It happened a lot faster than Sam expected. It wasn't some massive breakthrough, no, but within the first two weeks after Dean's scrapyard meltdown, Sam started to see gradual change. Just little things sprinkled throughout every day. He'd make Castiel a cup of tea, or help Bobby with a car, or stick close while Sam was on the couch doing research. It was almost like he was trying to apologize to them or show them his sincerity. Like he couldn't make himself feel those things, but he wanted to show them. He wanted to go through the steps, as if the action could lead to the motive instead of the other way around.

It sounded backwards, but Sam actually believed it would work.

Sam kept a close eye on their internet history—sharing a laptop with Dean had its benefits, even if Dean tried to hide what he was looking at—mostly because he was afraid Dean would find some torture porn or thrillers online. For the first three weeks, it was normal Google searches related to their attempts to keep Lilith from fulfilling her role as the last seal, but then other things started to show up. Only they weren't bad things.

Dean accumulated a slew of self-help resources. Blogs and books and videos about nightmares, about mental illness, about overcoming bitterness and shame and anger. And then there were more intellectual pursuits. Endless pages about psychology and sociopathy and psychopathy, articles about the components of the brain and how they impacted a person's reality, information about how chemical imbalances changed what the body felt and experienced. Redemption. There was so much about redemption. If there was a story about someone on a dark path finding their way into the light, then Dean had read it, sometimes more than once, and it all pointed to a single concept.

Dean wanted to be saved. Maybe he didn't feel like he wanted to be saved—maybe his soul longed for something else—but he wanted to be saved. Up in his head, with his thoughts and his understanding of himself and the world around him, he wanted to be saved.

It wasn't every day—sometimes Sam would find large gaps between the positive resources Dean was looking up online—but it was progress. Every time Dean offered to make dinner, every time he sat Castiel down and taught him about something human, every time he let Sam squeeze his shoulder or pull him into a brief hug… Sam couldn't help but smile.

Dean was keeping himself out of the shadows, and with his family to help him, Sam was convinced he could stay away from the darkness.

Dean sighed and leaned against the railing of the motel balcony, staring up at the starlit sky with a phone pressed to his ear. "Hey, Bobby. It's me."

"What's going on, boy?"

"I… I know it's like five in the morning, and I'm really sorry, but…" Sighing again, Dean ran his free hand through his hair. "We, um, well, we interrogated a demon today. I didn't do anything, but… I wanted to try being there for it. I stood there while Sam and Cas took care of things."

Bobby hummed on the other end of the line. "So, you tried to sleep." He paused. "You having dreams about tearing people apart? Or is this just some restlessness?"

"I…" Dean swallowed, holding his hand out in front of himself and imagining it coated in blood. "I don't know what to call it, Bobby. It just… I didn't really have a dream, but it's more than restlessness. It's…" He curled his fingers, dropping his hand back down to the railing. "Well, you know what it is."

"Craving." Bobby somehow said it without any criticism in his tone. "How long has it been?"

"Um… well, we spent three months at your place after…" he stood in the scrapyard with a gun to his head, "…and it's been about a month and a half since then, so… almost five months?"

Bobby didn't respond right away, but based on their previous conversations and what Dean knew of Bobby, it was just a thoughtful silence. "Is this the first interrogation, or is this just the first time you're calling me about it?"

Dean started to walk toward the steps at the end of the balcony, slipping his hand into his pocket. "They've interrogated I don't know how many demons, but this is the first time I was present. I don't… I don't just want to avoid the blood, you know? I want to be able to see it and walk the other way."

"Nothing wrong with that, but if you can't do it yet, it doesn't mean anything. You might just need some more time away from the stuff to get better at saying no." Pause. "You said you didn't have a nightmare tonight. How have they been in general?"

Stepping onto the gravel parking lot, Dean began to wander around, casting an occasional glance at the night sky. "They're better, but… not by much. Most nights, I still have'em." He wasn't even sure nightmare was the right name for them, because he thoroughly enjoyed the dreams while he was in the middle of them. "I, um, I thought…" He laughed, embarrassed, and rubbed the back of his neck. "I haven't even told Sam this, but… I thought maybe I should do some kind of… community service thing?"

"What do you mean by that?" Bobby sounded confused, but he didn't reject the idea.

"Like…" Dean let out a sigh, trying to figure out how to word himself. "Like helping out in a homeless shelter or doing construction work for people who can't afford it or… I don't know, something. Just something so, when I wake up from these dreams, I can remind myself that I'm…" a good person, but he highly doubted that was the truth. "You know?"

"So, hunting doesn't help with that? Knowing you're getting rid of monsters and saving lives?" Once again, Bobby's voice was completely open and accepting.

Patting his back pocket, Dean found he had been smart enough to grab his wallet before he left the room, so he started walking across the street to the convenience store. "It does, but… hunting is so violent. I can always hear this little voice in my head telling me I'm only doing it so I can kill things." He kicked at a wayward rock. "I feel like… just being the Friendly Neighborhood Winchester might calm things down a little more."

"You might be on to something." Bobby hummed again, and Dean could picture him scratching his beard. "It might be hard to volunteer at a homeless shelter or food bank, seeing as you're always moving around, but I like that construction idea. You could tell people, you know, as long as they pay for the materials, you'll do the work free of charge."

"Yeah, that's kinda what I was thinking." He laughed softly. "Not to change the subject, but I'm about to go in a store, and I don't want to say anything crazy they might overhear." He walked up to the door and pulled on it, letting himself in and giving a nod of acknowledgement to the person behind the counter. "How have things been?"

Bobby sighed. "Oh, the same old, same old. Researching for hunters all across the country. Trying to work on cars when I can. I actually just sold an old Pontiac to a kid in town who just got his license…"

Sam stopped halfway through cutting a demon's arm with an iron knife, eyes immediately glued to Dean's retreating back and the doorway to the old barn he was rushing through. Sam withdrew and held the weapon out to Castiel. "I got this."

Castiel gave a serious nod and stepped toward the demon.

Sam dusted his hands off and hurried after Dean, stepping through the doorway and looking around to find where Dean had gone. He quickly spotted his big brother by the Impala, pacing back and forth.

"Dean!" Sam jogged over to the vehicle, reaching out a hand even though he wasn't sure Dean would accept the touch. "Hey, are you getting overwhelmed?"

Dean whirled on the spot, hands extended like he was going to grab onto Sam's shirt. "Just let me cut into him! Just—just let me at him for five minutes!"

Gently taking Dean's wrists in his hands, Sam stepped closer and shook his head. "No, Dean." He smiled, not wanting Dean to know how hard it was to see him like this. "If being around the interrogations is too much temptation—"

"Come on, Sammy, just—just a little. I promise I won't go overboard." Dean started pulling on his arms, but Sam didn't let him go. "Just a couple turns with the knife. It's what you're going to do anyway, so it's not really—"

"Dean." Sam tilted his head. "Is this the person you want to be?"

Dean exhaled hard. "If I say yes, are you going to let me cut up the demon?"

"No, I won't." Glancing up at the afternoon sun, Sam forced a quiet laugh through his lips. "Come on, Dean. Is this the person you want to be?"

For several moments, Dean just stood there making disjointed, frustrated noises and movements, but then his shoulders slouched. "I… no, Sam, you know it's not. But it's not like this is me sinking into the depths of insanity, it's just—"

"It's just a relapse, Dean." Sam shook his head, letting go of the wrists. "You can fight this. You were there, and you witnessed it, but it's not for you, Dean."

"But…"

"Remember that little old lady in Missouri?" Sam laughed again, and it wasn't forced that time. "You fixed her fence, and she wouldn't stop giving you homemade cookies and brownies?"

Dean sighed, reaching up and rubbing his face. "I… yes, I remember. I…" He looked at the barn with a kind of longing in his eyes Sam didn't think he would ever understand. "I…" He looked back at Sam, a faint smile pulling on the corner of his mouth. "They were freaking delicious."

"I know. You brought home the extras she gave you." Grinning, Sam took a step and wrapped his arms around Dean's neck. "You can do this, Dean."

Dean hesitated, but then his own arms wound around Sam's torso. "Yeah, I guess." He exhaled hard. "I…"

"It's been almost eight months. You're doing great, Dean." Sam shrugged, and even though he knew it was a little too chick-flickish for Dean, he hugged him for an additional three seconds before letting go. "Maybe it's time to take a break. We could always go get the trailer with all your construction-y things and find a nearby town with some jobs in it."

Dean snorted. "Construction-y things?" He put his hands on his hips, once again looking to the barn. "I guess we can. It might… it might be good."

"Awesome! We should also go visit Bobby. It's been a little while since we headed up his way." Sam slipped his hands into his pockets. "I miss him. Do you?"

Tearing his gaze away from the makeshift interrogation chamber, Dean swallowed hard and offered a nod. "Yeah. I miss him." He wet his lips, struggling for a moment more, and then he let out a laugh. "I can't believe I forgot to tell you. Sometime last week, I woke up from one of my dreams, and Cas was just kind of hovering over us like he sometimes does. So, we stepped outside, and we just kinda sat there." He lifted his hands and shrugged. "You know how Cas is. He and I don't really talk, we just… well, we kinda sit there."

Sam arched a brow, trying to keep his smile hidden as he waited for Dean to finish the story.

"So, we're sitting there, and I was sharing some stuff, and then he just gets up and leaves." Dean spread his hands. "I'm like, dude. What the heck?" He laughed quietly, shaking his head. "So, he comes back out of the motel room, and he's shaking something. I lean closer to see what it is, and bam! Big stream of soda foam hits me right in the face."

Sam threw his head back with a laugh. "He sprayed you with soda?"

"I mean, it got my mind off torture, so… mission accomplished?" Dean didn't stop smiling, folding his arms over his chest. "It was so freaking sticky. I had to go in and take a shower. I'm still thinking of a good way to get him back."

"When you figure it out, tell me, and I'll bring a camera." Sam stepped to the side and leaned back against the Impala, crossing his arms. "Did he smile at all after he sprayed you? Or did he just stand there with his ever-impassive—" he dropped his voice an octave, "—'I am Castiel and I have never smiled once in my entire lifespan.'"

Dean shook his head. "He stared at me at first, but there was a little smile on his face once I started laughing." He ran a hand through his hair. "He's… he's good to us, you know?"

"Oh, I know." Sam got a wistful expression on his face, thinking of the many times Castiel had put a hand on his shoulder, giving him a silent look that held the same encouragement as a long pep talk. "I can't believe it, after everything we did to him, but…"

Dean snorted. "Yeah. Tell me about it."

They stopped there, both contemplating the angel who had been tagging along for almost a year. It took a few moments, but Dean leaned back against the Impala like Sam, and they just stood there, next to each other. They waited for Castiel to be done, staring up at a nearly cloudless sky, a sense of peace settling over them.

"Thanks, Sammy."

"Mmhmm."

Pause.

"Love you, Dean."

"Love you, too."

Castiel looked around when he landed in the motel parking lot, blue eyes skimming his surroundings for any sign of the man who had called out to him. Of course, with the sigils Castiel had placed on Sam and Dean, Dean had needed to give him his location, but he hadn't been very specific. Still, Castiel spied the Impala parked nearby, and he couldn't imagine Dean was still in the room with Sam, so he started to walk.

It took a moment, but as he came to the edge of the motel building, he looked down the alley between it and the next-door restaurant, and he saw movement. He slowed to a stop and took a closer look, quickly finding Dean curled up beside a dumpster, holding his head in his hands.

Castiel didn't say much—he rarely did, and he wasn't sure if that was because of their history or because he had never been a very talkative person—but he approached and quietly lowered himself to the asphalt.

"Dean."

Dean shook his head, drawing his knees closer to his chest and sucking air through his teeth. "I don't understand why you won't just kill me."

Castiel stared at the brick wall in front of them, his hands resting in his lap, and he didn't respond right away. He chewed on his own words for a moment, blinked once, and slowly opened his mouth. "Because I don't want to kill you."

"But you should. And I deserve it. And you won't." Dean shuddered, pulling away from Castiel. "I can't even—I can't even give you a real apology."

"Dean." Castiel sat for a moment, just breathing. It was something he had been hyperaware of ever since Dean stabbed his lungs. He found it relaxing, but it also brought back memories. "You don't have to feel anything toward me. You don't have to feel like you're sorry. I don't want that from you."

Jerking his head up, Dean held his hands out, fingers curled, a note of desperation in his voice. "But why?"

"Because it doesn't mean much to me. I don't rely too heavily on the concept of emotions." Castiel lifted his shoulders in a slight shrug, still staring dead ahead because he knew Dean didn't like to be scrutinized in moments of vulnerability. "You do things, Dean, that I get to see every day."

"But it's not real," Dean argued.

Quirking a brow, Castiel considered the wall. "Of course it is. Why do you say it's not?"

"Because I don't feel anything! It's all a lie!"

Castiel didn't respond for several moments, taking in what Dean was saying and trying to sort out the best way to move forward. He contemplated what he knew about human emotions—which was next to nothing—and he tried to take into account the corruption Heaven had filled his brain with.

"Cas—"

"The Bible talks a lot about forgiveness. It talks about forgiving your enemies." Castiel moved his hand slightly, but he didn't know what to do with it, so it remained in his lap. "Do you think it means that you should feel it? That if someone hurts you—hurts you deeply, maybe doing something irreversible—and you can't feel like you forgive them, you're wrong? Or evil? Or sinful?"

Dean let out an exasperated noise. "Cas, that's completely different! If you can't forgive someone, it's because they did something. That's on them. I can't feel sorry because of something inside me. It has nothing to do with anybody else."

"Of course it does, Dean." Castiel finally looked over, blue meeting green in an unwavering stare. "You didn't choose what brain you were born with or how it would react to the torture in Hell. You didn't know what picking up that knife would do; you were just trying to get the pain to stop. And I'm the one who pushed you toward Alistair."

"Yeah, but I—"

"Dean, it's been almost a year." Castiel spoke lowly and evenly, almost glaring at Dean. "You haven't tortured anyone in a year. During that year, you've shown me many, many times that you are sorry for what you did. It's enough. Let it be enough."

Dean grit his teeth, but after a moment of searching Castiel's eyes, he pushed himself away and slouched against the wall with an angry grunt.

Castiel turned his head back toward the building across the small alley, fingers curling slightly in his lap. He could still remember the sensation of fractured bones, but the memories didn't bring any sensation of anger or hatred. Only sadness.

"It was about you."

Castiel hummed softly.

"It doesn't always happen, but… sometimes… the dreams are about you. You on my table." Dean took a shaky breath. "I see these memories, and… I feel so good. It's… it's intoxicating. But then I wake up and remember what those actions I loved so much did. I remember how I… hurt you, and…" Dean cleared his throat again, no doubt trying to remove the emotion from his voice. "Cas, I'm—"

"I know."

"No, let me—let me say it." Shifting against the building, Dean turned his head, though Castiel couldn't tell without looking which direction it had gone. "I, uh, I need to… to say it. That I… am sorry. I am… so sorry… for what I did to you." He swallowed. "If I could go back, and—and tell myself, 'Hey, I've seen the future, and you don't want this as much as you think you do.' If I could just make myself stop…"

Castiel tilted his head back, looking up at the night sky. He inhaled, once again feeling a ghost of the pain Dean had inflicted on him. "I forgive you, Dean."

Dean snorted out a bitter laugh. "Do you feel it?"

"Not always."

Dean said nothing, drawing his knees up to his chest and dropping his head onto them. Castiel didn't say anything, either, letting the quiet settle over the alleyway. They sat there, in the dark, not moving or speaking. Out on the road, a car went by, the headlights briefly casting flickers of light against the walls. Castiel looked at the starless sky for another moment, and then he looked down at the hands resting limply in his lap.

They sat like that for a half an hour.

"You need sleep." Castiel put his hands on the pavement and pushed himself up, taking a moment to dust off his jacket before reaching out to Dean. "Take my hand."

Dean lifted his head and stared at Castiel with eyes that truly were windows to his weary, fractured soul. Still, he took Castiel's hand and pulled himself to his feet. "We're in 201," he muttered, letting go of Castiel and running that hand through his hair.

Humming in response, Castiel started walking back toward the parking lot, letting Dean take the lead as they rounded the corner. They made their way to the motel room, and there were no questions asked when Castiel followed Dean into the room. Dean shut and locked the door behind them, and Castiel walked over to Dean's bed. He turned and put his back against the wall, standing between the bed and a window with the blinds closed.

Dean gave him a brief look, his eyes embarrassed and grateful and relieved, and then he toppled onto the mattress. He wrestled with the blankets, getting them over himself, and then he let a heavy sigh escape him.

Castiel glanced over at him, watching his unmoving form for several seconds before he looked at an equally motionless Sam. He looked back at Dean, then at Sam again, and then at Dean. Staring for a moment, he considered the brothers, and then he righted his head, putting his gaze on the motel wall.

"Thanks, Cas."

"Sleep, Dean."

And they fell into another comfortable silence.

"You're not gonna take your turn, Dean?"

Dean smirked from where he stood, leaning back against the wall of Bobby's library with his arms folded over his chest. "I'm good, thanks."

Spitting out a mouthful of blood, the demon hissed at him. "What'sa matter, Winchester? You scared?"

"Scared? Me?" Dean laughed, tilting his head back slightly and ignoring the way Bobby, Castiel, and Sam all tried not to tip their hand to the creature tied to the chair. "I'm not scared."

"Yeah, you are." The demon pulled against the ropes keeping him bound in the center of the devil's trap. "Poor, fragile, breakable Dean. He went to Hell and turned into a monster, and now he can't handle it."

Dean only smirked again, glancing in the demon's direction. "Oh, really? Tell me more."

"Have you told them, Dean? How famous you became? How good you were at what you did?" Practically frothing at the mouth, the demon leaned forward in his chair. "Have you told them—"

"I've told them everything." Dean shrugged his shoulders. "Sorry, buddy, but you can't get under my skin." He pushed off the wall, walking up to the captive with a familiar glint in his eyes. "I know what I am. I know what I'm capable of." He cast a quick look at the holy water in Sam's hand. "I could get you talking in minutes. I could do things to you that you—even after endless eons of pain—have never experienced before. I could. But I won't."

Confused but still trying to win, the demon buffered for a moment before opening his mouth to continue his attack.

"I'm not gonna stand here and pretend I'm too good for it." Dean scoffed. "I'm the worst of the worst." He leaned forward, bracing himself on the arms of the chair, gripping the demon's wrists. "But I've got people who need me to be something else. So, that's what I am. You should try it sometime: actually putting effort into who you are and what you do instead of following every whim that pops into your head."

"You're one of us, De—"

"Nah. I could be, if I wanted. But… nah." Dean straightened up, pushing off the chair and sauntering over to the archway that led into the hall. "Have fun, boys."

He didn't wait for a response, disappearing around the corner and walking the short distance to the basement stairs. He went down, green eyes wandering over the walls as he made his way up to the door to the panic room. Pulling it open, he let himself in and took a few steps, stopping just inside and closing his eyes.

It was all there, in his mind, ready to be recalled at a moment's notice. Blood. Screams. Torture. He could taste it, he could smell it, he could feel it. But there were other things, too. Remembering what it was like to be pulled out of the panic room by the arm, Sam staring him down with a combination of fear and anger and horror in his eyes. Remembering the night after the scrapyard incident, when he had crept down to see what Castiel was doing and found the angel sitting on his mattress with his head in his hands.

Dean took another step, reaching out and running his finger over the edge of the wooden table—the only thing that had been left in the room when they prepared it to contain Lilith. It's not for you, Dean. He tilted his head slightly, remembering the last time he had woken from a dream about Castiel, how he had actually begun to feel that regret and self-loathing he had been so numb to before. It's not for you, Dean. Eyes wandered over the old bloodstains on the floor and then to the place where his cart of instruments had been. It's not for you, Dean.

He turned around and walked out, closing the door behind him, and then he jogged up the stairs. He strode down the hall and nearly ran into Sam, who was coming out of the library.

"Dean! Lilith is at some place called St. Mary's Convent." Sam spoke with excitement in his eyes. "Bobby said everything in the panic room is ready, Castiel double-checked it, so all we have to do is go and get her." He stopped, seeming slightly less optimistic. "Somehow."

Dean looked over Sam's shoulder at Bobby and Castiel, and then he looked at Sam again. "You realize we're probably all about to die terrible deaths, right?"

"Yeah, when are we not about to die terrible deaths?" Sam drawled.

Chuckling softly, Dean pushed past his brother and stepped into the library. "So, we find this convent, we drive to it, we capture a demon, and then… what? Do we just go back to normal?"

Bobby shrugged. "Not like we can really do anything else. Besides, there's always gonna be monsters that need hunting."

"I think I would like to try hunting without the threat of the end of the world." Castiel cocked his head to one side. "I'm afraid I don't have much experience hunting anything but demons, but I am willing to learn."

Dean looked at Sam, who had walked a little closer. "Sammy? You think maybe you should head back to Stanford now that things are under control?"

Sam gave a sad sort of smile and shook his head. "No, Dean, I… I think this is where I belong."

"If you're sure." Dean looked at the body in the center of the room, knowing if the body was still there, then the others had already checked and found the host was dead. "Do we have any idea who he is or where he came from? Could we get him back to his home and leave him somewhere they can find him and at least bury him?"

Pressing his lips together, Sam shook his head. "We couldn't find anything."

Dean nodded. "Okay. I'll take this guy out and bury him while you guys start finding the convent." He stepped forward and pulled his pocketknife out, cutting through the ropes.

"Dean, are you—?"

"I'm fine, Sammy." Dean laughed, looking over his shoulder and giving his brother a genuine smile. "Everything's fine."

Sam looked at him for a long moment, but then he returned the expression and headed out into the kitchen, presumably to get something to drink or snack on.

"Dean." Castiel moved closer, the iron knife they had used in the interrogation still in his hand. "I am not adept at researching, so I will assist you with the body."

"Cool."

They worked together to get it unbound, and then Dean threw it over his shoulder. They walked out, and Castiel grabbed the shovels from the back of the Impala. He had helped them bury enough bodies to know what was needed. They went to the very edge of the property and started digging, and from the time they stepped onto Bobby's porch to the moment they were in, neither of them had said a word.

"So, are you just a quiet person, or do you not say much because I traumatized you beyond repair?" Dean asked, trying to sound more casual than the question warranted.

Castiel didn't look up from the hole he was digging. "I have never been very talkative."

"You know, Cas, you can leave if you want. I mean, Heaven hasn't found you yet, and it's been more than a year. You could go out, become your own kind of hunter, or not be a hunter at all. You could have any kind of life that you want, and you could—"

"I want to be with you and Sam and Bobby."

Dean stopped digging, slightly out of breath. "Cas." He wiped the sweat from his brow, giving the angel a hard look. "You shouldn't be with the people who tortured you."

"I spent thousands of years with people who had tortured me in the past." Castiel shrugged. "It doesn't much matter to me."

"That's a lie." Dean reached out and grabbed Castiel's shoulder, trying to get him to stop working and focus on the conversation. "You think I don't notice? Nobody knows trauma better than me, Cas, and I see that thousand-yard stare you get. I see the way you flex your fingers and press the center of your palm, like you're feeling the broken bones again. You reach up and put your hand to your neck where I branded the sigil that kept you from healing."

Castiel glanced away, proving Dean's point.

"You gotta go, man. You gotta find people who care about you, you gotta make friends and family, and you gotta—"

"Why won't you let me choose for myself who those people are?" Castiel looked back at Dean, glaring at him. "I have spent my entire life doing what I was told without question. Now I am trying to choose what I want for myself, and you won't let me."

Dean spread his hands slightly. "Cas, you…" He let out a sigh, dropping his arms to his sides as he accepted defeat. "Do what you want."

"I will, thank you." Castiel pushed his shovel into the dirt, immediately back on task.

Trying not to let the conversation bother him, Dean took his shovel and did the same.

They dug the hole and dumped the body in, spending a moment in contemplation before they started dropping dirt onto the corpse. They packed the dirt down and made their way back to the house, once again completely devoid of words.

But then again, maybe that was best. Maybe it made Castiel feel better. After all Dean had done, he owed Castiel that much. So, he kept his mouth shut.

They went back inside, and they joined Sam and Bobby in their efforts to find the convent. Dean honestly had no idea whether they would survive, but he didn't feel like they had much of a choice, so he kept his comments limited. They couldn't let her roam free, and with how much time had passed and how many seals had broken, they couldn't kill her. They had a job to do.

What if you needed to torture again? What if that was the job you had to do?

Dean didn't know. His gut told him he would do it, but with the progress his family had made on his brain, he found himself divided over his motive. He couldn't decide if he would sacrifice his mental state to get the job done and save people, or if he would give in to the craving that came and went simply because that was what his body, his brain, his soul wanted.

"This is not who you are."

"You don't have to do this alone."

"You're family, boy."

And in that moment, Dean knew. He could come back from anything. It didn't matter how far he strayed, how dark he got, how bloody his hands were. His family would always be there to drag him back from the edge.

Always.

Author's Note: I hope the ending wasn't disappointing for anyone! I know I crunched a big, long recovery period into one chapter, but that's the way I wanted this one to go. I've done a lot of stories with long, arduous recoveries, and I thought for this one, I'd try something a little simpler but still as accurate as it could be. I hope you enjoyed!

As always, you can check out my tumblr or website to see what I'll be posting next! I also have a Substack where you can get a look at some of my original works. Thanks so much for reading!