A/N: I cannot thank you enough for your continued reading and support! Things have been so very heavy in this story so in this chapter we see some much-needed positivity!

P.s. Dean's laptop magically teleports in this chapter because for the life of me I could not keep track of where it was as I wrote.

The car ride back home was long, but not nearly as arduous as the trip there. Half way they stopped again at the Founder's Creek Diner and Dean was all smiles; four different plates of food and no hesitations ordering. As bad as his leg had been leaving the clinic, a few hours of sleep in the back of the car seemed to have cured him of stiffness and pain. Sam cautioned him to still take it easy, and Dean agreed, but that didn't stop him from reveling in his victories. He sweet-talked the waitress every time she came by the table, he ordered two slices of pie, and he paid the check, signature and all. Standing to leave, he caught sight of his reflection in the same pane of glass-the same reflection that taunted him once before. While his arm was still tightly clutched to his chest, he didn't notice it in comparison to the smile on his face. Ready to leave, Dean gripped the tabletop and pushed himself upwards from the booth. Standing without the aid of an object or his brother, Dean walked out of the diner completely uninhibited and unassisted. Opting to take the ramp, rather than the stairs, though, it was clear that Dean wasn't pushing his luck.

Back in the car, Sam was already planning for when they got back to the bunker. Dean would need to rest, probably. Sam wouldn't force anything. But Dean was improving, it seemed, and rapidly. If that trajectory continued, Sam wanted to be able to get back to something good. Truth be told, despite the disaster that was the Adlet hunt, he lived for it. He hadn't really processed how much he missed hunting, how badly he'd been itching to work again. If Dean kept getting better, then maybe, just maybe they could get back to something like before. But before was a dangerous word and Sam didn't use it lightly. He'd read all the grief counseling literature, the trauma recovery pamphlets and lectures...he knew that the number one rule was not to wish for what you didn't have: what you used to have. But the world didn't know what he did. He and Dean weren't bound by science, nor by superstition. For the Winchesters-elitist as it sounds- rules didn't apply. As the hours in the car passed, Dean continued talking and talking and talking and talking...and Sam was more than happy to listen. A million conversations later, after seven hours in the car (a ten hour collective trip), they were finally home. Out of habit, Sam automatically went to the back seat, planning on helping Dean out of the car.

"Hold on." Dean instructed. "I'm already on a winning streak."

The older brother scooched over to the open door, and first got his weaker leg onto the ground. Doing the same with his strong leg, he then reached out for the door looking for something to grab-something other than Sam. Rocking his weight forward, he pulled on the door in an effort to get him out of the back seat. Things didn't go as smoothly as he'd hoped, but not at his own fault. At the awkward angle, the door swung back inwards and nearly knocked Dean back into the car. Sam's long arm caught it before it hit Dean, and Dean then maneuvered out of the way to stand next to his brother. Closing the door, Sam had a silent laugh and Dean reflected on the moment humorously.

"I'll work on that."

Sam went to the trunk to get their bags and Dean followed rather than going inside.

"Give me my bag." Dean nudged Sam as he pulled the duffles from the back.

"Dean-" Sam began.

"I'm not pushing it, I promise. I feel good, Sam. I do."

Sam handed Dean his bag and he cautiously put it over his shoulder, testing to make sure it wouldn't disrupt his balance. Confident he could manage it, he started for the bunker. Once inside, Dean was still feeling good but he, even more than Sam, wanted to be conservative. He felt his muscles fatiguing, his mind beginning to go a little foggy. He headed for his room, planning on trying to take it easy. He could feel Sam's eyes watch him as he walked down the hall, his limp slowly getting worse. He successfully arrived at room 11 unscathed and dropped his bag as soon as he stepped over the threshold. Picking up his laptop from the table, he then dropped onto the bed and melted onto the mattress. It wasn't long before his eyelids were drooping and he faded into the comfort of sleeping in his own bed.

( ) ( ) ( )

Upon waking, Dean was stiff but not in too much pain. Thankfully, he'd slept on his back which allowed his still-healing shoulder to not bear any weight. His laptop, still in the bed beside him, indicated it was early-almost five in the morning. While he wanted to stay in bed, his bladder had other priorities; he gingerly moved his rigid muscles and used the nightstand to support himself as he stood. Once finished in the bathroom, he concluded that he'd never be able to get back to sleep. On a bit of a recon mission, he walked the opposite direction down the hall to Sam's room. Quietly as he could he nudged the door open, pleased to observe that Sam was still sound asleep-snoring and on his belly. Smiling at the sight, Dean backed away as seamlessly as he could and headed for the kitchen. His joints still hadn't quite woken up so the few steps down to the kitchen were a bit cumbersome, but he'd managed it alright. He had to sit at the table for a moment to recover but he traded this happily for his ability to move unaided. In his moment of meditation, once again he feared that these improvements were on a time-table-that it was only a matter of days until he got worse again. If that was coming, though, then he'd deal with it when it did. Best he enjoy what has while he still has it. Mocking a possible impending decline, he stood to make breakfast; to try and use every ounce of capability he had. Ever since settling at the bunker, Dean had become efficient in the kitchen. For someone who loves food, it was only natural that he had some fun making it. Despite wanting waffles, he had no desire to make up batter and frig around with the iron. He settled on something egg-based; something Sam would like. As he collected the few things he'd need, a better idea came to him. French toast. Adjusting, he also grabbed the bread and a few seasonings from a rack that had never been touched; he hoped they weren't from the 50s. Before actually cooking, he had to sit again to rest. He contemplated taking something, but worried his high doses from the clinic might still be in his system. A few moments sitting seemed to be enough recovery for the time being and he went back to his morning project. Cracking eggs one-handed wasn't as difficult as he'd feared and only one piece shell fell into his pan; one large enough that he could simply pluck it out. He lost track of time as he cooked, especially because he kept taking intermittent breaks, lest his leg give out on him. What he really needed right about now was coffee; they only had whole beans though, and Dean didn't want to risk waking Sam with the sound of the grinder. Successfully plating the french toast and the eggs, Dean began to feel a little warm and a little dizzy. He blamed it on the literal heat of the kitchen and sat down once again. Appearing at the threshold was Sam-complete with bedhead. He looked at the scene before him and blinked as if to check and see if he was still asleep; somehow dreaming. Bewildered, he stepped down into the kitchen and pointed to the food warm on the stove.

"Did you…?" He began

Dean moved his eyebrows up and smiled as he nodded; a prideful, giddy child.

"B'nifit 'w'kin up at f-five." Benefit of walking up at five

Damnit.

The set-back he feared.

Dean scowled at the unfairness of the trade-off but Sam handled the situation like the pro he was. He simply went to the counter and brought back the plates of food.

"I can't believe you were up at five. I thought you'd sleep for like twelve hours."

Sam ignored Dean's hiccupy speech and he did so without difficulty. Sam was too busy feeling elated at Dean's physical victory to be worried about early-morning stuttering.

"F-figured the same ab-bout you." Dean raised his eyebrows and dug into the food, pretending that he hadn't just burned his tongue.

"You want coffee?" Sam asked, standing.

"Yeah. I w-would've made some but I didn't w-want to wake you with the grinder."

Sam shot a look back to Dean as if to say I-told-you-so; Dean's articulation was returning rapidly.

"You clearly did enough already. How did you even learn to make french toast?" Sam, like Dean had been earlier, was all smiles.

"D-donna gave me a recipe at some point. Thought you c-could use a break from doing...you know...ev-verything."

Sam didn't acknowledge Dean's comment and instead brewed the coffee as his brother continued to eat. A beat of silence passed and the previous conversation was dropped; Dean began a new one.

"Have you heard from Cas lately? He's been AWOL."

"Not since you saw him at Jody's...He's probably busy in Heaven. Said there was a lot of stuff to reorganize. Why? Did you call him?"

"No I haven't talked to him since Jody's either. Well, I...I prayed to him when you got taken by the Adlet but he never showed. Probably just b-busy."

Sam sat back at the table with the coffee and continued eating.

"Anyways…" Dean immediately went into a segway and stood with a little resistance from his muscles. He walked to his laptop which he'd laid by the coffee pot and placed it on the table between him and Sam. "You know the Sayer Mansion?"

"The Clue House? Yeah, of course. Did you find a case?" Sam's voice broke in a little bit of worry; as much as he wanted to get back to hunting, this was jumping the gun.

"No, there's no case." Dean opened his laptop and scrolled for a minute, eventually turning it around to show Sam the elegant website. "There's a s-screening going on. Someone found and restored all the old reels they had in the basement-all the original footage of the interviews and the parties...murder and mayhem galore."

Sam's face lit up-eyes completely focused on reading as he spoke.

"The lost footage? Of the original cult members? Dean how the hell did you hear about this? I mean this group was the first to gain public attention for-"

"Yeah, yeah, I get it. Save it for the other nerds, will you?" Dean feigned disinterest as he opened up a new tab on his screen.

"Tickets?!" Sam exclaimed "You got me tickets?"

"One night only. Couldn't have you miss the party. Not too far away. An hour maybe. You could use a night of Sam-approved fun."

Sam broke his gaze away from the computer for the first time.

"You're not coming?"

"You've had enough of me. And no offense, but I've had enough of you. I'm good, Sam."

Sam accepted that, and happily went back to reading about the event.

"It's tonight?" He asked.

"Yeah, sorry for the short notice. Only saw it last night...you don't have to go."

"NO, no, I want to go I just...I wanted to wait and make sure you were feeling well enough."

Sam was hesitant to share his thoughts; he knew that both he and Dean were feeling like they were on top of the world and he didn't want to ruin that feeling by reminding them of their circumstances.

"I'm prolly gonna crash early anyways. Still tired." Dean's response was nonchalant and Sam tabled the discussion for later.

"Alright well if you're gonna geek-out here, I'm gonna go change." Dean went to stand but his foot caught the leg of the table as he pushed the chair away. Faltering, Dean just nearly missed cracking his head against the kitchen counter. Sam's hands were on him instantly as he righted himself.

"So yeah. I'm gonna go lie down." Dean was still a little hot and dizzy from making breakfast but he was okay to walk back to his room. Sam gave him an arm to get up the few kitchen steps and then left his brother to shuffle down the hallway back to his room. Upon seeing his bed, Dean realized how tried he still was; there was no denying that the past two days had been chaotic. Much as he wanted to forget it, they had also been packed full of mind-numbing seizures. So yeah. He was gonna take a day to sleep it off, and Sam was gonna have a night without worry and obligation. It seemed like a good deal to Dean. And boy was Dean Winchester an expert on deals.

( ) ( ) ( )

For the second time that day, Dean awoke in his bed. His mouth was dry, and his limbs a little numb. They had a faint tingling about them; almost pins and needles. Considering he'd been asleep, though, he assumed that it was from that, and not an impending fit. Sitting up, his body was as creaky as the bed itself but he had to admit that he felt better. Moving at a snail's pace he got out of bed and reached for his phone before remembering that he'd cracked it. Great. Migrating down the hall, he checked the clock for the time and was surprised to see that it had gotten so late-almost six. Sam hadn't been so wrong about him sleeping for twelve hours after all. Jeez, had it really been that long? Finding his laptop on the map table, there was also a note and a cell phone accompanying it.

Headed out to the Sayer Mansion. You're still asleep. Left you an extra phone. Call me for anything.

-Sam

Dean read the note and pocketed the cell, happy to see that Sam was eager to go to the event. Dean sat clumsily and opened his computer, unsure what to do. He was bored. So very bored.

And hungry.

And lazy.

And did he mention bored?

Okay well sitting and complaining wasn't doing him any good; he learned that a long time ago. From Dad, mostly. Wow. Dad. He hadn't thought about Dad in a long time. To be fair, he thought about Dad almost every day, but not in the way he just had. Upon consideration, Dean realized that he really hadn't thought if Dad were alive today-how John would react to seeing Dean like this. Truth be told, Dean wasn't sure exactly how his dad would respond...so much had changed, so much time had passed...there was no way to know. Dean wasn't up for lonely, nostalgic longing so he mentally shelved it and decided to be productive. He really didn't feel like cooking...at all. But he did stuff he didn't want to do all the time so it wasn't that much of a stretch. Walking to the kitchen felt like a hike but a consolation prize awaited him on the table.

You made me breakfast, I'll make you dinner.

-S

Below the note was a wrapped plate with sandwiches and despite his agitation that Sam went to the trouble, he was relieved. Eating in silence, his good hand was a little shaky. He needed his meds before things reached the point of no return. Heading to the bathroom, Dean pulled the prescription bottles from his cabinet but his fine motor function was a little too uncoordinated to get the pesky lids off the bottles. Problem solving second nature, Dean plugged the sink and placed the bottle on top of the drain. Then, he took the heavy metal soap dish and dropped it onto the weak yellow plastic. It cracked easily and he took his doses, funneling the extra pills back into the cracked container. He'd deal with it later.

A noise from the map room startled him, and he hugged the bathroom wall in reflex.

"Sam? Dean?" Cas' familiar voice echoed down the hall and Dean shouted back, relieved he didn't have to deal with danger.

"Just me, Cas."

Dean left the bathroom and went to meet Cas halfway. The angel moved much faster than the hunter, though, and they ended up convening in the hallway.

"Dean-is Sam alright?"

"Yeah, he's good. He went out for the night. How have you been, man? Haven't heard anything from you."

"Heaven's been messy...I didn't hear anything from you. I thought maybe you wanted to be alone."

"You're always wanted-I tried calling but. Oh." Dean stopped his sentence in a moment of realization. "Sam and I were...long story short I prayed to you but I think the place was enchanted. Prolly put a cone of silence on angel-radio."

"That would do it. I'm sorry I wasn't there, regardless." Cas bowed his head almost formally and then replaced his expression with quizzical eyes.

"You seem much improved...Not that it's not wanted I just-" Cas struggled the same way Sam had; it was hard to balance hope and expectation.

"I get it-Sam and I went through the whole thing already. I don't know for sure but I got a loose theory. My body went freakin haywire and screwed me over but I got my voice back. I felt the...the scales you were talking about. I felt them change. In my head. Figured it was some kind of trade off."

Cas became very worried very quickly and Dean tried to assuage him.

"I think it's fine, really. Tell me about the mess upstairs." Dean started for the library and Cas followed, matching Dean's deliberate, easy pace.

"Angels are...displaced from their stations you could say. There is a rather corporate greed associated with establishing order and hierarchy. For beings not intended to feel, they certainly can be whiny."

Dean gave a pleased chuckle.

"You mean Angels are entitled dicks? Shocker." Dean raised his eyebrows as he turned to Cas but his face was apologetic.

Settling in the library, Dean had Cas grab his laptop from the map table where he'd left it.

"Where's Sam?" Cas' tone implicated something more and Dean called him out on it.

"You mean 'what was so important that Sam left me all alone in my delicate condition'?"

"No, that's most certainly not what I was implying."

"I told him to go out, to have fun. I got him tickets to some cult-museum film-screening thing. He deserved a break."

Dean opened his computer and mindlessly began scrolling. Accidentally clicking a pop-up, a bright, flashing ad took over his screen and Dean felt his eyes roll back in his head as his neck and shoulders tensed. He stayed conscious this time around though he was unable to stop the micro movements of his facial muscles. As the focal seizure faded, he was able to see Cas more clearly in his view. The angel had placed his hand on his head but whether he'd been the one to stop the seizure, Dean didn't know.

"Dean?" Cas' deep voice resonated in his ears.

"M'Okay."

Cas removed his fingers from the hunter's forehead and sat calmly beside him, still worried. Dean recovered quickly, though, and found himself consoling the angel.

"I know they look bad but I'm good. Really. Was just because of the stupid pop-up."

Cas was still quiet, and Dean prompted him into sharing.

"Cas, c'mon, I don't feel like playing 20 questions. What's wrong?"

Castiel turned to look at Dean head on and embarrassingly confessed.

"I saw in your head when I tried to stop the spasm. I wasn't trying to."

"Yeah, it's ok. You got an angel for a best friend and you kinda get used to mi cabeza es su cabeza."

"I'm not sure I understand but I appreciate your forgiveness."

"Alright, well, spill. Whaddya see?"

"You were right." The angel confessed.

"You can say that again," Dean chuckled.

"You were right."

"Not literally-" Dean groaned internally.

"The scales...for lack of a better term… they did change. But not the way I expected."

"You're gonna have to try and explain better than that, man."

"Say you're mind is a warehouse-"

"Cas, no offense but these analogies never end up making sense."

The angel rolled his eyes at the Winchester's critique and began again.

"Do you remember when you got stuck in the Trickster's awful television loop?"

Dean nodded.

"And the way to get out was to simply play along? To pretend you were capable?"

Dean nodded again.

"I think Michael…" Dean shuttered at the name. "I think he set up something similar. A way to taunt you."

"Make me believe that all I have to do is give into it? And when I do it goes away? Cas, there's no way."

"It's just a theory."

"I think he came in and he used me and knotted up my puppet strings and left."

Cas was silent as Dean let out a loud, agitated sigh.

"Sorry, Cas. It's not your fault."

Cas smiled as he took Dean's computer and closed the blinking ad for him.

"Would you like me to put on Speed?" The angel asked, knowingly.

"How did-oh. Right. In my head." Dean shook his head at the realization that the angel had briefly read his mind.

Nodding in permission, Dean regrettably let Cas take over his computer. With the movie in progress, Dean settled in and enjoyed the fast-paced absurdity. Cas asked a lot of questions but Dean didn't mind answering-still enjoying his ability to speak so freely and easily. Half-way through the movie, Cas was called away to deal with a mini-crisis. Some angel named Zadkiel involved in a stand-off. Dean assured him he'd be fine and with a flap of his invisible wings, he was gone as quickly as he'd arrived.

Dean continued watching the movie, even if his mind was beginning to wander. He'd spent a lot of hours over the last few months wondering how and why Michael did what he had. Cas' visit and his changing abilities caused him once again to ask these same questions. A memory surfaced, still raw… the imaginary bar Michael held Dean hostage in-the positivity and complacency he'd used to keep Dean there. It was the second tactic the archangel had used; the one that would have continued working if not for Sam and Cas pulling him out. Michael trapped Dean in a place where he was surrounded by easy choices; an illusion of control. It was the opposite of drowning-of having nowhere to go, nothing to do, and no hope of escape. Dean's current fate, it seemed, was a combination of both Michael's tortures; Dean constantly encountered fake choices and decisions about his body and his health, and yet he was still drowning without hope of survival. It was Michael's last attempt at controlling his perfect vessel should the archangel find a way to come back.

But Dean had broken out of Michael's control before. He was determined to do it again. Dean couldn't bear to consider it much more so he attempted to pull his focus back to the movie at hand. Sandra Bullock was keeping the bus at 50mph and Keanu Reeves was searching for a way to defuse the bomb. Huh. It wasn't unlike his own situation. Whether he was the bus or the bomb, Sandra or Keanu, he had no idea. Extended metaphors weren't really his strong suit. But an idea had been planted; hunting the Adlet had caused a massive set-back, yes. But it was temporary. In truth, it was the cause of his greatest improvements. Dean concluded, from his limited observation, that conservative living wasn't doing him any favors. Maybe he just needed to try and be like...well...himself. Maybe the old adage was true: he had to get worse before he could get better. It was a dangerous thing to believe, though. It was risky business. Maybe it wasn't the hunt at all-maybe it was just time. Time he and Sam had well-spent.

An hour passed and the movie ended, Dean checked the time and knew Sam wouldn't be back for a few more hours. He wanted to do something productive so he went to the library with his laptop, scrolling through news reports until he stumbled upon anything remotely case-worthy. Only a couple things caught his interest and he sent the info to a few contacts, Garth included. Still wired, Dean put on Speed 2: Cruise Control, and tried to lose himself yet again in the story. Watching, he couldn't forget about his earlier analogous question. Was he the bus or the bomb? Logic told him he was the bus-the thing at risk of destruction. But a nagging part of him wondered if he wasn't the thing that risked destruction.

And then it hit him.

Michael.

The crack in the door.

His failing body.

He reached for the extra cell, desperate to talk to Sam. But he paused before dialing. Sam was having fun. Let him have the night.

He toyed with his idea for the next few hours and found no fault in logic.

He would wait to hear what Sam thought, and Cas' opinion, but Dean Winchester, for the first time in a long time, felt like might have answers.