Sam sits in the Impala and stares at the house in front of him. It is freshly painted, the garden tidied up and oddly domestic things like new curtains in the window show Sam that someone has worked really hard here to make the house seem like home.

"Dean," Sam swallowed, "it is our house – our old house – how…?" he paused, breath hot in his throat. He didn't want to cry, he had cried so much he felt as if Dean would have to build him a fucking ark.

"It was vacant Sam, Jenny and the kids left a year ago and it has been vacant ever since. Just seemed the right thing to do somehow – you wanted to go home and – and here we are."

"Doesn't it…doesn't it bother you?" Sam knew what this house had meant to Dean, knew how painful it had been for Dean to come back here last time, "doesn't it bother you to come back here – after – after everything."

"It hurt at first – I'll admit to that – but it's ok now Sam – this was our house – our home – you never knew it, not really and I want you to know it now."

"Thanks," Sam rubbed his face, "thanks Dean," he stretched his arms out and grinned, a thread of real excitement running through his gut, "hey – can we go inside now?"

"Lead the way," Dean tossed him a set of keys, "I'll start bringing in the stuff."

The house was clean and freshly painted. The kitchen had been fixed up and the lounge knocked through to make a larger, more spacious room. There were two bedrooms upstairs and a small bathroom. Sam moved slowly round, realising it had changed considerably since Jenny and her kids had lived here and that it must have changed completely since the fire that had killed his mom.

The house had a feeling of peace about it; a feeling of stillness. Sam stood at the window and looked out onto the leafy streets, wondering what his life might have been like without the demon's interference, what Dean's life might have been like if his mom had lived and his father had carried on working as a mechanic.

He shuddered, shaking his head. Regrets or remorse were pointless now. He had to look to the future, however short it was going to be, however painful. He had his wish, he was home and he was with his brother. Nothing else mattered, nothing else could matter.

They hadn't many personal belongings and it didn't take long to unpack. Sam set up his laptop and started to make a list of the things they would need, silly domestic things like tea towels, soap dishes and rugs. Dean rolled his eyes and moaned as expected and Sam slapped him,

"Buying tea towels doesn't make you gay Dean."

When it grew dark, Dean suggested he take the car and buy them some takeout and a six pack. Sam couldn't drink because of his meds but he agreed anyway for Dean's sake.

His brother looked strangely pre-occupied, uneasy, as if there were something on his mind. Sam wondered what might be going through Dean's head because, despite years of trying, Sam still found his brother hard to read at times, particularly when Dean had his 'game face' on.

Dean pulled out of the drive and sped in the direction of the town. He didn't have long because he didn't want Sam to even start to guess at what he was doing. He bit his lip guiltily as he looked at the crumpled piece of paper in front of him.

He was going to save his brother.

The church was small and old, moss and mould growing on the tower and ivy creeping up the walls. There was an old, rickety looking graveyard out front and the front door was virtually hanging off its hinges. Dean got out of the Impala, his nose wrinkling at the scent of age and decay that hit his nostrils, his boots squeaking as they hit the damp ground.

"Mr Winchester?" The priest looked as old as the church, his hair sparse and grey, his face a mass of wrinkles. Despite his shuffling gait, his eyes were bright blue and alert, alight with curiosity, "can I offer you a tour of the church followed by a mug of very strong coffee?"

"Yeah, sure," Dean took the proffered frail hand and shook it gently. The priest smiled at him and, carefully, opened the damaged door, turning on the lights as he did so.

Inside the church was dim even in the glow of the electric light. There were two stained glass windows over the alter and a large statue of Jesus by the door. The pews were covered in rich red cloth and there were bibles laid out in front of them. Sweet scented flowers stood in a vase beside the alter and there was the dim scent of incense in the air.

"You get a lot of people here?" Dean perched on one of the pews and tapped the bible idly. He was always uneasy in church, despite his job and he felt sure that the priest could sense his doubts, felt sure that the priest was testing him.

"We have the faithful few," he smiled, "but times are hard and only a minority of people believe that God can help them these days."

"Do you think…do you think you can help me?" Dean's throat was sore and he felt as if there were a lump jammed there, painful and full, "that God can help me? Help Sam?"

"Your brother?" The priest smiled, gently.

"Yeah, my brother – he – as I told you on the phone – he has cancer and he is gonna die." Dean swallowed again, "I can't let that happen – not on my watch."

The priest's blue eyes deepened with sympathy, "sometimes, Mr Winchester, there is nothing anyone can do. If it is your time, then it is your time, it is all part of God's plan."

"My brother is only 26 years old," Dean felt an irrational spurt of anger, "he has done more good in his short time than most people do in a lifetime. He doesn't deserve to die like this, he doesn't and if his death is part of God's plan then I, for one, don't want to be part of it."

The priest stared at him, his face impassive. Dean swallowed again, wishing they could go for that coffee now. He felt his cheeks sting and his eyes burn and he rubbed his face, "I'm sorry," he said, finally. "That wasn't the wisest thing to say to a priest."

"Mr Winchester – Dean – I understand – I am a man of God and I deal with people's grief, with their loss of faith every day of my life. I know that it hurts and, believe me, everyone I meet; everyone I speak to feels the same. I have watched mother's lose their children, husbands lose their wives and it never stops hurting," he reached out and touched Dean's hand, his touch sudden and gentle, "all we can do is speak to God and hope that he listens."

"Will you try?" Dean bit back the tears he could feel building in his throat, "will you try and help Sam?"

"Bring him here on Sunday," the priest said, finally, patting Dean's hand again, "If there is anything I can do, be sure I will do it."

"Thank you," Dean squeezed the priest's hand and looked up at the statue over the alter, his heart pounding hard in his chest.

"I will pray for you both," the old priest said and moved slowly to his knees, "take care Dean Winchester and may God go with you."

TBC