Title: Recrudescence

Author: ghost4

Disclaimer: Not mine... and…so they're not mine.

Synopsis: What happened after everything didn't end. Starts as a missing scene from Swan Song and goes from there. H/C. Rating for Language.

Author's notes: Stick a fork in it, it's done. Done, finished, caput. I have no idea if I will post the whole damn thing tonight, or over the next couple of days…but I have to find the song lyrics, which will slow matters down. But, just so you know, it is done.

Thanks to Miki (Mikiya2200) again, for being my tester, my prod, my shoulder to lean on, and for just her general awesomeness. The betaing will be hit and miss for the rest of the fic, but if it's right, that's her. All mistakes belong to me.

Thanks for the reviews, and thanks for hanging in there. Hope you enjoy.

As always: any comments, good, bad or indifferent, are completely welcome.

When you're brought into this world/They say you're born in sin
Well at least they gave me something/I didn't have to steal or have to win
Well, they tell me that I'm wanted/Yeah, I'm a wanted man
I'm a Colt in your stable
I'm what Cain was to Abel
Mister catch-me-if-you-can
I'm going down in a blaze of glory
Take me now but know the truth
I'm going down in a blaze of glory
Lord I never drew first
But I drew first blood
I'm no one's son

~Bon Jovi – Blaze of Glory

Silence.

There hadn't been quiet in…in forever.

He indulged in it. Reveled in it. It was so quiet, so calm and still, both inside and out…

How could that be?

He slowly opened eyes that felt weighted.

A ceiling. Huh.

The air smelled of blood. And rot. And…dust.

It was the last that caught his attention. It was different. New.

He turned his head. Windows, backed by night. In walls. Walls. And he was laying on something hard…slowly he forced himself up, muscles screamed, torn flesh burned… but, though he felt it, it didn't register much past an awareness that it was happening. Because it was nothing, nothing, compared to….

There was a needle in his arm.

He blinked at it, trying to think…but it was hard. It was like his thoughts were bubbling up from molasses, thick and sticky and slow.

Needles and leads and wires.

Mindlessly, he pulled them free and tossed them aside.

Ignoring the throb from his body, the pain that bit all the way to his bones, he swung his legs off of whatever he'd been laying on. He had to get up. He had to. Being down felt wrong, felt venerable, felt…weak.

He pushed himself off. Standing was a head rush. Pain and dizziness bounced around inside his skull, colliding with one another. He swallowed hard. It just emphasized how…empty his skull was now. How blessedly quiet. How hollow. How lonely.

He was always alone.

The thought bubbled up, slick and warm and unwelcome. He ignored it.

It wasn't until the dizziness faded a bit that he realized he was leaning against a table. He'd been laying on a table. In a house.

Where the fuck was he?

Did it matter? At least it was quiet.

He closed his eyes, just…soaking in the hush. No wailing, no explosions, no empty, endless howling. No screams so long and so hard that throats popped. No piercing voices shrieking curses that made ears blee –

It wasn't completely quiet.

He stiffened, numb to the way his body shrieked at the demand.

Someone was talking. He couldn't make out words, didn't care enough to try. The tone was…soft, warm. Human.

And a new voice spoke…and for the first time the ice that held him numb cracked. This voice he knew. He knew it. And he knew this game. It was a horrible game. It was to keep him going, to show him what he scarified for, so that he wouldn't give up, because his hanging on made the other stronger. So he got to see, but never touch, never interact, never speak, just see…

He was a ghost who couldn't die.

And he should turn his back. He should. It only made the other stronger. But even knowing, he couldn't not respond. He had to go. Had to see.

He shuffled toward the door. Toward the voice. Toward the only heat he still felt.

Sam pushed away from the table and started to walk toward his brother.

"Eat."

Dean looked up at Bobby who was pushing a plastic tray of cold chicken and warm slaw at him. It looked…congealed. But Dean couldn't deny the growl in his stomach at the smell, and he slowly realized that it'd been almost a full day since he'd eaten anything.

He took the plate and nodded his thanks as the older man settled down next to him on the front porch stairs. Dean tucked into the food, chewing without tasting, just filling up. The ever deepening night was turning the shadows into velvet and ink around them. The first stars blinked overhead.

"How's he doing?" Dean asked.

"Sleeping," Bobby answered. Behind him, the open front door glowed gently with the lantern light from the kitchen. "Sleeping deep. Doc's dosed him with the good stuff. Seems to be working now that the angel's gone."

Dean grunted, breaking apart the dry biscuit and moping up the slaw dressing with it. They'd made him leave the kitchen soon after Castiel took off. He'd ignored Degarza's repeated comments about needing space, but Bobby's quiet reminder that he should sleep now – so that they'd be ready to move as soon as Sam could be moved – had been enough to shift him from Sam's side.

He'd bedded down on the floor of the living room, ready to face insomnia. After all, how the hell could he sleep in this house?

He'd been shocked when he woke about five hours later, the sun going down and his back aching and stiff. But then again, it had been as long since he slept as it had been since he'd eaten. And he'd slept without dreams for the first time in a long time. That had been both a surprise and a welcome relief. He'd felt… well, heavy and sore, but more rested than he had in months.

He'd taken the quiet, calm conversation from the kitchen to be a sign that nothing particularly had changed with Sam as he slept, and used the front door to shuffle outside – the house had no running water, after all.

Now he picked at the remainders of the food, Bobby a solid presence next to him in the dark. His brain felt gummy with sleep that had been too hard.

"Heard from Cas?" he asked finally. Though spoken conversationally, the words sounded harsh in the lazy night.

"No," Bobby answered. "I figured that no news was good news in this case."

Dean nodded. At least for awhile. They could only hope that Cas stayed ahead of Raphael and the others for now. They didn't have long before Cas would be caught. No matter how hard Cas ran, Raphael would be faster, stronger. Dean could only hope things went as planned once Castiel lost the race. "Any word on how soon Sam can be moved?"

"You'd have to ask the doc about that, but he seems to be impressed with how it's going so far."

"Impressed is not the word," Degarza said, walking up and leaning against the open door. "Amazed. Awestruck. Gob smacked. Disbelieving. Fucking petrified on occasion. These are all words that fit better."

"Petrified? Really?" Dean snorted a little.

The doctor shrugged. "It's a lot to take in."

"And you haven't seen half of it yet," Bobby groused.

"Bobby told me a little about you, what you do. And about your brother," Degraza said, and the chicken rolled in Dean's stomach.

"Oh, yeah?" He casually set aside the plastic dish.

"He said he was a good kid. Said that he helped people. That he was pretty amazing, really. Kind of a hero."

"He did?" Dean arched an amused eyebrow in Bobby's direction. The older man glared.

"Shut up."

"Getting sentimental in your old age, there, Bobby." In truth, Dean was touched. It was nice to know that Bobby spoke of Sam warmly.

"You, on the other hand, are a smart-assed punk."

The chuff of amusement was more because of Bobby's irritation than his words. "Better than being a grumpy old man." Dean stood and stretched, moving through the door back into the house. "So, Doc, you think…"

The words drifted off. Thought drifted off.

Sam was standing in the hall. Barefoot and bare-chested, his hair hanging in lank chunks, he stood in the hallway from the kitchen door, swaying slightly, his eyes drifting, unfocused.

Dean's heart clenched. "Sam?"

Half-aware eyes lifted to his. Heavy stitches tracked over his rapidly healing chest. Blood welled in the still open parts of the gash, running in little rivulets down his pale skin. Sam seemed no more aware of that, than of the wound itself. Confused eyes blinked. Focused. Frowned.

"Dean?"

The voice was more hiss and scratch than word, but it was the best thing Dean had ever heard. "Yeah. Yeah, Sam, it's me."

Sam's frown deepened. As did the sway. Slowly the words seemed to penetrate, and Sam almost flinched. He shook his head, and Dean watched his brother's already tenuous equilibrium dissolve.

Dean cursed, scrambling to get to Sam, grabbing his shoulders to keep him up, fearing the damaged he'd do to himself if he fell.

He got there in time. Dean balanced Sam against the wall, being careful to keep his hands as light as he could under the circumstances.

Sam blinked; and frowned; and, in a movement so sudden and so fast that Dean flinched automatically, he reached up and grabbed Dean's shoulder. Sam swallowed, staring at the place where his hand met Dean's shirt. And Dean could feel Sam's fingers where they pressed against him–cold, even through the fabric.

"Sammy?" Dean said, ducking his head a bit to catch Sam's gaze. "Sammy? You okay?"

Sam swallowed again. Slowly his eyes locked onto Dean's, wide and wet. His hand fisted in Dean's shirt.

"I'm here?"

The words were so hushed, so disbelieving, that Dean's throat burned. He knew what Sam meant. He'd been there himself, after a few bad dreams… not sure if he was in the one place or the other. "Yeah, Sammy, you're here. You are."

Sam blinked at him, rocking with his pulse. His heart was beating so hard in his chest Dean could feel it where his hands pressed into Sam's shoulders. Sam shivered staring at Dean with disbelieving eyes. Then shook his head.

"Not real," he muttered, the words so quiet Dean had to play them back later in his head to understand them.

Then, in a moment as quick and unexpected as his earlier grab, Sam swung his free hand, punching the wall as hard as he could.

Plaster broke. Not drywall, but plaster…and Dean could see blood on his fingers as Sam pulled back again…

"Sam! No!" Dean let go of his shoulders to grab his hand, to stop him. Sam's balance was bad enough that he pitched forward after loosing Dean's support. He stumbled into Dean, knees unhinging, and they both sank, Dean supporting as much of his weight as he could take.

They ended up sitting on the floor, Sam's face buried in Dean's shoulder, his hands clutching at his shirt. Dean held him as he shuddered silently.

"You're home," Dean soothed. "You're back. It's over. I've got you, and I'm not leaving. You're home, Sam; you're really home."