Chapter 3

April, 4, 2012. Coeur d'Alene, Idaho

"I got you. I got you, baby."

Nora Havelock hugged her son tightly, her cheeks shining in the dim light from the single bare bulb.

"Jeffrey dead?" Sam asked Dean, keeping his voice low. They'd misjudged almost everything about the case, and as he looked over his brother, he hid his surprise there wasn't more damage from the demon. Blood of the exorcist, Nora'd said.

In the back of Sam's mind, there was an image of Dean, white and still and bled out; an image he'd have to try to bury when they got out of here.

Dean nodded, wincing as the incautious movement sent a sharp pain through his bruised muscles.

"I'll get the car," he said, turning for the warehouse's door. "You, uh, gonna make sure those two are okay?"

"Yeah, I'll get their stories straight," Sam said. He watched his brother walk away. It was more than the past few hours of being a demon's chew-toy that had taken the strength and energy from Dean. They'd both been careless this time. They'd had their reasons, but it was going to get them killed, sooner rather later, Sam thought.

Glancing back at the woman kneeling with her son, he let out a soft exhale and started toward them. Nora had been practising for awhile now. He hoped she'd have what he needed.

"Nora, one more thing."

She looked up, her face pinched tight with the tension of the last few hours. "Whatever you need, Sam – I can't – I–" Looking down at the young man in her arms, she shook her head. "Whatever you need."

"I need another tracking spell, but I don't have anything physical to key it with." Sam wondered if it was going to be too much to ask. She'd been practising the Right Hand Path. The air fritzed and sparked to his left and he saw the devil in the corner of his eye.

"Oh, don't you worry, Sammy," Lucifer said, his bloodshot and muddy gaze on the witch. "She'll know how to get it, even if she doesn't have it at home."

Still kneeling, Nora nodded. "I have something that might work. It's at the store."

She rose slowly to her feet, pulling her son up with her. "Can you come by in the morning? I have to get Ethan to the ER."

"No." Sam shook his head. "I need it now. Get it and drop it off here–" He handed her the motel's address. "– before you take him."

She looked like she might argue and Sam's expression hardened. "Nora, I wouldn't ask if it wasn't very important."

"Ah, yeah …" Lucifer mused. "'Whatever you need' somehow has a way of becoming 'it's all too hard' when push comes to shove, doesn't it?"

Her arm around Ethan, Nora's gaze dropped. "All right. I'll be there in twenty minutes."

Sam refused to look at the figure standing to one side of him, nodding to her instead and turning to go out the door. Since he'd let the sonofabitch in deliberately, Lucifer hadn't left him alone. Crossing the unlit parking lot, he wondered how high the price was going to be.

Dean was sitting in the car, the engine idling, waiting.

"They all right?"

Sliding into the passenger seat, Sam said, "She's taking her son to the ER. There wasn't as much blood loss as there could've been. They'll be fine."

"I need to sleep." Dean yawned and pulled out.

The motel room was dingy and bland, but Dean barely noticed. He pulled off his coat and left it on the floor near the bed, face-planting onto the mattress and hoping sleep would come before he had to think about anything else.

He was bone-tired. The demon'd figured it'd have plenty of time to extract payment for the exorcism, lucky for him. It wasn't just the physical aches and pains that were driving the desire for total oblivion, but he told himself it was. Sleep had been a fickle companion the last couple of weeks. He needed hours.

Sleep? That annoying voice, deep and gruff and intolerant, filled his head. Or escape? Gonna make believe – again – that you're not you and this ain't your life? See what else you can break? Dammit, Dean, I told you to get your head screwed on straight!

He wanted to escape, he retorted, eyes screwing shut as he ignored the recrimination. Escape from the memories of the last few hours. Of the past few weeks. He didn't need the reminders that people were sometimes worse than monsters. And yeah, most of all, he wanted to get out of his fucking head and away from the unalterable fact that he'd made the mistake of his life, had no idea why, and no means to fix it.

Stop thinking, he told himself. Stop everything.

Sam laid out the items required for the spell on the table, glad the Wiccan had been thinking clearly enough to provide what he'd needed. The yarrow, mallowroot and powdered quartz he had, along with a dozen other common spell ingredients in small Ziploc bags in his duffel. Getting corpse ash and mandrake might've been a challenge.

Behind him, Dean still lay face down on the bed, snoring softly. In the shadowy corner of the room, Lucifer stood and watched. After a vivid hallucination that'd overtaken him when Dean had gone out for the count, the devil'd disappeared for awhile. Now, he was back but seemingly content to watch.

Lighting the candles at the corners of the map, Sam tipped the herbs, ashes and elements into the required beaten brass bowl.

Nora had specified he'd have to concentrate on who he was looking for – without a physical key, it was the only the mental connection that might work. Closing his eyes, he visualised Ellie as strongly as he could; her face, her hair, the light scent she wore; the economic ferocity with which she fought; the cold practicality he'd seen when she worked; the smile that lit up her eyes and face … everything he knew of her. Maybe it would work better if Dean handled this part, he thought briefly, but he couldn't ask it of his brother. It was better not to raise hopes that might be shattered if it didn't work.

When he was sure his interior image of Ellie was as strong as he could make it, he opened his eyes, lighting a match and tossing it into the bowl. White light filled the room as the contents ignited and he forced himself not to flinch backwards when the column of blue fire shot out of the bowl, reaching almost to the ceiling.

The map fluttered on the table, flames flickering into existence on each of the candles at the corners. A point of blue fire appeared on the paper, gaining substance as the flame in the bowl died. It trembled for a moment, then went out, leaving a tiny charred hole on the map. Leaning down, Sam looked at the location.

Thompson Falls.

The psychic's house. He shook his head, wondering if the spell had worked correctly.

"Oh, yeah, it worked. That's where she is." The amused drawl came from the figure in the corner. "Sneaky little bitch, isn't she? Hiding in plain sight."

Sam refused to look at him. He picked up the bowl and shook the contents, checking the heat was gone from them before he emptied it into the trash can. He blew out the candles and set them aside. The map was folded over and put into the laptop bag. He inhaled deeply, wondering what the hell he was going to do about what he'd found. Seeing her alone first would be preferable, but he wasn't sure he'd be able to get away. Not to mention the likelihood of her just disappearing again, this time for good, if he showed up unannounced.

Glancing at Dean, he saw his brother was still sleeping. He'd rolled onto his side, and his brows were drawn together, his arm moving restlessly. The nightmare had started, Sam realised, letting out a tired sigh. He had to do something.

He looked over the table, checking it was clean, and turned off the light. Sitting on the other bed, he pulled off his boots, shedding his jacket and jeans. As he pulled down the covers and slid under them, he heard Dean's breathing become more rapid.

"So, what are you going to do about her, Sam?" Lucifer sat on the side of the bed, looking down at him. "Can't just let it lie. Dean's gonna bust an aneurysm or give himself a heart attack one of these fine nights."

Sam rolled over, away from the hallucination. Lucifer made a tsk-tsk noise behind him.

"You're not thinking it's all gonna be fun and games from here, are you, Sammy? That is so not on the playlist."

Sam flinched as he felt heat rising around him. Just a trick, he thought desperately, refusing to wipe off the sweat starting to bead on his face and neck. Just a mental trick, not real, not real, not real.

But the flames felt real. His skin bubbling and peeling and crisping felt real. He ground his teeth together and closed his eyes tightly, striving to block it out, his thumb driving into the palm of his other hand. Not real. Not real. There wasn't even a spasm in response. Not real!

NOT REAL!

April 5, 2012. Thompson Falls, Montana.

Walking unsteadily down to the kitchen, Ellie wondered how long breakfast would stay down today.

Tea and toast, she decided, carrying the mug and plate to the kitchen table and sitting down. She ate slowly, nibbling around the edges of her toast and washing the small pieces down with sips of heavily honeyed tea. After fifteen minutes, she'd finished and the roiling sensation disappeared, leaving just the disconcerting feeling of being almost, but not quite, okay.

She'd put her dishes in the sink and turned on the taps to wash up when the door bell rang. Reaching automatically to the back of her jeans, her fingertips confirmed the SIG tucked there, and she turned off the taps. No one knew she was here. It had to be a very industrious Jehovah's Witness or someone who was lost.

As she walked down the hallway, she realised she was holding her breath, waiting for the nausea and dizziness to return. Experience had proved the possibility of a repeat performance after eating if she was too energetic. She let out the held breath in relief when the toast appeared content to remain where it was.

Opening the front door as the bell rang again, the speech prepared and ready for whatever luckless person had gotten stuck out here dried up in her mouth and her stomach gave a massive lurch when she saw him standing there.

"Ellie, we need to talk." Dean stood in front of her, Sam a couple of paces behind.

Her small breakfast rose without warning, and she shut her mouth tightly, her hand slapping over it as she spun around and ran for the downstairs bathroom.

Dean stared blankly at the now-empty hall. It wasn't the reaction he'd prepared for, and he stepped hesitantly through the front door, looking right, down the hallway she'd disappeared.

"Well," Sam said, walking in behind him, "she didn't slam the door in your face."

Giving his brother an irritated scowl, Dean crossed the great hall and pushed through the half-open doors of the hallway as he heard the heaving from the bathroom. He increased his speed halfway along, following the sounds, seeing a door standing partly ajar near the end of the hall.

In the large, old-fashioned, green and white bathroom, Ellie crouched on the floor, her head over the toilet, hair held back with one hand as she continued to dry retch into the bowl.

"Ellie? You alright?"

He walked into the room and stopped, standing behind her, pretty damned sure he shouldn't be there, that she wouldn't thank him for watching her moment of weakness, but unable to turn around and leave her to it. Memories of her taking care of him, and the less frequent occasions he'd been able to do the same for her, came back to him and he swallowed uncomfortably, wanting to take a step closer, to wet a facecloth or pour her a glass of water or do something to show he hadn't forgotten what'd been between them.

He couldn't think of anything to say. There weren't any topics that could be considered safe in this situation.

He took a half-step back when she stood abruptly, one hand fumbling to flush the toilet, the other wiping over her mouth. Her gaze was on the floor as she walked past him to the sink.

Watching her turn the tap on, lean down and let her hand fill with the rushing water, the compulsion to do something, say something hit him again. What kind of a jerk just stands there, he wondered uncomfortably? He wanted to move. His legs weren't getting the message.

She sluiced her mouth out, rinsing and spitting. Turning off the tap and reaching blindly for the hand towel, Ellie leaned against the edge of the pedestal sink as she wiped the towel over her face. She dragged in a deep breath before she turned to face him.

"I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be?" she said, and walked out past him. If there'd been any question of how she was gonna react to him turning up, he figured it was gone now. He'd seen warmer looks from marble statues.

He waited until she was in the hallway before he followed.

Fine.

Yeah.

Right.

Beside the front door, Sam saw Ellie striding back up the hall toward him and dropped his gaze, studying the patterns in the concrete tiles with intense concentration.

She stopped in front of him, and he looked up unwillingly. He couldn't blame her for feeling betrayed as he met the accusation in her eyes, but he wasn't going to apologise. Watching her expression tighten in acknowledgement, Sam opened his mouth to say something, closing it again when she turned to face Dean.

"What do you want?"

The question came out like a bullet and Sam realised he'd made a mistake. He should've given her more time, he thought. Should've seen her on her own, talked to her first.

"I'm sorry –" Dean said.

"You're sorry."

Sam felt his brother's involuntary flinch at the flat disbelief in her tone.

They were too similar. Holding onto their pain, not wanting anyone else to see it, knowing how much it revealed. He swallowed the impulse to shout – at his brother or at the woman standing there – just yell at them to talk to each other. Abruptly, he became aware he shouldn't be here, shouldn't be seeing this, or hearing it, or watching what it was doing to Dean. He backed a step toward the door, halting awkwardly when Ellie swung back to him.

"How'd you find me?" she asked.

"Uh, a tracking spell," he confessed.

He saw her glance up at the domed ceiling, guessing she was rethinking the protection of the place.

"It was - uh – Nora, she's a Wiccan –" he added, wondering if it would do any good to explain, but she was already turning away from him, arms crossed tightly over her chest.

For a fleeting and disjointed moment, he stood outside of the emotion of the situation, feeling nothing but seeing every detail in sharp-edged relief.

Lit up by the pitiless morning light coming through the open front door, Ellie was pale and fragile-looking, skin stretched over bone; shadows like bruises ringing her eyes, her eyelids swollen. Opposite and caught in the same cold light, Sam noticed how much weight his brother had lost in the last few weeks; his face hollowed out, the fine lines around his mouth and eyes sharp as cut glass. Had he looked this bad when they'd left Idaho, Sam wondered? He didn't think so, but then again, he hadn't been paying that much attention. Too busy with the devil and the case and wondering who else they could turn to for the research.

"What do you expect me to say to that, Dean?" Ellie's voice cracked for a second then strengthened, increasing not in volume, but in depth. "You're sorry, everything's okay again? I'm good? I'll be able to just – what? – ignore what happened and forget about it?"

Dean's face whitened, the light smattering of freckles over his nose and cheeks standing out. Sam watched him duck his head; saw his brother's throat working; his shoulders hunch up.

Seen him do that before, he thought. But not for years. Not since John Winchester had died.

You weren't here, Sam. You didn't – didn't have to watch his heart break a bit more every damned day when Ellie didn't show.

He was in love, Sam thought, turning away before either of them could see his surprise. In love and desperate enough to not fight back or make excuses.

The apartment had been filled with sunshine, and she'd stirred beside him, one arm sliding over his chest possessively. His heart'd been hammering, slimy breath caught in his throat and the images Technicolor bright behind his closed lids. Not going to lose her, he could remember telling himself, repeating it like a chant, a useless mantra of false confidence.

But he had.

Shame and guilt washed through him, fed by those moments he'd seen, known about and hadn't really believed. Every time Ellie'd disappeared, believed dead or just gone. He'd watched his brother bury his emotions; had watched him harden, get more reckless, less careful. Every time he should've known how Dean had felt and he hadn't made the connection between how it'd felt to him, and what it'd done to his brother.

"Another god? A spell? A curse?" Ellie asked, her tone derisive. "Something you couldn't control?"

It could've been, Sam thought suddenly, opening his mouth to tell her about the case, closing it with a snap as Dean's gaze whipped around to his, his expression unambiguously savage.

Ellie frowned, catching the look between them. "Give me something, Dean."

"I fucked up, I know that–" Dean said. "I can't take it back. Jesus, Ellie, you don't think I'd wipe it out if I could? I-I don't know how to make this right–"

Turning away from him, Ellie clamped her teeth together. The hair-fine thread of control she still had stretched out, thinning further. It wasn't helping, letting her anger and pain spill out onto him. She could see how he felt, could see it so clearly it was a knife's edge, tearing through her, and she knew there had to be a better way to deal with this, a better way to end things so they wouldn't carry the scars of this conversation around with them. Behind the crumbling walls of her control, all the emotion she'd thought she'd been dealing with were rising up and smothering her. She hadn't stopped loving him.

"You can't even tell me why?"

"That's– it's not that– I–" He turned away, hand flung out as if he wanted to hit something. "I don't know."

For some reason, the raw admission hurt more profoundly than anything else he'd said.

"I didn't give you enough?" she prompted, trying to keep her voice expressionless. "You wanted something else? Someone else? Couldn't you have just told me that? Sometime? Fit it into your busy schedule?"

He swung around, his head lifting, eyes wide at the accusations. "No! Goddamn it, Ellie, no, that's not-"

"But you think I should trust you?" she cut him off. "Trust what you're saying now?"

"I get you're angry, Ellie – you have every right to–"

"I'm not angry, you asshole!" she snapped at him. "I'm afraid!"

"What? Hey, c'mon–"

She shook her head. "I believed what you said. Believed you. And I was wrong."

Tucking her hands under her arms, it struck her again how much she'd misread him. She'd never thought him capable of turning to someone else, either the temptation or the act. "I'm supposed to have faith in what you say and do? Believe you again? How?"

He took a step toward her, and she stepped back involuntarily, recoiling at the idea of his touch.

"I'm not going–" he started, hands rising pacifically, spread wide and palms out. "Just tell me what I gotta do, Ellie," he said. "Tell me how to fix this."

She swallowed a bubble of hysterical laughter, the half-formed impulse gone as fast as it'd arrived. Did he really believe she could give him a plan?

"I can't."

The minute he'd spoken, he'd wished he could take it back. There was no way of fixing what he'd done. Sam'd said it. Ellie's reaction just underlined it further. He was going to lose her, he was losing her. Nothing he could say was going to make a difference.

His chest hurt, as if, down deep, something was breaking. Something he hadn't been sure he'd had.

"Don't … okay? Don't say there's nothing I can do. Don't tell me I broke this past repair. There's always a way, right? There has to be something, something I can do, something …"

She was less than four feet from him and it may as well have been a thousand miles. What was no longer there was impenetrable.

And just what the Sam Hill you think was gonna happen when you showed up here?

The thought was impatient and angry, like the man who lived only in his memories.

Fuck, he shouldn't've come here. Should've stayed clear until he'd figured it out, figured out a way to make it right.

You were kiddin' yerself if you thought she was gonna tell you what you do, make your penance and somehow it'd all be good again, Dean. You break a woman's heart and you never get it back, not the way it was, not the way you wanted.

His breath whistled out between his teeth, vanished inexplicably from his lungs. Ellie stood there, no longer cold or angry. Defeated. The word sprang into his mind. Empty.

"I–I–" she stammered for a second, pulling in a breath as she shook her head. "Dean, there isn't a way to fix this."

He stepped back, stumbling over his own feet, his balance gone. There was no fight in her voice, but he heard the finality there, as loud as the thump of a coffin into a grave.

Everyone leaves you, Dean. Maybe it's not them. Maybe it's you.

"You need to go."

He didn't want to hear that.

"I don't want you here."

They were like knives, those words. Stabbing into his chest, knocking the beat of his heart off rhythm; sharp and precise, hitting every vital organ.

In between them, he heard another word, a word that was really what this meant.

Over.

She didn't love him. That'd gone. He was pretty sure he'd never get it back.

He was still standing. He was still breathing. Pain had bloomed in his chest and it spread through him. It seeped through, slowly at first, then faster, tentacles of acid reaching through his veins and nerves until he wondered remotely if maybe he was finally dying, because the pain was so intense, so widespread, it didn't seem like he could survive it.

Someplace far in the back of his mind, he recognised the feeling of relief. Osiris had created a facsimile of it, sending Jo to do his dirty work. If he just gave up now, would it all be over? He'd tried and failed. Like he'd tried and failed to do so many things. She'd thought he'd wanted to die. Hell, he'd thought he'd wanted to die. But without the god's influence, it'd dissipated. Until now.

He watched her turn away, walking past Sam to the double doors on the other side of the great hall. Watched her walk through them, and close them behind her. He couldn't say a word. Couldn't move.

Sam started when the doors closed, glancing at Dean and cringing at his brother's frozen expression. After Cas'd wiped the memories of Lisa and Ben, he'd thought he'd seen his brother's heartbreak. He'd been wrong. That hadn't been devastation. That'd just been sorrow.

"Come on." He gripped his brother's arm above the elbow and pushed him toward the front door. "We gotta go."

Dean nodded, shaking his arm free as he went down the steps. He stopped beside the car.

"I'll drive," Sam said, walking around the car to the driver's side. Expecting an argument, he hesitated by the door, brow wrinkling up when his brother got into the passenger side without a word.

"You okay?" he asked, sliding into the driver's seat. Dumb question, but he couldn't think of anything else to say.

"Fine." Dean stared straight ahead, the monosyllabic answer automatic.

Seen this before, Sam thought, twisting the key in the ignition. Dean'd been driving then, but the expression had been the same. Rigidity that spoke of pain held down and shock muffling every response.

The Mercury's V8 rumbled into life, the noise bouncing between the rock walls of the ravine and the concrete walls of the house, drowning out anything he could've thought of to say. Sam spun the wheel, following the turn around back to the driveway. He slowed for the highway, making a left toward the town. He glanced at Dean every few minutes, but his brother didn't move, didn't even blink so far as he could tell.

"Well, I thought that went well," Lucifer said from the back seat. Sam's knuckles whitened on the steering wheel.

April 7, 2012. Pasco, Washington.

I don't want you here.

Dean closed his eyes, shoved the memory away. He couldn't shut it out, not entirely. Every time he thought he had it locked up and buried, it reappeared, replaying in his head.

Everybody leaves you, Dean. You notice? You ever ask yourself why? Maybe it's not them. Maybe, it's you.

Opening his eyes took effort. He glanced at the gun he was cleaning. The magazine was still in place. Clearing it, he set the piece on the bed beside him. He curled his hands into loose fists to hide the way his fingers were shaking.

Wasn't the first time a chick'd ditched him, he told himself. Wouldn't be the last either.

On anyone else, it might've worked. He just sucked at lying to himself.

There was a six-pack of beer in the small fridge, but he didn't want one. Didn't want a drink at all. The thirst that'd been his near-constant companion for the last few years had dried up and vanished the previous morning when he'd opened his eyes and remembered.

What do I do if I lose everyone?

Start again.

Everyone would've been easier to deal with. Everyone but one.

The door to the room opened, and his brother walked in, two large paper sacks of food in his hands. Dean felt the weight of Sam's gaze, resting on him.

"You okay?"

"No." He ducked his head, a derisory smile quirking up one side of his mouth. "No, Sam, I don't think anyone could say I'm okay."

Dumping the food on the table, Sam pulled out a chair and sat down.

"I fucked it all to hell."

Sam's forehead wrinkled up characteristically, the corner of a lip caught between his teeth. Wary, Dean decided. Probably with good cause.

"I – uh – I guess I don't really understand what happened, man," Sam said.

"That makes two of us."

He remembered wanting to be away from Sam, so his brother wouldn't have to watch him get well and truly loaded, trying to drown out the sense of futility and emptiness that'd been dogging him for days. He remembered waiting for the whiskey to blur and erase Ness' comments, to block out the doubts and shut down his feelings.

He remembered thinking it had been a long time since a pretty woman had come onto him, a feeling that'd seemed just as bizarre at the time as it did now. He'd been drifting away from his life, his only partly-coherent thinking interleaved with the false memories of an angel who'd been trying to teach him a lesson.

He remembered falling easily into Lydia's expectations, telling her he was investment banker, and maybe it had been then he'd started to buy his own cover, pretend he wasn't who he was, that for a short time he was someone else. He didn't know why that'd seemed so desirable.

He could feel his brother's expectant curiosity, waiting patiently to explain some of it, at least.

"After the elemental, you know, things seemed to be better. For a while. But, uh, all that anger I had after Bobby died … uh … it started fading." He stared at the floor, thinking of what Ness had said to him about hunting. "In '44, I –"

What he'd been going to say disappeared when he recalled that moment. Ezra's store, the smell of fabric and chalk, her comment. He tucked his hands between his knees, tipping his head up as he drew in a deep breath.

"It hit me all at once, you know?" He frowned at the ceiling. "I'd jumped in, and it was a fucking miracle I got back – I mean, a real goddamned miracle, Sam. You had to do everything right at your end – I had to be in exactly the right spot –"

"Yeah, but it worked, Dean," Sam argued softly. "That wasn't just luck. That was you knowing me well enough to know what I'd be doing –"

"It was luck," Dean cut him off. "Pure and simple."

He coughed, clearing his throat. "Doesn't matter. It worked. But Chronos, you know, he was right about me – I been spinning my wheels so long now, I don't know what the fuck I'm doing."

"You're doing your job," Sam said. "That fucked-up god didn't know what he was talking about."

Dean smiled at his brother's vehemence, rubbing his fingertips over his eyes.

"Maybe he didn't," he allowed. "I didn't say any of this was gonna make sense, did I?"

"But Ellie … on the way to Seattle, you were talking – you were gonna –"

"Yeah." Dean looked up, his eyes bleak. "I-I wondered – when I was trying to remember, and you know, figure it out – I, uh, wondered if I did it deliberately. Tried to sabotage what I had."

Sam let out a slow exhale. He'd wondered that himself, the next day, watching his brother behave as if nothing unusual had happened.

"Why would you sabotage it, Dean?" he asked. "You were good with her, I know you were. I've never seen you like that, not with anyone, not on your own."

For a few minutes, Dean didn't respond. Sam wondered if he'd pushed too hard, if this was something his brother wasn't willing to talk about.

"Sometimes it felt … uh, it didn't feel like … you know, with … uh, everything I've done, Sammy–" He cleared his throat and shrugged. "It didn't feel like I deserved that."

The room's overhead light hit his face as he lifted his head and Sam's throat tightened abruptly. It wasn't often Dean let him – let anyone – see him so vulnerable. In fact, it was so goddamned rare, it invariably hit him like an axe, shaking him to the core.

"You know, I wanted you to be out. Get married. Have kids. Be, uh, happy, you know? But I never saw that for myself." Dean's mouth twisted into a bitter smile. "And that was okay; I mean, I understood that, I was okay with that … until I … uh … when she … well, until I figured maybe it was possible for me too."

Watching his brother struggle with emotions that'd been pushed down and hidden and buried for too long, Sam turned away.

He knew Dean had been floundering; between what he desperately wanted and the self-stated conviction he'd never have it. Never deserve it. He should've pushed harder, he realised. Should've made his brother talk some of this out before. The only reason he hadn't had been because Dean'd done his talking with Ellie, and so far as Sam'd been able to tell, that'd been working out pretty well.

"You remember the wishing well, in Concrete? The giant teddy bear?" he asked abruptly.

Dean nodded, brows knitting at the diversion.

"You remember asking me what I wished for?"

"Yeah. You said you wished for Lilith's head on a plate."

Sam shook his head. "I told you that, but I didn't. I wished for something good for you. A chance to be what you wanted to be." He'd wished for it before Dean'd even told him about remembering. Wished for it because his brother had been scarred and torn up inside and needing help. Help he wouldn't let anyone give him. "I didn't throw any money in, but I wished it."

There was no way they'd ever get a chance to say these things again, he thought, watching his brother turn away. No way he'd ever get another chance to tell Dean something of the realisations he'd had, churning in his brain for a long time now. He drew in a deep breath.

"All my life, you've been between me and whatever was out there. The monsters, the dangers, the disappointments; even Dad, when he got tanked and couldn't stop it from spilling onto us." Sam couldn't see Dean's face, shadowed with his head down. He ploughed on, hoping his brother was listening – and really hearing him this time.

"My whole life you protected me, had my back – you gave up your soul for me. You forgave me when I fucked up and you stayed when you should've gone. You were there, every time. And it might've been what you thought you were, might've been how you saw yourself, but it wasn't everything you are. It was something you did."

"Wait, okay?" He held up a hand as his brother looked like he might argue. "Hear me out. When I bailed, in Indiana, you said you admired me for doing what I wanted to do. You remember that?"

He knew he did, watching his brother shift uneasily on the bed. "You gave me that, right when I needed to hear it. The only reason I could do what I wanted was because you did all the rest of it, Dean. You stayed with Dad. You gave up what you wanted."

Dean shook his head. "I did what I wanted."

"Not all of it."

"Maybe not all of it," Dean allowed, shrugging. "Enough."

"Why didn't you want me to tell Ellie about the Amazons?"

His brother rolled his eyes, snorting. "Tell her the woman I fucked was really a monster? And there was a kid? Yeah, that would've really made her day."

"It could've been a coercive spell, Dean," Sam argued. "We don't know –"

Dean cut him off with an impatient gesture. "There wasn't any coercion, Sam. I knew what I was doing. I don't know why, not exactly, but it was all me."

"I thought you going to Lisa was the right thing," Sam said. "It wasn't until I saw you with Ellie, at Bobby's, I could see how wrong that'd been. That was the first time I think I could see what your life could be like. First time I saw what you wanted that had nothing to do with me, or Dad."

"Yeah." Dean exhaled, his face hardening. "Well, I blew it."

"You think what you did – in Hell – that means you didn't deserve it?" Sam asked. "Or did getting what you wanted, even when you didn't know you wanted it, scare you enough to try to break it?"

"The hell you talking about?" Dean's gaze shot up, brows drawn together.

"I'm talking about you thinking it's easier to go on like always instead of risking yourself for something better, something you needed."

"You think this is the easy way?" The disbelief in Dean's voice was real, Sam thought.

"Easier than admitting you deserve some happiness?" he challenged. "Easier than forgiving yourself?"

"Jesus, give me a fucking break!"

"No." Sam stood. "If you screwed this up, so that things would go back to the way they were, Dean, I swear, I will kill you myself."

He thought he'd finally gotten through to Dean with that.

"That's not – no."

"Then what the hell happened?"

Dean scowled at the floor, hands curling into fists. He stood, pacing to the kitchen and stopping next to the fridge. For a moment, Sam thought his brother didn't know what he was doing there.

"I wanted to be someone else. For a while," Dean said, turning around suddenly. "It got – it got weird. Confusing-weird. Like I was dreaming or something. I kept remembering all the false shit Zachariah fed us with, like it was real or something and it –"

"What?"

Shrugging, Dean got up. "I don't know. I just wanted to stop thinking and feeling."

"Dean, it could've been a spell –"

"It wasn't," Dean said flatly. "It was – I was – weak. Okay? I wasn't thinking about anyone but myself. She - Lydia - she was a redhead," he added, rubbing both hands over his face. "She didn't look anything like Ellie, but ... I don't know ... I -"

He shook his head, leaning back against the counter as his anger ran out. "I wanted someone. She wasn't there."

I know how dead you are inside. How worthless you feel. I know how you look into a mirror... and hate what you see.

Dean's eyes screwed shut at the memory. It'd been a while since he'd felt worthless. The Horseman's words had sucker-punched him a few times, coming out of the blue. He'd stopped hearing them when she'd turned up at Bobby's.

He lay on the bed, the pillow dragged over his shoulder and under his cheek, barely aware of the dampness under his chin. Didn't matter how many times he told himself he'd get over it, the pain kept coming. All the things he'd kept inside. Things he'd begun to hope he might have. Dust and ashes.

The only thing he wanted was to take it all back, turn back the clock, make it not happen.

It'd been bad when she'd disappeared, after Raphael's failed attack. That had been nothing like this. Had been someone else's decision and he'd just had to live with the fallout. This was worse. He'd done this. It lay squarely on him and what he'd done, in a moment's drunken whim, was still ripping him to pieces.

He couldn't admit it to Sam, but he hadn't just wanted someone to help him shed himself. He'd needed it. He still didn't know why.

Drinking made it worse. In between the time he started to feel it, and the time he lost consciousness, he had no armour at all against the seething vitriol that lay waiting for him in his mind and memories.

Working helped. Helped to back off the pain, the guilt, the way it wasn't getting easier ... or better. Mostly it got worse, every goddamned day.

He couldn't work twenty-four-seven, and sooner or later, there was a dark and silent motel room, or miles of empty road in front of him and all that crap would come back. It wasn't nearly enough to kill him, he thought bitterly. Just enough to cripple, in a way that felt like it might last the rest of his life.