something that doesn't make him feel as though his head is going to explode. He takes a chance, cracks an eye open. The room he's in is dim, sunlight bleeding around the edges of the curtains over the window providing enough illumination to make out the other bed between himself and the windows, the low dresser in the corner next to a desk. It doesn't feel unfamiliar but, even so, he doesn't really recognize anything, either.

As he stretches out on his back, feeling his vertebrae pop, his stomach rumbles and he realizes that he's starving. He can't remember the last time he ate.

He can't remember anything, for that matter.

There's nothing in the room in the way of pictures, nothing that makes him believe he lives here. As he glances about, he notices that he's still mostly dressed, save for shoes. He can feel something in the back pocket of his jeans, but it doesn't feel like a wallet. It's a small notepad. The first sheet begins, Ellen gave me this notepad to keep track of all my duties here at the Roadhouse.

He tries to think, Ellen, Roadhouse, but nothing comes to mind.

His stomach gurgles discontentedly again and he takes a deep breath, throws his legs over the side of the bed and stands slowly. His head swims slightly as he rises but it's not enough to make him feel like he's going to fall down or throw up, so he starts for the door. It's not closed tight, hinges squeaking slightly as it swings open, and he can hear muted voices coming from somewhere else in the house. The floorboards creak as he enters the hallway. There's a staircase at the far end and, as he moves towards it, the voices get louder.

The stairs protest even louder than the floorboards in the hall and the conversation below stops, followed by heavy footsteps, then a tall man with long, unkempt hair and the beginnings of a beard is standing at the foot of the stairs, eyes wide as he looks up. "Dean?" he asks, taking an aborted step closer, hand lifting towards the railing and falling back to his side.

Dean, he thinks, rolling the name around in his head, feeling its familiarity, its rightness. He nods.

The man at the bottom of the stairs takes a breath, small smile forming on his face. "You hungry, man?"

Dean nods again.

"Come on. Bobby went grocery shopping this morning so nothing in the fridge has started to grow fur yet." He moves away, back down the way he came from.

Dean follows, keeps a few feet of distance between them. "Who are you?" Dean asks as they enter the kitchen. There's an older man sitting at the table by the wall with a white and blue mug and a newspaper in front of him.

The younger man turns, shares a glance with the older man before he lets out a heavy sigh. "I'm Sam. That's Bobby. I'm your brother."

It doesn't feel like a lie so Dean accepts it. For now. "Where are we?"

"You're in my house," the older man – Bobby – says, "in South Dakota."

"How did I get here?"

"It's a... long story," Sam says. "Why don't you eat first, then I can tell you all about it."

They don't seem at all put out or concerned by his questions and Dean doesn't really feel like he's in a position to argue, so he just nods and stands in the kitchen doorway as Sam moves around the room, putting food together. "You can sit down, boy," Bobby says over the rim of his mug before taking a long drink.

Dean takes a seat in the chair across from Bobby as Sam sets a plate with a sandwich and a handful of potato chips in front of him. "You want a beer?" he asks.

The clock on the wall says it's just after four and Dean guesses that's in the afternoon, so he nods. Sam returns to the table with two bottles and a plate of his own. He twists off the caps and hands a bottle over to Dean. "Thanks," Dean says, accepting the beer and taking a sip. He starts on his sandwich, feels Sam and Bobby's stares as he works his way through his meal.

A phone rings and draws the attention away from Dean. Bobby digs a cell phone out of the chest pocket of his flannel shirt. "Ellen," he tells Sam, pushing back in his chair and leaving the room.

"Ellen," Dean repeats, wondering if it's the same Ellen in the notepad in his pocket.

"Do you remember Ellen?" Sam asks, setting the second half of his sandwich back onto his plate.

"Uh, no. Her name was in here." Dean shifts enough to retrieve the notepad from his jeans and sets it on the table.

Sam picks it up, thumbs through it, stopping to read whatever catches his eye. "I've got something that'll be more helpful than this," he says.

Dean doesn't know what Sam means by that, doesn't get the chance to ask before Bobby's coming back into the kitchen. "They just turned off of 29," Bobby informs them, then he's disappearing out the back door.

'They' turns out to be two women, one older, one younger, in a truck hauling a decades-old silver trailer. The women climb down from the cab, eying Dean in a way that makes him feel like a zoo animal. "How're you feeling?" the older woman asks with a low, raspy voice and concern in her eyes.

"Fine," Dean tells her, glancing up at Sam for a little assistance.

Sam seems to get what he's silently asking for because he jumps in, "This is Ellen and her daughter Jo. You stayed with them for a while. Worked at the Roadhouse. That's what your notepad was for."

Dean nods. "What's that?" He gestures towards the trailer.

"It's yours," Ellen tells him. "It's where you lived while you stayed with us. It might help with the... memory thing."

"I'll go park it around back," Bobby says. "You all go ahead and go inside."

Sam settles a hand on Dean's shoulder, guides him back towards the door, and Dean allows it. The weight and heat of Sam's hand is comforting and he finds himself missing the touch when Sam moves away once they're back inside. "I've got something for you, too," Sam says, crossing the kitchen and starting down the hall.

Dean follows, pauses in the doorway of a large room bearing a desk, a couch, a couple of chairs, and more books than he'd care to count. Sam is over by the couch in front of the large window, shoving notebooks into a ratty backpack. Dean enters the room but hangs back. "What's that?"

"They're yours. Journals. You've been keeping them for years. Maybe they can help you remember." Sam hands over the bag, expression hopeful.

"Thanks." He offers Sam the most confident smile he can muster and heads back to the kitchen.

Dean spends the rest of the afternoon and well into the night in the tiny bedroom at the back of the trailer going through the stack of notebooks that hold the events of his life from the past decade or so, some things striking familiar, but nothing more so than the account of a recurring dream he's had more than a dozen times since the previous spring. He'd taken a break from the daily journals when he came across the smaller collection of notebooks marked 'dream journal,' followed by a number, in a duffel bag he found in the closet.

Just reading the words sends shivers across his skin and, if he closes his eyes, he can almost see it in his head. It's a sketch across from him on the wall that really sets his growing arousal off. The eyes of the portrait are the most familiar thing he's seen yet, more familiar than his name, even. He shuffles towards the foot of the bed and recognizes the drawing: it's Sam. His brother Sam.

Nothing he's read has really mentioned Sam, a few entries throughout the first few journals that detail hunts for supernatural beasts that would read more like fiction if it weren't for the way some part of his subconscious tells him it's all real, and the downtime between jobs spent with his brother up until Sam left for college. Well, up until Dean more or less sent Sam off to college. It seems like Sam was against it, but Dean didn't want Sam to end up like him, wanted Sam to have a real life and some kind of chance at normal that Dean, himself, would never have. Their job is dangerous and Dean's afraid that something could happen to Sam and Dean wouldn't be able to live with himself if his brother got seriously hurt or worse. He's let Sam down enough growing up and this is the only way he knows how to keep him safe. He will always do whatever it takes.

But what he feels reading and rereading the entry about the dream... It's not the love one brother should have for another. It's something else. All-consuming and intense, it's like desire and lust and pain and love all combined into something so strong it takes Dean's breath away when he replaces the blank face of the man in the dream with Sam's.

He wonders if Sam still feels the same way after all these years, or if he thinks it was a mistake. Dean's chest aches at the thought, makes him feel empty and hollow for reasons he can't really explain.

He has to set aside the dream journal and reaches for the other notebook that was on his nightstand. It's his most recent daily journal. It starts with an incoherent entry from April, around the time he first had the dream. Dean flips through the pages, eyes scanning entries about days spent driving; random, easy hunts; arriving at Bobby's and trying to figure out what's wrong with him; getting sent to Ellen's, and, later, Sam's arrival. The initial mention of Sam is brief as though Dean hadn't wanted to write about him, but it's a pretty important thing to leave out.

The second mention of Sam, though, the day after, sheds a bit more light on their unique relationship. Sam was leaving, but he promised he'd be back soon. Then he'd kissed Dean goodbye.

Dean's not sure what day it is now, but it doesn't feel like it was that long ago.

He's still sitting in bed, propped up against his headboard, staring at the sketch of Sam on the wall, when there's a knock on the trailer door. The alarm clock on his bed is no help telling him what time it is, LED numbers flashing 6:32. And the watch on his wrist is just as helpful, battery having died at some point, hands pointing to 4:56. It's dark outside, but it's winter and it has been for the past however many hours since Dean locked himself away in here.

Dean climbs off the mattress and moves down the hall to the front door. Sam's standing outside when he pulls it open. "Hey."

Sam turns, wide smile on his face despite his shadowed, heavy-lidded eyes. "Hi. Brought you coffee. Figured since Bobby didn't hook up the water... you might need some."

Dean steps aside to let Sam enter. "Yeah. Thanks." He takes the thermos Sam holds out to him, moves into the kitchenette for a mug. "Do you want some?"

"No, thanks." He stands in the middle of the living room with his hands in the pockets of his jeans, watching Dean pour himself some coffee. "How's it going?"

The corner of Dean's mouth lifts in a smirk. "It's going pretty good."

"Yeah? Anything coming back?"

Dean shrugs, starts back down the hall towards his room. "Some things, I think."

"That's good."

It's almost too much, the two of them in Dean's tiny bedroom together. "I'm sorry, you know," Dean says, dropping to sit on the edge of the mattress.

"For what?" Sam asks, confused, leaning against the short span of wall between the doorway and the closet.

"For making you leave. I feel like... From what I've read, anyway, it seems like none of his would've happened if I'd let you stay."

"It's not your fault, Dean," Sam says quietly, moving into the room. "And it doesn't matter now." He picks up the bag of notebooks and moves it to the floor so he can sit beside Dean, then reaches into his pocket. The necklace he pulls out is unlike anything that Dean's ever seen and, at the same time, he knows it belongs to him. "Here." Sam slips the leather cord over Dean's head, lets the weight of the bronze pendant settle it around his neck.

Dean lifts the pendant, studies the horned mask, wondering if it's for protection or if it has any real purpose.

"I gave that to you years ago when we were kids," Sam tells him. "You used it to perform a spell a couple years later. It's why you started losing your memory."

"The nightmares?" Dean asks. He'd read all about those. How Sam had had them, then Dean did something to make them go away, take them for himself. He never wrote down what it was, specifically, that he did, just that it was to protect Sam.

"Yeah. Turns out they weren't just nightmares, though. Yesterday, while you were out, I got curious, started looking things up online. What we thought were just nightmares were actually premonitions. Everything we dreamed happened."

It takes a couple minutes for that to sink in. "You mean, all those people that died... We could've saved them?"

Sam shrugs and shakes his head, overgrown bangs falling across his face. "I don't know. Maybe. But it's not like we knew what was happening. Dad-" Sam's breath hitches before he continues, "Dad never told us. I mean, he didn't know, either, until later, but he still could've said something."

His brother sounds sad and angry, maybe disappointed. "Sam?"

"That's the other thing I need to tell you." He sits up straighter, squares his shoulders as he turns to face Dean. "Before I found you, Dad and I were on a hunt up in Colorado. I made a mistake and he... he died."

The memory hits Dean with all the force of a tidal wave, drowning him with fear and cold, the smell of woods and snow. "I- I saw that," he says, reaching for the journal that sits open by his pillow, flipping back a few pages to the entry about the wendigo – the vision he'd had in the middle of the day while working at the Roadhouse. "I saw the whole thing." He hands the notebook over to Sam, watches him read it. "It wasn't your fault, Sam. It was an accident."

"I shouldn't have left him behind."

"You couldn't have known."

"But I should've." Sam scoffs, nose wrinkling in self-disgust, and tosses the notebook behind him onto the mattress.

"It wasn't your fault," Dean stresses again. From what he's read, he's well acquainted with the feeling that he's let everybody down. And he's certain there's not much Sam could've done to stop their father's death. He gently sets his hand on Sam's knee, resolved to change the subject and draw his brother's mind away from the things they can't change. "Hey."

Sam glances up at him before his tired gaze returns to Dean's hand on his leg. "Yeah?"

"Why'd you kiss me?"

Sam's eyes snap back to Dean's face in an instant, search for something and softening when they find it. "Because I love you," Sam shrugs, like the answer is the most obvious thing in the world.

Who knows? Maybe it is.

Dean lifts his hand to Sam's face, unsteady fingers tracing over the stubble on his cheek before sliding back into his hair, curling around the back of his skull to pull him in for a kiss. He's determined to imprint the taste and the feel of Sam on his brain so he can never forget it again. "I remember you," he whispers against Sam's lips as they shift back onto the mattress, notebooks kicked to the floor. "I remember this."

"You always remembered me," he says, gaze momentarily drifting from Dean's face to the sketch of him on the wall, "you just didn't know it."

"Always been there," Dean agrees, threading his fingers through Sam's hair again to pull him down into another kiss.

"Are you sure, Dean? You sure you want to do this?" Sam stills above him, hovers inches away, the look on his face open honesty overlaying his weariness. He'll stop if Dean asks him to.

But Dean will do no such thing. "Yes," he says, without a second thought. Through everything, that dream of Sam was the only thing that ever stayed with him. He flips them over, pushes Sam down against the mattress, shoves at Sam's jacket and tosses it to the floor before reaching for the hem of Sam's shirt.

"Please," Sam begs, lifting his hips, letting Dean undo the fly and pull his jeans down his hips and over his thighs. The denim bunches at his boots and it's a struggle to get him out of tangle of worn fabric and leather. "Dean."

Dean doesn't remember stripping out of his clothes, doesn't know if Sam helped or if he did it on his own. He kneels between Sam's thighs and leans down to kiss him.

Sam lets it go on for a couple long moments before he's flipping them over again and shoving Dean's legs open. "God," he groans, trailing biting kisses down the side of Dean's throat and over his chest, pausing at one nipple to tease it into a hard, red peak before moving over to the other and continuing his journey south, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses to the insides of Dean's thighs. Then, without any warning, he's swallowing down Dean's achingly-hard length.

"Jesus Christ," Dean curses, throwing his head back onto his pillow and trying his damnedest to not thrust up into Sam's mouth.

Sam sucks at Dean's cock until he's hard and leaking, slides up his body to take his mouth in a rough kiss. His own dick is a hard, hot line against Dean's when he slots their hips together and starts moving. "I love you," he whispers against Dean's mouth and Dean knows – he knows - believes it deep inside his marrow.

"Wait, wait," Dean pleads, hands gripping Sam's hips to stop him because he doesn't want to come like this. "Want you inside me."

Above him, Sam's whole body shudders as he lets out a harsh breath against Dean's neck. "Do you- do you have something? Lube?"

"I don't- don't know." He shifts beneath Sam and reaches for the drawer in the nightstand, but he comes up empty.

"Come on," Sam groans. "It's you. You've gotta have lube somewhere."

"I've got a couple of bags in the closet," Dean suggests.

Sam's off the bed and kneeling on the floor, digging through Dean's duffels in a second. He rocks back onto his heels, head falling back as he raises a fist. "Success," he says, climbing back to his feet and dropping back onto the mattress between Dean's spread legs. "It's pretty old, but it's barely used."

"Don't care," Dean tells him, splaying his thighs wider, dragging his palm up the underside of his dick. "Come on, Sammy."

When their eyes meet again, Sam's staring at him with such an intensity Dean shivers with it. "Yeah, Dean. I got you." He flicks open the cap and slicks up his fingers, circles the tips around Dean's hole, presses one in up to the first knuckle.

"Please," Dean begs, arching his back and trying to get Sam deeper.

"Gotta go slow. Don't wanna hurt you," Sam whispers against his throat, lips tickling.

"Hurry, hurry." He's impatient, can't wait, needs Sam now.

Two fingers don't become three fast enough, but Sam pacifies him with slow, passionate kisses. Then he's pulling away from Dean completely, reaching for the lube again and drizzling more into his palm. He strokes himself once, twice, leans back over Dean, braced on one arm while he guides himself between Dean's thighs with his other hand.

"I love you," Dean says abruptly, chest close to bursting with everything he's feeling in this moment, and he knows without a doubt it's the first time he's ever said the words to Sam. He doesn't want them blurted out, randomly, in the middle of sex, needs Sam to know that he means them.

The blunt head of Sam's cock presses against sensitive, furled skin, presses deeper and sinks in, tight ring of muscle clamped down around him as Dean tries to relax, tries to let him in. Sam's mouth falls open, plush bottom lip catching against the tip of Dean's chin. "I know," he pants, breathless. "I know."

Dean can feel every inch of Sam as his brother pushes into him, each ridge of pulsing vein under taut skin, the heat of the rigid muscle. He lifts his legs, wraps them around Sam's hips and holds him there for a long moment once Sam's buried inside him. "Just wanna feel you," he says.

Sam nods, kisses him wet and lazy, eyes half-open.

"Okay."

Sam takes his time at first, slow pull out, gentle push back in. He takes his time, makes each thrust count, driving their desire to dizzying until it's too much to bear. The movement of Sam's hips goes erratic as his pace increases, each meeting of their bodies forcing harsh gasps out of Dean and grunts out of Sam. "Oh, fuck," Sam breathes. "So close."

"Sam, Sam," Dean chants, curling his hand around himself as the head of Sam's cock relentlessly hits his prostate. "Oh. Oh." He shoots thick and sticky over his hand and stomach, a particularly strong pulse hitting Sam's stomach and that, combined with the fluttering of Dean's muscles around his cock, is enough to set Sam off, too.

Sam comes nearly as abruptly as Dean, cock pulsing deep inside of his brother as he hunches over, forehead on the pillow beside Dean, cheeks touching. He gingerly pulls out a moment later, collapsing onto his side, facing Dean, bodies touching, sweat-damp skin glistening in the lamplight. His eyes are closed and his breathing is slowly evening out.

Dean doesn't want to forget this. He reaches for the sketchbook on his nightstand and pushes Sam's sweaty hair away from his face. He fills one page, then another, with the soft lines of Sam's sleep-relaxed face before flipping to a third page and sketching a new portrait of Sam for his wall, one where Sam is smiling. Where he's happy. He sets the sketchbook aside and turns off the lamp, settles against Sam's chest, and wraps an arm around his waist. Holds onto Sam, holds onto this moment.

If he's completely honest, Dean's a little terrified of what waking up tomorrow will bring.

In the darkness he focuses on Sam's face in his mind. The same eyes that haunted him for months, wide smile bracketed by deep dimples, strong jaw, aristocratic nose. Sam's beautiful.

He thinks about getting up to lock the door and turn off the rest of the lights, but he doesn't want to move right now, if ever. Ellen and Bobby spent an hour putting up wards earlier, so they're safe from anything supernatural. It's not worth it to get up, he decides, pressing closer to Sam.

Sam stirs, blinks up at Dean, and smiles. "Hey," he whispers.

"Hey yourself," Dean says, moving impossibly closer, leaning in to kiss Sam softly on the lips.

Humming, he shifts one of his thick thighs between Dean's legs and lazily nips at Dean's bottom lip.

"Keep that up and I'll be ready to go again," Dean tells him, rocking gently against Sam's leg.

Sam just kisses him quiet and holds him tighter against his chest.

In the peaceful darkness, Dean prays to God he'll remember all of this in the morning.