A Supernatural Fan Fiction Challenge

Recently, his sleep has been filled with the Mark, killing Sam or Cas, constantly struggling against the bloodlust. Honestly not much different to his waking hours. But Hell. Or post-Hell. He hasn’t dreamt of this in a long time. Even though he knows it’s fake, the awful, familiar panic begins to build in his chest. He starts to hammer on the roof of the box. But it’s not timber as usual. It feels like… cement? Weird…

His lighter is in his pocket. When the little flame flickers to life above his head, he see that the ‘dirt’ isn’t dirt at all. Dried blood is caked to the concrete slab above him. What the hell? Something is very wrong with this. He never dreamed of getting out of hell like this. It was always the timber roof, but dirt collapsing and smothering him, or hellhounds waiting on the surface, or Cas just not there…

When did he fall asleep? He can’t remember… Sam went to the library to do research, Dean and Cas went to question the victim’s boyfriend and then… what came next?

He lets his head drop back to the ground because the memory has deserted him, but instantly flinches away again. The sharp pain that flared suddenly fades to a heavy throbbing behind his eyes. His hair feels damp and crusty, and pulling it back in front of his face reveals more blood. What the hell? This is not a normal nightmare. This is really not a… a dream at all, is it? Son of a bitch. Wait, but Cas was with him. So where the hell is Cas?

* * * * * Sam sighs and scrubs a hand over his face. After two hours of futile research in the archives of the local library, he is no closer to finding out what it is they’re hunting. He is about to leave and regroup with the others when today’s front page catches his attention.

Another hour, sore eyes and a grumbling stomach later, he finally has the answer. He knows why it was hard to find though. Almost every record on it was missing. He walks as fast as is polite out of the library then practically rips his phone out of his pocket to dial Dean. If they went to the cemetary…

No answer, so he leaves a message. “Dean, pick up you’re damn phone. It’s a ghost and it’s fuckin’ creepy, man. You better not have gone to the damn graveyard. Call me back.”

He tries Dean’s other phones and Cas’ one, and still nothing. Every time, he leaves a message of increasing urgency and then there’s nothing else for him to do. They could just be eating and not hearing the phones. Maybe they’re ignoring him. Maybe the finally… oh god maybe they’re back at the room.

Sam makes the fastest U-turn away from their hotel ever and finds a diner to kill some time. And try to figure out what the hell an 18th century, cremated, vengeful spirit could be tied to.

* * * * *

Dean’s legs are starting to cramp where they’re just too short to stretch out fully. This is just perfect. He’s cemented in some box, Cas is missing and he has no reception to call Sam. There is nothing for him to do but wait to die. Which, still not that much different to normal life. But on a case? Does he really have to go out just asphyxiating or some bullshit? Well, bright side, at least if he turns into a demon again, he’ll just be trapped underground. He won’t be able to hurt anyone.

The Mark starts to tingle a little, like it knows Dean’s thinking about it. He noticed it does that a few months ago, like a sentient being. It’s become almost permanent now. Every waking hour is spent on research and they’re no closer to finding a cure. He’s read the same books a dozen times in case he missed something, but there’s never anything new. He never stops thinking about it unless they’re on a case. It feels like he’s drowning, crushed by the weight of his seemingly inevitable fate, by all the things he hasn’t gotten to experience yet. He is being buried alive by responsibilities and guilt and the knowledge of his impending destruction.

Cas and Sam still believe though. Still believe they can get rid of the Mark, that Dean can fight its effects, that they won’t at some stage soon need to put him down. Their faith has always baffled him, with this and everything in the past. But it’s always their faith in Dean that confuses him the most. He’s not worth shit. He broke in hell. He’s not strong enough for this. He puts it on, plays it up for Sam. Sometimes it works. Never on Cas though. Cas can always see straight through to his soul. Whether he’s powered up or not, he can read Dean like an open book. Well, almost always. There’s still one thing he hasn’t picked up on. Can’t have, or he wouldn’t still be hanging around.

A sigh escapes him and he attempts to turn over, until his shoulders get stuck. Dean groans and lies back gently instead. His head still stings, but it’s lessening. The air is starting to get stale. Time to resign himself to his fate. Sam might find him, but maybe he won’t. Maybe if he closes his eyes, it’ll all go away. Maybe if he goes to sleep, time will go faster, maybe it’ll all be over by the time he wakes… He hopes Cas is okay…

* * * * *

Cas wakes up coughing loudly. He sits up to try to relieve the pressure but only succeeds in smacking his head on… something. Concrete. Where is he? He was with Dean. What happened?

“Dean?” he rasps. “Dean?!” Where is Dean?!

Cas feels around beside him in the dark. There are walls on both sides, barely more than a metre across. His legs are cramped and can’t stretch any further. Trapped.

His breathing quickens dramatically. Wait… breathing? Oh no. On instinct, he tries to flex his wings but of course, nothing happens. He tries pushing at the slab above him, hammers on it until each impact leaves behind a bloody handprint. Grit embeds itself in the myriad cuts on his hands and he takes a shuddering breathe. He has to get out of here. He has to find Dean. He’s breathing, he needs to breathe. He will run out of air at some point. No. No! What if Dean is trapped too?

He twists around, tries to roll over. He kicks at the end of the box and hammers on the lid some more. Shoulders scrape, ankles jar, fists bruise. He knocks his head and struggles against the confines of the concrete. When he realises he can’t roll over and that there is nothing he can do, he finally stops, panting. He’s going to run out of air. What if Dean is trapped, what if he can’t get out either? What if Sam doesn’t find them in time?

No. Stop. Dean wouldn’t give up like this. Sam will find them. It will be okay. It will. It has to be. Cas can’t die like this. It can’t end like this, before he gets the chance to…

He will get out. Dean is okay. He will get out. Dean is okay. He repeats it over and over, a mantra, something to hold on to, until he falls back into unconsciousness.

* * * * *

Sam gives them half an hour. They’d at least be able to pick up the phone by then. He grabs lunch at the diner and sorts through all the information he could find on the Whitmore family. Back in the 1800s, the Whitmore’s were the richest family in the area. Until they all just disappeared. The dad went first, then the son, both cremated and buried in the family vault. The rest dropped like flies then, inexplicably. Even the household staff went. Within months the entire estate of over thirty people were just gone.

He looks up from the papers and rubs his eyes as the words start swimming in front of him again. There’s an old guy staring at him creepily from the counter. No harm in a few simple questions, so Sam asks if there’s any local legends around the family. The guy tells him, in that weird voice people always get when they tell creepy stories, that the father found his son in bed with a kitchen boy and was killed in the argument even the neighbours heard.

“They say after the son died, the kitchen boy found a bloody message sayin’ ‘You’re next’ above ‘is bed. Disappeared the very next day… It’s all just speculation, o’ course.” And dear God does Sam hate it when people say that. “Weird disappearances after that. Always ‘round that crypt. Once the family all kicked it, folks sealed it up. Didn’ like the vibe it gave off. They opened it up again, few weeks back. Told ‘em they shouldn’t’a done it. Bad mojo ‘round there. Real bad…” Then the guy gets a broody stare going and Sam knows it’s time to go.

Before he can go more than a few steps, the guy mutters, “Wasn’ cremated, the daddy wasn’t. Me Ma always said ‘e was buried alive. Pushed inta the pit ‘e dug for ‘is own boy.”

And okay, yeah. That’s even weirder than the lack of records on the family and time. Time to check in with Dean. Outside five minutes later, Sam is frantically redialling Dean’s number, always getting the dial tone. He leaps in the car and makes it to the hotel sooner than the law technically allows to be possible, and finds his worst fears confirmed in the lack of Impala in the parking lot and lack of brother and angel entangled in the sheets. Shit shit shit. They went. They went to the cemetary. One of the ghosts must’ve got them.

Still in his fed suit, he breaks yet more traffic laws getting to the other side of town. They could’ve been there for hours now. If the thing didn’t kill them outright. It’s been too long for them to just have been knocked out. They’re stuck, trapped or tied up somewhere. Okay Sam. Calm. Just be calm. Your brother needs you. Your friend needs you. You have to be okay for them.

He throws the car into park next to the impala and grabs his ghost gear before sprinting towards the stereotypically overgrown, dark and eerie crypt.

Dean’s gun is on the floor. So is Cas’. Broken stone, cobwebs and a stairway down to the actual tombs. He flicks on his torch and cautiously makes his way down.

* * * * *

A continuous thudding wakes Dean up. He feels instantly woozy and gasps for air, only to find there is really not much left in this box. Shit. Shit shit shit. He had to wake up just in time to die. The thudding keeps going and going. Why won’t it stop? Why can’t you make it stop?

Then dust starts to shake loose from the lid of the box. Flakes of blood and dirt fall on his face and then all of a sudden, it cracks open and fresh air rushes in. Several feet up, Sam’s face hovers, frantic with worry. “Sammy?” he rasps.

“Dean! Thank God! Are you okay? It’s a ghost, man. Dean, talk to me.”

Dean takes a few deep breaths before responding. “If you’d shut up, maybe I could. I’m fine. Just tryna breathe.” Utter relief washes over Sam’s features and he reaches a hand down to help Dean out of the hole. A quick look around tells Dean that Cas isn’t here. He still can’t really remember what happened when they got to the cemetary, but Cas not being here is a bad sign.

“Is Cas not in there too?” Sam asks. Oh shit. A very very bad sign.

“No, he… he didn’t get out? He didn’t tell you where we were? He’s not…”

Like a flash, the fear is back on Sam’s face. “No, he… I thought he’d be with you.”

“Fuck.” There’s no other holes dug in the room though. “Cas! Cas, say something!”

Dean runs around the room like a mad thing, checking every tomb for disturbances, while Sam follows suit along the other wall. Just as they think they aren’t going to find him here, the last one in the row shows signs of being opened recently. It’s not perfectly aligned like all the rest.

“Sam, over here!” His brother is by Dean’s side in and instant with two crowbars in hand. They start to pry off the lid, but end up flying back into the wall. The ghost is still here.

“He was cremated, there’s nothing to burn, Dean!”

“Blood. In the coffin there was blood,” he gasps in reply.

The ghost of an old man appears in front of them and somehow Sam manages to fire off a shot into its gut as he stumbles towards Dean’s previous prison.

He can hear the kerosene and salt being poured as he pries away at the stone. A chill runs down his spine and Dean is prepared for the end when all of a sudden it’s gone with a quiet scream.

Now the lid comes off easily and he sees Cas lying motionless, eyes closed in the bottom.

* * * * *

“CAS!” The anguished cry of his brother draws Sam’s attention. No. No no no.

Dean is leaning into the coffin, shaking what must be Cas, trying to wake him up. “Come on, come on! You can’t be dead. Not yet. Please Cas, wake up. Wake up. Breathe, man. Please. I need you.” Dean’s voice cracks and he touches his palm to Cas’ cheek, paying no heed to his brother standing scared by the fire.

Suddenly there’s a resounding gasp. “Cas!”

“Dean?” the angel mumbles, struggling to sit up.

“Yeah, yeah buddy. I’m here. Just hang on a sec. Take it easy.”

Cas, however, does not want to ‘take it easy’, and Dean is forced to help him out of the box and ends up supporting most of the angel’s weight.

“I thought you were dead,” Dean whispers.

“I’m okay now.”

But Dean is shaking his head and Sam is pretty sure he’s crying a bit. And then all of a sudden, there’s no air gap between his brother and his friend anymore. They’re kissing. Oh god, Sam so does not want to be here right now. Because now Cas is reciprocating and yes, that might have been a little tongue and Sam practically runs out because he needs to be outta here yesterday.

* * * * *

Sam walks back into the hotel room an hour later with burgers for the other two, saying, “So I think I figured it out. The dad got buried, not cremated. He was doing the killings. Homophobic dick. All the victims were…” He stops there. Because Dean and Cas are both lying on the bed, fully clothed, wrapped around each other and fast asleep.

"So, remind me again why we’re in Winona?" he asked, looking to Sam. It was all business, the joy in his voice for hours was gone. Now that Dean had said the joke he’d been harboring inside all day, he seemed perfectly content to turn back around and go home. Sam chuckled.

"Four Winona Weight-loss Competitors Die of Heart-Related Causes," Sam answered by reciting the headline off of the article he’d printed out. Dean turned and squinted at him.

"And we thought that was unusual because…?"

"Because it was three a.m. and you said you’d rather assume it was something than miss out on nabbing a monster."

Dean shrugged, obviously not remembering any of this happening. “Fair enough. Is the contest an annual thing?”

"Nope, it just started this year." Sam looked over the article again. "It’s run by some company called ‘Weigh In’ and it’s broadcast like a TV show, just in the surrounding area."

"What do you get if you win?"

"…ten thousand dollars and a trip to Cairo." Dean’s eyes widened.

"Holy cow. No wonder people are dying with that kinda motivation." He reached over and pat Sam on the stomach. "Start losing some weight, Sammy." That finally got a laugh from the tired younger Winchester.

"Well, if it turns out to be nothing, at least I can say that I’ve been to Winona!"

There had been a shortage in cases over the past few days, so of course Dean had jumped at the first opportunity to get up and go. Sam had always been the logical one, evaluating everything every step of the way, while Dean was the risk taker and was prone to frequent bouts of cabin fever. This may have also had something to do with Dean’s addiction to drive his baby. Sam did not share this same joy, but was thrilled when they finally found a place to stay for their brief time in Winona. The dusty twilight had made it easier to see the luminescent, red “Motel” sign and the impala slid in front of the check in. Sam brought the article close to his face and then checked his watch.

"Hey, this "The Weigh In" show is broadcasting at 9:30," he saw on the article. "Do you wanna pick up some beers and meet me back at the room to catch it?"

"Sounds like a plan."

Before long, both of the brothers were back together, kicked back and watching “The Weigh In.” It was basically “The Biggest Loser” except with a smaller budget and hokey host.

"Hello and welcome to ‘Weigh In!’" the host said too-loudly to the camera. "Where if there’s a weigh in, there’s a way out!" Dean scoffed and shook his head. "And now for our first contestant of the day- Gerald Knowell!" The brothers watched as they wheeled on to the stage in a wheel chair a gelatinous mass of human being. It took several people to pull him from his sitting position and up on to the scale. The host added comments here and there to fill in dead air, but it was incredibly awkward to watch.

"I feel like I’m watching Wall-e," Dean murmured.

"How do you know anything about Wall-e?" Sam asked, sincerely puzzled.

"Oh, c’mon Sam! I don’t live under a rock!"

"Let’s see if Gerald dropped enough to stay on the show!" the host said with false excitement. There was brief pause as the scale "calculated" his weight. Then the number popped up and an "Awww" noise was played as the host stuck out his lip and frowned. "I’m sorry, Gerald," he apologized, his words sappy, "but I’m afraid you’ve barely dropped one pound. Looks like you’re off the show."

The show continued like this, large people filing in and out, either getting kicked off or staying in the competition. After about twenty minutes, Dean turned it off.

"Looks like a pretty below-average, boring TLC show," Sam remarked, rolling over away from Dean and the TV. Dean just shrugged, despite his brother not being able to see him.

"I guess we’ll have to see tomorrow." *******************************************************************************************

"Thank you for agreeing to meet with me, Mrs. Turner," Sam began, sliding in to the booth across from the middle-aged woman. Bob’s Burger Shack was not the ideal place for an interrogation, but the woman had insisted that she was too busy to talk any other time.

"Sure, honey!" she said cheerfully. "Where’d you say you were from again?"

"Kentucky," Sam replied, smiling. "My brother and I are here for the competition." He raised his eyebrows and shook his head. "I’ve been trying to get him to eat right for years, but it’s so… hard." She closed her eyes and nodded like she was listening to Sam preach a Sunday sermon. "And," he continued, doing his best to look concerned, "I just want to talk to you about your experience and to make sure I can avoid the same kind of… tragedy with my brother."

"Alright, I’ll answer you’re questions as best I can, sweetheart," she assured him, smiling warmly.

"Great!" Sam said. He placed his forearms on the table and cleared his throat. "Let’s start with how you were connected with Charles Turner?"

"I’m - I guess ‘I was’, now - his sister," she replied, then she laughed. "I don’t know of anyone who’d want to be "connected" with Charlie unless it was through blood relation."

"Are you locals?"

"Nope," she replied. "Live about four and a half hours away in Montevideo. We were staying in a hotel room."

"And he died of a heart attack, correct?"

"Yes."

"Did he have any previous heart problems?"

"Nope."

"Was he acting strangely before his death? Did he show any signs of having a heart attack."

"You mean other than the fact that he was about 300 pounds overweight?" she asked, laughing. "No, he was acting pretty normally." She was smiling. Her overly-bubbly personality was really making Sam uncomfortable.

"If you don’t mind me saying," Sam said cautiously, "you seem pretty… happy. Didn’t your brother die less than a week ago?"

"Oh, honey," she said, placing both of her hands on one of his. Her tone gained an air of secrecy, as if she were gossiping about someone sitting five feet away. "No one liked Charles. He was the most crazy, bitter conspiracy theorist you’d ever happen to meet." She chuckled and leaned in. "I swear that the bastard thought Obama, Madonna, and the aliens had plans to destroy the human race."

"Then why are you in Winona with him, if you don’t like being around him?"

"Well, as you know, you need someone with you in order to enroll," she said. "Someone to make sure you are eating and exercising, and someone to help you keep yourself accountable on the diet." She shrugged, a sad smile hitching up one side of her mouth. "He didn’t have any friends, and I felt bad for him, so I did it." Sam nodded as if he understood.

"Thank you for your time, ma’am."

"Sure, hon. Good luck in the competition!"

As soon as Sam stepped foot back outside of Bob’s Burger Shack, he felt like he could breathe again, like he was no longer swimming in grease. He pulled out his phone and called Dean. Throughout the day, interviewing the family of the deceased, it had become apparent that the people who died were not only bad at maintaining their muscle to fat ratio, they were also bad at being people in general. Charles Turner- bitter, reclusive conspiracy theorist who’d died of a heart attack. Elisa Hitchen- released nine years ago from prison. She’d been convicted of felony and accused of murder. She’d died of heart failure. And finally, Fred Gregory, a younger guy convicted of arson who’d died of rheumatic heart disease. Also, all of them had been kicked off of the competition for not losing enough weight.

"Hey," Dean picked up.

"Hey. Turns out Charles Turner was just like the others."

"Well, hate to break it to ya, but this David Perry guy doesn’t fit the pattern." David was the fourth death at the age of 23- he’d died of severe congenital heart disease.

"How so?"

"For starters, the guy didn’t get kicked off," Dean began. "He was doing really well, actually. He was one of the thinner ones and he’d already dropped like 30 pounds." There was a pause. "And get this- he’d never had heart problems in his life until five days ago." Sam’s brow wrinkled, baffled.

"Wait," he said, "that’s impossible. Congenital heart disease is formed before birth."

"His friend said that he’d been perfectly healthy the night before and had been pretty healthy his entire life." Dean chuckled on the other end.

"He sounded like a certified d-bag, though, if you ask me."

"At least that’s consistent between all of them." Sam stood for a moment, thinking it over.

"Dean, we need to check this place out."

"Sure thing." They hung up and Sam immediately called Charlie.

"Hey, Sam!" her light tone bounced through the phone to greet him.

"What’s up?"

"Hey, Charlie. Would you mind checking looking something up for me? Dean and I are on a case up in Winona, Minnesota."

"Yeah, sure thing!" she said eagerly. "Whatcha need?"

"Can you look up monsters, gods, myths, anything that has to do with weight and heart?"

"Of course, I’ll call ya back in a bit." *******************************************************************************************

"Hello and welcome to Weigh In," a perky girl behind the front desk greeted them, "where if there’s a weigh in, there’s a way out." She wore a navy polo with a light blue lotus on the lapel, the words "Weigh In" written in calligraphy above it, and her auburn hair was chopped in a pixie cut.

"Hi," Dean responded gruffly, flashing a badge. "Agent Hall. This is my partner Agent Oates." Sam inclined his head in greeting.

"FBI?" the girl asked, raising her eyebrows. She rubbed her hands on her jeans and stepped back ever so slightly, suddenly very nervous.

"What’s going on?"

"We’re here to investigate the series of deaths you’ve had here recently," Sam explained.

"The heart attacks and stuff?" she asked sassily, smirking. "Is it a slow week at the bureau or something?" Dean smiled a smile that was impatient, one that didn’t reach his eyes.

"Listen, kid," he intoned. "Just show us to your boss, okay?" She didn’t resist and they followed her back into the fitness center. There was lots of weight lifting equipment, yoga balls and such. All the people working out were of the larger persuasion and were accompanied by a trainer who was coaxing them through minuscule exercises. All of the weight lifting equipment was not being used.

They rode the elevator up to the second floor and followed the girl past the set where they filmed “The Weigh In,” constisting mostly of a blue and yellow backdrop and giant scale. Just past that was a door with a gold plate that read “Owner.” The girl knocked a couple of times.

"Yes?" a voice from within asked.

"Sir, you have some people here to see you."

"Have them come in." The girl opened the door for them and then walked away, presumably back downstairs. The brothers walked into a huge office with a bank of windows on one side and a mahogany desk that dominated the room. A young man sat behind the desk in a black swivel chair. He seemed to be in his early twenties, very physically fit with an even, tan complexion.

"Please, take a seat," he said easily. The Winchester didn’t hesitate to do so and when they were seated the man flashed an award-winning smile."How may I help you, gentleman?" he asked cordially. Both brothers were a little surprised to see a guy so young running a business of this size.

"Uh, yes, we’re here to ask you a few questions concerning the deaths that have occurred here recently," Sam replied, showing the man the fake badge. "My name is Agent Oates and this is my partner, Agent Hall."

"Alex Newberry," he introduced himself. "Very nice to meet you both." He stood to shake each of their hands and then sat down again.

"Unfortunately," he continued, his voice saturated with meloncholy, "you’ve come due to very tragic circumstances." He laced his fingers together and placed them on to his desk. "You do see my concern for fitness: to decrease the probability of that ever happening again."

Sam’s phone vibrated and he pulled it out of his pocket to check his texts. It was from Charlie: A bunch of lore on gods, hard to narrow it down. Sorry. Sam bit the inside of his lip, his eyes searching the room as if he would find an answer there. His gaze landed on a glass case. Inside it was an ancient looking hook and small, whip-like thing. Sam had seen it before in his history books- they were always in the hands of the pharaoh on sarcophagi. They seemed entirely out of character.

"Excuse me," Sam interrupted Mr. Newberry’s talk about the necessity of physical health. "Where did you get those?" He pointed to the glass case.

"Ah, the crook and flail." Newberry’s eyes softened as he looked on the artifacts. "I bought them not long ago." He smiled as if he were embarassed. "I’m kind of a sucker for Egyptian culture."

"Cairo," Dean said, thinking back to the prize destination and nodding.

"Yeah, we noticed." Sam typed out a message to Charlie: Egyptian god. Crook and flail. Almost immediately, the phone rang. Sam excused himself and stepped out of the office, leaving Dean to interrogate Mr. Newberry.

"Hey," he answered, "what did you find?"

"Anubis, the Egyptian god of death and funerals," she replied. "Osiris came up too, but I heard you guys already put him on hold for a couple hundred years."

"Yeah, I stabbed him with a ram’s horn." Sam realized he’d said that too loudly when he got a freaked out look from a random passer-by. "Video game," he mouthed and they seemed to relax a litte, even if they were still weirded out.

"Okay, Charlie, tell me everything you’ve got."

She told him about some “Weighing of the Heart” ceremony and how Anubis determined who got to pass on to the afterlife by weighing their heart, and those who didn’t pass, their hearts got fed to Ammit (a hippo/lion/crocodile thing). Mr. Newberry seemed less and less innocent as the conversation continued.

"It took some digging, but I think I found a way to send him to wherever Osiris is vacationing at," she said thoughtfully, her fingers clicking away at the keyboard. "Okay, there’s a certain embalming ritual done with some specific oil that is used for sending someone off to the after-life. If you douse a white cloth in the oil, put it around the crook and flail, and then burn it, it should shoot that god into the afterlife." She gave him a list of ingredients necessary to make the oil, which, to Sam’s surprise, could all be found at a supermarket.

"Thanks, Charlie! You’re amazing."

"I know," she quipped. "Oh, and Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"If this ‘Weighing the Hearts’ ritual thing is what I think it is, you might want to keep Dean away." She was very serious now. "His heart may as well be made of lead, so this could get him into some serious trouble."

"Alright, will do. Thanks, Charlie."

"No problem. Be careful!" Sam hung up. Dean finished up the questioning and they were both headed out the door.

"Come back anytime!" Mr. Newberry called after them, smiling another one of his wide smiles. *******************************************************************************************

After briefing Dean on Mr. Newberry’s alter ego, running to the store and concocting a strange smelling, oil, and waiting for night to fall, the impala rumbled into an alleyway about a block from “Weigh In.”

"Alright!" Dean said, clearly excited. "What’s the game plan?" Sam hesitated, looking straight ahead at a chain link fence.

"Dean," he started, easing into it. "I think you should stay out here."

"What?" Dean demanded. "Hell no! I’m comin in with you!" Sam could feel his brother’s eyes on him, angry and hurt.

"I know you want to, but I just don’t think it’s best," Sam insisted, his voice raising ever so slightly.

"Screw what’s best," Dean said, ever so eloquently. "I-"

"Remember Osiris?" Sam cut him off, his tone softer now. Dean fell silent and looked down at the steering wheel. "Well this is going to be the exact same thing and we can’t have you in there with that heavy heart of yours." Sam patted his older brother on the shoulder. "I have to look out for you too, Dean."

Dean finally looked up into his brother’s eyes, brow furrowed and jaw clenched, and saw a calming sincerity that only Sam could convey at a time like this. He’d always had that superpower over Dean. It was a look that made it seem like letting him do this was okay, but, at the same time, it made Dean just want to hold him like he did when they were little. He wanted to be the one to have the nightmares and leave all the dreams to Sammy. Ideally, Dean never wanted there never to have to be a choice between his safety and Sam’s, but as long as there was, he wanted to be the one with his neck on the line. But then… there was that look.

"I’ll give you 20 minutes," Dean said through his teeth.

So, Sam slunk down to the fitness center and went around back to an exit he’d seen some of the employees use for a smoke break. He jimmied the lock and took the stairs up to Alex Newberry’s office. This was locked as well, but Sam had soon picked it entered into the room, silently closing the door behind him. He crept over to the glass box and carefully lifted it off to reveal just the crook and flail. He withdrew the white cloth and the flask of oil from his pocket. Unscrewing the cap, he doused the cloth in oil and closed the crook and flail inside it. Then, he reached into his back pocket for the matches. His fingers groped around and all they came out with was lint.

"Damn it," Sam whispered. They must have fell out on the way in. Then, he heard a noise from just outside the room and he froze.

"Hello, Mr. Winchester," a voice hissed just outside the door. "What do you think you’re doing here at such an un-godly hour?" Sam’s heart sank. It was all over now- it had only been about 12 minutes. Dean wouldn’t get here until after Sam was already dead. And all because Sam lost the matchbook.

"Well, you did say come back anytime," a voice replied. Sam shook his head in disbelief.

"Damn it, Dean!" he cursed under his breath.

"Where’s you’re giant brother?" Anubis asked.

"Are you kidding me?" Dean said. "I’d never bring him in here. Tangling with gods never bodes well."

"True, but then again, that doesn’t leave things looking so good for you."

"He thinks I’m having a beer at some bar, I guess."

"Pity he’ll never know the hero you tried to be." Sam’s fists clenched. He knew he had to act fast before Anubis got Dean onto the scale.

"Anubis, eh?" Dean said, as if he were trying out the name on his tongue for the first time. "I bet you got made fun of a lot in school." Sam rolled his eyes. Seriously, Dean? He shoved the rolled up crook and flail behind his back, under his shirt, and in the waistband of his pants.

"Just because I’m in the body of a young man, I’m not entitled to listen to your juvenile jokes." There was a grunting noise as Dean was shoved up against something. The god’s voice had lost all of its luster it had had in the daylight. Now he was all sass. Knowing full well what he had to do, Sam braced himself and opened the door.

Anubis had his back to Sam and had Dean thrown up against the wall beside the large electronic scale. But Sam’s presence didn’t go unnoticed for long. Before he knew it, Sam was pinned up against the wall alongside his brother, bound by ropes that had appeared out of thin air.

"Well, well," Anubis said, chuckling deeply. "Looks like Baby Winchester decided to join the party too!"Dean shot him a look of pure panic. This was not the original plan!

"So, this was your grand plan?" Sam blurted, trying to keep Anubis talking. "To set up a weight-loss competition to get people on your scales, so that you could weigh their hearts?"

"Precisely," the god agreed. "Right along America’s version of the Nile, too- ‘The Mighty Mississippi.’"

With a small flick of his wrist, there appeared a larger than life, old fashioned scale in the place of the electronic scale to the brothers’ right. They seemed to glow with a magical power. Sam looked at Dean askance, worry sinking like a stone in his stomach.

"Isn’t it beautiful?" Anubis whispered fondly, fingering one of the weighing dishes with care. He seemed to be having a moment with his beloved scales, so Sam took the opportunity to get Dean’s attention. With both hands tied behind his back, Sam tapped the area where he had the crook and flail and then signaled a flipping motion. He needed Dean’s lighter. Dean watched the motion for a moment and then nodded. He shook his left leg ever so slightly to say that the lighter was in his left pocket.

Anubis turned around again, his relishing moment over. He giggled and sat down on one of the weighing dishes, barely able to contain his excitement. The scale didn’t tip in the slightest.

"Now," he said thoughtfully, which one of you shall I kill first?" He placed a hand on his chin and tapped his index finger on his lips. "Ah," he said, a revelation finally happening. "Usually I weigh someone’s heart against things like ‘Virtue,’ ‘Good Intention,’ and ‘Good Works,’ and things such as vices, sins, and most popularly, regret, will weigh down your side of the scale." He raised his eyebrows and extended his arms, indicating both of them.

"However," he went on, "you are no ordinary mortals. You are the Winchesters!" The infamous name rung out and was muted in the empty work out facility. Anubis’ eyes flashed with anger. "You are notorious for skipping the bill when it comes to death, even managing to trip up Osiris." He smiled slyly. "For you two, I’m adding a twist- you will be weighed against each other." The brothers looked at each other. This is exactly why Sam had told his brother to wait in the car.

"Are you sure you want to go sifting through all of that crap?" Sam asked, wringing his hands and trying and remove them from the ties just as Dean was doing. He could feel the oil from the cloth seeping down his back and soaking through his shirt.

"But, wait! You haven’t heard the best part." He rubbed his hands together, his eyes flashing with malice. "Since you are both so eager to escape death," he continued. "The one who has the heaviest heart will be buried alive in a sarcophagus." He smirked, pleased with himself.

"You will live forever, trapped within that living grave." He clapped his hands giddily and both brothers appeared on the scales, which were now violently tipping back and forth. The god waved an arm and he was dressed in his authentic, Egyptian garb, complete with a jackal headdress.

"Welcome to "The Weigh In," Anubis announced to the empty facility, "where if there’s a weigh in… there’s a way out." He laughed psychotically, watching his beloved contraption go up and down.

Sam knew whose heart was heavier. Now, it was just a race against time. Dean had managed to wiggle both hands free and had carefully retrieved the lighter from his pocket. The brothers exchanged a glance and nodded. Suddenly, Dean swung a leg out and it collided with the side of the jackal’s snout, throwing Anubis off balance. This gave Dean just enough time to place the lighter into Sam’s bound hands before he was tossed back on to the scale by a force of magic.

"I grow impatient," Anubis smoldered, recovering quickly. "Dean Winchester," he shouted, pointing an accusing finger, "you are sentenced to an endless life within that sarcophogus." A golden sarcophogus appeared beside it’s soon to be owner. Sam tried in vain to flip the lighter cap, but he just couldn’t get enough momentum.

"While your body may be eternal, your mind is completely perishable," Anubis reminded Dean. The a snap, older Winchester was tossed into the sarcophagus.

"Dean!" Sam yelled, his tone desperate.

"Sammy!" Dean shouted back from within the box. He started pounding from within and Anubis started laughing again, the jackal’s eyes a deep blood red.

That’s when Sam felt icy white heat searing his lower back as the fire devoured the crook and flail along with the flesh on his oil soaked back. He clenched his teeth together tightly, afraid to move in case he might roll out the fire. Horror and disbelief flashed through the eyes of the jackal, as if it were now full part of Anubis, and the god let out a shriek as he burst into flame and then disintegrated into nothingness. The sarcophagus disappeared from around Dean and the scales from underneath Sam, who hit the ground hard. The lighter knocked from his hands and landed on the carpet, instantly catching flame. Sam was writhing trying to put out the fire on his back and Dean quickly came over and patted it out, which increased the pain by ten. The room began to burn around them, flames licking the carpet clean and billowing smoke rising in the air.

"Let’s get you out of here, little brother," Dean muttered, pulling Sam to his feet and wrapping one of his arms around his shoulders. They managed to limp out of the building and get into the impala before they finally heard sirens in the distance. *******************************************************************************************

The weight loss competition was called off due to an abrupt fire in the Weigh In Fitness Center. Many people were disappointed, but the Winchesters were relieved.

Dean declared that they were staying in Winona another day or two to allow at least a small amount time for Sam’s burns to heal (not to mention the bruised tail bone from the fall) before attempting the ride back to the bunker. Although Sam missed sleeping in his own bed, he did appreciate Dean’s courtesy.

A day after the fire, Sam rolled over and groaned from the sudden pain in his charred back. He opened his eyes to find Dean sitting at the motel table, already with swamp of papers around him filled with possible cases.

"Mornin, Sleeping Beauty," he greeted Sam. "Or should I say Rupunzel?" Sam put a hand to his wild hair and Dean shot him a disapproving look.

"Are you looking at cases?" Sam asked, groggily. Dean nodded. Sam could barely see the laptop beneath all the different Newspaper articles Dean had scattered across the table.

"Yeah, I’m making up for you slacking off and sleeping in," he said, patting the chair beside him. He tossed a paper up in the air for emphasis, a goofy grin creeping across his face. "Seriously, I’m buried alive over here!"

"Dean. Stop."

No. No, he just wanted his brother on the backseat of the Impala for hours on end, watching his lips curl into a smile whenever the right song came on. He didn’t want to hear strangers or teachers with too-angry voices bend down and call him “Sammy” like it was a swear. He was never ready to give up his family for time in a cold room with cold people.

But days like this, when Sammy could breathe the cool, October air without it burning the back of his nose, where there were just enough rays of sun coming through the cross-stitches of full, white clouds, where the slide was extra slippery and his clothes were clean, he loved to step into the hallways and hear the linoleum squeak under the thin soles of his old sneakers.

He smiled to himself, toothy and wide, like a six-year-old should.

It wasn’t the weather. It wasn’t the sun or the playground or even the rare feel of clothes, clean clothes, warm and fresh-smelling around him. No, it was Tuesday. And Tuesdays were his favorite.

Tuesdays were show and tell. His mouth twitched up into a grin just thinking about it.

Sam’s letter was S this week. Right after R, he reminded himself, stepping over the cracks in the sidewalk with his tongue in his cheek. Of course, the second his teacher handed him the little slip of paper with that big blue letter tattooed in the center, a thousand- no- a million things raced through his mind in nothing short of a few seconds. Shoe. No, no… Uh, how about… Sponge? Soap? Snake?

He scratched his head and huffed, happiness swirling with the disquiet curled in a tight little stone behind his stomach. They didn’t have much, their family. The Impala. A new motel room with new beds and new stains almost every other month. Whatever they could stuff in their duffels and too-greasy diner food.

His would-be grin fell into a frown as his anxious, little heart began to beat faster. What would he do? What did he have that could really… really blow all of the kids away? Finally make the whispers and the little scoffs stop?

Shotgun, he thought, but he immediately brushed the rowdy image aside. Sure, they had plenty of those. But he knew that wouldn’t help him any bit. He didn’t know if anyone had been raised with guns, raised to know what the parts were- the stock, the barrel, the trigger- like he had.

“No weapons, Sam!”

He remembered that day. The pocketknife. The wide eyes all tracking him like he was a criminal. He winced as self-conscious heat lit up his round cheeks and kicked a stray chip of bark, a few other things all-too-common to him flitting behind his eyelids like bats.

He didn’t know if they would understand Dad’s talks about salt. About protection and symbols and finding, finding, finding it.

He wrinkled his nose in thought. Even with the steady crunch of gravel under his feet the only sound around him, it was still hard to think. S. S…

It was late autumn; flecks of blue could still be found floating in the murky, slate-grey sky. He glanced around, trying his best to fit words into his mouth, letting them linger on his tongue, so he could taste them. Figure out something he could bring. Something special, something… Something that meant a lot to him.

And then pictures were flashing right behind his eyelashes, faster than he could blink. Bright green eyes, sun-spotted cheeks, and a short crop of half-spiked brown hair. Dean. Dean meant a lot to him, he concluded. He meant the most. Excitement bubbled up inside him as he thought of ideas, how he could drag Dean in by the hem of his coat and brag to the class about how fast he could take apart a pistol.

But then he stopped. He frowned. And he sighed sadly, shaking his head to himself as he picked the lint from his pocket with his fingernail.

Dean started with a D.

But brother… The word slipped into the image too, curling around Dean’s wrists. Dean was a brother, too. And brother started with a B. He felt the wheels in his six-year-old head twist into motion as he picked a string from the bottom of his shirt with clumsy fingers. So maybe it didn’t have to be Dean. Maybe not even brother.

But what was Dean to Sam, other than that? What could he be?

A teacher, he thought quickly, almost matter-of-factly, with a small nod of his head. T. He carded back unruly brown bangs and thought of his lessons in the Impala- words, numbers, animals, too. The leather seats groaning every time he shifted closer to his brother, slipped his hands under his leather jacket and soaked up his warmth. The smooth lines of the somehow-new picture books colorful and bright under his hands. Dean’s patient voice a careful, kind whisper above the rock bleeding from the speakers up front. Dean had been the reason he’d learned the alphabet before Sam had even started Kindergarten.

He smiled. Words were coming from every angle now, blossoming like daffodils in every corner of his mind.

A leader. L. How could he forget? Sam had been looking up to Dean since… since forever. Had been studying him ever since his older brother had pulled him out of that fire, trying to be just like him- down to the bump in his nose and the near-invisible crinkle his eyes made when he laughed. 

Just thinking about Dean made Sam’s chest swell and swell, and he grinned dimple-deep, excitement fizzing under his lungs as he searched and searched for the perfect word.

He heard kids circle the tire swing, a chorus of squeaky voices trailing around him in lazy circles. Part of him listened half-heartedly, his earliest training kicking in, but most of him, a good chunk of him, was still stuck in the far-reaches of his head, searching for whatever words he could find to describe his brother.

What’re you gonna’ be for Halloween?

I dunno’. A fireman, maybe. Like my daddy. You?

I wanna’ be a tiger. Mom’s gonna’ do my face paint ‘n’ everythin’.

Gotchu’ both beat, a voice chimed. Sam’s ears pricked up despite himself, and he stopped, head cocking in curiosity even as he failed to face whoever was talking. He stopped and picked at his pockets with a yawn.

Gonna’ be a superhero.

Superhero.

The word echoed around in Sam’s ears for a few seconds, and he whispered it to himself, his smile stretching and stretching until his bubblegum cheeks were pushing his eyes to a squint. Superhero.

“Sam!”

Sam twisted around, smiling just at his voice. There he was now- his hero. Dean was hurrying over, arms swinging in his too-long sleeves, a would-be grin on his face. His brother reached him with a breathless huff, and he smiled as he ruffled Sam’s hair, squeezing him in brotherly hug. “Hurry up, Sammy, we gotta’ go.”

Sam nodded willingly. Ideas were already swimming through his head, racing in front of his eyes before he could catch them and sort them out. He slipped his hand into Dean’s, struggling to match his brother’s long stride, and he tugged on his arm. He tried his best to hide his too-eager smile behind an indifferent frown. “Dean?”

He looked down, his bottle-green eyes scrunching in another smile. Sam watched his face shift, his lips part, his irises flick back and forth over his little brother’s face. He loved the way Dean squeezed his hand and pulled him closer with a gentle tug. Dean was so warm. So familiar and… safe. “Yeah?”

Sam’s lips split into a grin.

“Do we havva’ camera?”

Sam’s letter today is S, Ms. Talbot announced. Her velvety voice soothed the din into silence, and she turned to Sam with a kind smile. A nod. A careful pat on the arm and something like a sigh.

 Maybe it was pity. Maybe it was sadness. Maybe she was already expecting the swarm of heckles and giggles and pointing fingers. Sam didn’t bother to think about it, though. He just smiled back, the weak grin not quite reaching his eyes. He kept his gaze from nervously flitting from floor to ceiling, eyes locking on the back legs of a chair in the front row. He just wanted to try his best to show that he wasn’t so scared.

He shifted on his feet, feeling the weight of all gazes settle between his lungs, and waited for Ms. Talbot to finish talking.

So let’s give him our best behavior!

Papers stopped shuffling. Crayons were dropped from stubby fingers. Thirty expectant faces turned up with stifled giggles and doubtful glances. How could they not laugh? Sam Winchester- in his old, oversized clothes with more patches than any of them could number. His nappy hair curled up at the ears and pictures, those freakish pictures he always drew. He was so quiet, so lonely, so weird. Even then, twitching up at the front, something tucked behind his back with his head bowed to face the floor, everyone in the room wanted to just laugh.

Sam’s little feet pounded across the sidewalk, screeching past a corner and carrying him down the length of the cafeteria. He couldn’t hear them anymore. He thought they had left. But he couldn’t take the chances. He had to find an adult, a teacher, the janitor or the principal, somebody-

Uh, so… I… Sam heard muffled voices and a chorus of laughter from the back, and the tips of his ears reddened in a hot blush. He knew they were talking about him. He tried his best not to care, just focused on the picture in his sweaty hands and looked at his brother- smiling, fists tucked in his pockets and grass-green eyes shining with something like pride.

I wanted to- he swallowed nervously. His mouth was dry. I chose superhero as my word. And I brought a picture of my big brother Dean-

“Come back Winchester!”

His legs hurt. His lungs burned. Tears stung his eyes and made his face wet and splotched with red smudges. But he had to keep running. They c0uldn’t catch him if he kept running, right?

“Where’s your brother now?”

Just looking at the picture made his heart slow to nothing but a nervous bump-bump against his ribs. Sammy’s smile was secret- hesitant and the smallest bit shaky; he began to imagine that Dean was actually grinning up at him. Willing him forward. You can do it, Sammy. He released a breath.

His name is Dean.

Sam’s gaze flickered up. Despite all the bored faces, some with half-lidded eyes, others dangerously judgmental or amused, he couldn’t help the swell of pride in his heart that Dean was his brother. He wanted to tell them. Tell them all what Dean could do.

He’s my superhero.

He could hear them now. Three sets of feet crashing down the pavement ten, nine, eight feet behind him. He swallowed back a thick glob of spit and gasped for breath. He had to stop soon. Stop and find somewhere to hide.

“Hey, Sammy!” A mess of breathless laughter. Like hyenas. “Show us your powers!”

You guys might say he’s not a superhero. He rubbed the pad of his thumb along the edge of the photo and dared to glance up at the crowd. Seemed the only one smiling was Ms. Talbot.

But he’s the best one, he continued.

 Better than Superman.

Scoff number one.

Better than Spiderman, too.

Scoff two, three, and four.

Even better than Batman.

He lost count of all the grumbles and grinned up at the tiles in the ceiling.

He’s real smart, he beamed. Smarter than all the books in here. Probably smarter than the principal. Not in the same ways, though.  He dragged one palm down his jeans, and tried to make sense of everything in his head. It was a storm of thoughts, every drop of rain something he could say about his brother. His big hero, Dean.

A fist caught in the back of his jacket and jerked him backwards, and his knees buckled beneath him till he was butt-first on the concrete. The fall jarred him, pain shooting from the base of his spine to the roots of his teeth, and he gasped as he felt something crack. He could barely see anything in front of him through the watery film of tears, but he could still make out their faces.

Gordon. Brady. Victor.

He protects me from a lotta’ stuff. Monsters, he thought. Animals. Weapons. Sometimes Dad when his yelling gets too loud. But he didn’t say any of these things. Just toed the thin carpet with the tip of his sneaker.

 He’s real fast, good with his hands, and really, really strong. He grinned, feeling phantom cramps of laughter curl behind his stomach. So funny, he chuckled. Funnier than anyone in the world.

And he has these eyes. Sammy tried to keep that wistful lilt from slipping into his voice.  Green. Like… like moss. Or ivy. He looked down at those eyes, popping right out of the picture, and felt Dean’s gaze make his chest go warm and soft.

He saves me almost every day.

Sam clambered to his knees, tripping again and falling onto his palms with a pant before pushing himself up; a foot landed against his back and shoved him back down again and again until an angry red mark was tattooed against the back of his hip.

“Come on,” Brady crooned. He grinned to his friends, one looming above each of Sam’s shoulders, and pounded a fist into his free hand. “Aint you got super strength?”

Cliché, Sam thought absently. He watched Gordon and Victor circle closer, drawing towards Brady like two carrion flies, and swallowed as they all leaned down, braced their hands on their knees, and sneered. Like a single entity. Like… He struggled to find the word. But he remembered the pictures, the pictures from one of Dean’s books. A monster with dull black scales and long, blunt claws. Three heads.

Something clicked. Hydra.

“L-leave me alone,” he whimpered. He spared a glance down at his palms and felt tears well behind his eyes. The skin along the jut of his wrist was crisscrossed with rows of scratches oozing pearls of scarlet blood. He clutched his hands to his chest, trying his best not to cringe, and fit a rebellious scowl to his mouth. He hoped they didn’t see his lip quivering.

“You shouldn’t need to fight,” he snickered. “Doncthu’ got that big brother of yours?”

“Yeah,” Victor echoed. He crossed his arms, spreading his feet shoulder-width and looking down on Sam with something dangerously close to blatant contempt. “Your hero gonna’ come and save you?”

He’s a lot taller than me, Sam added. He stood up on his toes and reached towards the ceiling, fingers spread wide, and struggled to measure just how tall Dean was. He hasn’t grown yet, hadn’t come close to the six foot four he was destined to reach. His fingers barely brushed where Dean’s chin would have been.

Lot older. But he’s so nice to me. Really careful and kind and the best big brother. Always give me the most space on the bed and the better pillow and washes my jacket before his. I’m never hungry because of Dean. I’m never alone.

Sam’s skin began to thrum with familiar warmth, thick and sweet, sinking down to the soles of his feet like honey, and he bit his bottom lip to keep from cracking into a grin.

He doesn’t wear a cape, but… He shrugged, self-consciousness evaporating into mist. He could almost imagine Dean next to him. He could almost feel the heft of his arm across his shoulders.

Some heroes don’t wear capes.

“Sam Winchester,” Brady giggled. He glanced over at the others and curled his lip up in a sneer. “More like Screw-Up Winchester.”

“Screwed-Up Winchester,” Gordon leered.

“Can’t even be normal for show and tell.” Victor leaned down. Shook his head slowly, like he was disappointed. But his eyes- they were ignited. “Can’t even be like any of us for one day.”

Why are they so angry? Sam thought. He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing hot tears back behind his irises. It burned. It stung. His back ached and the fabric of his shirt bit into the cuts on his hands. He just wanted to go home. He just wanted to grip Dean’s jacket in his fists and cry into his strong shoulder.

Fear buzzed through him like electricity, and he choked back a sob.

“Why can’t you just leave me alone?”

It all happened in slow motion. He saw one foot swing back to kick, one small fist bunch up and fly down, three round, unforgiving faces grin in sick delight. Sammy braced himself. He knew he didn’t have time to retaliate, and his brain was so full of fear, this new kind of fear, and adrenaline and pain, that he didn’t even think to roll away. He just tucked his knees to his chest and squeezed his eyes shut.

Let it be quick, he thought. He blocked out all the sounds, the light suddenly too bright, the foreboding laughter high and uneven. He gritted his teeth and waited for flashes of pain to erupt over his back and legs. Let it not be that bad.

But instead of starbursts of red behind his eyelids and bruises like blossoms along his sides, he heard another set of feet pounding down to meet him. A distant voice, livid and loud and aggressive enough to ripple through the concrete and shiver up Sam’s spine.

“Hey!” They were getting closer. “Hey!” The voice was getting angrier. “Get off of him, you douchebags!”

The pain still wasn’t there. No more giggling or harsh words. He willed himself to open his eyes the smallest bit, and he peeked between the crack in his forearms, feeling his body grow heavy and warm.

Dean.

He was there. Right behind the three boys, chest heaving up and down in ragged breaths, hands balled tight into fists. He was looming over all of them, had them all caged up against the brick wall, spitting venom into all their faces like a viper. Sam watched in awe as the sneers melted into gaping mouths and wide, round eyes. He watched Dean’s hands close around Brady’s collar and jerk him up and forward until their eyes were less tha a few inches apart.

“This funny to you? Picking on my little brother?” Dean bared his teeth and shook Brady a little bit; the boys eyes nearly rolled back into his head, and Gordon and Victor were already rushing away for help. Dean brought his other hand down to knot in the front of Brady’s shirt, and leaned down with a wolf-like grin, nothing but fury in his eyes. “How about we sweeten the pot, you little bit-“

Sam was up before he could register, pulling on Dean’s elbow with everything he had. It was so hard to move him. He was fixed to the ground like an oak, and he was so hot, radiating warmth right out of his jacket like some sort of human wood-furnace.

“Dean, you gotta’ let go of him!” Sam pleaded. “Don’t hurt him, please!”

Dean tensed under his touch. He didn’t let go of Brady, though, just leaned in closer and closer with eyes thin and teeth pulled back in a grimace. Sam watched the boy wriggle in Dean’s grip, watched his feet kick and his pupils widen in fear.

Dean ignored his brother altogether. Just tightened his fingers in the shirt till Sam was scared Brady would choke.

“Touch him again,” Dean hissed. He took a second to scan the boy’s face with wild, green eyes. “And you’re meat. Got it?”

Dean’s fists unclasped his shirt, and Brady dropped to the floor, instantly shooting off down the sidewalk, huffing and sobbing all the way to the front office. Sam could still hear him scream for a teacher even after the double doors had fallen shut.

Sam knew he would have to switch schools after this. He’d have to move again or kick up the homeschooling in the backseat. “Class, this is Sam.” But somehow he didn’t care. A weird peace settled behind his sternum as he steadied his breathing and turned to gaze up at Dean with reverence.

“What were you gonna’ do?” he panted. He raked his hair out of his eyes with shaking fingers and watched the fire in Dean’s eyes sizzle into ashes. His big brother smiled, flexing his fingers.

“Aw, nothing,” he mumbled. He rolled his eyes. “Can’t beat a baby into pulp, can I?”

Cheap indignation worked its way past the warmth singing through Sam’s body, and he giggled, not even trying to frown. “I’m not a baby.” He shoved against Dean’s side, but melted into his brother’s arms nonetheless, willingly taking Dean’s hand as they shuffled down the street to the Impala.

“Yeah, I know, Sammy.” Dean pressed him closer and squeezed his hand, urging him forward. Sam tried his best to match him steps, lengthen his gait, stumble until their feet moved in perfect rhythm. Right, left, right, left. “Let’s head home.”

Sam would have liked a few Kindergarteners’ fists in his sides, just then. It beat werewolf claws tearing across his cheeks like knives. He winced as Dean patted a cool washcloth against the wound and chuckled softly, watching the man’s irises glimmer in the low lamplight like emeralds.

“Yeah,” he simpered. His full lips twisted up in a smirk, and he caught Sam’s gaze in between his lashes. “Yeah, I remember that.” He dunked the cloth in a bowl of diluted pink water and wrung it out to dry. His tone had changed somehow- nostalgic and easy. “Clinton Elementary.”

Sam smiled at his brother. Perfect memory. Like a camera. He remembered saying that on that day, too. He had probably taken five minutes praising his big brother from the crown of his head to the tips of his toes. He still had that picture crumpled like an old receipt at the bottom of his bag.

“Wasn’t the first time you’d saved me,” he mumbled. He fought back a gummy smile and fingered with the empty pistol in his lap, testing the flex of the trigger. “Wasn’t the last, either.” He risked a glance up to see Dean watching him, eyes crinkled in a sweet smile and shining with an unnamable glow. He scooted closer, fitting their sides against eachother, and chuckled enough that the deep laughter vibrated through Sam’s clothes and into his skin.

“That’s what I’m here for, right?”

Sam let his head fall to his chest. His hair fell over his cheeks to hide his dimpled grin, and he kicked Dean’s feet playfully with a snort. After all these years, that feeling in his chest never changed. It was the same warmth, thick and familiar, like home. It drizzled into his chest like syrup, and he smiled to himself as his eyes fell shut. “Yeah.”

A few beats of silence. Light and loving, rare and sweeter than sap.

“You’re still my hero, Dean.”

Three days ago we had started out on our hiking trip and she had been so excited.  I had decided to take her out of school for one year and walk the Appalachian Trail all the way from Maine to Georgia.  I thought it would be a great learning experience for her.  Last night we had been sleeping in our tents when I heard her crying for me.  She insisted on sleeping in her own tent, said it made her feel more “grown up”.  I zipped open my tent door and walked over to hers, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes.

“Emily?  What’s wrong honey?” I opened her tent and she was gone.  My heart dropped and I screamed her name.  I heard her yell for me again, but this time it was out in the woods.  What was she doing out there?  I started running towards her but it seemed like she was getting further and further away. Suddenly I was knocked on the back of the head and everything went black. 

When I came to, we were tethered to the ceiling by our wrists, and there were bodies hanging all around us.  Emily had screamed and cried and tried to break free for 10 minutes before she realized I was there too.  My heart was breaking.  My daughter was so scared and there was nothing I could do about it.  What the hell was going on?  Who brought us here?

I heard voices coming from far away and saw flashlights.  Should I scream or were these the people who had brought us here?  I didn’t know what to do.

“Emily, close your eyes baby, pretend like you’re not awake okay?”

She nodded her head and closed her eyes tight, hanging her head down.  I did the same and waited, terrified.

“Sam, if the Wendigo is in here we are screwed man,” I heard a young man’s voice.  Wendigo?  What the hell is that?

“Dean, if some of his victims are alive we have to rescue them, okay?  We can’t just leave them here.”

Rescue?  These were good guys!  “Help!” I screamed.  “We’re in here!”

They came running and skidded to a halt at the entrance to the cave we were in. They shined their flashlights on my face and I yelled again, “Please help us!”  They both started running towards me, “My daughter, get my daughter first!”

The taller one ran to Emily and cut her down while the other one ran to me.

“Hey, I’m Dean and that’s my brother Sam.  We’re going to get you out of here okay?  Just try and keep your voice down, we don’t want to alert that thing that we’re here,” I nodded and he cut my ropes and helped me stand, my legs were so wobbly.

“Mommy!” Emily cried and ran into my arms.

“Shh baby, we have to be quiet okay, or the mean thing that brought us here will come back,” I rubbed the sweat and tears off her face and she nodded.

“Okay, let’s go.  Sam, get the fire ready just in case we bump into that damn thing on the way out.”

We started walking out when suddenly we heard a god-awful screeching noise.

“It knows we’re here,” Dean said.

“What does?  What is that thing?” I pressed my daughter tight up against me.

“It’s called a Wendigo, we don’t have time to explain, just run!” Dean passed Emily to Sam and he scooped her up in his arms.  Dean grabbed my arm and started dragging me, running so fast I could barely keep up.

I saw light at the end of the tunnel and sobbed in joy, we were almost free.  Just then a huge figure stood in front of us, tall and skinny, and oh god, what was wrong with its face?  This had to be the Wendigo.

“Sam!” Dean yelled and started grabbing for something in the backpack he was wearing.  Sam curled his body around Emily and the Wendigo knocked him against the wall.  He crumpled to the floor, Emily still cradled in his arms.  I screamed and grabbed Dean’s arm, was my little girl alright? 

Suddenly there was light and heat and the Wendigo was in flames, screeching and howling.  The Wendigo collapsed into a pile of ash and Dean dropped the homemade flame thrower and ran to Sam with me right on his heels.  He dropped to his knees and put his hand on Sam’s shoulder, “Sam?  Sammy, you okay?”

“Emily?” I knelt down beside Dean.

I held my breath until Sam answered, obviously in pain, “Yeah, I’m okay.”

“Mommy,” Emily cried out, reaching for me.  I pulled her out of Sam’s arms and hugged her to me, rubbing her back.

“Shh, it’s okay, it’s over now.”

Dean helped Sam stand and looked back over his shoulder at me, “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

We made it out of the tunnel and I almost cried at the warm sunlight hitting my face.  

“Can you stand baby?” I asked Emily.

“Yes mommy,” she said, so I placed her gently on the ground.  Dean helped Sam over to a rock and he sat down, grabbing his side, obviously in pain.

“Here, let me look.  I was almost an RN until I got pregnant,” I walked over to Sam and kneeled down in front of him.  He looked at me, unsure.  “Trust me,” I smiled.  He moved his coat back and I felt his ribs until I found the one that made him hiss in pain.  “Yep, I think you have a broken rib.  You better get to a hospital.”

“Thanks,” he smiled and pulled his coat closed again.

“So, are you going to tell me what the hell that thing was?” I asked.  I sat down on a rock and pulled Emily into my lap.

“It was a Wendigo,” Dean explained.  “They used to be human but once they eat…human flesh…they become something else.”

“Are you saying that thing was going to…eat us?” I clutched Emily tightly to me.

“He would have if we hadn’t found you, yes,” Sam said.

“Oh my god,” I sat there in shock.

Dean cleared his throat, “What were you guys doing out here in the woods anyway?” 

“Hiking the Appalachian Trail.  I thought it would be a good learning experience for Emily,” I shook my head.

“Well…” Dean smiled.

“Yeah, I think this trip is over.  We’re going home,” I stood and grabbed Emily’s hand.

“Hey, hold on, we’ll escort you back to your car,” Dean stood and Sam stood also, wincing as he did.

“Are you sure?  He really needs to get to a hospital.”

“I’ll be all right.  I want to make sure you guys get back safe,” Sam smiled.

Suddenly Emily ran away from me and grabbed Sam’s hand, smiling up at him.  “Are you guys superheroes?”

Sam and Dean exchanged a look, I couldn’t quite guess what they were thinking, but there was definitely a silent conversation going on there.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Dean eased out of his chair silently, Sam and Cas close behind. Guns were drawn and hidden behind backs as Dean stepped up to the front door. With his breath held, Dean leaned towards the peephole, his body tense. But when he saw Jim’s face, he let out his breath, leaning back to open the door. The demon trap under the mat would keep anyone pretending to be hunters from entering the building. Guns were placed back in their usual places, as the three hunters were let into the bunker. As the three glided effortlessly over the hearth, a breath of relief rippled in the entryway. They greeted the hunters warmly, their relief palpable. With greetings out of the way the group congregated around the map and took seats. Sam was the first to speak.

“What are you all doing here?”

“You didn’t think we were going to let you fight this on your own, did you? No offense, but you three tend to get into more trouble than you can handle on your own.”

Sam and Dean exchanged a look before Dean said with confusion written across his features, “But how did you find this place?”

“Charlie,” Robbin said brightly, leaning forward to rest her chin on her fist as her eyes flitted to Dean from where they had been focused on Castiel. “She’s been notifying hunters that she trusts of your location. But only by word of mouth. She refuses to write it down. So don’t worry.”

“However,” Kathy added, “You should expect more guests to show up soon. We passed Max Scott and Avery Gerch on our way here. “

Another look was exchanged as Dean blinked furiously. Then clearing his throat, he said through a lump in his throat, “Thank you. But you shouldn’t be here.”

“And leave the future of humanity up to you three? Thanks, but no thanks.”

Dean opened his mouth to argue when Castiel said seriously,” Dean. There are more on the way. Many, many more.”

More knocking permeated the room, and again, the three men formed a small platoon and edged their way towards the door with weapons drawn. The scene was repeated, with Dean peeking carefully, before opening the door and greeting the group standing in the doorway warmly. Sure enough, Max and Avery entered, with arms full of goods. Alcohol, pizza, ammo. With the door safely locked behind them, Dean hadn’t made it three steps before there was another knock. Sighing heavily, he opened the door to a group of five hunters also with arms full of food and alcohol. In thirty minutes, the number of people that had originally been in the bunker had tripled, three times over. As groups of hunters, claimed bedrooms and chairs, opened bottles of beer and flipped open lids of pizza boxes, it felt more like a family reunion than an assemblage of troops. There were story retellings of famous hunts that were occasionally interrupted by someone assuring that they were not as timid as the storyteller made them out to be. There were jokes made and high fives over bags of fast food. Scars were pointed out in response to questions of how old injuries were healing, and there would be moments of silence when one of their own that had fallen was mentioned.

Castiel stood at the edge of the room, his blue eyes flitting over the groups of people, his eyes narrowed in concentration, his arms dangling by his side. Every few minutes, Dean would break away from the group to check in with Castiel, to make sure that everything was okay, and to make sure that a battle wasn’t starting tonight. Each time, Cas would brush off Dean with an easy smile, a promise that everything was okay before returning to his typical angel stance.

As conversation buzzed in the bunker, Sam and Dean stepped to the side, whispering softly. They didn’t have tomorrow planned. They weren’t sure what they were going to do. And they had no plans for how to assemble their platoon of hunters. But they knew that tomorrow, when they would line up in preparation for battle, each man and woman would hold their own. They would fight with all the ferocity of a mother bear protecting her cubs. And they would not go down without taking three others down with them.

“Should you make a speech?” Sam asked quietly, his arms crossed across his chest.

“I don’t do speeches, Sammy. You do it.”

“Excuse me,” Sam announced, clearing his throat. As the conversation slowed to a halt, the only sounds were the click of glass on wood, the shuffle of feet on the floor, and the rustle of paper bags and food wrappers. “Thank you all for coming. We wouldn’t have asked any of you to sacrifice yourselves for this cause, and the fact that so many of you showed up tonight proves one thing. We are a family. We have our differences, and we don’t always see eye to eye, but we are family. We have all lost those close to us. And tomorrow it’s possible that we will lose more of those that we love. But you’re here. And you’re standing behind us.” He paused, brushing his dark hair out of his eyes. “Actually, it reminds me of a story. There was this man in 1478, at the beginning of the Spanish Inquisition and-“

Sam was cut off by Dean clearing his throat and subtly shaking his head ‘no’.

“Right. Anyway. It’s going to be a rough day tomorrow. And we don’t know exactly what we’re facing. So personally, my brother Dean and I are thanking you for being here and facing the uncertain. So. Eat, drink, and be merry. For tomorrow we may die.”

Instead of a rousing bout of applause that Sam expected, he was greeting with uneasy stares, a few raised eyebrows, and an awkward silence before the room returned to their previous state of…eating, drinking, and being merry. Sam’s brow furrowed in confusion as Dean sidled up next to him on one side, Castiel on the other.

“Sammy, next time, go a little more Flight of the Valkyries, a little less Knights of the Round Table.”

“But they’re not knights,” Castiel interrupted, his face shadowed with confusion. “And the tables are rectangular.”

Sam and Dean met eyes as Castiel spoke, and Dean rolled his eyes before sighing heavily and walking away to join a table of veteran hunters that were passing around beers and starting a game of poker with m&m’s as chips. Castiel resumed his spot in the corner of the room, observing, where he was joined a few moments later by the Hughes’s daughter, who began interrogating his reasoning for wearing a trench coat inside. In the summer. With a tie. And wondering flirtatiously if he wouldn’t be more comfortable with all of it off. Sam grabbed the map and a bottle of beer and settled in the corner to resume planning, too worried to relax in the party environment.

Shortly after midnight, the older hunters began splitting of and taking over bedrooms, leaving the younger generation to continue the party into the evening. At some point the food ran out, shortly followed by the alcohol, and not long after that, people began falling asleep wherever they sat down for longer than five minutes. Finally, the only people left awake were the three original men.

They stayed up the rest of the night talking softly into the early morning hours, too anxious to sleep, too tired to do anything of much importance. And as the first rays of sunlight broke the horizon, they began moving through the rooms, shaking hunters awake, placing guns in hands, and filling pockets with ammo. A brief meeting was had, simply to remind everyone to stand their ground and to remember that if they even had a shadow of a doubt, shoot. The goal was to make it back to the bunker tonight with as many people as they could. And should Sam, Dean, or Castiel fall, they were to continue on, fighting until the battle was won. At no point should they surrender. Surrender was equal to death.

And as the hunters filed out onto the plains of Kansas, their hands steady and their feet firm, they stood shoulder to shoulder and knew that death was marching towards them. Their faces betrayed no fear. Their hearts beat steadily in the chests. They would glance at the men and women to their left and their right and know that they were in good company. They would fight in arms as brothers and sisters, and they would die together as brothers and sisters. And they would not surrender.

Dean turned to face Sam and found him mouthing words under his breath. With a look of doubt written across his face, he said incredulously, “Dude. Are you praying?”

“No,” he retorted, with an equal tone of affront. “I’m…remembering. A quote.”

“Jesus,” Dean replied, rolling his eyes. “Quotes, Sammy? Like…Dance like nobody’s watching? I don’t know that now’s the time.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Sam said softly, his eyes focused on the horizon. “It’s from Excalibur. You know. Knights of the round table. ‘The fellowship was a brief beginning, a fair time that cannot be forgotten. And because it will not be forgotten that fair time may come again. Now once more I must ride with my knights to defend what was and the dream of what could be.’” He let a beat of silence hang suspended in the air between them before adding softly, “It just felt right.”

Dean watched Sam in silence for a moment, his face impassive before nodding slowly. As he reached up to clap Sam on the shoulder, he said softly, “Nerd,” before smiling comfortingly at his younger brother.

Dean Winchester pretty much jumped out of the chair he’d been restlessly moving around in as soon as he heard the doorbell ring. He took a mini deep breath, ignored Sam’s smirk and Bobby’s surprise and slowly, but painfully made his way down the hallway.

As soon as he was out of sight, he sprinted the rest of the way to the front door. He let out a breath and stared at back of the front door. The answer to all his questions was on the other side, and so he swung open the door eagerly and found him.

Castiel was standing at the door, his usually disheveled hair claiming its title. His hair was still sticking out at odd angles and he even had a small stubble going on. He looked tired, the dark circles under his eyes smudged against his slowly tanning skin. But, just like always, his bright blue eyes stood out the most and Dean’s breath caught as he stared at the angel in front of him.

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean breathed a sigh of relief and laughed at the same time. “Hey, Cas. It’s really good to see you, man.” He wasn’t sure whether he should, but he leaned forward and pulled him into a huge hug, breathing in his familiar scent, the Cas scent that he couldn’t ever describe. Except that every time he caught a scent of it in the Impala, he kind of breathing for a little bit.

Cas took a bit, but he wrapped his arms around Dean in a sort of halfhearted embrace, but Dean knew that he meant it with all his heart.

“Come on,” he said, pulling away. “Let’s go celebrate!”

Dean closed the door behind him, following Cas into the house.

“Dean, I don’t think the ending of the world is a cause for celebration.”

“Sure it is!”

Cas chuckled softly, but didn’t say anything. He really couldn’t have either because he was being pulled into a hug by Sam, who was saying it was good to see him too. Dean wanted to laugh out loud, suddenly, because it was just like Cas to have that confused expression on his face.

“Hey, Cas,” Bobby called out from the kitchen. Dean peered over his shoulder and saw him pulling out a bottle of vodka from the fridge.

“Hello, Bobby. You look well,” Cas said, once Sam had stopped suffocating him.

Bobby huffed a laugh and set the bottle on the table. “Thanks Cas, I got a facelift last night. Don’t I look beautiful?”

“I’m not sure you need one. Face lifts don’t work as effectively as most human believe they do,” Cas said, matter of factly.

Sam and Dean laughed, while Bobby rolled his eyes. “Glad you’re still clueless about jokes, Cas. It would be weird if you got the hang of everything on the last day on the planet.”

A heavy silence fell in on the room and Dean stole a glance at Cas.

It really was the last day on the planet. But, he brushed the stupid thought that had been playing over and over in his mind and said, “Let’s get hammered, shall we?”

He grinned at Sam, who was trying his hardest not to smile and Bobby let out a sigh of annoyance.

“Actually,” Cas interrupted. “I would like to walk around this house one last time before we ingest copious amounts of alcohol.”

Sam nodded and Dean said, “Sure, Cas.”

“Can’t say we will wait for you,” Bobby said, already pulling out shot glasses from his cupboard.

“Alcohol doesn’t have too much of an effect on me,” he replied. “Dean, I would like to talk to you.”

Dean’s heart skipped a beat at the thought of talking to the angel, alone, especially since he’d been thinking about things, which were just weird. And he wasn’t ready to face them in any way at all.

Even if it was the last damn day on the planet.

They stepped outside and Dean walked beside the angel, his heart still thudding like crazy. He wasn’t trying to be obvious, but there was no way around it. He had to tell him now, or really there was no point of it at all.

“Isn’t it really—”

“Cas, I have to tell you something,” Dean blurting, receiving a very startled look from the angel.

“Yes, Dean?”

“Uh, it’s our last day on earth and uh,” Dean stammered. “I guess I can’t let this pass but, but thanks, Cas. For everything you’ve done for me. And Sam. And for all of us, you know? But, especially the pulling me out of hell part. That was pretty kickass.”

Cas laughed softly. “Of course, Dean. It really has been incredibly life changing being around you Winchester boys. It’s always a new day, with nothing ever normal.”

“Thanks, I guess.”

“You’re very welcome. Now come over here,” Cas said. He picked up his pace, dodging past the million cars in the salvage yard and stood  in the middle of the dirt road that Bobby had paved years ago. And Dean followed until Cas came to a sudden halt and he almost bumped into him.

“Here,” Cas said, grabbing Dean’s and made sure they were facing each other. “This is the spot where you boys always came out to pray to someone and usually, it worked. And now, well, let’s hope it does again.”

“Praying, Cas? You know that’s not how I swing,” Dean sighed.

Cas rolled his eyes. “Just try. And if He doesn’t answer again, I promise you, we will go get shoveled.”

“Hammered.”

“Hammered, yes,” Cas said, knowingly and he closed his eyes. And so, Dean stood, thoughts wandering from place to place, probably the last time it would ever happen. He kind of wanted the world to stop ending because then it would mean that he would have more time with Cas and Sam and Bobby and everyone else. But, the world ending also meant it was a clean slate for him. All his problems were gone, everything was gone.

And so, he found himself standing in the middle of the yard, fingers laced through Cas’, praying to a God that he didn’t even believe in. Maybe some of it was because he didn’t want Cas to be disappointed, but some of it seemed genuine, at least to him. It was the most praying he’d ever done in his entire life.

A few more minutes passed by and nothing happened, and Dean heard Cas sigh heavily. He opened his eyes and found Cas staring at the heavens.

“Sorry, Cas.”

“I was hoping it wasn’t true.”

“What wasn’t?”

“That God didn’t care about us.”

Dean nodded, but he rubbed Cas’ shoulder in comfort. “Sorry, man. That’s why I lost faith a long, long time ago.”

Cas nodded. “I was hoping it would work with you around. But, it’s the last day on earth. No point in brooding over Him. Let’s go get nailed.”

“Hammered, Cas. Nailed means s-something to-totally different,” he said, clearing his throat.

“Dean,” Cas said. Dean tried not to notice that their fingers were still interlocked.

“We should go inside, Cas,” he said, quickly.

“Of course, but,” he said, and he put a warm hand on Dean’s shoulder. “You are the most righteous man I have ever seen and your determination gives us all courage. We need more people like you on the earth.”

Dean laughed and waved it off. He pushed his hands into his pockets, hoping that that would help with the blushing. “I’m the one and only, Cas. You can’t replace me.”

Cas’ eyes seemed to bore through his soul, like they always did. “I really can’t.”

Back inside, Sam and Bobby were already three shots in. They hadn’t planned this, but Sam had suggested something about getting really drunk so that if the end of the world did happen, they weren’t awake enough to witness the horror.

But, Dean knew that Sam meant that the real horror was watching each other die.

“Cas,” Sam said, his voice already slurring. “You look beautiful.”

“Thank you, Sam. You are a handsome man yourself.”

Bobby and Sam collapsed into roars of laughter and soon, Dean and Cas were joining them, too. It didn’t take long to get Dean drunk off the five shots he’d taken, while the same five shots had no effect on Cas, whatsoever.

He stared at their antics: grinning, recalling old stories and bursting into random bouts of music. All in merriment.

And to Dean, Cas just looked more beautiful. He looked so gorgeous with all of his angel power that sometimes he just couldn’t stop staring.

“Cas, you’re so pretty, Cas. C’mere. Let me make you feel good,” he said, resting his chin on Cas’ shoulder. Cas smiled at him.

“You really are a tame bunch when you’re drunk,” he said.

“No, Cas,” Sam said. “He has a huge crush on you. I know it.”

Dean snorted. “Shut your face. I do-don’t like Cas. He’s a friend.”

Bobby snorted. “Okay, sure. You and the pretty boy angel are just friends.”

“I don’t like him, Bobby. Cas, I don’t like you,” he said, pushing himself off him. “I don’t,” he lied. “You’re kind of nice looking but I don’t like you.”

“Dean, it’s the last goddamn day on earth,” Sam chuckled. “Tell him.”

And then Bobby started chanting, “Tell him, tell him, tell him.” And soon, Sam had joined in and Dean’s face felt like it was on fire.

“Okay, Jesus, shut up. You two are assholes, you know that?” he said, blinking in the aftermath of the shame that had just occurred.

“I don’t see what the fuss is about,” Cas said, nonchalantly. “I like Dean, too.”

“Oh, yeah, with your profound bond?” Sam snorted, lying down on the table. “Dean, kiss him or I will.”

“Shut up,” Dean said, bringing himself to look at Cas. He couldn’t do it, not when Cas was staring at him like that. With that stupid expression and squinting eyes and cute face. It just made Dean want to kiss the expression off his face.

And so, that’s what he did. He leaned forward and pressed his lips against Cas’, who was definitely very surprised, not to mention, absolutely clueless about how to kiss. But, he eased up against Dean’s lips and soon, they were kissing like it was the last day on earth.

Dean thought he heard Sam and Bobby cheering in the background, but he couldn’t be too sure because all he could feel and hear was the softness of Cas’s lips and his heart thudding against his ribcage like it was going to break out any second. And really, he couldn’t have been any more content.

He could have done it forever, but Cas pulled away first.

“Shit,” he said, taking a deep breath. “Did I mess it all up?”

“No,” Cas said, resting his hand over Dean’s. “I really liked that.”

“Get away from me,” Bobby said in annoyance. “You two lovebirds can go somewhere else.”

Sam guffawed with laughter and Dean beamed, holding Cas’ hand. Cas was smiling at him and Sam was roaring with laughter and Bobby was muttering ‘idjits’ under his breath. In Dean’s mind, it was the perfect Heaven.

Sometimes it made him wonder if someone had walked by their house and seen them, what they thought might have been going on. The phrase “end of the world” might have never crossed their mind even once. Because it really was the best night of Dean’s life, with his favorite people all under one roof and that’s all he really needed to be happy. He gave Cas’ hand another squeeze and smiled at him.

There are days when we argue, when he pushes my already short temper to the limit. But this isn’t anything new, and it’s never changed a thing between us. Nothing that really matters.

I remember when the disagreements first started, when he was getting older, beginning to figure out who he was. Who he wanted to be. We’d go back and forth, yelling about our father’s choices, our responsibilities. Then, right in the thick of it, one of us would say something completely stupid. It was as simple as that. The fight would be over, and he’d be grinning at me, as if I were the dumbest person in the world. As if I was his hero.

Damn it.

I mean, look at him. Even now— my jaw is locked, my mouth grim, but he’s smiling at me anyway, keeping in time with my steps. He always walks in my shadow but is never any darker for it. That’s how he’s always been, how he’d always be. I’m so proud of him it hurts, but I’m also terrified of being left behind.

Not that I can admit that. Not to myself, or him.

Hell, the truth is, there’s too much that goes unspoken between us these days. Too much I can’t say. I wish I could share everything with him. Bleed myself dry to clean all of this up.

But I might not have the chance to tell him goodbye.

With the end coming soon, my memories are chasing after me. Things I haven’t thought of in years suddenly feel like they happened yesterday. Like the first time I had to change him— it reeked so bad that I panicked, thinking he must be sick. Or then there was that night she rocked him in her arms, with me pressing close to her side. I knew I was happy, but was too young to understand why, or to appreciate it. She had smiled as she whispered stories to us about angels. She said they were always nearby, watching, keeping us safe. We both fell asleep against her.

Then there’s that other one. A memory that stands out above the others.

I can’t share the details. I don’t remember where we were, or what I was doing. But that one moment, that one second, never left me.

It was when he said his first word.

My name.

It sealed a deal, set my fate. A lifetime of scraped knees, colds, bad choices… from that moment on, they all came in pairs. Him and me, always. I guess that’s what makes it so strange that we turned out so different.

He still knows how to find the good in people, to give them the benefit of a doubt.

“You’re letting yourself get discouraged. No good will come from that. Are you really going to give up, and that’s it?”

He’s squeezing my shoulder, telling me to be strong. He’s not saying it for my sake. He actually believes it.

“We’ve been talking,” he continues. “And I think we know a way to work this out. We can make things right again.”

Things will never be right. Not how they were meant to be. Some sins can’t be forgiven.

He’s staring at me, still fighting, refusing to give up hope. I have to keep my eyes trained ahead. He’ll know, otherwise. He’ll see the truth.

Last night, he fell asleep in a chair, still in his clothes from the day. Like a thousand times before, I threw a blanket over him. It wasn’t until I was lying down that I realized I’d never be able to do that again.

I went outside and screamed at the sky.

Of course, no one screamed back.

He wasn’t there to listen. Not anymore. My prayers weren’t going to be answered.

I felt rage at his absence. Rage at having lost him.

Now, I’m trying to draw upon that same anger. I need it to fuel me, to burn away my hesitation and fear. If I let that fury take control, let it block out everything else, I can finish this, once and for all.

He’s still talking, unaware of the sweat suddenly beading at my brow. He’ll try to stop me if I give him the chance. I feel like that sky. Empty. Dark. My hands won’t stop shaking. Palms soaked. Can feel the edge of bone slide against my fingers, drawing blood. Can’t find a grip. I remind myself, better me than him. Probably going to be sick. Can taste bile rising up. Without meaning to, I fall a step behind. I memorize the outline of his shoulders and know I want to go back to the beginning.

A deep part of me screams at him to keep walking, but he’s stopping. Turning around to check on me. Our eyes meet, and that’s all it takes. He realizes what I’m about to do before I’m even sure I can find the will to go through with it. He’s always known me better than I’ve known myself.

When the row of teeth sink in, grinding past bone to drink deep, I can barely see through my pain. I try to hold onto that hurt, let it pull me under.

I want to die.

The worst part of all is that he forgives me. It’s in his tears, the squeeze of his fingers on my wrist, in the last smile he’ll ever share with me.

He’s dead in my arms before we both hit the ground, my legs giving out. His pain is over. Mine is more than I can stand.

I don’t know how long I’m there for. By the time I hear the voice, recognize the figure strolling into the day’s dying light, my brother’s gone cold against my chest.

“Don’t look so sad, Cain. When I first met your brother, I promised him paradise. A home that would be far more grand than the Eden your parents so selfishly lost.”

“None of that was ever yours to give. You lied to him.” My lips peel back, showing my teeth, but I’m not sure if it’s in a grimace or a snarl.

“Huh. Well, I never claimed to be God. He jumped to that conclusion all by himself.” The Devil paces around me, judging my work. “And last I checked, he’s now in Heaven, so I certainly made good on my part of the deal.” He takes my shoulder to help raise me up. “But now, I believe, it’s your turn.”

My sin isn’t the same as that of my parents’.

My sin won’t live on, as did theirs.

My brother is free, and I’ll carry this weight alone.

And for that reason, I now know why my teeth are bared.

It’s because I’m smiling.

—————————————-

“How is he?” He waits, but the boy doesn’t reply. “Sam?”

Everything hit him at once. The sound of fire catching, the heat, the taste and smell of blood, the heaviness in his chest – his senses were overwhelmed. His grip on the Blade loosened, letting it fall to the ground. He didn’t care about anything anymore. Emptiness flowed into him and filled his veins as he looked to Sam’s body, canted over in the position to which he had fallen at his brother’s hand.

It wasn’t supposed to have been this way.

“Y-you. It was supposed…you,” Dean muttered.

Cas knelt in front of him. “I know, Dean. You were coming for me. You didn’t mean to. He…he tried to save me. Dean. Dean!”

“This wasn’t supposed to happen,” he said, his breaths sucking in harder, his voice rising to panic. “I wasn’t going to let it. I wasn’t going to let it happen, Cas. This couldn’t happen.” He started yelling, his voice barreling out of him. “I make the choices! I defy fate and destiny and bullshit prophecy that doesn’t take into account that I make my own choices!”

He let out a guttural roar that startled Cas who was trying to hold back tears of his own. Dean’s body started shaking, his breaths becoming faster and more and more shallow as he stared at Cas until he was hyperventilating, the shock hitting him again.

Cas grabbed Dean’s wrists, his fingers wringed around them as he held them tight, looking into Dean’s eyes trying to command his attention. “Dean look at me. Look at me!” he shouted. “We need to move. We need to get out of here. Now!”

“No. No, Cas.” He looked down at Sam and squeezed his eyes shut, tears rolling down his face. The anger had been exhausted and replaced with hopeless sorrow. “Help me, Cas. Help me fix it. I have to fix it.”

Embers from the fire in the loft started dropping behind Dean, coming down on him like a light falling snow. The tears Cas had always kept at bay started to come now, running down his face as he looked at Dean. There was no murderer sitting before him – no hardened hunter, no monster. There was a broken man, scared and desperate. Dean’s skin glistened from a coat of sweat, tears, and blood, reflecting the light from the lantern that was hanging over Sam. The glow was creating a circle around the brothers. If it wasn’t all so terrible, Cas would have thought it beautiful. This is how he had pictured the Winchesters going out – bloody and with a fight; he just didn’t want to believe the details. Dean exploded in a sob, breaking Cas’s frozen trance.

“Cas, please?” he begged, sounding like a child.

Cas was heartbroken. He had no answers, no way to fix this. He wasn’t strong enough to bring Sam back. He had enough grace for one small miracle, but nothing as grand as bringing back Sam.

“Send me back.” Dean’s voice cracked as he spoke, the words gushing out of him. “Send me back. Send me back so we can just start over. Let me make all of this right. I have to fix it. I have to….”

He trailed off when his eyes drifted from Cas to Sam. He lifted his arm as if he could reach out to his brother and Sam could reach back then let it fall as he realized the futility of the gesture. His chin quivered and he began to weep, his shoulders lurching forward toward Cas, letting the angel keep him steady.

“I can’t do this anymore,” Dean whispered.

Cas took him by the shoulders and leaned him back. “What are you talking about, Dean?”

“This. I’m done. If you can’t send me back….”

Dean glanced at the Blade with such a longing that Cas felt his chest seize up. Embers were floating around them like fireflies. The beams of the roof started to creak as the flames scorched the wood.

“Dean, we have to get out of here,” Cas pleaded, hefting Dean up and half-dragging him out of the barn.

He let go of Dean once they were a good distance from the barn, letting him rest in the lush spring grass of the field. He went back into the barn and grabbed the Blade, tucking it into the back of his waistband. He picked Sam up with a bit of effort, carrying him out to lay his body in the grass with his brother. In that time, Dean had started to calm, his panic and desperation waning. The barn burned slowly, wet from the previous week’s rain. He knelt in front of Dean again, watching the reflection of the burning barn in Dean’s glassy eyes.

“What do you mean send you back?”

Dean’s lips trembled as they formed into an almost-smile. “Remember…remember when Sam and I were trying to escape Zachariah in heaven?”

“Yes. I remember.”

“There was this one heaven – it wasn’t mine, it was his – and it was the worst day of my life. I was so….” He paused, letting tears fall as he let out a small laugh, wiping his face with his hand. “I was so mad at him.” He shook his head before continuing. “It was the night he left for Stanford. He was pissed at Dad, Dad told him to never come back. He left me, and I was angry. But he wasn’t supposed to do this, and I dragged him back in.”

Memories danced across Dean’s face. A few tears followed the already made paths down his cheeks, his chin quivering again before he bowed his head and wiped his face with the back of his hand.

“If you could do one last thing for me – for Sam – would you do it?” he asked Cas.

“Dean, you know I’d do anything for the two of you.” Cas’s voice was heavy with hurt that Dean would even ask such a thing. “But what do you mean by send you back?”

Dean’s eyes left the barn and finally really looked at Cas, who less than an hour before he was trying to kill. “I know that you’re sucking when it comes to your angel juice. You can’t bring him back, but maybe we can hit a ‘reload at an earlier saved point’ and let me fix this – fix everything. I know it’s asking a lot, and that it might kill you. Hell, it might kill me. But it might let him have another chance….”

“I’m not sure if that’s even possible.”

The last thing Cas wanted to do was disappoint Dean, especially now. The creaking of boards and cracking of beams preluded the barn’s collapse in the background. After everything settled, he touched Dean’s shoulder, drawing his gaze from Sam lying beside him. Cas needed to give him something.

“I have an idea.”

It was a longshot, but there was a spell.

They’d given Sam a hunter’s funeral right there at the barn, and Cas was surprised when Dean didn’t pick up a bottle of whiskey the second they walked through the door of the bunker. He had never seen him this focused, but then again his brother was involved and he had a plan – a mission.

Cas busied himself concocting a disgusting looking liquid, his face paling and insides turning as the minutes passed. He suddenly felt so very attached to his being, to this life. Would he miss the bunker and this knowledge of humanity he finally had? No. He wouldn’t remember – this version of him would simply cease to exist. He’d be a full-fledged member of the heavenly host again and ignorant of what it felt like to rebel, to fall. The dark, honey-thick elixir was finished, but he didn’t call out to Dean right away. He didn’t want him to know how he felt. He didn’t want to go.

“Where do you want to do this?” Dean said when he came into the kitchen.

“I don’t think it matters,” Cas said. The Impala would be a nice gesture. Dean’s room would be comfortable. In the end it didn’t make any difference. “Here’s fine.”

Cas handed the tumbler to Dean and let his hand linger a little longer than necessary before he reluctantly let it go. The two sat at the table, Cas taking the chair closest to Dean. Dean lifted the glass and inspected the contents with a sour face. He raised it to Cas in a way of cheers and downed it, gagging a bit as he swallowed it down. Dean nodded his head and rapped his fingers on the table, not knowing what to say after all these years.

“What happens now?” he croaked out.

Cas smiled and his eyes glassed over. “You’ll fall asleep. I’ll say some words, touch your forehead, and use the rest of my grace to send your present consciousness to past you. You’ll know everything you know now. You’ll have to live a lot of things over again, but if I know anything about you Dean Winchester, you’ll stop a lot of bad things from happening as well.”

Dean blinked back tears. “What about you?”

“Pray to me, Dean. It might take a while for me to answer, but if you have faith in me as I have in you, I know you’ll eventually get me to listen.”

Dean started getting dozy. His stomach churned from the elixir and he felt lightheaded. He crossed his arms on the table and put his head down, looking at Cas. “I always have faith in you.”

Cas gave a half-grin. “Ready?”

“No.”

Cas laughed nervously. “Me neither.”

He started drifting. His heartbeat slowed and breaths drew deeper. “I’ll miss you, Cas.”

“You’ll find me again. Go make things right.”

In this moment, Cas was losing everything he had. He watched as Dean’s eyes closed, remembering all the times those eyes looked at him for help or in anger, in relief or happiness. Cas smiled and nodded, face streamed with tears. Placing his hands on Dean’s head, he said the words to the spell, using every ounce of grace he had left. He had to get this right. For Dean. For Sam. For his family. 

              _________________________________________

Dean opened his eyes and he was standing in front of a house in the middle of the night. Cas was gone. The bunker was gone. His dad and Sam were yelling.

“If you walk out on me and your brother, don’t ever show your face around us again!” John’s voice boomed.

“Fine! I’m gone. You won’t have to worry about me ever again!” Sam tried to boom back, his voice much smaller and younger.

Dean’s chest swelled up. It worked. Cas pulled it off. He looked down at himself, checking his arm – no Mark. The amulet Sam gave him was hanging from his neck. He took it in his hand and squeezed it. He was going to make it better.

After Sam left, Dean dropped his dad off at Bobby’s and went out to find Daniel Elkins and the Colt. He summoned Azazel, and used only one bullet to take him out. He wrote down everything he remembered from cases, filling up one journal and starting another, spending a year retracing the trail of jobs he remembered, this time able to stop things before they got too high up in body count. He saved lives, but mostly he missed Sam. That wasn’t what mattered though; Sam was going to school and was happy. He was out.

Once every couple of weeks Dean would call to check up on Sam, trying not to sound too sentimental or pushy. At Thanksgiving he drove to Stanford and had dinner with his brother and asked him if he’d maybe like to go on a few hunts with him just for old time’s sake and to keep him company. Trying to lure him in, he told him about the Wendigo he took out with the help of some campers. Sam passed on the offer until spring break, traveling to upstate New York with his brother where he met this girl Sarah and hit it off. Dean couldn’t help but smile when Sam asked him to drive him up to visit with her over the summer.

Every time he drove through Indiana, Dean thought about checking up on Lisa and Ben. He desperately wanted to somehow slip back into a life he had never lived. Instead, he made a quick stop and took care of the changeling situation before Lisa or her friends knew anything was off. The domestic life wasn’t something he had completely marked off the list, but it wasn’t something he was ready for and he didn’t know if he ever would. After all, this hadn’t been about him.

Making a trip up to Lebanon, Dean went to have a chat with Larry Ganem knowing he’d need to have a good rapport with the man if the key to the bunker ever turned up. He kept close with Sam who was living a happy life, annoyed the piss out of Bobby, and took care of Ellen and Jo.

More than anything though, he prayed to Cas.

With the gates of hell never opened and Lucifer never let out of the cage, Dean wasn’t holding his breath for a civil war in heaven that would bring Cas back, but he still prayed. He began talking to Castiel stiffly at first, then explaining his story – their story – over time, he finally just started talking to him like Cas. And when somebody at the Roadhouse brought up some religious zealot in Pontiac, Illinois talking some Touched by an Angel craziness, Dean dropped everything and started driving.

Amelia and Claire didn’t know where Jimmy had gone, but Amelia stepped outside to tell Dean about how strange he’d been acting, how she’d tried to get him to seek help. He’d walked out the night before. Dean said he’d do his best to find him, and thanked her for her time before he left.

He drove to the barn, the one he’d met Cas in all those years ago after he had pulled him from hell, the same one he dragged Dean from when the Mark had fulfilled its prophecy, and found the angel standing there leaning against a table.

“Same barn?” Dean asked.

“It felt appropriate.”

Dean’s nose and eyes burned, holding back tears. “You can’t take Jimmy from his family, Cas.”

Castiel held up his hand. “Of course not. I just wanted to – .“ He faltered in his speech, unable to find the right words. “The picture you painted in your prayers was an interesting one. Quite the adventures. I admit, you intrigue me, Dean Winchester.”

“You came down here and took a vessel because you were curious?”

“Perhaps,” he answered. His head tilted quizzically. “Did I really do all those things?”

“And then some.” Dean crossed his arms and kicked at the dirt.

“Did I enjoy being human?”

Dean smiled. “I think you did. It certainly changed your outlook on things.”

“Hm.”

The subsequent silence was deafening. As much as Dean wanted this to be Cas, it wasn’t. It was Castiel speaking through Jimmy Novak.

He’d never take back what he did even if he could, but Dean couldn’t help but suffer some pretty severe heartache thinking about the way Cas’s face looked that night in the bunker – his utter sadness, the tears that welled up in his eyes as he made this sacrifice for Sam on the off chance Dean would be able to pull it off. He hoped his Cas would be proud.

He left the barn that day and drove straight to Sam, pulling out some beers for the two of them to share while they reclined on the hood of the Impala, staring at the stars.

“You happy, Sammy?” Dean asked.

“Yeah. Yeah I am. Things have kind of turned out better than I could have hoped, you know?” Sam said with an honest smile. “You?”

“Never better.”

Dean took a sip of his beer, focusing his attention on the cold bottle pressed to his lips, glad Sam couldn’t see the emotion on his face in the dark. He looked up and watched the Perseids streak across the sky, making a wish on every meteor as if it was a falling star. He selfishly wished to merge his two lives so that he had Cas, or somehow could have taken Cas with him in this new life, to have had him by his side as he started over from the beginning.

Sam’s not smiling anymore, looks startled, and Dean almost takes the words back. Almost. “Um. Yeah, I know. I love you, too.”

But Sam doesn’t understand. He’s so smart, Dean thinks, but it’s the important things he doesn’t get. Not when they matter. “That’s not what I meant, Sammy.” A pause. “You know what I meant.” He’s not going to say it again, doesn’t want to clarify. Glances over, wonders if the searching look on Sam’s face means he’s trying to find the hidden meaning in Dean’s words.

The rest of the car ride is silent. Dean thinks the stars don’t look so great anymore, and he wants to turn the music up, make it drown out the silence.

Sam’s gone when Dean gets home the next day, nothing left to prove he was ever there, only their father’s lingering anger to suggest anything’s out of the ordinary at all.

-

Four years later when Dad’s missing and Dean doesn’t have anywhere else to go, anyone else to turn to, and he ends up pinned to Sam’s living room floor after breaking in at some ungodly hour, Dean is still in love with his baby brother.

It hasn’t faded, he doesn’t think, not over the last couple years. But with Sam pressed close like this, seeing the recognition and irritation in his expression, it all comes rushing back, every thought and feeling and desire he’s even harboured towards Sam, and Dean can pinpoint the moment that Sam remembers, too, because his eyes change and shut down and he’s standing, offering Dean a hand up.

When Sam introduces his girlfriend, Dean feels like he’s been shot. He doesn’t show it, though, puts on his act for all their sakes.

“Hey, I love the Smurfs!”

Because this is who he is. Who he’s supposed to be. Not in love with Sam. Never Sam, never his brother. He puts the feelings in a box and locks them away, decides he won’t burden Sam with them more than he already has.

-

When Jessica dies, and Dean’s the only person Sam has left to turn to, to get support from, to be with, Dean tries not to listen to the tiny, selfish part of him that’s happy about it. He really, really tries.

-

When a possessed truck driver slams his eighteen-wheeler into the side of the impala, when Dean’s knocked unconscious for the last time, when he hears Sam shouting for him as he goes out, he’s still completely, madly, painfully in love with his brother.

-

When Dean wakes up and sees himself lying in a hospital bed, pale and bruised and hooked up to all sorts of beeping machines, he figures this is his chance to remove himself and all his fucked up feelings from Sam’s life altogether.

He doesn’t think it’ll be hard. Things have been different since he told Sam how he felt, things have been strained and awkward and wrong. Sometimes Sam smiles at him or touches him the way they always used to, but then there’s a moment of hesitation, a moment of remembering, and he backs off. No matter how many times it’s happened, it always feels like a knife in Dean’s heart.

But it won’t happen anymore. Dean’s sure of it. Sam will mourn him and move on, and that will be the end of the problem.

He doesn’t consider the fact that Sam isn’t ready to let him go.

-

He’s been making phone calls. Dean just watches his brother as he hangs up again, seems to consider throwing the thing across the room in frustration.

“I’m gonna save you,” he mutters to Dean’s body. Dean’s a few feet to the left, but it’s not like Sam knows any better. “No way in Hell are you dying on me.”

Dean’s pretty sure that the pretty girl Sam can’t see is proof of the contrary, but he doesn’t really have a way to communicate that to his brother.

“It’ll be easier for the both of you if you move on,” Tessa says, voice soft and coaxing as ever. Dean doesn’t even look at her.

“He’s my brother.”

She seems to take the hint, because the next time Dean looks up, she’s gone.

-

The Ouija board is a surprise, makes Dean bark out a short laugh as Sam sets it down, sits himself cross-legged on the floor. “God, feels like I’m at a fuckin’ slumber party,” he mutters, but he sits down across from his brother all the same.

For a long moment, as Sam talks to himself- directs it at Dean, but he doesn’t seem entirely sure whether he’s going to get a response- Dean needs to think about how he wants to handle this.

He’s sure that even the slightest suggestion that he’s still here will be enough to spur Sam on into finding a way to save him. His brother is nothing if not a stubborn bastard, and if anyone can find a way to save his from an honest-to-God reaper, it’s Sam.

But. But.

What’s left waiting for him if he comes back? Tense silences. Sam flinching away because Dean’s touch may carry an ulterior motive. The relationship he ruined five years ago by admitting something better left unspoken and unacknowledged.

Dean doesn’t want that. More important, though, Sam doesn’t deserve that.

So when Sam asks “Dean? Are you here?” Dean doesn’t let himself think about it too hard before he’s guiding the planchette towards no.

Sam seems startled, blinks a few times. “He… did his reaper come?”

Yes.

Dean hopes it’s enough.

Sam’s jaw tightens. “He’s still alive. He’s still here. I know it.”

In hindsight, he thinks he should’ve known his brother better than that.

-

Three days later, Dean is declared brain dead, a vegetable on life support, and Sam just about loses it.

“There has to be something you can do,” he says, but it comes out like a growl, pained and desperate. He’s got a doctor by the lapels of his coat, and the man looks apologetic, but unwavering.

“I’m sorry, son. Your brother’s gone. You don’t have many options left.” A pause. “I don’t want to have to call security, Sam. Please.”

Sam lets go, but Dean sees the fire in his eyes, the determination there. He’s silent for a long moment.

“What are the options, then?”

-

Dean stands beside his brother as they both watch a doctor disconnect his body from its life support systems. The flatline sounds a smooth B flat until it’s unplugged, and he’s grateful for the silence.

-

Sam should return to a normal life, Dean thinks. He should go back to school, maybe try to find another girlfriend. He should get an apartment, get a dog. Get himself the life he’s always wanted. Sam should get himself as far away from hunting as possible.

Sam doesn’t.

-

Dean wonders, sometimes, what he’s tied to. He knows he’s a spirit, now, a ghost of some kind, and he knows, as a hunter, that there are certain rules that ghosts need to adhere to.

It could be his ring, maybe. Sam wears it himself, now, on the ring finger of his left hand. He’s got Dean’s amulet, too, doesn’t take it off for anything. Even the car would make sense, if she weren’t a wreck sitting back at Bobby’s place in the midst of repairs.

Dean likes to think, in a tiny corner of his mind, that maybe he’s just tied to his little brother as a whole.

-

Sam’s quiet, these days. Dean would say it’s because he’s got no one to talk to, but that’s not entirely true. Whether Sam recognizes this or not, he does speak, sometimes, out loud. Doesn’t sound like he expects a response.

“I miss you,” he says, and “come back,” and “for fuck’s sake, Dean, you’re better than this!”

It hurts to listen to, and sometimes Dean considers letting himself be trapped outside the room by the salt lines that Sam still draws, meticulous, at every door and window.

Sometimes.

-

For a while, it seems like Sam doesn’t really have a direction. Dean follows him all the same, because even though he’s determined to make sure his brother moves on, hell if he’s going to leave the kid to fend for himself.

It takes about a month for him to gather himself enough to set a goal.

“It was the demon,” Sam’s saying, voice flat, matter-of-fact as he flips through a newspaper. “The thing that took mom. It was the one that hurt you, Dean.”

Dean thinks “hurt” is a mild way of putting it, but he doesn’t respond. It’s not the first time.

-

Dean doesn’t think anything of it when Sam keeps asking for two beds, two meals, table for two, please and thanks. He doesn’t even notice, for a while, not until a kindly young waitress sets her hand on his brother’s shoulder and asks if he’s waiting for someone.

Sam cries that night. Dean notices that he cries a lot these days.

-

It’s three months after Dean’s death before Sam hears from their father. The voice message is short, clipped. Not a whisper of Dean’s name.

Sam throws his phone across the room and it’s smashed to pieces against the wall.

Dean convinces himself that John sounded guilty and decides not to think about it anymore.

-

Sam’s hunting the demon properly, now. He still has the Colt, carries it on his person and sleeps with it under his pillow. He’s single-minded and ruthless on every hunt that comes his way. Dean isn’t sure when he crosses the line from protecting people to seeking revenge. It doesn’t really seem to matter either way.

-

They hear about John’s death second-hand, from Bobby the next time Sam stops by to check on the car.

“Sorry about your dad, Sam.” A clap on the shoulder, a comforting squeeze. Sam doesn’t react. “Least he went down fightin’.”

Dean feels the way Sam looks- numb, and after a moment of processing, indifferent.

-

The first time Sam visits Dean’s grave is on his birthday, and for a long time, he doesn’t say anything at all.

“You’d probably make fun of me for this,” he murmurs, glances down at the flowers in his hands like he needs to make sure they’re still there. “Actually, it’d be great if you did. I’m leaving flowers, Dean. At your-” He chokes on the next word. Tries again. “I’m leaving flowers.”

In any other context, Dean might’ve been calling Sam a girl. Might’ve been elbowing him, teasing him about chick flick moments, about being a sap.

But this isn’t any other context and Dean’s not really here and his brother needs to move on, so he stays silent like he always does.

Sam’s shoulders slump after several long moments, he puts down his flowers, and he leaves. He doesn’t say anything for a long time after that.

-

“You were the one who told me about the family business.” Sam’s voice is soft, and he doesn’t look up from cleaning his gun. Dean thinks that if he weren’t so hyperaware of his brother, he might not have heard it at all. “That’s kind of what this is, isn’t it? You’re my family. You’re my business.”

Dean wonders, more often than not, if Sam can feel his presence. It makes him feel a little guilty, that he’s the one keeping his brother so fixated on this, but it’s not enough to make him want to leave.

“And right now, finding that demon? Getting you back?” Sam smiles to himself, tiny and sad. “It’s business I haven’t finished yet. And I won’t stop until I do.”

It’s the first real verbal confirmation Dean’s gotten that his brother intends to bring him back. He can’t really decide how he feels about that.

-

Sam gets progressively more intense. The demon’s bumped to the back burner while he focuses on finding a spell, a potion, black magic, anything.

“There has to be something,” he whispers, and as hard as Dean tries, there’s nothing he seems to be able to do to stop his brother from burying the tiny box. He can only watch as Sam straightens up, looks around for a moment, spots the woman as she materializes, flashes the blood red of her eyes.

Sam doesn’t even get his mouth open to make his request. The demon laughs and laughs, and Dean’s barely close enough to hear the breathed words as she vanishes again.

“All hail the boy king.”

Sam’s left with a box full of bird bones and a fake ID, and a lot more questions than when he showed up.

-

It goes on for years. Sam goes through dozens of books, then hundreds. He talks to witches, to demons, to other hunters. No one gives him anything useful. No one tells him how to bring his brother back from the dead.

Dean watches it all as a silent observer. He’s waiting, still, waiting for the day that Sam gives up on him. That his brother finally accepts that there’s nothing he can do, that he finally moves on and finds something do to with his life.

Sam visits Dean’s grave twice a year- his birthday and his death day, ironically, bookends on the same shelf- and leaves him flowers, asks if he wants to talk. Dean’s silent every time, tries desperately to ignore the way his heart wrenches at the broken look in Sam’s eyes every year that he’s unsuccessful.

“I know you’re here,” he whispers on the five year mark. He scuffs his boot against the ground, won’t look up from the words chiselled into the headstone in front of him. “I can feel you. I’m not crazy, Dean. I’m not.”

True to form, Dean stays silent, and Sam continues as he has been.

-

 It’s been ten years to the day when Sam finally breaks.

He’s doing like he always does, goes down on one knee to set the flowers down at the base of the headstone. He stands slowly, and Dean suspects it had something to do with his age.

Sam seems to be on the same train of thought as he is. “You’d have been thirty-seven now,” he says, voice a little quieter than normal. “Practically an old man, huh?”

Dean doesn’t suspect his brother knows this, but he hasn’t actually aged a day since his death, not physically. Though he remains intangible and invisible, Dean knows he hasn’t gotten any older. Not really. He’s still every bit the young man who was hooked up to all those machines. He wonders if Sam would prefer that or not.

“Ten years.” His brother’s speaking again, so Dean refocuses. “It’s been ten fucking years, and I’m still not over you. I still can’t let you go, Dean.”

That’s what hurts the most in all this, Dean thinks. Because no matter how much he’s begged and pleaded and prayed to some unknowable god, Sam won’t give up on him. Sam won’t move on, and it’s infuriating. Sam deserves better than this, deserves better than a life of mourning and revenge-seeking. It’s like watching their father all over again.

"I’d do anything to have you back. I’d love you like you want me to. I swear. I just want you back."

Dean nearly misses the words entirely, but as soon as they register, he feels- he doesn’t know how he feels. Sick. Hurt. Hopeful.

As if sensing the effects that his words are having, Sam presses on. “I will. I’ll love you like you always wanted. Just come back, Dean. Please…” He falters for a moment, takes a few deep breaths. “I’ll kiss you… You wanted that, right? You wanted me to kiss you. I’ll do it. I’ll do anything.”

Sam isn’t the only one who breaks that day.

“Don’t,” Dean whispers, cracked and desperate, and Sam falls to his knees, eyes wide, darting around, searching.

“Dean?” he whispers, sounds choked, and there are tears in his eyes, a desperate hitch to his breath. “Dean- Dean, please, just. Come back. Please. I’m not lying, I- I’ll do it. I will.”

Ten years of silence is just dust in the wind, now, so Dean doesn’t bother keeping his thoughts to himself any longer. “Don’t say that, Sammy. Don’t say that.”

Sam actually whimpers that time, fingers curling tight into the grass he’s kneeling on. “I mean it. Please… Come back. Let me kiss you.”

That’s all Dean can take. With a thought, he’s becoming visible. Faltering with quick movements, but visible. He drops down in front of his brother, wants to touch him, knows he can’t.

The sound Sam makes is grief incarnate, and he reaches out. Dean watches him crumble when his hand swipes through empty air.

“I. I can’t.” Dean whispering, moves forwards until he can feel Sam’s warmth, a moth to a flame. “You can’t. Don’t say that, Sammy. Please.”

“But I want you,” Sam whispers. Dean wants to wipe the tears off his cheeks, but he doesn’t let himself try. He knows Sam doesn’t mean it. Not the way he’s trying to.

“I can’t,” Dean repeats, sounds broken to his own ears. He tips his head forward, wishes he could feel the solidness of Sam’s forehead against his. “You know that.”

“I don’t care.” Sam’s past the point of rationality. Dean can’t blame him. “I miss you. Please.”

“I’m just making this worse for you.” Sticking around is what probably caused the whole issue in the first place, he thinks.

It’s probably the worst pain Dean’s ever inflicted on himself when he stands up, moving slowly. Sam scrambles to follow him, and he smiles sadly. “I’ll be waiting for you, baby brother.”

He tries not to listen as Sam cries out for him. He tries not to look when Sam collapses to the ground again, sobbing.

He pretends that he doesn’t doubt himself when he goes right to following Sam when he finally gets up to leave.

The anxious tightness in Sam’s chest fluttered away at the sound of Dean’s voice. His big brother was always there for him. Whatever was happening, Dean could make it right. “I… I can’t see…”

“You took a nasty header back there, pal. I’m glad you’re even talking.”

“What happened?”

“You don’t remember?”

“No. I mean, yeah, I can remember a little.” Sam had to clear his throat again, but the ache in his head was beginning to abate, and he took that as a good sign. “Vamp in the Ozarks. We got him, right?”

“You did. Solid chop right through the melon. You don’t remember that?”

Sam paused. He tried to picture the woods. And he could, just barely, remember the gravel path he and Dean followed through the trees, maples and oaks turning red in the early autumn… crossing the shallow creek, avoiding the crackle-thin layer of ice forming along the banks… the sound of their boots crushing fallen leaves… and a smell…

Sam’s voice cracked with the effort to speak. “Sulfur.”

“Sulfur.”

The matter-of-fact way Dean repeated the word made Sam’s chest tighten up again. “Something happened,” Sam said. “Didn’t it?”

“Hell yeah, something happened. You kicked that vampire’s ass, Sammy. You’re an artist with a machete, let me tell you.”

“No, Dean.” Sam’s mouth was so dry. He had to fight through each word. “Sulfur.” And then he realized he could still smell it, faint but definitely there. “Demon.”

There was a pause, and Sam wished more than anything he could open his eyes, just a crack, just enough to see his brother’s face. He could hear Dean breathing, slow and rhythmic, almost too deep. It was all Sam could hear, aside from the beating of his own uneasy heart. He’d heard this sound before, this aching silence, and he knew exactly what it meant. Sam knew what it sounded like when Dean had a secret. “Dean. What happened back there?”

Dean took in a deep breath, and Sam held his. Then Dean spoke, slowly, as if he were measuring every syllable, trying to balance truth with discretion. “All right, Sammy. Here it is. Do you remember the day the angels fell?”

“What does that have to—”

“Do you remember what happened in that church? You were two for three, finishing the trials, gonna lock up hell for good, but I stopped you.”

“Yeah. Yeah, Dean, I remember.”

“You never did finish that third trial, Sam. The gates of hell are still standing wide open, and that’s on me. I’m the reason we’ve still got demons and hellhounds and Crowley marching around up here like they own the place.”

“You’ve got to stop blaming yourself, Dean.”

“Oh, I’m not blaming myself.”

The sudden snark in Dean’s tone gave Sam pause. He didn’t understand, and he didn’t know how to respond. Before Sam could even gather his thoughts to himself, Dean continued.

“What would have happened if you’d closed the gates? We’d have been rid of demons. So far so good. But then I got an angel blade through the ribs. I died, Sam, and the Mark turned me into a demon. I’d be locked down there with ’em. I’d have been dragged down because of The Mark. It’s got this weight to it. You don’t understand, Sammy. You can’t understand because it’s not a part of you. Having the Mark, being a demon.”

“But you’re not a demon any more, Dean.” Sam fought to lift his eyelids, to shake his head, anything. Frustration and fright fought for dominance within him, and frustration was winning out. “Me and Cas, we took care of that. You’re fine now.”

“Hey, calm down, Sam. It’s okay. You’re right. I’m fine now. Everything is gonna be just fine.” Sam felt Dean’s weight shift from the mattress as he stood up. “Your voice sounds real rough. You thirsty?”

Sam nodded. A few seconds later there was a cup held to his mouth, and Sam drank eagerly— but he spat it out just as quickly. He grimaced and tried to spit again, but the taste of the drink lingered. That familiar taste of warm copper, so instantly recognized.

Still yearned for, even after all this time.

Sam’s stomach clenched. He tried to stand, but he still lacked the strength even to open his eyes. “What the hell, Dean?”

“Exactly.” Dean let out a laugh, and the sound of it chilled Sam to his core. “It’s a weird thing, Sammy. Being a Mark-born demon. Not the same as a regular demon. Not by a long shot. Maybe that’s why the cure didn’t work.”

Stubbornly, Sam shoved his doubts aside and said, “It worked. I cured you.”

“Step one, killing a hellhound. Check. Step two, busting Bobby out. Check. Step three, curing a demon. Ehhhh…”

“Check,” Sam said, “check, damn it.”

“Think about it, Sam. Finish the trials, lock the gates. The gates aren’t locked. The trials aren’t finished. I’m not cured. That sulfur back in the Ozarks, that was me, coming back. I’m back in black.” Dean laughed again.

“No,” Sam said. This wasn’t right. Nothing about this was right. This wasn’t Dean. This was a demon mimicking Dean’s voice. Sam had all the arguments, he knew everything he wanted to say, but all he could manage to say was, “No. No.”

“This is really the best thing that could have happened to us. Me, being the most powerful demon ever. The Mark made me strong, Sammy. Hell, I’m Mark Strong. And then there’s you. You need to stop fighting your rightful talents. You’ve got the potential. You’ve got the ability. And once you accept that, there ain’t nothing that can stop us. You and me, rulers of hell. That’s a plan I can get behind.”

Then the cup was against Sam’s lips again. He could smell it, the blood, calling to him, begging him to just open his lips and drink. He fought, but he could feel his resolve weakening. He didn’t want to. He didn’t, but…