Author:Mirrordance

Title: Home Road

Summary:The brothers were so different sometimes.Dean after Sam died was lethal silence and a sense of suicide-Let the world end.Leave me alone.That loudly unspoken I wish I was dead.Sam was different.He had murder in his eyes.Post-3.16 and Sam finds a way.

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Home Road

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8

" " "

Hell

" " "

The Watcher's lair was a cross between a hole and a cave, warmly lit by candles (where the hell did he get them), almost homey, the space lined by wall after wall of knickknacks. The main hall at the mouth of the cave was surrounded by by-ways and corridors stretching and turning out to a seeming infinity, also lined by a miscellany of things, like a labyrinth full of people's weird crap. The man himself was surprisingly civil-looking in a misplaced, slightly grimy, dated day-suit. He even had glasses and crooked teeth. Dean thought he looked like a cartoon character, living in a cartoon cave.

"Ruby," the Watcher had greeted the ex-witch, as he led them inside.

"Been here before, I guess?" Dean murmured.

"A few times," she admitted in a low voice, before introducing Dean to the Watcher, surprisingly by his real name. Dean's brows rose in surprise, and the Watcher caught his expression.

"If there are things you want to know," the Watcher told him, "And the situation is a give-and-take, it's the first thing you have to give, isn't it? The truth?"

"Honesty's overrated," Dean said, with a crooked smile.

The Watcher looked at Ruby expectantly, to introduce Bela. She stood her ground and didn't, making Dean roll back his eyes. Yeah, a couple miles with two evil bitches was not fun.

"Bela Talbot," Bela introduced herself.

"Fresh meat," the Watcher said, "With a seasoned guide. One of the most seasoned, if I may say so. If Ruby takes you into her fold, I am intrigued."

"Intrigued enough to answer a few questions?" Dean asked.

The Watcher shrugged, as he walked around Dean, his thick glasses making his eyes look caricature-like as he devoured the sight of him.

"She must have told you there's always a price," the Watcher murmured.

"Want one of my frills?" Dean joked, a little nervously, referring to the two women beside him. The Watcher ignored the quip, and then raised up his hand, gently tapping at the slight bulk of the amulet beneath Dean's shirt.

"This one," he said, in a breathless, triumphant whisper, "I will answer all of your questions, if you give me this."

" " "

Indiana

" " "

Sam stood before his brother's failing body with a scowl that was becoming to get tattooed on his face. He had aged, Missouri reflected, not a doubt in her mind. Aged down to ancient. Anger and frustration and increasing desperation radiated from him in powerful waves, engulfing the room. He scowled at Dean, and though she knew he knew she had entered the room, he did not bother looking up.

There was a battle raging within the boy, always has been. When he was younger, it was between the life he had and the life he wanted. Family or self. Desire or responsibility. Lately it's holding on or letting go. Of Dean. Of himself. Of his perceived destiny. Good or evil... He was gonna tear himself right down the middle.

Missouri watched him for a long moment, waiting to be acknowledged. He blinked a few times, sighed, and when he closed his eyes and shook his head, it was like he brought himself back to being someone more earnest, and more familiar to her.

"He, uh," Sam hesitated, "He doesn't believe in God."

She frowned at him in thought, stepped forward to stand beside him. His palm was over his brother's, as if willing him strength.

"You know what that means?" he asked, turning to face her, "He's down there, thinking nothing's gonna save him. Nothing but me. Even after he said not to, he'll think it, I know he will."

"Do you believe in God?" she asked him.

He shrugged. It was the equivalent of Sometimes, or I want to, or possibly even I used to.

"Why should I?" Sam asked, quietly, "Is heaven or hell just geography? I mean, a gate opens and you're out, right, good or bad deeds be damned? Is it just a place you get stuck in? I know for sure even good people end up down there. And if good people get stuck in hell, and bad people can still walk the Earth - god knows people are a lot like demons sometimes - is good and evil just politics? Whoever wins sets the definitions? 'Cos if that's all this is, I don't know what the hell we all are doing here. Trying to save people, trying to get rid of bad things... What's the use? But I don't know what I'm talking about. All this is bullshit. And now my brother's d-missing."

"Bobby told me," Missouri said, "About his escape."

"Escape," Sam scoffed, "That's a nice way of putting it. Only Dean would escape to hell. He can be such an ass."

"Sam," Missouri said, "I don't know why bad things happen to good people, or the converse. You were a law student, you must know the philosophical problem of evil... one of the greatest arguments against the existence of a god, is the presence of evil, right? I don't know if there's a God. I don't even know what I believe. But it seems to me, that anytime there's something bad out there, there's something good that fights it. Every spell, every curse, every monster, every demon. Black and white. Anytime something rough happened to you, your brother was there, wasn't he? Now he's down there but he's still got you. And you've got all of us. It's all about hope. If you want to stretch it a little bit, call it faith. Maybe we're wrong and all of this is for nothing. But the payoff, if we're right, will be brilliant and blinding, and between those two things... the sensible gamble should be obvious for a smart guy like you."

"But where do I go now," Sam asked, "What do I do? I might have a chance at saving him by opening the gate, but that would let everyone else out. Besides, to begin with, the Colt - which is the only key - is with Lilith whom I can't find. I interrogated a demon who knew nothing. Even if I find Lilith, she doesn't know where Dean is either and... it's just a dozen dead ends, right now."

"Your mind is tired," she told him, soothingly, "I know you want him removed from there as soon as you can, but you have to understand, Sam, sometimes, you sleeping or eating or just resting isn't going to take away from your saving him, but will help you do so."

"It crossed my mind," Sam conceded, rubbing his eyes, "But I can't seem to stop..."

"Go to the doctor," Missouri advised, "He should be able to give you something. Once you rest, Sam, the answers just might appear out of nowhere."

" " "

Hell

" " "

"This old thing?" Dean asked, with a too-transparent, nervous chuckle, "Wouldn't know what you'd want with a little toy like this one, old man."

"Not a toy," the Watcher breathed, tracing the leather strap, as if to draw out the amulet from underneath Dean's shirt. Dean swatted his hand away, and stepped back.

"Dude, personal space!"

The Watcher narrowed his eyes in irritation, and turned toward a nervous Ruby. "You must have explained to him how this works."

"Yes," Ruby replied, "But you have never asked for anything that wasn't precious to those they belonged to. You should not be surprised by defiance at this point."

The Watcher just shrugged, and turned expectantly to Dean. "Decide. I do not have all day."

Dean looked at the Watcher, and touched the necklace reverently.

He didn't have very many things. He didn't have very many people. He lost his mother as a child, lost his brother to the world, lost his father to this war. Women came and went. The only things constant in his life was the Impala which had been a gift from his father, and the amulet which had been a gift from Sam. Both things were inextricably a part of him by now, and vice versa.

The Impala's seat had conformed to his body, he had left marks of his fingers on the wheel. He knew its rumbles and tumbles and could safely say that between maintenance and repairs over the last years, he had touched every single part of her.

The amulet gave his neck a quirky tan line. It was the one thing he would not remove not for anything in the world. The frayed leather carried his scent. The leather bore fine bloodstains he couldn't remove. The face of the charm had been held by the hands of his brother, back when he was still innocent of the nastier sides of the world.

He couldn't bring the Impala to hell – a misfortune, since he had a feeling only she could bear him away from there – but the amulet was just compact enough to have almost seemed a part of his body. He didn't know how or why it went with him, but this was his key to a life beyond hell, that was becoming plain enough. He didn't know if it's because the amulet really had a supernatural power all this time after all – which he doubted, considering his constant misfortune – or if it was just his brother's hands, touching it, and the damn thing seeing him through life. Either way, he wasn't just going to hand it to some funny looking guy.

Then again...

The amulet was important because it was his link to life beyond hell. Maybe it was his ticket out too. Or... the amulet was important because it was from Sam. If he can get out, and keep Sam from harming himself or others, then to give it to this guy served the same importance, instead of violating it.

"Dean?" Ruby called, jerking her head toward the mouth of the cave, "A word."

Dean bit his lip and nodded, following after her. The Watcher and Bela watched them walk off.

"I told you having that on you pulls you back," she said, in a measured tone.

"Yeah, so?" Dean asked, tentatively.

"You give it to him and I can promise you," she said, "Soon you'll find it harder and harder to come back. You'll stop reaching for it. You'll stop calling for help. You'll stop calling his name. You'll lose yourself faster--"

"You've been to see the Watcher several times," Dean said, cutting her off, his tone thoughtful.

"Are you listening to me?" she snapped, grabbing his arm, insistent, "You give that to him and--"

"I'm listening," he snapped back, tempted to jerk off his arm except he knew their proximity would also work to his advantage, "What did you ask him and what did you give up for it?"

"What does that have to do with anything?" she asked, letting his arm go and backing off, predictably.

"I want to know if he's worth it," he said.

"Worth selling your sanity, your thinking, yourself?" she asked.

"If his answers can help me get out of here faster, then we have nothing to fear about me turning, right?" Dean pointed out, "But I need to know how good he is."

Ruby set her jaws, before muttering, "I asked him who I should side with in this war. He said your brother."

Dean's brows rose. "Is it because Sam's gonna win or is it because Sam's gonna do the right thing?"

"Good question," she conceded, sounding surprised, "I'm a demon, I didn't – don't – care about the latter. I just assumed it was because he was gonna win. Damn."

"What did you give up?" he asked.

"My face."

"What?"

"All memory of my face," she said, "I used to be beautiful, everyone said. I don't know anymore. You think I just get kicks out of walking around in someone else's form? I don't remember. He asked for it. I was at a point where I needed answers."

"How's that working for you so far?" he asked her, almost wryly, "Picking our team?"

"It sucks," she confessed, making him chuckle, wearily.

"What about the other times you came to him?" he asked, "What did you pay, what did you ask, and was his answer worth it?"

"What does it matter," she sighed, "You've already made up your mind."

He looked back at the interior of the cave. He let each of his fingers stray over the most intricate details of the amulet, as if memorizing every line, even as he already knew them by heart.

This is it, buddy.

For Sam.

Then, like pulling out a band-aid, he gripped it in a tight fist and pulled it from his neck. He hoped the leather had left marks, anything from a bruise to a welt or even just streaks of red on his neck, anything at all. They would be okay reminders for a little while, after he gives this away.

" " "

The Watcher vanished for a few moments with his new prize, scurrying to hide it somewhere in his labyrinthine home. He had Dean, Bela and Ruby sit on a round table and wait for him.

"You'd think he was going to serve us tea," Bela murmured, watching Dean's face. His eyes looked unbearably regretful already. "It's just a little trinket, Dean."

He lifted his eyes to look at her, and he realized he was going to be getting a very objective, professional appraisal from the great thief / procurer of rare occult items.

"I've thought about stealing it," she confessed, "I looked it up in all the books I could find, asked spirits about it. No one knew a thing. It's just an unknown pop-artist's agglomeration of traditional ritual mask art and symbolism to create something that looks authentic. The art influence even crosses continents– you can see elements from traditional Native American, African, even Thai mask art and god-symbols, just to name a few. It was mass-produced in the 80's. You can even find a couple on e-bay."

"Way to crap on the fairy dust, Talbot," Ruby said, in mocking awe.

"All I'm saying is," Bela said, "The only reason he wanted to take it was the value you put on it. And the value you put on things can be transferred elsewhere. So Mr. Tragedy here need not look so glum."

"Thanks," Dean told her sarcastically, "You're a real pal. That's why I brought you along, Bela. Always around to show me the light. Oh no wait. That's hellfire. I brought you along, 'cos if I can get through you I can probably live past the worst of it all. You know what they say, if you're going through hell, keep going."

"Quoting Churchill, Dean?" Bela asked, "I'm impressed."

"I saw it on a bumper sticker," he said, impatiently, as the Watcher returned and took the last seat.

"So, Mr. Winchester. What do you want to know?"

" " "

"How many questions do I get?" Dean asked.

"Wouldn't it have been a shame if I answered just one?" the Watcher said, with an acid grin, "You can have as much as I can answer, and am interested in, to give to you."

"How the hell can I get out of here?"

The Watcher laughed at him, condescendingly.

"Oh Mr. Winchester," the Watcher said, after calming down, "To the guttural. I appreciate that. But the answers will be plain and likely already known to you. Out a devil's gate or summoned as a Crossroads Demon or any other cursed demon linked to a dark object or spell aboveground."

"Out a devil's gate," Dean pointed out, "Not the devil's gate, you said. So there's more than one?"

"No," the Watcher replied, "Not that even I know of, at the very least. But there can be others."

"How?" asked Dean, "I mean, can anybody do that? How did the Colt one happen? Was it always there? Did someone make it?"

"This is a question I have never been given before," the Watcher said, amused, "Century after century of the same questions, Mr. Winchester, and you will recognize the value of perception an originality."

"Thanks," Dean said, dryly.

"Shaking the devil's hand is an old story, isn't it?" the Watcher asked, "People making deals has been going on as far back as anyone can remember. Now, pulling people out of deals is harder business, but everyone's been known to try a thing or two. Or three. But no one's ever had the balls of this guy before."

"What guy?" Dean asked, "Colt?"

"No," the Watcher replied, "One of the men who worked for him. He was a foreigner, with some background on old magic. His wife had sold her soul. He cut a hole in the Earth, made a bridge into hell and pulled her out."

"He made the gate?" Dean asked, incredulously, "Some lonely foreigner made a bridge between Earth and Hell? Come on."

"He was part-demon," the Watcher answered, "All he needed was some of his blood, the right intent, and the right spell. A hell's gate is like a gaping scar on the land. There is no sealing it, it will be there forever. But it can be covered, which he finally had the courage to come up to Colt and ask him to do – he needed the materials, which were expensive to say the least, and he needed the space, which Colt owned. Colt couldn't believe it, until he went to the site and saw for himself, thirteen of the wiliest, worst demons walking out of the hole. It's how they got out in the first place; they were the smartest and the best."

"Thirteen," Dean murmured, "That's why the Colt..."

"Special gun with special bullets," the Watcher said, "Made under the light of Halley's comet. One for each of the demons that had escaped. Colt gave the gun to the man who had unwittingly let them out, to give him a chance to atone for his mistake. Think of him as the first hunter, armed with thirteen bullets for the thirteen worst demons that have ever walked the Earth."

"He didn't finish the job," Dean said, "When we got the gun, there were five bullets left."

"The eight bullets had gone where they were supposed to go," the Watcher replied, "Eight demons dead. The rest were exorcised, had the chance to shuttle back and forth between hell and Earth every now and then over the centuries. But you're right, there were five bullets left and the moment that gun and those bullets landed on you Winchesters, the tally was broken.

"Of the five left," the Watcher continued, "Your father killed a vampire, a being of little consequence to us. That is one bullet wasted. Your brother used two more trying to kill Azazel: one that ended up missing him in Salvation, and one into your father's leg. That makes three. You yourself wasted one bullet on Azazel's son. That makes four. The last one made its long way into Azazel's heart at last. Theoretically, four wasted bullets means four really terrible demons still roaming around, doesn't it?"

"Oh please, we didn't know," Dean muttered, "Someone should be writing these damn things down..."

"Of the four left," the Watcher said, "The first one, as you may have guessed, is Lilith. The second one is dead; she was that witch you stabbed. If you had used one of the original bullets on her, she would not have been able to use her powers on it."

"Two more," Dean pointed out.

"The last two of the thirteen demons are here in hell," replied the Watcher, "Husband and wife, Lucian and Dolores."

"Oh a love story," Dean said, sarcastically, "That's nice."

The Watcher shrugged. "Anything else?"

"So there is really no way out of here for me," Dean said flatly, "Short of that gate opening or a part-demon from upstairs making another one."

"That's correct," the Watcher said, staring at Dean's face knowingly, "You want to ask me if your brother is part-demon."

Dean blinked once, before letting his mask fall back in place, "Oh I already know he is, you should see him behind the wheel of my car when he's being careless."

The Watcher said nothing, just smiled tightly, waiting to be asked. Wanting to be asked. But it wasn't a question Dean wanted to say aloud, it felt like a betrayal, to have to doubt...

Is my brother part-demon?

Did you tell Ruby to side with him because he's gonna win, or is it because he's gonna do the right thing...?

So he didn't.

"What makes the thirteen bullets so special?" he asked instead, "What did Colt do to them?"

"The bullets were special because they were made in the light of Halley's comet," The Watcher explained, "Comets were once regarded as signs of death and tragedy. Some say it's because they resembled weeping, long-haired women. Others have said they looked like swords, wielded by gods, symbolizing the beginning of a war. In 1835, that's exactly what happened. When Colt made the bullets, it was the first, true effort a mortal man made against demons, and the gods struck the sky and allowed it, the beginning of a battle between good and evil."

"How about the knife?" Dean asked.

"Colt worked on a gun that night," the Watcher said, "Your part-demon hunter worked on a knife. Now that the bullets are gone, nothing can kill the demons but that knife. And no one can make new bullets until the next Halley sighting, in 2061."

"How do you know all this?" Dean asked, scratching his neck uneasily.

"I am just what I am," the Watcher sighed, "There are some questions I cannot answer. It is like asking me how we breathe, and live. Or why you are you and I am me and these women are who they are. And you have just turned into a bore."

"So what?" Dean asked, "Q&A over?"

"You're not so bad," the Watcher said, looking at Ruby pointedly, "At least you didn't ask me about the good/evil god questions. I have inclination left for just one more query from you, and nothing more. I will let you ask me about that thing you want to know about your brother."

Is my brother part-demon?

Did you tell Ruby to side with him because he's gonna win, or is it because he's gonna do the right thing...?

But what does it matter?, Dean asked himself, Sam's Sam, no matter what he's made of. My idiot, overgrown brother. And 'cos of that, he'll do the right thing. He'll always do the right thing. Even if we don't win.

"Nah," Dean said, "I'm good."

" " "

Indiana

" " "

Sam blinked himself awake, feeling as if he had lost all sense of time. He fell asleep on the couch in Dean's room with the help of some handy sleeping pills courtesy of the good doctor. He felt stuffy and ill, worse, not better.

What a waste of time, he thought, closing his eyes again and pinching the bridge of his nose.

God, was this feeling familiar, or what? He had lived a few months with Dean dead... nasty trick, that. Except the only trick about it was that Dean was given back to him. If he hadn't been given back, it was just plain sick reality. Because the pain had been real. The conversations were real, in the sense that everything Dean had said and done in the tricketer's conjured-up world was exactly what Dean would have done and said in that situation. He remembered how, early in his nightmarish Groundhog Day series, he told Dean he had a weird dream.

Clowns or midgets...?

And he had found it assuringly funny until, a hundred deaths and months of loneliness and nothingness later, Sam had said the same, wistful thing and the restored Dean had replied the same thing too.

It hadn't been a trick, Dean was real, his loss was real. It only became a trick when Dean was given back. Because a 'trick' was more bearable.

But no tricks now, Sam reflected. Dean was gone, for real. For real. And again, Sam was back to waking up feeling wearier than he had before he slept, walking and talking and feeling sick to his stomach all the time. The fact that he had gone through it before was immaterial. The blow never softened, the ache never dulled. He wished he could keep his eyes closed forever.

This wasn't his first round with the damn pills either. They helped him sleep dreamlessly, calmed him down a little, back when he had been living in his trick-reality. Not his first time, sure, but it was certainly his most light-handed... He opened his eyes a crack. The bottle was on the floor, mostly full.

Oh yes, this was his most light-handed with the pills...

Wanna talk about hell? Hell was shoving a fistful in your mouth on a dark day, and then losing your guts a breath before losing the contents of your stomach. Feeling like a failure. Feeling like you just betrayed your brother because he would hate that. Suicide because murder was just so damn tiring.

Hell... where the hell are you, Dean?

How the hell am I supposed to drag you back out here?

As brothers, the two of them always seemed to know how to find each other. Granted, it was surely partly attributable to the fact that Dean screamed his name a lot. Hard to miss, that. Or, if lying unconscious somewhere, it was hard not to wake up and respond to him. But he was fool/dreamer enough to think there must have been a little bit of magic there too.

Lost in a forest, trapped in a house, captured by a monster or just two kids playing an always-anti-climactically-short hide-and-seek, Dean always knew where to find him, and vice versa.

Most recently, Sam had been abducted by a lonely house ghost and Dean found him in a sick, hidden-basement party. He had once found Dean tied up in an abandoned warehouse lying along a nameless stretch of road. Dean had found him in a haunted town in the middle of nowhere. He knew to come to his brother's aid, scrambling down the rickety steps of a wet basement. Dean, even after leaving him, had returned in time to pull him from a fire that had taken the life of his girlfriend. They took turns like that, missing an searching, lost and found.

If anyone can find you down there, Sam knew, It would be me.

This idea was of course, plagued by two questions. How to get there and how to get out.

Well going to hell is easy, Sam thought. The latter one was the tricky part. It would be a cosmic, comedic tragedy for him to go to hell, find Dean, and they both end up stuck. The possibility was weirdly amusing, but he was certain the reality would be... well, hell.

His eyes took in the pain pills in his field of vision.

Going to hell...

Suicide used to count, didn't it?

Sam's eyes snapped open wider.

He snatched up the bottle of pills, and rose to his feet in a fluid motion.

He half-jogged out of Dean's room, found his ragtag team on the kitchen. Bobby, Ellen and Missouri buried in books, the nosy teenager was using his laptop. The EMTs and the doctor were sorting out their things. Jo was making... a meal of some sort. He wasn't sure what the hell time of day it was.

Good, everyone's here, he thought, as he hid the bottle of pills in his pocket.

"I'm taking a shower," he said, "Mind knocking on my door if I take too long? I lose track of time in there."

"Yeah, sure," Bobby said, uncertainly, "You can take as long as you want, Sam."

"No, I got a plan," Sam said, "Something we have to talk about right away. Promise."

"You got it," Bobby said, as Sam went up the stairs to the second floor at a jog. Bobby was going to be pissed, he really was. But some things just needed doing.

If anyone can find you in Hell, Dean, Sam thought, That would be me.

To be continued...