Author's Notes: This chapter's just a little bit longer than usual...but there's a reason why. I couldn't split it up with the next chapter well in the way that I wanted without the scenes seeming kind of weird. So, if I remember right, chapter eighteen is pretty short. It will likely be the shortest chapter of the story. But, we'll see! At any rate, I hope you all enjoy this chapter just as much as the rest of them. :D Be sure to leave a review letting me know what you think!

It was hard for Sam to believe that nearly half of July had gone by. Sure, he knew time went on, but he never paid much attention to it. Not now that Dean had been freed. But when he went out that morning to get him and Dean some breakfast from a diner near their hotel, he had checked his phone, and for some reason, the date stuck out like a sore thumb to Sam: it was the thirteenth of July. He didn't really know why it had struck him as so odd; it wasn't as if anything important had happened on the day itself.

Maybe it was just surprising to him that so much time had passed. Or maybe he just couldn't believe that it was actually July. Sometimes it felt like it was May, or maybe even June. Although Sam had an abnormally acute sense of direction and time, when it came to dates and calendars, he was sub-par at best.

Dean had written a laundry list of food to bring back. But, this was good. Sam knew that his brother was feeling better when he wanted to eat a lot. A Dean with light hunger was like a blinding, flashing warning light. And upon their arrival to New York, that was exactly how it had been—the older Winchester ate like some kind of squirrel. But now that they had been here for a few days and had gathered some good equipment and knowledge from their father's lock-up, he was back to normal.

And back to normal meant eating hash browns, eggs, bacon, ham, toast, and especially pancakes. Okay, so maybe the pancakes were for Sam. And some ham, too. But still. Majority of the food on the list was for Dean.

As Sam wandered through the wooden door of the diner, the blinds over its window rattled and the little bell above it rang. He chuckled to himself and muttered affectionately of his brother, "God, what a pig."

He ordered their food and took a seat while he waited for it to be cooked and boxed up. He had eaten here once before—or even twice, he couldn't remember—while he had hovered around the lock-up, trying to power himself up. The food was decent and the customer service was surprisingly friendly for New York. It was a welcome change to some of the other people Sam had dealt with in the city.

Sam waited for some time. He wasn't sure quite how long. But while he did so, he began to hum a tune to himself and gently patted the countertop with his fingertips. His eyes wandered around the diner, stopping once or twice over a few women who caught his eye. Sometimes he felt guilty for staring, which was why he never did it for more than a second or two. And it wasn't like he did it often. Today was just…one of those days, he told himself. A day where he noticed them more than usual.

He saw a particularly attractive woman sitting with her friend in a booth not too far away, just beside one of the windows. For a long time Sam stared. The sunlight that poured through the cracked blinds beside them lit up the surface of their aluminum tabletop, as well as the woman's face. She seemed strangely familiar, like he knew her from somewhere. Without realizing it, Sam had furrowed his brow and had also leaned forward slightly, just to get a better look.

She had such beautiful dark hair, Sam thought. And her eyes were absolutely gorgeous. But what captivated him the longest was the smile on her face as she spoke; a smile that soon turned into a quizzical pursing of her lips when she glanced over in his direction, and caught him staring at her. Sam quickly looked away, toward the kitchen. His somewhat pale cheeks flushed pink.

What happened next drained the color right out of them.

"Sam?"

"Huh?"

He couldn't help it. It was the first response that came to him. Sam turned toward the voice, having hoped that the woman hadn't thought him creepy for staring. But that voice sounded familiar. Way too familiar. And when it finally dawned on him who he was staring at, whose voice he had just heard, a genuine smile appeared on his face.

"Sarah?"

Part of him wanted to reach out and hug her. But Sam quickly reined that part in, because it wasn't proper. They hadn't seen each other in a long time—not since he had left after the whole issue with the killer spirit in the painting. It just didn't seem right to try and pick things up where they had left off. Especially not after all that had happened to him.

Surprisingly enough, Sarah felt differently. She reached forward and embraced Sam in a hug. It was brief, however, and friendly. When she pulled back, she smiled just the same.

"God, I can't believe it's you. What're you doing here?"

"Oh…same old thing," Sam said, somewhat evasively. In a diner, let alone anywhere, word was sure to spread fast if he mentioned that he was trying to prevent an oncoming apocalypse. He gestured to the barstool beside him. She sat, and he continued. "You know."

A knowing look took over Sarah's face. Sure, she knew. She might have forgotten all about it, but that expression on her face—the sudden worry that she hastily masked with indifference—said everything. She glanced over her shoulder, then back to Sam. "Nice. Listen…Sam, I would love to catch up with you. See what's going on with you, and all that. Will you be in town for a while?"

Was Sam hearing right? Was that hope in her voice? It raised his spirits a little. "Actually, yeah. At least another day or two." Dean had expressed a distinct desire for wanting to leave as soon as possible, but Sam felt like they could wait just a little while longer. One day wasn't going to make a notable difference in the course of events. He chuckled. "My number's changed, though…you got your phone?"

Sarah pulled out her phone, and Sam gave her his new number. She hesitated when she stood, almost like she wanted to hug him again, but thought the best of it and decided against it. Sam felt disappointed, but said nothing. Instead he said his goodbyes to her, and just in time—the waitress had just arrived with his bags of food.

Now, though, Sam didn't feel quite so hungry.

. . .

Despite his better judgment, Sam didn't tell Dean about Sarah Blake when he returned to the hotel room. Something told him not to. And whether it was for better or for worse, he decided to listen to that voice.

It had been an awfully long time since he had even thought about Sarah, let alone any of the women he had been romantically interested in. Madison, Jessica…they tempted his thoughts down a depressed, dark road, but he willed himself to think about the positive. However little there was.

Through some clever coaxing, Sam managed later that evening to get Dean out of the hotel room and to a bar for some good, old-fashioned fun. Since the demons weren't coming after them and they were in New York, he figured his brother could use the release. This was, of course, after he had already discussed meeting up with Sarah for dinner at a restaurant. Luckily Dean had wanted to go out early, and Sam, not able to break away, went with him. But after a while Sam feigned a headache and decided he was going to go back and lie down. Since Dean was enjoying himself so heartily, Sam didn't figure his brother would miss him very much.

Back at the hotel room, Sam pulled out some of his better clothes and made sure he looked presentable. Wearing a jacket and jeans was fine for hunting, but he wanted to look nice. He was meeting up with an old friend, after all. He settled on a black, long-sleeved button up and a pair of slacks that he kept folded up in the bottom half of the clothes bag. After fidgeting with his hair for a while, he got his bangs to cover his forehead just right.

And with that, Sam left.

The restaurant where he and Sarah had agreed to meet was just a couple of blocks from their hotel. He enjoyed the walk. It was about nine o'clock, and, despite a rather hot afternoon, the night had cooled off, and now was quite nice. Warm enough to keep from shivering, but refreshing enough to keep from sweating.

Sam knew the kind of food Jessica liked, which was the only reason why he suggested a bar and grill. It was more adult than a chain restaurant, but not quite as fancy as a four-star, which put it right in their range for comfort and price. Plus, they could have a drink, which surprisingly enough, sounded rather good to him. He had been without a drink for a while…not since being at Bobby's. And even then, it had been more to calm his nerves and sedate himself than anything else.

He felt a little anxious about this whole thing, but he reminded himself that it wasn't anything special. He and Sarah simply hadn't seen each other in nearly two years. This was friends catching up and having a nice dinner together. This was normal. Oh, was it normal. And did Sam like that. Maybe that was why he was anxious—he hadn't had a normal situation like this in ages. Though, what was going to come up at dinner wasn't going to be normal at all. How was he supposed to tell her all that he had been through in the last year, year and a half? How he had died, how Dean had died, and how he had resurrected him?

His anxiety grew. Sam swallowed roughly as he stepped down the concrete steps from the sidewalk and through the wrought-iron gate door into the bar and grill. He was a little early, and was surprised when he saw Sarah sitting on one of the benches just beside the host's podium. She was wearing a casual black evening dress tied at the waist by what looked like a fabric belt. Her hair wasn't done up, but it was obvious she had taken some time to make sure it looked good.

Suddenly the anxiety didn't seem quite as heavy anymore, Sam realized.

"Hey," Sarah said. She grinned at him.

"Hey, yourself," Sam replied. "You're here early."

"So are you. That a bad thing?"

"No, no, I just." Sam paused. A grin of his own broke out on his face. "Never mind. Let's get a table."

Because it was a Sunday night, the restaurant was pretty busy. Luckily, Sam and Sarah only had to wait a few minutes for a table. When the host seated them, he gave them their menus and informed them of who would wait on them, and then left. Sam sent a slightly nervous smile across the table. He felt dumb for thinking it and not saying it, but she looked beautiful. Just like she had the last time he saw her.

"I'm thinking of beer tonight," Sarah said. "I don't feel like wine or champagne. How about you?"

"You know, I can't complain. A beer sounds great."

Sam was beginning to remember why he had liked her so much. When their waitress came, he ordered them both a beer. She brought them with surprising speed, and they both thanked her before asking for more time to look over the menu. Although Sam continued to steal glances over his menu at Sarah, he realized that the anxiety from before had come back. They had only shared small talk since arriving at the table. He couldn't hide behind indecision on an entrée forever. Sooner or later, one of them was going to ask, "So how are things?" and it was probably going to be her.

Once Sarah set her menu down and closed it—obviously she had decided—she smiled genially and said, "So, how have things been?"

There it was. Sam's throat felt immediately dry. Where to begin, he thought. Choose your meal. Choose your meal, and then you can talk. He quickly decided on the rib-eye steak with mashed potatoes. There. That difficult task was out of the way. After closing his menu, Sam glanced across the table to Sarah.

He swallowed. "Things've been…okay."

She laughed. But she didn't seem bothered by his response. She took a sip of her beer. "Okay, that's a loaded answer."

You're telling me, he thought. "Well. Once our waitress comes, I'll—oh. Haha. Speak of the devil…" Out of the corner of his eye, Sam noticed their waitress making her way towards them. She arrived moments later to take their orders, after which she disappeared again. Now they were completely alone. "Well, now that we're alone," he said with a chuckle.

And so it began. As Sam told his stories, he thought to himself that Sarah was quite possibly the only person he knew he could trust with all of this. After all, she hadn't told anybody about what had happened with the painting, because otherwise he and Dean would have been caught forever ago. And, she hadn't been freaked out then. He only hoped that she wouldn't freak out as he caught her up with his life thus far. Sam left out a few details—a few choice details—mostly because he didn't figure they were appropriate dinner conversation. She didn't need to know that both he and his brother had died, or that Dean had gone to Hell.

Well, she didn't need to know right away. Not yet. He didn't want to traumatize her.

By the end of his tales, Sarah seemed more or less the same as she had at the beginning. Her gaze had become more intense and her resolve had seemingly wavered a bit, but she hadn't broken down or freaked out, which had been precisely his worry.

Just another reason why he had liked her, he thought.

Sam took a long swig of his beer. Throughout the story he had sipped at it. Now it was about a quarter full. "So what about you?" he asked. "What've you been up to since we parted ways?"

Sarah chuckled. "Well, I can't guarantee that things are as…exciting as what you've gone through, but,"—she took a sip of her beer—"after you guys left…I basically went back to things at the auction house. Business as usual, pretty much. But, my dad had a heart attack, and things were rough for a while. The auction house lost profits because I had to take his place while he was recovering." She snorted. "I learned that I am not good at running a business. Talking to people about pieces of art and getting them to bid on them? That, I can do. Appraisals and estate sale scooping? That I can do, too. But finances and payroll and all that managerial work? It's just not for me."

Sam, genuinely interested in her story, shifted in his seat and came to rest his forearms on the table. He leaned on them. "Your dad had a heart attack? God, sorry to hear that. He's doing okay now, though, right?"

"Yeah. He had it just a couple months after you left, just after the New Year." She pursed her lips in faint amusement. "I think it might have had to do with all of the food and alcohol he had on Christmas and New Year's Eve. But, yeah, he's fine."

It was weird to think that she was able to joke about it. But, Sam said nothing. If she could, then it must not have been a major issue anymore. That was good to know.

He was just about to say something else when he noticed their waitress coming toward their table with their food. As if on cue, his stomach gave a loud groaning noise.

He and Sarah both laughed.

"All right, so I've got a well-done rib-eye steak with mashed potatoes…" the waitress placed Sam's plate in front of him. "And a grilled chicken sandwich with seasoned fries." She set Sarah's plate in front of her. "Can I get you two anything else?"

"Maybe dessert later," Sarah said with a smile.

Sam couldn't help but grin at that.

The waitress soon disappeared from view, leaving the two to their dinners. The food smelled absolutely amazing, and Sam, whose stomach gave yet another growl, didn't wait to dig into his mashed potatoes. They were warm and squishy, with just the right consistency. Whoever had cooked them had done so perfectly. He would need to remember this place for the future.

If it still exists, something in the back of his head said.

That made him frown slightly.

"What's wrong?" Sarah asked. "Did they not cook it right?"

"Oh, no, no," Sam said suddenly. He put his fork down. "It's nothing. I just poked the roof of my mouth with my fork."

"Ah."

Sam felt guilty for making a white lie. But he couldn't exactly tell Sarah that the end of the world was possibly coming. He was going to do everything to stop it, and a strange sense of cockiness inside of him told him he would succeed. Where, then, had that other voice come from? And why had it been so cynical?

He and Sarah continued to talk about everything and nothing at the same time, enjoying their food and each other's company all the while. There was no more anxiety or discomfort. Sam knew it was because he had somehow managed to get those voices in his head under control, and because of Sarah. He stared at her throughout the dinner with an interest that didn't quit.

What came next surprised him.

"So, are you seeing anyone, Sam?"

He licked his lips. His mouth felt dry again, even though he had just taken a sip of water. At first he answered by shaking his head. Then he said, "No."

Was that a hint of a smile on Sarah's face?

"What about you?" Sam managed to say.

Maybe it hadn't been a smile. "I was," Sarah said. "For a while. But we broke up about a month ago. We met through a friend. And…he was great, but not really?" What left her then sounded like a laugh of embarrassment. Or maybe it was self-pity. Sam wasn't sure. "It's hard to describe what happened."

"Sorry to hear that," was all he could say.

"Don't worry about it. I've moved on. It's nicer now. I don't have to worry about dealing with him, or answering to anyone but myself. I'd forgotten what that felt like."

There was the smile Sam had seen. It lit up her face and made him smile, too.

"I'm having a great time tonight, Sam," she went on to say. "I'd forgotten how much fun it was to talk to you, and just being around you."

Just hearing that made something swell up inside of him. It took Sam a moment to realize what it was. He hadn't felt it in a long time. It was flattery. Sarah had made him feel flattered.

And he liked it.

"Thanks."

Sarah bit her lip playfully. "I'd also forgotten what a handsome smile you've got."

Sam couldn't help but smile again in response.

. . .

"Nngh…"

Dean rolled over on his bed, awakening to the feeling of crisp, overly washed sheets wrapped around him. His throat burned like hell and his head throbbed so hard he swore it was going to burst open. He was smack-dab in the middle of hangover land.

It had been a long, long time since he had drunk that much in one sitting, and it was obvious that he was now paying for it.

He barely opened his eyes. The bright light that flooded his vision caused him to groan loudly.

"Sam, shut the blinds," he muttered.

But no response came. Sam must have still been sleeping. What time was it? Dean wondered.

He carefully rolled onto his back and lifted his arm up so he could see the time on his wristwatch. It took his eyes a minute to focus. The digital numbers read 9:45 AM. What time had he gotten home last night? He couldn't remember.

"Sam," Dean groaned again. "The blinds."

Again, no response. Dean groaned again and sat up. His head began throbbing even worse. For a moment he felt like throwing up, but after dipping his head down toward his chest, he rid himself more or less of the sensation. It gave him the chance he needed to finally open his eyes completely. To his surprise, very little light penetrated the vertical blinds that covered the window. But what did hurt like a motherfucker to his hung-over self.

Heaving a sigh, the older Winchester shifted around on the bed until his legs draped over the side. He was facing the other bed. It took him a minute to realize that something was wrong with the picture before him, something that he hadn't noticed before.

The bed was made perfectly, with not a single piece out of place. But, that wasn't what seemed strange to him. What did was the fact that Sam's cell phone wasn't on the nightstand. Nor was his wallet. That meant he wasn't in the room. But they had a new rule: neither was allowed to leave without letting the other know in some way, shape or form. Sam had been the one to come up with it in the first place.

And now he had broken it. That wasn't like him.

Dean's hangover didn't seem quite as important at that moment. He ignored his agonizing headache and got up with a grunt of effort, heading over to the bathroom to relieve himself. But then came the sudden sound of the door handle rattling. He turned and immediately regretted it, because his head started swimming. He reached up and gripped the side of it.

At that moment, Sam walked into the room.

Before he had the door shut, Dean muttered, "Where were you?"

"Getting coffee," Sam said.

Dean saw the two white cups and the smell emanating from them. Damn, was it strong. He would have believed that had he not seen Sam's phone and wallet missing. The wallet, he could understand. But the cell phone…there was no need for that if he were simply getting coffee down the hall from the vending machine. It was barely a minute walk there and back.

"That all?"

"Yeah." Sam sounded a little uncertain, almost aloof. He probably knew that Dean didn't believe him. But, he said nothing to counteract it. "Here."

Dean took the proffered coffee, which was warm and sweet in his hands. Coffee always helped alleviate the stress and pain of his hangover headaches. He took a light sip and wrenched his face at how hot it was on his tongue. Still, it tasted nice. He watched Sam go over to the bed and pull out his wallet and cell phone, putting them on the nightstand.

Everything was hazy in Dean's head. Although he remembered coming back to the hotel last night, he couldn't remember whether or not Sam had been there. Flashes entered his head randomly, reminding him of the hot blond he had flirted with at some point, and then the brunette, and then the twins. But he hadn't come home with any of them, obviously, because he had been alone in his bed. Nor was he naked. Nor was his crotch sore.

"You got home late last night," Sam chuckled.

"Do you remember what time?" Dean took another ginger sip of his coffee. A tentative probing.

"Nope."

"Huh."

Dean made his way to his bed and carefully lay himself down on it after setting his coffee on the nightstand. He felt Sam's eyes on him. On top of that, he felt a weird sense discomfort when he looked at his brother and caught him smiling like a dope.

"What're you smiling about?"

"Nothing," Sam said immediately. His smile disappeared.

"God, Sam, you are the worst liar." Dean tried to look at him again, but a sudden flash of light from behind Sam made him nearly growl. He covered his eyes. "Will you do something about those blinds, please?"

As he lay there, Dean heard Sam get up from the bed and fidget with the blinds. Even behind his hand, he could tell that the light had disappeared. When he opened his eyes again, the room was blissfully dark. Sure, his still hurt, but not nearly as bad as before. And without light to instigate further pain, maybe he would recover faster.

Now he was going to proceed with questioning his little brother further. He shifted onto his side and looked at Sam.

"So, give it up."

"What?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "What's got you smiling like such a dork?"

"I told you, nothing!"

But the way Sam's voice raised just slightly told him otherwise. That only happened on very rare occasions—when his little brother had had sex, or was involved with someone. Why Sam would lie about it, he didn't know. It made Dean smirk almost smugly.

"Sammy…did you get some?"

"Dean!"

Another voice raise. Granted, Sam tried to hide it by clearing his throat, but Dean caught it. That was all the confirmation that he needed to solidify his belief. Sam had gotten some last night, and now he was trying to conceal that fact.

"Oh, come on, Sam, you can be honest with me. Where'd you meet her?" He paused, furrowing his brow. "Hey, wait. You left me at the bar last night cause you had a headache. But you didn't! Did you go out somewhere else without me? You sneaky little bitch." He grinned.

Sam didn't respond. Dean could see the gears turning in his little brother's head. Not only that, but he could see him giving in. A defeated look would always take over Sam's face when he wanted to say something, but needed that extra little push to get him over the edge.

Dean knew exactly how to do it. "So, what was her name?"

Sam was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "It was Sarah."

His response was immediate—immediate and confused. "Who?" Dean wasn't thinking clearly enough to ruffle through his memory. Whoever Sarah was, it—"Wait." He blinked. "Sarah? As in that pro…pro…" He furrowed his eyebrows.

"Provenance?" Sam said.

"Yeah, yeah. Her." Dean almost shot up from his bed. "You met up with her again? Sam!" He couldn't help but laugh. That was amazing. Of all the things for Sam to do, he hadn't expected him to meet up with an old flame and rekindle the romance. That was like something Dean would do. It made him very proud. He grinned brightly. "Nice. How was it?"

Sam's cheeks were turning pink. "We didn't do what you're thinking, Dean."

Dean's grin turned into a disgruntled frown. "Well, why the hell not, Sam?"

"Because all we agreed to was dinner."

"Oh, come on. Dinner? Wait, did she ask you, or did you ask her?"

"She asked me, but—"

"Sam!" Dean reached up and gripped both sides of his head in mild frustration. He let out a snort. "That's the perfect in. You had a free ticket!"

"Dean, you're disgusting."

Dean knew better than to take that at whole value. Sam didn't mean it. He never did when he said it. "I'm serious. And I know you like her, Sam. You kissed her before we left. I remember that much."

"It was just dinner, Dean."

A sudden memory flashed before Dean's eyes. He saw himself coming to the hotel room late last night, stumbling toward his bed and falling down on it. His memory distinctly showed his brother's bed, perfectly made like nobody had slept in it at all.

"Is that what they're calling it now?" Dean teased.

Sam obviously didn't understand how big of a deal this was. But then again, he almost never did. For Dean, though, this meant a whole heck of a lot. Mostly, though, it meant that Sam was still Sam. He was still Dean's little brother. Still human.

Dean knew how strange that sounded, which was why he told nobody about it. But sometimes it just felt like Sam wasn't like he used to be—even after having been resurrected. He was more gung-ho, more aggressive. Shoot first, ask questions later. In short, he was more like Dean was. And for the older Winchester, that was disconcerting.

He had a theory. Dean had felt weird ever since coming back from Hell, namely because his brother had given in and learned to control the demonic powers inside of him—the one thing that the older Winchester fought so hard to prevent. And they had changed Sam, whether his little brother wanted to believe it or not.

It had been over an entire year since Sam had even thought of anyone romantically. Dean knew. He listened to him talk in his sleep sometimes. Going that long without thinking of someone in such a way just wasn't healthy. At least, not to Dean. He knew that Sam wasn't as easy-going about these kinds of things as he was, himself. But still. It just wasn't right.

And here, that had changed. In an instant, Sam seemed like his old self again after having run into Sarah. Dean wanted to cling to that Sam. Maybe Sarah would help revert him to normal. She could do things that he could never do for his brother…things that would bring back the Sammy that Dean loved dearly.

Dean wanted Sam back to normal for selfish reasons, too, although he would never admit it. Coming back from Hell had been rough. Actually, it had been more than rough. For the first few nights, he could barely sleep. The fear and shock he felt was enough to keep his nerves on edge for nearly ever. And Sam, although he had been there to help, didn't seem like he normally did. There was no real way to describe it, but it just didn't feel like Sam entirely. Almost like some kind of very well made copy of the giant.

He wanted that normal Sam. No, he needed that. A Sam with demonic powers meant a Sam doing things his way…going against everything Dean knew and held to be true. A Sam with demonic powers meant a Sam who didn't need to rely on help from his older brother.

Dean couldn't handle that. Sam was his world, his everything. If he didn't need him anymore, then Dean felt useless—the one thing in his life he had fought so hard to prove that he wasn't.

Uselessness is a horrible feeling.

"I was thinking we could stay another night or two," Sam said. "Maybe longer."

His words interjected Dean's thoughts. The older one shook his head, and immediately regretted it. The full force of his headache returned. He grunted. "Yeah, sure, that's fine. Ow. Fuck, that smarts." He hissed in a breath. "I've gotta…recover today, anyway, I think. I'm not feeling so hot."

Sam chortled. "How much did you drink last night?"

"Enough. Let's just say I'm surprised I'm not praying to the porcelain gods."

"Well, if you need anything, I'll be here until later tonight."

Maybe Sam didn't realize how much Dean needed him. Or maybe he did, and just didn't care.

For the moment, though, Dean knew that Sam needed Sarah. He needed some normalcy in his life, needed some consistency. And she was probably the only one who could provide it.

And Dean could wait. Lilith could wait. The apocalypse could wait. Whatever Sam needed to be happy, Dean would fight tooth and nail to make sure he got it.

Because Sam's happiness was Dean's happiness.

And a happy, healthy, normal Sam was all Dean needed to feel like he could do anything again.