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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13

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Hell

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They walked for a little bit like that, quiet, Dean just mulling over his options. How bad is it being a question he didn't want to ask, especially since he was pretty sure he couldn't hack the answer just yet. And so they walked, Sam understanding the need for a kind-of thinking distance as he talked about random things and Dean thought about what (or rather, what didn't) wait for him up in the world of the living.

"Jo's there," Sam was saying, "She's filling out a little. You'd be happy--"

He kept on talking and, Dean thought, almost randomly, Audition.

That's what it felt like. Looking at his earnest brother and listening to his nervous rambling took him back to that damned miserable road to Nebraska and Roy LeGrange, and Sam's overcompensations. He just yapped and yapped and yapped, making up for Dean's pensive, exhausted, terminal quiet, filling up the dead air, trying to be strong or trying to be funny, as if Dean staying depended on how likable Sam was.

Dean wasn't unfamiliar with the feeling. God knows it might have even been his frickin' invention. It was what he did for their dad, trying to comfort him and amuse him and be useful to him so that he'd stick around. It was what he did for Sam, after he got that stupid Stanford acceptance letter, or back when Sam was dying and all he could do was beg--

Why do people keep leaving me behind, he suddenly wondered, not realizing that he'd said it aloud, until Sam looked at him in this stricken kind of way and Ruby, in the foreground, wisely pretended she wasn't there.

"So what, it's your turn?" Sam asked, sounding kind-of strangled because he was afraid of his brother's choice, and humanly annoyed by the tickling possibility that Dean choosing to die was a kind-of revenge to him for always leaving.

Dean didn't answer him, decided he's the hellbound soul and anything that came from his mouth had every right to be spat out.

"'Cos you always let us back in," Sam muttered, after a moment.

Dean's brows rose, and he shrugged. He decided now would be a good time to get this over with since, apparently, there was no escaping harsh topis of conversation anyway.

"How bad is it?" he asked.

Sam took a deep breath, steeling himself. "You want the Disney version?"

"What I pricked my finger and I'm never gonna wake up?"

"Thinking about fairy tales, Dean?" Sam said, with a shaky smile.

"Hanging around you too much," Dean growled, "Maybe I should choose to die before I turn into an over-sized girl like you. No Disney. Gimme some Grimm."

"It'll be more like Phantasmagoria," Sam said softly.

"Whatever."

"When the dogs got to you," Sam said, eyes drifting away towards some hell only he had lived through, "You bled out. The uh... the cause of death was blood-loss."

"I thought I had a body left," Dean pointed out, "What do you mean cause of death?"

"We shoved you medicine up to your eyeballs, bro, did protective hypothermia, put you on a machine," Sam said, "Your... the... body's not working on its own, but it's working. You're brain dead though, dude. Not sure if its 'cos it's always been like that--"

"Ha."

"-- Or if it's because your soul's out," Sam continued, "Or because you just didn't get enough air for too long and that's just how its going to be for now on."

"That really blows," Dean whistled.

"You get stats like that," Sam hesitated, "And they don't think you're gonna wake up. Or, if you do, god knows what all that damage has done to your memory, your movement, your speech... not to mention we've tanked you up on everything we could think of and your liver's gonna be whining about that soon, and after that the rest of the organs will follow, if you take too long to wake up."

"I'm gonna be a vegetable," breathed Dean, "And I hate vegetables."

Sammy had that That's not funny look again.

It's a little funny...

"So you deserve to know," Sam said, imploringly. "It can be really bad, Dean. It can be as bad as you being inside your own body, just... trapped, lingering until you die. But patients wake up all the time too, and can lead good lives...there's a lot of facilities and programs, and new treatments..."

His voice drifted off, and he just looked at Dean earnestly. Dean recognized the look, knew he himself had worn it more than once before. This was the mouth-disconnected-from-brain-disconnected-from-heart face. Like, after their father died, he was always daring Sam to call him out on the things he felt or how he acted out, even as his eyes begged his brother not to.

Guess I really did have a hand at raising you, huh, Sammy?

Because walking beside him, Sam was a confused mass of It's gonna suck, but stay with me. I don't want you to suffer, but don't leave me. It's gonna get bad, but don't say no...

"So how's that gonna work out?" Dean asked, "If I end up... like that? You'll toss me in a home, right? I mean, I know you'd love to take care of your big brother – feed me, clothe me, shave me, wipe my ass... probably not what yellow-eyes had in mind when he said you were gonna be the lord of the underworld, but life's kinda funny like that sometimes."

"I'll take care of you," Sam said, ignoring the quip, sounding naked and desperate, before he took it back again, "But whatever you want, Dean. Whatever you want."

"I don't want you weighed down by me," Dean admitted, whispers of They don't need you, not like you need them still echoing in his ears, "And I'm... I'm thinking, you know... I've been tired for a long time."

Like there's a light at the end of the tunnel or something.

It's a tough gig... I drew the short straw, end of story.

"Not entirely sure what we got to look forward to anyways," Dean continued, "Rufus, that lonely wacko who told me about Bela? Said he's the best I could look forward to becoming, 'cos this job just fucks people over, you know? There's just always something next, right up 'til the day the job kills you. Whatcha think?"

"He's wrong," Sam said, fervently, said nothing else. He apparently got along Stanford far enough to object and argue, but not to provide substantial evidence.

"What would you do, Sammy?" Dean asked, "What do you think?"

And between the two of them, they knew full-well that whenever Dean asked 'What do you think, Sam?' he actually meant 'What do you want, Sam?'

"I can't choose for you," Sam said, after a long moment, as if he had wrestled with the temptation.

"Sam," Dean snapped, deciding to shelf the euphemism and just go for the kill, "What do you want?"

"I know what I want," Sam retorted, "But I want what you want more, Dean."

"I'm gonna say I want what you want which is what I want which is what you want," groaned Dean, "Just to tide us over the next five damn minutes. I'm not quitting, Sam. So answer the damn question and just tell me what'll it be?"

"I'm not quitting," Sam snapped, "God, Dean, you gotta be a pain-in-the-ass about this too? I told you before, I can hack it, I'm fine. I don't want you to worry about me, Dean. That's the whole problem in the first place. I can't make this choice for you. What do you want, Dean? For once in your life--"

Dean bit his tongue, and just stared ahead, trying to find the heart to be annoyed. This was a simple question, wasn't it? He was pretty sure Sam always knew how to answer it.

What do you want?

What do you dream?

Sam wanted school and normal and picket fences and drop-dead gorgeous chicks who can bake cookies and make pretty blond babies or whatever. Dean just wanted family. Just Sam, and whatever Sam wanted. Sam can't flip it around now and expect him to have an answer, it didn't work like that.

"Stop thinking about mom or dad or me," Sam said, "What do you want, Dean? You just gotta tell me, while you can. I'll do it, I promise."

Again, that mouth-disjointed face, Sam's eyes screaming Stay with me and his trap yakking about something else.

"Let me save your ass for a change," Sam added, more quietly, "I'd do it, whatever it is, Dean. Just tell me what you want."

What do you want?

What do you dream?

The dead can do neither.

What do you want?

What do you dream?

And even alive he had a hard time thinking about that one.

What do you want?

What do you dream?

"I don't know, bro," Dean said, voice wavering a little, "I go up there and I'm a mess. And now I'm all fucked up in the head too. There isn't anything left."

And Sam looked crushingly disappointed for a telling moment, making Dean's heart ache.

I'm gonna take care of you, he had once told his dying brother, I gotcha. It's my job, right, watch after my pain-in-the-ass little brother?

"Is that what you really want?" Sam asked, setting his jaws as if they were made of concrete, trying to be strong, trying to be brave. But he looked like he was five years old, saying one thing and meaning something else altogether.

I want you to be happy, Sam, Dean thought, I don't wanna leave you looking like this.

And I guess I can want a few things for me too. What do I want? What do I dream...?

I want a chance to find out, he decided.

"Hey Sam," Dean said, "I'm gonna ask you something very important."

Sam's brows furrowed worriedly.

"And this is gonna be the tell, man," Dean said, "This is gonna be the thing that blows the joint, so you'd better not be lying to me."

"What, Dean?" Sam asked, breathlessly.

"Did the damn dogs cut my face?"

--

"What?"

"Did the damn dogs cut my face?" Dean asked, pretending to be obtuse, but his eyes were already dancing and Sam's were just confused and bordering on some sort of hope. Dean watched that hope flourish right before his eyes.

"'Cos there's like," Dean said, "A ton of things we'd never get away with if we were butt-ugly."

--

"Back to Earth, Geek-boy," Dean told him, "Sam--"

He teetered at the force of his brother's choking embrace. Because Sam knew what he had ultimately chosen.

"I'm gonna do this just 'cos you picked me up from hell," Dean said, voice muffled at Sam's shoulder, "And that means I' owe ya."

He returned the hug twice as hard. Sam wasn't gonna tell anybody.

"I got some rules though, bro," Dean said pulling away from his disturbingly quiet brother, "No hunting without me, okay? You gotta promise on this. No hunting until I'm back on my feet. You're not going anywhere I can't drag your sorry ass out of, 'cos I won't be of much use to anybody for awhile, up there."

"But Dean, what if --"

"You saying I won't get back on my feet?" Dean dared him.

"No," Sam gulped, looking trapped, just as Dean intended him to be, "Okay, Dean. Anything you want. I promise. No hunting 'til you're back on your feet."

"And don't keep me around wherever you live or go," Dean said, "Don't look after me. Go back to school, go on dates, I don't know. Just... don't let me hold you back, all right? You're not hunting, so you get to do a lot of other stuff, make damn sure it's stuff you like. Besides, we got a reprieve, right? You get a chance to be somebody again."

"I can't not take care of you, Dean--"

"I know, I know," Dean cut him off, dismissively, "Visit, hang out, whatever. But leave me somewhere there are hot nurses who can look after me, and then go on and do whatever else you can do for yourself, okay? 'Sides... my best chances of getting back on my feet are in like, like--" the word felt foul in his mouth, "Some sort of facility, right? So we gotta go that route."

And of course, he knew that line of reasoning would work on his younger brother.

"Best of all," Dean grinned, wearily, "You get to put me in the path of a Nightingale, bro. I kind of have a feeling I'm gonna end up with a nurse."

"Okay, Dean," Sam breathed, smiling a little, "Okay."

Dean took a deep breath, gulped. Grinned. "Good."

But he was scared. Almost as scared as he had been on the few days before going to hell. This time though, he was wide-eyed scared because he goes back up there and he'd be weak, open, needy like he'd never been before. Ailing and half-dead, his life was going to be entirely in someone else's hands. Every minute, every waking moment. The thought was embarrassing, the thought was downright horrifying. But this was Sam's hands and, if he was gonna fall, it might as well be the Sasquatch catching him, so the landing wouldn't be too hard. Besides... he was broken, he wasn't fool enough not to know that. Busted body, sure, but inside was a grander mess. Like they say, shake your hands with the devil and that shit just. Doesn't. Come. Off. It just doesn't, and he was heavily tainted. Maybe he can't hold himself up, this time. Maybe some help wouldn't be so bad.

"Wouldn't it be funny," Dean said, chuckling quietly, "If you pull me out of here, I eventually die up there, and end up back here anyway? Deal or no."

"No," Sam said, flatly, "You honestly think that you're a bad person?"

"Nah," Dean said, jerking his thumb at Ruby, who was still walking a few paces away and not-looking at them, "I'm a nice guy. Ask her."

She glanced at them, and walked a pace even slower, keeping herself distanced from them. Dean just snickered.

"You're looking better already, you know," Sam said with a small smile, "Maybe you just need me around."

Dean snorted at him, before changing the subject. "Hey dude. Scary thought: Are we actually retiring?"

"Nah, we're just... vacationing," said Sam, "Lucian might be out for the count for a few decades, but there's still some smaller players out there. You'll get better soon, I know it, and then we can just keep doing what we do, if we still feel like it. Nice though... the thought that things from now on will be easier than everything we've gone through."

"Maybe we're getting old," Dean said.

"I'm sure you are," Sam said, smiling slyly.

"That's just mean," Dean told him, "But I won't cry about it or anything. You picked me up from hell, bro. I know you love me, even if you don't say anything."

"That's like the pot calling the kettle--"

"Bitch."

Sam looked like he thought about saying more, pointing out that that was actually more Dean's style than his. It would have been an argument he could win. But he let Dean go, for now. Because he knew this was a battle that will be waged again, when his brother recovered.

"Jerk," Sam retorted, instead, simply. According to cue.

Dean recognized the concession, and the hope. So he smiled, like he thought he could never smile again.

He knew they were near Sam's gate when his brother's body tensed. He was scared too, but they'd get through it together.

"Hey, Sam."

"What?"

Dean thought spending time in hell was an excellent excuse for getting fucked in the head, so he just stepped on over and gave his stunned brother a bear hug. He felt the tension in Sam's body ease at once.

"What do you owe me that one for?" Sam asked, chuckling as he returned the heartfelt embrace.

"Nothing," Dean admitted, gruffly, "That one's just me. Everything's gonna be fine, bro."

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Indiana

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They were understandably cautious about any change in Dean's body, after that Lilith debacle had his mostly-dead form practically dancing.

Brennan, Alex and Roger jumped when the EEG measuring the electrical activity in Dean's brain spiked aggressively, angry and strong, authoritative and dictatorial, like a victorious fist pumped into the sky, or a hand clawing out of a grave...

They watched, hearts pounding and eyes wide, waiting for something to attack them or kill them or just anything crazy, because that was the first thing they knew to expect now, after everything they've seen over the last few days. But Dean Winchester's eyes remained closed, his body pale and still. But someone was finally home, it seemed, as the aggressive spike gradually leveled down to almost normal levels.

The three medical personnel breathed relief, and looked expectantly at the psychic who was smiling in a sublime, satisfied way.

"They got him back," Missouri declared.

" " "

Bobby pulled an exhausted Sam from the hotly glowing hole on the ground, and his skin felt radiant and hot. There was dry air coming out of the hole in puffs, like a monster's breath, and Bobby didn't want to know anything else about hell but that. God, how many men in the world can say they've looked through open doors to hell twice in their lifetimes?

Sam was physically alone, although the air on his right side shimmered and shook, and for a moment, Bobby thought he had felt something familiar walk past him, move beyond him. On Sam's left side was a dark billow of smoke, moving more aggressively away from them. Bobby watched it with a frown, knowing it was that demon frill Ruby, because Sam had told him he intended to let her out too.

"You good?" Bobby asked gruffly, setting Sam on his feet. The two men stood, huffing in the middle of a construction site a few miles away from the house they had made into a temporary base. Ellen and Jo Harvelle were playing lookout with Bobby's truck just outside the property. They carefully picked out the spot where they would make the hellhole; they obviously weren't as wealthy or powerful as Samuel Colt and wouldn't be able to protect it with massive iron lines or complex keys, so they had to be resourceful. The construction site was for a Church, so it was going to be blessed and consecrated; while that did little for the worst demons, it was often enough to hold the minor players at bay and any precaution they could take was taken. The construction frames were made of iron. And the foundation was going to be cemented over in a few days. Unlike Colt, Sam Winchester didn't make a gate he can open or close. He just wanted his brother out, and wanted the damn thing closed forever.

"Yeah," Sam said, a little shakily. Sojourns to hell were rightfully damned tiring. "I got him out. Let's close this thing."

"You sit down a moment and grab back your breath, boy," Bobby said, "I'll get it started."

Sam nodded, and sat heavily down on the flattened soil. He watched blearily, as Bobby dragged a flat, square iron sheet emblazoned with a devil's trap on top of the round hole on the ground. The sheet had small holes lining its sides, and Bobby was beginning to slip improvised, ten-inch long screws into each one in an effort to keep the sheet pressed firmly to the ground when Sam's cellphone, which Bobby hung onto when the younger hunter slipped down to hell (that sounds funnily casual...), rang. Sam scrambled to his feet and caught the phone when Bobby tossed it his way. The older man paused from the work as Sam urgently pressed the phone to his ear.

"Brennan?"

Sam wobbled and sank to his knees, saying "Oh god," making Bobby's blood turn cold. Sam's shaking fingers slipped the phone into his pocket, and he looked up at Bobby with shining eyes, and a damned grin like he was seven years old and life had looked different.

He didn't have to say anything else. Bobby grinned back at him and shook his head in disbelief.

These damned Winchesters...

"Off your ass, boy," Bobby growled at him, continuing with the screws. The next thing to do was to juts pile soil over the iron sheet, flatten it to match the rest of the compacted soil, where in a few days, it would be buried under the foundations of steel frames and concrete, "Let's get this done sooner and go see your brother."

"Yes, sir!"

" " "

The truck hadn't even come to a full stop before Sam tore at the doorhandles and hopped out, jogging toward the doors already left open by the teenager who had heard them coming a distance away.

"Thanks," Sam barely acknowledged her, as he pushed past toward Dean's room. Missouri, the two EMT's and the doctor stood at the opening of the door, blocking both entry and view. He gave them a wan smile and maneuvered around them, only to be blocked by Brennan. He shifted, thinking it was a mistake, but was blocked again.

"The hell--"

"Sam," Troy said, "Before you go in, there are some things you should know."

His brows furrowed. "What?" He craned his neck to look over everyone's heads. He couldn't see a lot from where they stood.

"I'll be quick but I need you to pay attention," Troy said, "Okay?"

Sam forcibly wrenched his eyes from the sight of Dean's body. "What?"

"I told you we can see brain activity again," the doctor said, "But that doesn't mean the damage hasn't been done, okay? We uh... we won't know his full condition until he wakes up--"

The statement could have given Sam a heart attack. Brennan couldn't have known it, but Sam's heard that line once before it and nearly killed him back then too, after it was followed by If he wakes up.

"--If he w--"

"He's waking up," Sam said, sternly, booking no arguments, "Okay?"

"I know how you feel," Brennan said, and when Sam opened his mouth up to argue, he raised a hand to appease him, "I do. I know how it feels to want something so bad and be so certain it's gonna happen. But you have to manage your expectations, okay? If – or when- it does happen, it's not going to happen right away, okay? And when it does, it's going to be a long, long road. We have to talk about his options. We have to talk about moving him to a place where there are people who can give him the best possible shot at quality living."

"I understand all of that," Sam said with a quick nod, insisting when the doctor looked skeptical, "I do. But right now I just wanna see him. He needs to know I'm here."

"And then we talk," Brennan said.

"And then we talk," Sam agreed, stepping forward when Brennan finally moved aside. They let him have the room, when he walked toward his brother's bedside. He looked as bad as he did when Sam left; half buried in machines and wires, sallow, sunken, scarred... Sam took Dean's limp hand and held it tightly.

I can wait, he thought, 'Cos we've already gone down the road from hell to dead to just-comatose and it'll just keep getting better from here.

Take as long as you need, bro, Sam thought, I can wait.

" " "

Bobby sat with Sam and Troy Brennan on the dining room, both coffee and whiskey in front of them in varying stages of having been drunk and left behind. They've lost track of whose glass or cup was whose, or how much they've drunk of what. They all had a feeling they were celebrating, but there was always a sense of caution and regret belying it.

"Jessie and I have to take off soon," said Brennan, reaching for the coffee, "She's missed some school as it is. And I have to get back to work. All of us do."

"I know," Sam winced, reaching for the whiskey this time. "You've helped us a lot, thank you." He looked like he contemplated apologizing for the circumstances, but decided not to. Can't start apologizing for anything now, that would be like opening a can of worms. For Dean, there was just no stopping, no looking back. He'd done what he'd done, that was why, that was it.

"I can visit, maybe once every few days," Brennan said, "Just to check up on him. But you know how I feel about keeping him here. He needs to be in a place where people can professionally look after him, 24/7. He actually, actually has a chance now, Sam. He deserves the best possible care."

"I know," Sam said, reaching for the coffee, thinking he had to be sober for thinking about this one, "That's what I want too. For now though, we have this place for a couple of weeks and I'm just... I'm trying to figure out how to get him admitted somewhere. I don't have any money, and since it's going to be long-term care, we can't use fraudulent credit that they can trace back to us since we can't run. The last thing he needs right now is a brother behind-bars, who can't look after him."

"Sam, I told you," said Bobby, "I can put up a col--"

"No," Sam said, "There's no way I can pay you back, Bobby. You can loose everything."

"Dean's like a son to me, boy," Bobby said firmly, "Neither of you are in this alone."

"I can get you decent rates," Brennan said, "Say we're related, or something. But he needs a bed, possibly even more surgeries, medicine, a nurse, rehab... a discounted rate can go a long way, but the rest..."

"You think you can run up decent cost estimates for me?" Sam asked.

"I can get you averages from similar cases, sure," Brennan said, "I can even give you a listing of great facilities in the area."

"Good," Sam said with a determined nod.

"Sam--" Bobby began again.

"I said no, Bobby," Sam said flatly, "And that's that."

"You sound just like yer daddy when you say that," Bobby muttered.

Sam smiled at him wanly. "I just couldn't shake him sometimes. You know, Bobby...your house, the yard... feels kind of like home to me too. And especially to Dean. I can't be a part of losing that." He took a deep breath. "The car."

"No!" Bobby exclaimed, "Are you out of your--"

"I know, I know!" Sam retorted, "I just needed someone else to say it."

"Say what?" Brennan asked.

"That it would be crazy to sell the Impala," Sam replied.

"It actually seems like a bright idea," said Brennan, "That car's worth a pretty penny, I can promise you that. And it's not like he's going to be driving it anytime soon."

"It's like giving his kid away while he was asleep," Sam said with a tired, endeared, breathy laugh, "I'm telling you I wish I could, but no. He'll kill me. Push comes to shove, though-- nah. No. Never."

"If we just... kind of left him somewhere," Bobby asked, "They gonna take care of him?"

"Yes," Brennan replied, "Without question. But as an abandoned case, he's slated to get the bare minimum that keeps the hospital out of a lawsuit. And they'd be itching to call time of death at anytime you get problems with his heart or brain, which are still possibilities. No resuscitation. And you can't visit."

"He can't not have us near," Sam said firmly, "There's gotta be a way."

"I'll cost you out," Brennan said, getting to his feet, the sway indicating that the whiskey might have outweighed the volume of coffee consumption, "Give me a few hours, so you at least know what you have to work for. Oh, and go online, check out some employment sites or something. Maybe something'll strike, right?"

"Thanks doc," said Sam, watching him leave the room. He looked at Bobby. "What kind of a high-paying job could a ghost like me get, huh? I'm like an illegal immigrant, here, no papers, nothing. Can't work for decent pay, own nothing I can sell..." he paused, as if struck.

Speaking of ghosts, going online and selling things...

"Hey Bobby," Sam said, eyes alight, "I think I got an idea. I think I got two."

"Dean gets this look when you sound like that," the older hunter said cautiously.

"What look?"

"Kind of excited, terrified and proud at the same time," Bobby said with a shrug, "What the hell is on your mind this time, boy?"

"I'm going to New York for a few hours," said Sam, "I'll fly, it'll be faster. Dad has a storage shed there, filled with occult objects. I'll go see if he has anything fairly harmless, or something we can render harmless. Just protective stuff, or antique stuff. Something we can safely cycle back into the world and sell. You can line me up buyers, right?"

"Yeah," Bobby replied with raised brows, "As soon as you tell me what they are. What was the second idea?"

"I'm thinking of sending the Ghostfacers into an easy case," Sam said, wryly, "And getting a cut out of this distribution action."

To be concluded in the next chapter...