Wow. I've been gone for a long time. Things different got a little crazy after the death of my relative, my vacation and the approaching holidays. Then I got all of the Harry Potter books for my birthday and that was all she wrote. I haven't written much in a long time, but I'm getting back into it now that everything has calmed down. Thanks for being so patient! Let's pick up with this story where we left off! Can't wait for the new episode of Supernatural, even the stupid CW actually decides to show it this week.

Serenity - Part 1

Dean Winchester was wearing gray dress pants—not even douchey Dockers, but actual "I'm A Corporate Blow-Hard" dress pants and a white shirt with a collar. He'd drawn the line at the tie Lisa had suggested as she tried for the fifteenth time to convey to Dean how important this was to Ben, and how scared he was about the public speaking and the attention on him. Dean took it to heart, because Lisa wasn't one to force or cajole or push, but she had that morning. And he'd caught Ben practicing in the bathroom mirror, ears red from embarrassment.

This was insanely important.

So Dean wore the pants and the shirt, and even stuffed the tie in his pocket. He put on the cologne and the stupid gel and met Lisa and Ben outside the school. He held Lisa's hand and high-fived Ben's friends. He sat in the little tiny school chairs and ate the refreshments, clapped for the kids who went before him.

Then Ben fist-bumped him, and headed up to the front of the colorful class room, stepping to the microphone. Lisa got out her digital camera and took pictures, but Dean leaned forward, and listened intently.

Ben's voice was muffled as he curled his paper, head down. Dean cleared his throat pointedly and Ben's eyes snapped up. Dean held them for a loaded moment and winked in reassurance. The kid pulled in a deep breath, stood up straight and started over.

"'The Wild World' by Benjamin Braden," he said and continued to read with a confidence that hadn't been there before. "There is a wild world just beneath the surface of neighborhoods and baseball parks. A place that hasn't been discovered yet. His wise grandmother had told him about it. Denny dreamed about that place all the time: in school, during bus rides, but mostly at night. He wanted to unearth new things and embark on an adventure. One day, a dark stranger arrived at his house. He had wild eyes and a leather coat, and told stories of monsters and villains. He told Denny that he needed his help…"

As he listened to the story Ben had written—how Denny went on adventures with the stranger—he was captivated by how good it was. It didn't sound like something an eleven-year-old would write. It sounded like the tall tales he'd heard seasoned old hunters tell at funerals or something out of a book. Dean stood up to clap when the story ended, eyes a little wet and chest puffed out with pride, as Ben accepted his trophy for winning the sixth grade literary competition.

"That's my boy," Dean awed under the applause.

Life had settled into a pleasant purgatory of lull and frenzy.

Dean and Lisa worked. They travelled as a family—camping in Wisconsin, county fairs, the Blue and Gold Game at Notre Dame. Dean had beers and poker nights with the guys. Lisa and Dean had date nights, dinner at restaurants with cloth napkins and reservations and dessert carts. Dean kept himself busy, knowing the idle time would lead to depression or backtracking into the futile task of trying to free Sam, but he was also content in a life without constant danger and a front-row seat to never-ending tragedy.

Life was just painfully, wonderfully normal.

It was something Dean hadn't had since he was four years old. He'd always mocked civilians, because of their (blissful) ignorance or their lives that didn't involve constant travel, perpetual danger and self-applied stitches. Because he couldn't have it. Now that he did, he found that he enjoyed lazy Sundays with Lisa, reading sale papers in bed or going to brunch. He relished helping Ben learn how to throw a perfect spiral and picking him up from football. He loved the nuances of a family and a home. He thrived, freed from the impossible weight of saving lives.

Luckily for Ben, in the Braden household, things went both ways. While Dean learned how to cook real food and mingle at baby showers or dinner parties, he gave Lisa and Ben the world, sharing his wanderlust with weekend trips and vacations.

Ben giggled as the bounded out of the car and across the stretch of grassy green, pulling a little girl behind him. The family, along with Lisa's best friend, Charlotte, and her daughter, Aubrey, were traveling in the rustic beauty of Colorado. The spring air was clear and the mountains were majestic peaks in the distance. It was breathtaking, life-affirming.

Dean took a bunch of pictures with his digital camera, easily walking along the trails. Lisa, even deep in conversation, slipped her hand into his. Dean kissed her temple, feeling open enough to appreciate the moment. They pushed ahead, hiking up through verdant canopies of leaves and the cacophony warbling birds. The trail ended atop an impressive cliff that overlooked a glittering river.

"Is it weird?" Lisa asked, watching the kids collecting rocks along the trail and splashing in puddles. "Knowing that you saved all of this?"

Dean's heart stuttered over a few beats, and his mood dimmed like stormclouds stamping out the sun. "I don't…really think of it like that. It feels like a sacrifice, ya know? Other people get their world and never knowing…but I lost a huge part of mine."

Lisa squeezed his hand and hugged him awkwardly, her body against his. "I didn't…mean…"

"It's fine, Lis'. I'm fine," he insisted. "Let's wrangle the kids before they bring all of the state back with us."

She smiled softly and nodded. "I think Charlotte's finding a place for the picnic."

Dean nodded and shoved his hands in his pockets. He thought carefully, not letting them wonder off into the grief or the pain. It didn't cut as deeply, feel as sharp, but the blade was always there, always digging and scraping—finding new wounds and tugging at old scars. Sam's birthday was looming, and Dean wasn't sure how he'd handle that.

Ben and Aubrey—a beautiful girl with a thick fringe of eyelashes and dimples that reminded him of Sam's—were sorting their rocks. Aubrey lifted her hair as he approaching, curls tangling in the breezes.

"Deeean, Aubrey's scared to go to the edge."

Ben pointed to the cliff with a weathered fence lining the drop-off. Aubrey frowned mightily at him and dropped her hair. "I'm not!"

Dean knelt down, poking Aubrey's impressive pile of rocks. "You want me to take you? I won't get too close."

A little head bobbled up and down. He pivoted in the dirt, motioning the nine-year-old to get on his back. She weighed less than one of his heavier shotguns and bounced over towards the, spinning just to hear her laugh goldenly in his ear. He walked her up and down, weaving through the clutches of visitors, brushing the railing, but never leaning on it. It looked as sturdy as a house of cards, the wood cracked and rotted. "See, it's not scary. It's kind of awesome, huh?"

"Yeah, I like it from up here."

"Good." Her little hands clasped around Dean's neck.

Lisa had asked him once if he ever wanted kids of his own. Dean shook his head almost instantly. He thought, I've lost enough, and I'll be gone soon, but said, "Ben's an honorary Winchester. That's more than enough."

Sometimes, when a little girll was chattering behind him or when Ben pointed to him on the playground and told his friends, "That's my Deeean," or when Lisa's little niece flashed toothless gums at him as soon as she saw him, he knew he'd been lying.

"Thanks, Uncle Dean." Charlotte waved them over and Aubrey scrambled down, running in her pink pants and pink coat over to her mother.

"Ben, get the lead out," Dean called over his shoulder.

Dean ventured towards the blanket, thinking about those fried chicken sandwiches and potato salad when he heard the splintering of wood and a collective gasp. He heard the blood-curling scream and saw Lisa running. It didn't take more than a terrified second to figure out what happened.

There was no hesitation. Arms pumping, sprinting, Dean tore off his coat as he plowed through the horrified gawkers. "Move! Move! Out of the way!" He thundered.

People parted, gave way, as he ran.

His fight-or-flight was still honed, a year of downtime didn't trump thirty years of training. A skilled scan of the crowd produced Ben's abandoned backpack and a broken railing before increased his speed and launched himself off the edge of the cliff.

He careened towards downward, dodging the rocks by the narrowest berth while branches and roots whipped him in the face and arms. Wide eyes open to watch the fall—magnificent swirls of sapphire and ivory sunlight. His fought the urge to flail and scramble for purchase, battled the violent wind and G-forces to lock his body tight in preparation for the water. Impact was a bewildering shock of cold, a breaking pain, and loss of breath, but he didn't and couldn't care because Ben was in the water, scared and probably hurt. Dean swam hard through still frigid waters, searching. He dove beneath the undulating blue until his lungs burned and his heart intensified from lack of oxygen. When he surfaced, panting and choking, he heard strangled breaths and panicked flails. If he squinted, he could see a head of water-matted hair bobbing as it trying to stay above water, trying to fight the nasty current.

"BEN! Hang on, I'm coming!" He swam hard and fast, fingers snagging the collar of his coat just as Ben began to sink.

Dean inspected him quickly and found that while Ben was petrified, all gray skin and trembling limbs, he didn't seem to be obviously injured. Instinct powered him it, tearing off Ben's the jacket that weighed him down. He pressed Ben against his chest, securing Ben an arm around him in a grip that was stronger than iron. "Next time let me know if you wanna go swimmin'," Dean sputtered, hoping for a reaction.

He got nothing.

The wide river that had seemed to placid and calm mere minutes ago was anything but. It had propelled Ben so far out from the shore, and the world that had once been parking lots and enormous sequoias and car songs had shrunken to marbled gray, frigid water and blue sky.

"I got you, kid. C-can you talk to me?" Dean asked. He was tiring quickly, the burn of fatigue sparking through his muscles.

The toes of Ben's sneakers bobbed in the water. He twitched, a little hand coming up to hook around the arm that held him. "I…f-fell, I think. I wanted to see…"

The monster of the current wrenched harder against him, and threatened to separate them with watery fingers. "The railing broke, Ben, it wasn't your fault. Does anything hurt?"

"I…c-can't tell. Cold."

"We're almost there." Dean lied. They had a long way to go. "Put those soccer skills to good use. Kick for me, dude."

By the time they reached shallow waters and rocky shore, Dean was utterly depleted. His body felt thick and heavy, like he was made out of molasses and bricks instead of muscle and bone. He heaved Ben towards the riverbank and crawled up after, pointed rocks dug into his palms, the consequent pain revived him a bit. As soon as he was clear, Dean collapsed on his side. His chest heaved as he sucked in harsh, wet breaths. He coughed in an attempt to clear to throat. He felt his diaphragm spasm and soon he throwing up silty water.

He hadn't been here, in that feral place, where he operated off base instinct just to survive. He'd worked doggedly for nearly a year to put himself back together. It had been arduous and painful and the biggest damn challenge of his life. Now, he back there again, in a body that rattled when he breathed, wouldn't obey him not even with adrenaline glinting through his veins.

He was falling apart. The stitches that held him together were popping and tearing, and devastation seeped through.

The last time he was here, Sam fell.

"Deeean," Ben's voice was feather-light and echoing. The hand on his face was stirringly warm. "Are you okay?"

He lifted his dripping head to Ben's face, which held a wry smirk that he'd stolen from Dean.

"That was fun. Can we do it again?" The sarcasm was palpable.

"Smart ass." Dean peeled himself off the riverbank and inspected the kid. He carefully patted down his arms and legs, along his ribs. "Any of this hurt?"

"No…'m just c-ccold," Ben chattered.

It was enough to stave off a hellish attack of post-apocalyptic stress. Dean willed himself to his feet. "Let's go find your mom, and get yelled at." He stumbled forward, leaning on Ben more than he should have.

"Thanks for saving me, Deeean."

"Yeah, kid, ditto."

There was an ambulance ride that Ben enjoyed. Hospital tests he definitely did not. Dean handled it all—the warming blankets, the tubes and monitors, the antibiotics, the broken ribs and the fever—in stride. Lisa stayed with Ben, a decision made with a mere flicker of the eyes.

He slept shivering under thick blankets and dreamed that Sam was there. He heard his voice, huskier than normal, but distinctly Sam. He felt him scratching the inside of his forearm like he always did when he was hurt and a bit out of his head. It was more than vivid than the dreams he'd had in the past months without him.

Sam was tangible.

"Sammy?" Dean jerked awake, sweating and bruised. He blinked at the darkness of the room, checking the shadows. "Sammy?" He hoped. He prayed. He willed his brother there.

Quiet answered him, empty and lonely. Dean's head flopped back against the pillow, ribs aching and chest tight like the Impala was parked on his sternum. He settled into the discomfort that came with IVs and oxygen in his nose and a freakin' catheter, and a pesky dive off a forty-foot cliff. But as he relaxed, he noticed that the skin of his forearm was hot. Mightily, Dean pulled up his arm, squinting in the dark. He clearly saw four long groves painted in irritated red.

"Sam, please."

Lisa somehow materialized at his side, and Dean had the feeling he'd lost time. She fed him ice chips and kissed his forehead. "Dean, it's okay. You've got a fever, and the painkillers are pretty strong. You're just a little out of it. We're still in Colorado, remember?"

Pain was stronger than he was, winning and overwhelming. Something wasn't right. It all felt off. "Were you here the whole time?"

"No, babe, I've been with Ben most of the night, but the nurses were worried about you. I've been going back and forth."

Dean licked his lips, wanting the yank the damned oxygen out of his nose. "How's the kid?"

Lisa's eyes sparkled in the half-light. "His lungs sound good, but he's going to be a walking bruise for while. I think he's excited about that, though."

He laughed stiffly, lids fluttering. "He'll prolly run to show that stupid Parker kid the second we get home."

"Yeah, probably. Rest, Dean…okay? Things will be clearer when you wake up. You'll still be the guy who saved my son when you wake up." Lisa said, lips warm against his temple.

Dean closed his eyes as she raked her fingers through his head, and tried to convince himself it was all in his head.

-S-

Peace didn't find Dean until two days later when the potent hospital drugs were out of his system and he was in bundled in a hotel room bed with Ben sleeping beside him, Lisa buttressing him in. Lisa's fingers were limply threaded to his, arms stretched over the top of the pillow.

Ben was a trooper, bruised from hip to neck and happy to show everyone the smears of crimson and violet. He was snoring now, and when Dean looked at the lax features, he could see the man he was growing into, the son he he'd become.

Now, he was accepting of it, accepting that Sam was cursed to The Cage for eternity, accepting that he wasn't, accepting that he liked picnics and school plays and baby showers and barbecues.

Dean Winchester had to go back to his past—to the life of a warrior—to realize what he had.

Because life went on.