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PART ONE
Dean got the call from Bobby at 3 A.M.
He had half a mind to ignore it, to turn the other way and breathe in the scent of Lisa’s hair, but Bobby hadn’t contacted him at all in the last six months, and a call at any time past midnight meant something was seriously wrong.
Dean grabbed his phone, slipping out of bed and padding into the hall. He answered the call. “Bobby?”
“Dean,” Bobby was out of breath, “I need you to get over here, son. It’s about your brother.”
***
Dean was on the highway eight minutes later, and was cutting the engine in Bobby’s front yard nine hours after that. He stepped out of the car, hurrying across the gravel drive to where Bobby and Cas were standing on the porch. It was around noon.
“What is it? Did you find a way to get him out?” Dean’s whole body felt heated at that, heartbeat stuttering. He hadn’t dared to even dream about it in months. He hadn’t said Sam’s name in longer.
Bobby shook his head, his worn ball cap obscuring his eyes. Cas’s face was all sympathy. Their expressions twisted something inside him, and he mutely followed them into the house and up the stairs.
Sam and Dean had their own room at Bobby’s, right at the top of the stairs. Right now, the door was rattling in its frame, something hitting the other side of it with a thump every couple of seconds. A sliding lock had been drilled into the wall, locking it from the outside. Dean looked to Bobby and Cas in question.
Bobby nodded at Dean. “You armed?”
Dean scoffed. “‘Course.”
Bobby held out a hand. “Hand it over. He’s a quick son of a bitch.”
Dean’s thoughts were zinging from theory to theory, half of them idiotically optimistic and ignoring the present problem of the door about to be broken down, and half of them cold and terrifying, his worst nightmares brought to life. He handed over his Colt, his other pistol, his Bowie knife, and his butterfly knife without a word.
Bobby and Cas moved to stand on either side of the door. It was quiet for now. “We’ll be here,” Cas said. “We’ll speak after.”
Dean wanted to shake answers out of them, but the other part of him understood why they were doing this. He curled his shaking hands into fists and entered the room.
Wearing a torn up pair of sweats and an ill-fitting shirt, Sam crouched in the corner of the room. His head lifted when Dean walked in, closing the door behind himself. Sam’s hair was a knotted mess. The room did not smell pleasant.
Dean couldn’t care less.
“Sammy?” he asked. He swallowed past the emotions growing into a lump in his throat. He shut it all down, ignored his racing heart. He didn’t want to hope, didn’t want to lose it.
Sam stared at him, eyes narrowed, lips thinned and face twisted into something hateful and dismissive.
Dean stepped forward and Sam’s lip curled into a snarl. Dean got the warning and stopped. “Sam?” he tried again. “You in there?”
Sam stood up, and it was then that Dean saw that even the too-small shirt couldn’t hide how gaunt he was. His face was thin and bony, and his ribs showed through the thin, cotton material. His shoulders didn’t have the broad definition that they did when Sam di--when he jumped.
“Jesus, are they feeding you?” he muttered. He stepped forward, not thinking. Of course he wasn’t thinking. It was Sam.
Sam launched himself at Dean, tackling him to the floor. Dean’s head knocked against the floor, the breath punched from his lungs. He lay there gasping and disoriented while Sam got his hands around Dean’s throat.
Dean sputtered, his instincts kicking in. He kneed Sam in the sternum, flipping them until he had Sam pinned. “Easy, tiger,” he said.
Sam growled at him. It was an inhuman noise. He tried snapping at Dean’s hands holding his shoulders down, teeth bared. He struggled under Dean, and the look in his eyes was wild. Dean swallowed back bile and stood, backing away from Sam.
Sam leapt to his feet with surprising agility, hands wrapped around his stomach. He’d have bruises there tomorrow. Sam backed off to the corner of the room he’d been crouching in, still giving Dean a wary look, eyes narrowed with loathing.
Dean left, standing out in the hallway with Bobby and Cas in silence. They didn’t speak immediately, and he couldn’t tell whether it was solidarity or pity or both.
“What,” Dean finally forced out, blinking past tears he hadn’t even realized were forming, “was that.”
“That is your brother,” Cas said. “We don’t know what’s wrong with him.”
Dean felt sick. He braced a hand against the wall when his legs went weak. “You don’t--” he bit his lip, closing his eyes to control himself. Blowing up at them wouldn’t do them any good, wouldn’t do Sam any good. “Is that Lucifer? Is he--” Dean choked back the word. Dead. What if Sam wasn’t really there, what if it was just a corpse? An animal?
“He isn’t Lucifer,” Cas assured him. “We’ve done several tests.”
“How do you know it’s Sam?” Dean croaked.
“I checked his soul,” Cas said. “It’s damaged, but in one piece.”
“How long has he been here?”
“A week.”
Jesus.
“Hey.” Dean hadn’t realized he’d been leaning his whole body against the wall until Bobby put a hand on his back, helping him upright. Bobby’s face creased in concern. “When was the last time you ate?”
“Ate?” Dean repeated as if it were an insane concept. “I don’t know.”
“Come on.” Bobby ushered him downstairs and he wasn’t equipped to protest, not right now. Their little trio set up shop at the old corduroy couch in the study, and Bobby brought him a sandwich, forcing him to eat it, which he did mechanically, staring off into space as he chewed.
Bobby and Cas stood around in awkward silence while they waited for Dean to finish. He had so many questions. He kept seeing Sam, crouched in that corner like a rabid fucking dog. He’d made noises like something feral, but Dean could have sworn something in his eyes and the way he moved was more than that. He wasn’t just some creature.
He was still Sam.
Bobby took the plate from his hands and Dean startled. He just couldn’t stop thinking about the room upstairs. He tried to remember what had led to him sitting here. He turned to Cas. “Could something have happened to his soul?” he asked, going back to their conversation from earlier. “Is that why he’s like that?”
Cas sighed. “Not to my knowledge,” he said.
“‘Not to my knowledge,’” Dean mocked. He glared at them both. “Do either of you know a goddamn thing about what’s wrong with my brother?”
“Hey, now,” Bobby said in a warning tone. “We’re trying our best. He’s our family too, Dean.”
The response softened something in Dean, and he pushed his anger down into a pit in his stomach. He tried to clear his head. Something occurred to him. “What have you been doing with him?” Dean asked.
Bobby and Cas looked uncomfortable. Dean looked between them, waiting for a response.
***
Half an hour later, Dean was wrangling a half-naked Sam into the shower. Dean’s face was wet, and he couldn’t tell if it was Sam’s spit or his own tears. Sam was putting up the fight of a desperate man, little, choked-off noises coming from his throat, and Dean was hurting something fierce.
“I know, buddy,” he said, his voice wavering. He swallowed with difficulty. “Sammy, kid, I know. I’m sorry. But you’ve gotta get clean. Hey. Come on. Please. Work with me here. Just a little longer. Shit. Sam. Sam. Hey.”
Sam was wearing himself out trying to escape Dean’s firm grip. After a while, he sagged, and Dean made the mistake of loosening his grip. Sam elbowed him in the noise, red pain exploding in Dean’s face. He held his bleeding nose, watching Sam yank his boxers back up and try the bathroom door.
It didn’t budge.
Sam made a noise of frustration and tried again. He pounded his fists on the wood. He tried throwing his weight against it, but he tried that only once, wincing and rubbing at his shoulder.
Dean sat heavily on the edge of the tub. “Sam.”
Sam stayed at the door, as far from Dean as possible, but looked at Dean. So he knew his name, then. Dean felt a stab of guilt at the relief that thought gave him. Sam wasn’t the fucking new rescue. He was human, damn it.
He had to be.
“We’re both stuck in here until you wash,” he said. Sam maintained eye contact, however uncomfortable he looked, so Dean went on. “I’m not tryin’ to hurt you, okay? If you do it yourself, I won’t touch you at all. You just gotta use the shampoo, okay? Please, just…”
Dean lost his energy. His head dropped, and he stared at the tiles and the greying grout between his feet. Cas and Bobby had been bathing and force-feeding Sam for a week. For a goddamn week. Most of the time, Cas resorted to knocking Sam unconscious.
Stupid angels. If Cas could knock out with a touch, why didn’t he have a fucking Mr. Clean setting? Why couldn’t he teleport a burger into Sam’s stomach?
Dean scrubbed a hand down his face. He looked up when a shadow fell over him. Sam was standing near the tub, staying out of Dean’s bubble, frowning down at him.
Dean got to his feet quickly enough to make him dizzy. Sam swiped at him and Dean darted out of the way, retreating to the other end of the bathroom. They stared at each other without speaking, without blinking for several beats.
Sam took his shirt off.
Dean looked away while Sam stepped out of his clothes, leaving them in a pile on the bathroom floor. He heard the shower running a second later. The patter of water changed, hitting skin instead of the bottom of the tub.
Sam closed the shower curtain. Dean heard the shampoo bottle snick open and closed. After four minutes, the water shut back off. Dean grabbed a towel from the cabinet below the sink and put it on the ground next to the shower.
He heard Sam hiss and he backed off. “Got you a towel,” Dean said. “I’m back over here. I won’t look.”
He kept his gaze averted when Sam finally stepped out of the tub and dried himself off. He put his clothes back on, and Dean looked up to see a clean, pink-cheeked Sam, giving him an annoyed glare, his hair all over the place.
Dean laughed. He couldn’t help it. He just. God. His heart pulled. Sam looked so much like Sam. Sam gave him a questioning, defensive look, as if he was challenging Dean to laugh again.
“Sorry,” Dean said, still smiling. “There’s a comb in the medicine cabinet.”
Sam blinked. He moved to the sink, angling his body to keep Dean in his periphery, and combed his hair. He avoided his own eyes in the mirror. He yanked at the knots, unphased by pain. He ripped a clump out.
Dean approached him without thinking. Sam bared his teeth, but he didn’t raise a hand to strike Dean. His body was tense, but he didn’t look like he was going to attack Dean. Dean backed off. “Just be careful,” he said, even as he knew Sam wouldn’t listen.
Sam tugged at his hair some more. He combed out a knot but grew frustrated with several that were clumped at the back of the base of his skull.
Dean grabbed the comb from where Sam had thrown it into the sink. Sam flinched. “Just let me,” Dean said, putting on his most assuring voice. He moved to stand behind Sam. He put the comb up to Sam’s head. Sam threw his head back, and Dean dropped the comb as Sam’s head smacked into his forehead.
He didn’t speak. He ignored the throbbing pain all over his face. Silently, he stepped away again, and went to the door. Sam wasn’t looking at him, breathing heavily.
Dean knocked on the door once. Cas moved away from the door, and Dean opened it. He stepped out. After a beat, Sam stepped out after him.
Bobby was at the top of the stairs with a sawed off. He made a low whistle. “You actually did it,” he said.
Dean scoffed. He could do anything when it came to Sammy.
As a team, they herded Sam back to the bedroom. It was kitty-corner to the bathroom, so it was a short trip, but apparently Sam had repeatedly tried to make his escape after getting bathed.
Today, though, he seemed too tired to try anything. He was locked in the bedroom without a fuss.
Dean stared at the door, biting his lip. He turned to Bobby. “That’s my room too.”
“You’re not stupid enough to suggest sleeping in there with that--with Sam,” Bobby said.
With that thing. That’s what Bobby was going to say. A protective fury rose in Dean and he stepped into Bobby’s space. “I’m not the one who’s been fucking tying him down and knocking him out,” he growled, only feeling a little remorseful at the shuttered look on Bobby’s face.
“The couch is downstairs,” Bobby said. His voice was flat. “I’ll get you some blankets.”
Cas nodded at him. “I’ll return in the morning,” he said. He turned as if to leave, but added, “we’ll fix this, Dean.”
Dean didn’t feel comforted when Cas whisked away to wherever-the-fuck, wings fluttering.
He slept on the couch.
He dreamed of Sam, stuck in a cage, clawing to get out.
***
Dean felt like an idiot when he realized there was one question he hadn’t asked, the biggest question of them all.
He stopped Cas after Cas set a plate of omelettes down just inside Sam’s room. Sam’s room. Dean had already begun to think of it like that. He’d made sure Bobby made the omelettes how Sam liked them. Maybe if they gave him some fucking decent food he’d eat it by himself. The not eating thing was worrying him.
Fuck, what had he been thinking about? He’d been on a mission. Oh.
“Cas,” he said before the thought could get eclipsed again by various worries and fears. “How did… how?”
Cas understood. “We don’t know,” he said, and Dean was getting really sick of hearing that. “Bobby followed some omens back to Kansas. Stull Cemetery had been levelled in the same way the forest surrounding your grave did not survive your resurrection.”
Dean only had a moment to ponder that before Cas continued. “It was even more destructive, though, spreading for hundreds of acres around the site. It didn’t take me long to find Sam in the woods there.”
Dean didn’t want to ask what state Sam was in when they found him. He could imagine.
“But you didn’t do it?” he asked. At Cas’ headshake, he added, “you asked all your angel buddies?”
Cas dipped his head. “Heaven is divided right now, but no one knew of Sam’s rise. I don’t believe it’s any of us.”
“Crowley,” Dean whispered. He raised his voice. “Do you think it could be?”
Cas shrugged in a disconcertingly human gesture. “It could be anything,” he said. “We live in a different world than before Sam made his sacrifice.”
His sacrifice. It was more than a sacrifice. Dean couldn’t put it into words, but it just was.
Cas was right. Dean hadn’t been involved in the hunting world, but he could easily picture the dual crises in heaven and hell. Monsters had gone into hiding when the apocalypse was nigh, and, according to Bobby, many of them hadn’t resurfaced. Weird omens crisscrossed the globe, things hunters had never seen before. It was a state of flux, of rebirth, something between states.
It made Dean queasy.
So much not knowing. So much out there.
***
Life continued. Dean didn’t answer Lisa’s phone calls, deleted her voicemails without listening to them. He ignored the looks Bobby gave him, shrugged off Cas’ condolences.
He spent almost every waking minute with Sam.
He’d like to say he was making progress, but he wasn’t sure if that was true. If anything, Sam was getting sick of him, testier each time Dean tried to get him to do something. Dean hated resorting to pushing Sam away or hitting him, and he’d only done it twice.
His own torso was a collage of multi colored bruises. His ribs hurt badly enough that he slept on his back. Cas offered to heal him and he refused. Somehow it felt wrong, compared to what Sam was going through. The one thing he let Cas use his painkiller magic on was his face. He was pretty sure Sam broke something after clocking him the moment Dean stepped through the door to check on him a few days ago.
Dean didn’t give up. He just couldn’t. He wasn’t capable.
One small thing that simultaneously motivated him and made his stomach clench was the way Sam reacted to Bobby and Cas. Sam was indifferent to Bobby, hostile if Bobby ever tried to touch him.
Sam hated Cas.
It was an immediate reaction to Cas entering his room or touching him. Sam would roar, yelling wordlessly and clawing at Cas. Cas had stopped trying to get Sam on his side. He did all the duties he could without upsetting Sam, like delivering food and watching doors. Dean was grateful for Cas’ help, feeling sympathy for him. He knew in his heart that Sam would feel awful about it when he got better.
He would get better, god damn it, or Dean Winchester wasn’t Dean Winchester.
***
Dean sat on one of the beds. Sam was curled up on the windowsill of the dormer window at the far end of the bedroom, like a dozing cat. The tense lines of his back ruined the languid illusion.
Dean was holding a toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste.
“I know you know how to do this,” Dean said. At this point, he’d gone past grief and anger and irritation and had ascended to a strange kind of numb patience. “You can fool Bobby and Cas, but I know you’re in there somewhere. You can shower, you can eat, you can put on your clothes, so you can fucking brush your teeth.”
He stood up. Sam bristled, hugging his knees and glaring up at Dean.
“It’s you or me, kid, and neither of us want it to be me,” Dean said. “I won’t let the others come near you, okay? Just. How do you think you’re gonna bite us if your teeth fall out?” He gave Sam a sardonic smile.
Sam rolled his eyes.
Dean smiled for real.
It took a few minutes more coercing, but Sam finally grumbled and grabbed the objects from Dean. They went to the bathroom in a line, their two hallway sentinels giving Dean impressed and dubious looks.
***
After a few weeks, all it took was Dean’s command to get Sam to do things. He seemed to realize that the alternative was much worse, and none of them was going to set him free any time soon.
Dean’s heart sank when he realized that was Sam’s ultimate goal. Sam looked out the windows with longing. Once he punched out the screen and tried to climb out the window, but Dean wrestled him back into the room, yelling at him for almost breaking his neck. Dean was worried they might have to put bars on the window or something in case Sam tried again, but Sam didn’t. He just gave up, going limp in Dean’s arms. Dean dropped him and Sam retreated to his little corner.
It was frustrating and scary when Sam didn’t communicate his needs, which was always. Sam never said when he had to go to the bathroom, so more than once Dean had walked in on a puddle of piss in the corner of the room or in a trashcan. At least he was conscientious about it.
***
Dean gave Sam more freedoms, against the advice of Bobby and Cas.
No creature deserved to be cooped up in a single room forever, even if it came with bathroom breaks. He wasn’t about to keep Sam in one cage after being in another for god knows how long.
Sam didn’t trust them. Trust was a two way street. That was one of the most painful lessons that Dean had learned quite thoroughly in his and Sam’s last year together.
They had to trust Sam. They had to. Treating him they way they did wouldn’t last.
So, with an armed Bobby and a powered-up Cas waiting in the hallway, Dean entered Sam’s room with a smile.
Sam watched him. The bigger Dean’s smile grew, the more suspicious Sam became.
“Guess what, kid?” Dean asked him, clapping his hands together. “I’m gonna jailbreak you.”
Sam perked up. He kept to the other side of the room, but stood, watching Dean, scrutinizing him, more like. The squinty, thoughtful look on his face was so familiar and so painfully Sam that Dean’s throat constricted.
“You’ve been doing good, and I trust you,” Dean continued. “I thought you might want to stretch your legs.”
Sam walked toward him. “But,” Dean raised his voice, and Sam stopped. “We’ll only do this more if you cooperate, okay? Bobby only keeps you here because he thinks you’re a flight risk. You’re one of ours, Sammy. We watch out for our own. So say ‘please’ and ‘thank you,’ got it?”
Dean didn’t expect a response. Sam nodded.
“Okay,” Dean said, voice shaking. “Let’s go.”
Even though he wanted to, he didn’t dare reach out for Sam’s hand. He led Sam to the door, and knocked once. Bobby unlocked it, stepping aside when Sam sneered at him. Cas was at the top of the stairs. Sam stepped forward, muscles coiling with intent, and Dean put a hand on his shoulder.
Sam shrugged him off, glaring. “Hey,” Dean said in warning.
Sam gave Cas one last mistrustful look before going down the stairs with Dean.
They stopped in the kitchen. Sam swiveled in place, taking in the kitchen, study, and hallway in full. Dean lingered behind him and to the side, where Sam could keep an eye on him.
The door was right there. Sam looked at it. Dean’s breath hitched.
Sam must have heard him because he turned to give Dean a disdainful look. Sam moved into the study, and Dean let out a breath.
Sam moved like a tourist in a museum, roving around to peer at a precious artifact for a second before moving onto the next. He ran fingers over the spines of books on Bobby’s book shelves. He stopped at Bobby’s desk.
Sitting on it was a framed picture of Sam and Dean and Bobby, all beaming awkwardly up at the camera. The lighting was wrong, so they were all squinting into the sun, but they looked happy. Dean couldn’t remember when it had been taken, but it wasn’t that long ago.
Sam picked it up. Dean couldn’t blink, waiting to see what Sam would do. Sam gripped it tightly, knuckles going white. He stared down it, eyes wide. Dean couldn’t decipher the look there.
Dean heard a crack and flinched. Sam had broken the glass in the picture frame.
Dean crept a little closer. “Let’s set that down,” he said, keeping his tone measured. He took the frame from Sam and Sam didn’t resist. Dean put it back on the table.
He turned to face Sam. Sam was still staring down at his hands. Droplets of blood beaded on his fingertips. Dean clicked his tongue.
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
Sam followed him back upstairs.
***
Sam tried to escape a couple of times, after that. The frequency of his attempts went down after Dean started taking him on “walks” through the house. Dean tried to avoid personal mementos, but Sam had some kind of freaky radar from them, veering over to the family portrait Bobby kept in his bedroom that Sam had drawn in fifth grade.
Bobby, Dean, Sam, and a distant John, standing by the Impala and waving. One of Bobby’s old mutts laying at Bobby’s feet.
This one wasn’t framed, and Sam only looked at it, not attempting to touch.
Later, they walked past the basement stairway door. Sam stopped at it, curious. Dean tried to get between Sam and the door as casually as possible. The only things down there were some storage boxes and the panic room.
“We don’t need to go down there,” Dean said.
Sam gave him a look, lip twitching in displeasure, but something in his eyes said he wouldn’t push it.
He looked afraid.
***
The first time Dean took Sam outside was an event.
He thought it was a long time coming. Cas and Bobby thought he was crazy.
Bobby yelled at him all day long, telling him how much of a fool he was. Bobby wasn’t wrong, but Dean held his ground. Yes, he knew the risks. Yes, he knew it was dangerous. Yes, he knew Sam could lash out. Yes, he knew that Sam would try harder with freedom so tantalizingly close. Yes, he knew Sam might resent him after dragging him back inside.
But a daft part of Dean was convinced that all Sam needed was a walk down the woodland paths behind Bobby’s property, a familiar place from their childhood. He needed some gentle reminders from Dean about how they used to spend their time here. Maybe Sam would realize that they all cared about him and wanted the best for him.
Even if he thought it, it sounded idiotic, overly optimistic, but he didn’t know what else to try.
So it was official.
***
It was a little after Sam’s birthday, and Sioux Falls was unseasonably warm, so Sam only needed a button-down and some slip-on boots to brave the new world. Dean picked out the clothes for Sam, and Sam put them on obediently.
They both knew what today meant. There was no need for communication. Dean didn’t speak, Sam didn’t twitch or huff or cock an eyebrow.
Dean was leaning against the wall next to the door. He pushed off when Sam approached him. Sam looked at him expectantly, waiting for him to turn the knob. Dean gestured at it. “Go nuts,” he said.
Sam’s face was unreadable. He reached out and turned the knob. He opened the door. He stared at the hallway for a few beats, not moving.
“Sam?” Dean put a hand on Sam’s shoulder. Sam hissed at him, but it was a mild sound, like a cat getting pet in a place it didn’t prefer. Dean took his hand away.
Sam stepped outside. Dean followed. Bobby and Cas were gone. Well, not gone--just out of sight. Dean had hoped it would show Sam the faith Dean had in him.
Sam stayed frozen on the landing, so Dean took the lead the rest of the way downstairs, down the hallway, and to the mudroom, where the back door led to freedom.
He stepped outside, Sam on his heels.
The sun was out, and a few fat, puffy clouds were scattered about the bright blue sky. The trees were budding, the grass starting to grow, but for the most part, the landscape still showed signs of winter. It was coming back into itself. The blossoms would be blooming soon, and later, they’d be replaced with green.
Summer would come.
Dean prayed that he and Sam would be around to enjoy it together.
Dean gave up trying to make it discrete that he was watching Sam. He only briefly surveyed the backyard, mostly keeping his eyes on his little brother. Sam stepped out from under the gutters, leaving the shadows, the sun hitting his face in full force. He tilted his head toward the sky, and his eyes fell closed.
The sun struck his hair, highlighting the streaks in the darker browns like gold in a riverbed. Sam had a bald spot behind his right ear, but other than that, his hair was orderly, curly as ever, all the knots ripped out. It was a little longer than usual, almost falling to his shoulders, but Dean thought it was a nice look on him.
Sam wasn’t a fan of shaving, and the the one time Dean had done it for him, it was an event, an emotional setback that had Sam glaring at Dean for days. Today he had some faint stubble. It was the only piece of Sam that wasn’t as familiar, that felt new.
Dean’s eyes were red, sue him. His entire heart was lodged in his throat. Sam had always been a beautiful kid, the kind old ladies cooed at even when he was neck-deep in the awkward throes of a late puberty.
Dean had thought he’d never see him again, only a shade in a memory if by some miracle he made it back to heaven. He thought he’d forget the details first, forget where his moles were, then everything--the color of his eyes, his stupid triangle nose, his pointy ears.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Dean kept looking at his brother through tears. Dean had picked out a blue plaid shirt for him, one Sam used to wear all the time. He looked so normal. Dean wanted things to be normal.
He must have let out a noise because Sam turned, opening his eyes and looking at Dean. Dean took a shuddering breath. He shot Sam a smile. “Sorry.” He cleared his throat and clapped his hands, startling Sam before he had a chance to give Dean a weird look. Dean didn’t want to know what Sam was thinking about him right now. “Let’s go.”
Dean walked through the yard and into the woods, Sam on his tail. He picked the most familiar path, the one that widened out and sloped down into a small meadow. They stopped for a while there, listening to the overlapping chitter of all the birds welcoming each other back home after a long winter. The grasses were tall, hissing in the wind.
Dean turned back to gauge Sam’s reaction. His hair was blowing all over the place, getting all messed up. His brow was furrowed, his lips thinned, deep in thought.
“We used to come here a lot,” Dean said softly. Sam didn’t look at him, but Dean could tell he was listening. “There was only one time you finished a whole semester out at the same school. We were here, it was your second semester of eighth grade. I almost failed junior year, crashed senior prom. We would come out here almost every day.”
He hadn’t noticed when Sam started looking at him, but Sam sure as hell was now, staring at him without blinking, an intense look on his face. Dean swallowed. “You tried to plant a tomato plant, right over there.” He pointed. Sam followed the gesture. “It died.”
Sam looked back at him. Dean was smiling now, had been for long enough that it was beginning to hurt but he couldn’t stop. “You wanted to build a treehouse so badly,” he said. “Every damn time we came to Bobby’s, you’d ask. Bobby, Dad, me, it didn’t matter. You offered to pay for the lumber yourself, wrote up a damn spreadsheet and everything. I don’t even remember why we never let you.”
Dean sighed, and it came out in a rattle. He pointed to an ancient oak with its branches crawling up into the sky, a little further one. “That would have been a good spot, don’t you think? I can just see you up there, hiding from Dad when he came to pick us up.”
Sam smiled at him, a tentative, lopsided thing, but a smile nonetheless.
Dean laughed, but it was more of a sob. His chest hurt but it was a good feeling. A deeper pressure was gone from his chest.
Sam took walked a little further on, and Dean lingered, watching Sam crane his neck and take everything in. For tiny, miniscule moments like these it was worse to see Sam and not be able to hug him than not see him at all.
They walked a little further, and the path opened out onto a private little lake.
It wasn’t a lake worth printing on the back of a homey postcard. It was small and brown, and mostly marshy grasses and algae. You couldn’t swim in it, nor would you want to. Sometimes it bubbled.
There was a pine tree on a little hill. All the lower branches had died, leaving a perfect, shady place to sit and rest your feet. He drew Sam’s attention in that direction, and something flickered in Sam’s gaze. They sat under the branches side-by-side, staring out over the grass and the trees.
***
Dean blinked like his eyelids were glued together with honey. He sat up, wincing. He rubbed at his back where the rough tree bark had dug into it. He stretched, yawning as he stared out over the lake. It was darker now, but not yet sunset, the sun just low enough the sky that sunlight no longer dappled the ground. The woods had turned into a place of softness and shadow.
And Sam was not there.
He jolted all the way awake, heart pounding so strongly it almost hurt. He stood up, spinning in place, thoughts going crazy, becoming an impassioned mantra--please be here, please be here, fuck. This is my fault.
“Sammy?” he called, his voice cracking across the syllables. “Sam?”
His own voice echoed back at him. He cursed at himself. Of course Sam wasn’t going to start fucking talking and shout back at him, “over here, Dean! I’m perfectly fine and you’re the best big brother ever!”
Dean jogged down the little hill, standing at the edge of the lake. He noticed something among the reeds that he hadn’t seen before.
Sam.
Sam was waist deep in the gross water, just standing there, mostly obscured by the fronds and other things. The water was still around him. A dragonfly rested in his hair.
“Sam,” Dean said again. Sam didn’t turn around, didn’t give any indication he heard Dean.
Dean stepped into the water, his shoes immediately filling with cold. He grimaced, pushing out to where Sam was. Throwing caution to the wind, grabbing Sam by the arm, like he was leading the blind.
Sam’s eyes were hazy, focused on the middle distance, his face lax and devoid of all emotion. Dean ignored the empty feeling it gave him and dragged Sam back to dry land.
Sam was shivering, but he didn’t look like he could feel it. He was still distant, passive, hardly responding to anything Dean did. Dean rubbed Sam’s shoulders, ushering him back through the woods and the yard and into Bobby’s house.
Bobby and Cas were in the kitchen. They hurried down the hall when they heard the back door creak open and shut. Dean toed out of his boots and kneeled to get Sam’s out of his. He grimaced at the stale, mossy scent that his brother was completely soaked in.
“Why didn’t you call for me?” Cas demanded at the same time Bobby said “what in the hell?”
“It was all going fine,” Dean said, distracted with his task. He turned Sam’s boot over and a frog hopped out, sprinting away. He didn’t bother finishing his sentence. He ignored Cas and Bobby’s concerns, instead leading a zombie Sam back up to the bathroom.
He stripped Sam out of his clothes and filled the bath with steaming water. He pushed Sam into it and grabbed the shampoo. He rinsed Sam’s hair, massaging suds into it.
Sam came back to life when Dean finished rinsing the shampoo out of his hair. Dean was running his hands through Sam’s locks to make sure there were no knots when Sam took a deep breath. Dean tucked Sam’s wet hair behind his ears. He scooted forward, into Sam’s view.
Sam’s eyes were clearing rapidly. Dean put a hand on Sam’s shoulder and Sam focused on him, looking confused, and not in an adorable way. Sam’s breath was hitching, and Dean squeezed his shoulder. “Hey,” Dean murmured. “You zoned out when we were in the woods. We’re back home.”
“You went in the lake, bud. The water’s cold in this time of the year. You were shivering and messy. So I cleaned you up.” He gestured to the tub, the water now yellowed with grime. Sam looked down at himself, puzzled. He looked at Dean’s hand on his shoulder, then at Dean, but he didn’t flinch, didn’t snarl, didn’t glare.
They stared at each other, the silence only broken by occasional droplets dripping from Sam’s hair into the tub. Dean could sense something passing between them, something he couldn’t describe, but he knew without a shadow of a doubt that Sam wouldn’t fight him, at least not right now.
“You wanna get out?” he asked, keeping his voice quiet and neutral.
Sam nodded. Dean stepped back, and Sam stood, grabbing a nearby towel. Dean kept his distance while Sam dressed. He’d laid out some pajamas for Sam, and Sam put them on. When he was done, they left the bathroom. Sam automatically made for the bedroom, but Dean grabbed at his wrist. Sam stopped. Dean jerked his head toward the staircase. “Wanna get dinner?”
***
The table was surrounded with nearly physical apprehension. Sam was eyeing Bobby and Cas, Bobby and Cas were eying Sam, and Dean was glaring at all of them.
Sam picked at his spaghetti. Cas had a plate for appearances only. Bobby was almost finished. Dean tried to eat like a normal person.
He looked at Bobby and Bobby gave him a stern look.
“Well, this is delicious,” Dean said, keeping chipper, beaming over exaggeratedly at Bobby.
He was met with three glares.
He white knuckled his fork, taking another bite. He couldn’t believe the two of them. He needed to make them see that this was a necessary step for Sam, that Sam wasn’t going to do shit for them if they couldn’t let their guards down around him.
Dean shifted slightly, mock-stretching while he checked up on Sam. Sam had his eyes narrowed at Cas. Cas was leaning forward, eyes narrowed back at Sam.
Dean set his silverware down. Cas stood up, and Sam stood up, chair falling behind him. Cas was tense, wings practically begging to be spread.
“Sam,” he said. No one breathed.
Sam nodded at him, a little stiff, but he sat down. Cas did, too. The tension bled out of the room.
Sam was allowed to stay downstairs while Dean helped Bobby with the dishes. Cas was off to help heaven with something or other. Bobby promised to let Sam do his own thing, and he only monitored him about half of the time, so Dean counted it as a win.
He counted the whole night as a win when Sam approached him with a frog caught in a glass.
Dean thanked him, taking the frog and releasing it out back.
Their nighttime ritual went off without a hitch.
***
Dean slept in Sam’s room for the first time that night, against Bobby’s advice.
“Things might be cute,” Bobby had said, blunt as ever, “but it doesn’t mean he’s any better. There’s still something twisted inside that boy. You can’t see him as your brother, Dean, it’s not safe.”
Dean had closed the door in Bobby’s face.
Sam was hopping up onto the window ledge with a pillow when Dean walked in. Sam paid him no mind, shifting until he was--well, it didn’t look comfortable--situated, curled up in the window.
Sam sat back up in interest when Dean peeled back one of the comforters, sneezing at the billow of dust it stirred up. Dean looked at Sam while he reached over to turn the lamp off. Sam didn’t look angry, didn’t look too surprised.
He was on edge, though, wary, his lips pulling down in worry.
“Good night, Sammy,” Dean said, trying to infuse as much warmth into his voice as possible.
Sam nodded curtly at him, and Dean turned the light off. He slept on his side, facing Sam, feeling Sam’s eyes on him even as he drifted off to sleep.
***
Dean knew something was off the moment his eyes opened in the dark. Something in his hunter brain was screaming wrong wrong wrong. He could feel a shift in the air, something unnatural, and sat up, blinking. His eyes adjusted to the darkness and he saw Sam on the ground, convulsing.
Sam grunted in pain and Dean turned the light on. Sam hissed like he’d been burned, and he made a louder, wounded noise, putting his hands up to hide his face. It took Dean too long to realize Sam was hiding from the light. Without thinking, he turned it off, and some of Sam’s noises stopped, his hands falling, but still he shuddered and shook.
Dean got out of bed and dropped down beside Sam. His hands hovered, not sure where he could touch. He put a hand on Sam’s face and pulled back. Sam’s skin was burning like he had a fever.
And he was glowing.
It took Dean a while to notice it because the light was so dim and his eyes had properly adjusted to the dark. Sam’s shirt was pulled up from his waist, and a hint of something glowing was revealed on a patch of his bare skin.
Dean pulled Sam’s shirt up. Up to his hips were glowing sigils, mostly Enochian, but some he didn’t recognize. They ended in abrupt places, never making it past his waist, but the slope curving gently as if--
A theory occurred to Dean. They were only showing where Sam had been submerged earlier.
Dean tugged at Sam’s pants, murmuring an apology when Sam whimpered. He briefly confirmed his suspicions--the sigils ran down Sam’s thighs, wrapping around his legs. He put Sam’s clothes back in place and pulled the pant leg up at the ankle. The sigils spread across his feet, glowing brighter as Dean watched.
As they increased in illumination, Sam’s noises of distress increased in frequency and volume. Dean shook Sam by the shoulder. “Sammy?”
Sam’s head lolled, his mouth falling open. He was shivering. His forehead creased, his nose pinched, and Dean was drowning in memories of himself watching over a fever-addled Sam. Dean couldn’t help but mutter useless, comforting nothings, rubbing at Sam’s back.
Dean couldn’t get him to wake up. All he could do was sit and watch while Sam writhed in pain. Dean’s heart went cold when he thought about how Sam had been alone in his room at night for the last month and a half. What if--what if this had been going on the whole time? Dean was too far away to hear Sam call out in distress at night, and Bobby and Cas would have dismissed his noises, assuming he was in pain from trying to jailbreak or something.
Another part of Dean was latched onto the lake thing. Sam only had these sigils where the water had touched him, Dean was sure of it. And Sam had been so cold. Shaking and trembling. And lost to Dean, somewhere in his head.
Somewhere freezing, maybe. Somewhere dark and cold.
Dean was moving before his thoughts had even fully coalesced. He got his arms under Sam’s body and hauled him into his arms. It was too easy to carry him over to the bed. He got Sam under the sheets and the comforter, tucking him in. For good measure, he brought over the comforter from his bed, until he was sure that Sam wouldn’t feel the cold for even a second.
As the moon drifted toward the horizon, and somewhere out of view, the sun prepared to rise, Sam’s shivers got less and less frequent, his face getting smoother as time went by.
Dean checked Sam’s sigils every couple of minutes, and after about an hour and a half, they began to fade, in time with the moonlight.
By the time the room was a dusty blue, birds chirping outside, Sam’s skin was clear again.
END OF PART ONE
PART TWO
Dean scrubbed a hand down his face. “I don’t know,” he said.
He’d been explaining last night’s phenomenon to Cas and Bobby for about half an hour. Cas had infinite questions, and Dean couldn’t answer any of them. No, Sam wasn’t talking in tongues. No, he didn’t happen to see what color Sam’s eyes were.
It was beyond frustrating. Bobby wanted Cas to check Sam’s soul again, but based on the description from last time, Dean was completely against it. Bobby was a man of action, which Dean couldn’t fault him for, but right now, Bobby was getting on his nerves.
Bobby cared for Sam, and it was manifesting in mistrust of the kid. Bobby was convinced that Sam was possessed. By Lucifer or something else, he didn’t know, but he argued that it explained everything.
Dean couldn’t listen. Not for a second. Not only did he hate the idea, but he’d been with Sam almost constantly, damn it. He’d been with his brother, not some creature wearing his skin.
Dean repressed a shudder. If he could help it, that would never happen to Sam ever again.
Sam was still upstairs. He’d been avoiding Dean since they woke up. Sam had poked Dean awake and kneed and shoved him out of the room. Sam had looked uncomfortable, pissed and almost guilty, and hadn’t let anyone in his room since. He was all alone. And he didn’t want to see Dean.
Dean tried not to take it too personally. If he were Sam, whatever the fuck that was would have freaked him out too. And maybe Sam was used to it and hadn’t wanted Dean to see it. Maybe he thought Dean would be scared of him now. Maybe he was just licking his wounds, this new version of him equipped with more pride.
Dean didn’t know. He was sick with worry, and perpetually frowning.
Nothing made sense, but then again, nothing in their lives ever did.
Still, it was different when it was happening to Sam. It was all connected somehow, Sam being back and Sam being a growly, mistrustful huddled shape, and Sam in the lake, and Sam seizing, and Sam’s sigils.
But none of them could figure out how.
Bobby had eight or nine different encyclopedia-sized tomes on lore and mythology that he’d been paging through while Dean spoke. Bobby seemed to have the damn things memorized, finding pages with eerie precision before shaking his head and moving on to something else.
“Maybe I can read the sigils,” Cas said. “I could tell if they were intended to keep something out, or to keep something in.”
Dean paled. Bobby nodded. “You think you can? Even since they disappeared?”
“Sigils like those don’t fade,” Cas said. “If anything, what Dean described sounded like the sigils activating.”
Bobby slammed a book shut and Dean sneezed at the influx of dust. “Well, let’s get off our asses,” Bobby groused.
Bobby and Cas stood up. Dean looked up at them. “Hey, wait, hold on,” he said, chasing after them as they moved off toward the stairs. “What exactly is the plan?”
“I’m going to touch Sam,” Cas said, matter-of-factly. “I’m going to read his skin. It may sting.”
“It may--” Dean didn’t have time to finish his sentence. Bobby and Cas were already climbing the stairs. Cas opened Sam’s door. Dean could see Sam by the window. He hurried to catch up with them.
The room reeked and Dean ached with sympathy for Sam. The moment Cas stepped through the door, Sam was on his feet, frowning, tense. He looked over Cas’ shoulder and met Dean’s eyes, his troubled gaze full of question, looking to Dean for answers.
Dean looked away.
Sam made a noise in his throat, a warning growl, as Cas approached.
“Sam,” Cas said, without inflection, “I’m not going to hurt you.”
His attempts to calm Sam resulted in the opposite, and Sam bolted, trying to get past Cas. Cas held an arm out and it knocked Sam down like it was made of rebar. Cas crouched as Sam sat up. Cas tapped Sam on the forehead and Sam fell back against the floor like a marionette with its strings cut. He was still awake. Dean could tell by the rapid up-and-down of his chest. Sam was close to hyperventilating.
Cas pushed Sam’s shirt up to his ribs. He bent forward, spreading his palm out across Sam’s navel. He squinted, his eyes flicking back and forth across Sam’s abdomen.
“It’s… unclear,” he said, mostly to himself. “I see some references to--”
Before he could finish, Sam was on his feet and out the door, speeding past Dean down the stairs.
Dean turned and chased after him. He saw Sam disappear around a corner. The back door burst open, and Sam sprinted out into the yard.
Oh, fuck. Dean pushed his weary body even harder. He was old and rusty. He was no match for a desperate, wild animal.
No. A desperate Sam.
He had one advantage, though. He knew where Sam was going.
He ran down the path they’d explored just the day before, breathing heavily. He had to stop for a break, hardly able to breathe through his burning throat. He pushed himself into action, making his way to the lake.
At first, he didn’t see anything. His already tight throat grew tighter, and he blinked back tears of frustration. Sam wouldn’t run away, not after everything. Not because of what Cas did.
In the dead center of the lake, ripples disturbed the placid surface. Dean watched as the ripples grew larger in size, becoming more tumultuous, like miniature waves. After a few beats, holding his breath all the while, something broke the surface, and Dean could only watch as Sam stood up to full height, groaning in pain.
Dean made to jump into the lake and join him, but something stopped him, something supernatural holding him back. He could only watch as Sam tore at his shirt and his pants. The sky went dark, clouds obscuring the sun, then something obscuring the clouds, turning day into night.
Sam was naked and glowing brightly, almost too brightly to look at, like the moon herself had been dropped into the center of the lake.
Birds were making frenzied sounds, cicadas joining the panicked chorus, the forest filled with its usual symphony but somehow discordant, wrong.
The sigils were moving across Sam like worms in rotten apples. They pulsed with white light, some brighter than others.
Sam flung his arms out, shoulder muscles rippling as long, snake like sigils slithered across them and over to his heart. The sigils shuddered, the pulsing growing quicker in flashes of bright light. They all began moving as one, inching toward Sam’s heart, until there was one, uniform, blindingly bright ball of light there.
Sam was screaming himself hoarse, only stopping to gasp raggedly before screaming again, an inhuman noise that Dean’s entire body reacted to. He was desperate to reach Sam, to help him somehow, fuck, just to hold him, like Sam was still a little kid who’d fallen off his bike and skinned his knee.
The light disappeared, all at once, leaving a huge, burned afterimage on Dean’s retinas. He blinked, watching through distorted, dim vision as Sam doubled over, wrapping his arms around his bare chest and coughing.
Sam’s diaphragm spasmed, and he was making wet noises, now, something splashing into the water from his open jaw. As Dean watched, Sam’s mouth opened wider, wider, nightmarishly wider, and the back of his throat was illuminated.
Something made of light crawled out of his throat and into his mouth, illuminating his skin from the inside out, like he was some sort of stretched out jack-o-lantern. It didn’t want to come out, but Sam kept coughing, yelling as he did, and eventually, drips of pure, liquid light fell from his mouth and into the water.
The water sizzled upon contact with the light drops as if it was boiling. Sam coughed and coughed and coughed, a white waterfall spilling from his lips and into the lake.
Gallons of the lake boiled when just one drop fell. When a continuous stream burst from Sam’s body, sizzling and making Dean’s ears ring, the entire lake began to boil, waves lurching, the lake alive with pain, splashing in protest.
The lake was gone before Dean’s eyes, boiled away to nothing, massive mists rising up into the sky like spirits finding peace. Sam was still standing there, among the algae and rocks, but he was no longer coughing or screaming.
He was silent.
He collapsed.
Whatever had been holding Dean back released him, and he rushed through the dirt to get to Sam’s side.
He got an arm under Sam’s back, holding him up. “Sammy,” he gasped.
Sam moved arthritically, blinking at the sound of Dean’s voice, face scrunching up in pain. “Dean?” he croaked.
Dean’s rabbiting heart was going to give out. “Yeah,” he said, completely broken, smiling down at Sam, a tear hitting Sam’s cheek. “Jesus fuck, Sammy, it’s me.”
Sam tried to get up on his own, but his arms wouldn’t hold his weight. “You have to.” Sam wet his lips. He coughed. A drop of blood dripped down his chin. His voice sounded like woodchips and glass shards and nails on a chalkboard. “You have to get away from me.”
“What?” Dean was panting, laughing. “No. Never again.”
“No.” Sam pushed at Dean, just a foal in his arms, unable to make a real impact. “Kill me.”
Dean swallowed. “I won’t,” he said. “You’re safe, okay? We got you out. You’re--”
“He’s still inside me,” Sam said, louder, still trying to sit up. Dean pulled Sam against his chest instead. Sam sagged, leaning into Dean’s arms despite how against it he seemed to be. “That wasn’t all of his grace.”
Dean had no trouble piecing it together. “What the hell did you do?” he whispered.
Sam didn’t answer. He shuddered, turning around in Dean’s arms and burying his face in the crook of Dean’s neck. Dean held Sam tightly, laughing and crying, pressing his nose to the crown of Sam’s head, breathing in his scent, however disgusting and lake monster-y it was.
The sky cleared. The brightness of daylight was too much for their eyes. They stayed wrapped around each other, hiding their faces from the sun.
Dean heard the snap of a twig and he looked up, squinting. When his eyes adjusted, he saw Bobby and Cas on the shoreline, Bobby with his sawed off and Cas with an angel blade. Their eyes met.
Cas, Bobby, and Dean carried Sam back into the house and up to his room. He’d passed out in Dean’s arms. Dean cleaned Sam off with a washcloth and got him clothed.
Dean sat by the bed, waiting for him to wake up.
When he did, he sat up, eyes wide, physically pushing Dean off the bed.
Dean got up off his ass. “Stop that,” he said.
“You’re not safe,” Sam replied, voice still wrecked.
Dean sat back down. He handed Sam a glass of water, helped him drink it. Sam downed the whole thing, gasping for air when he was done. They traded looks.
“Spill,” Dean ordered.
A beat.
Sam swallowed. “Lucifer used me,” he said, small. “He turned me into something--something to get him topside.”
Sam grabbed Dean’s hand and Dean could see it.
He could see Lucifer tearing into Sam, carving instructions into his organs, his spine, his ribs, his muscles, his skin, his eyes. Translating the essence of Sam into a spell, calling upon Sam’s soul, Sam’s very existence to be a vehicle to the surface.
He saw Sam’s purity wrapped in chains, pulsing brightly, trying to escape. Sam’s human soul was drawn into something black, and it burst forth from the cage like a reverse asteroid, breaking the earth’s surface with a devastating blow, downing forests for miles.
Sam crawled out with the devil on his back, under his skin, in his veins. Dean could see two Sams--one curled up inside of the other, the outside one tall and merciless with marble eyes.
Sam fought and fought and fought. He tore at the words that made up his body and twisted them around, rearranging his parts. He turned himself inside out, inhuman, unreal, impossible, abhorrent. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t see, could only scream and vomit blood, eyes wild, pupils gone, sprinting on all fours and locking his jaws on any other soul he could find, sucking them away, catching several does before he could sort of control himself.
In a primal way, Sam knew something inside of him wanted to get out and that he couldn’t let it. He couldn’t let anyone touch, couldn’t let anyone near, the danger inside him tearing to get out, shuffling his thoughts, spiking his soul with fear.
Then Cas found him.
Dean watched the moment Sam met Dean, hardly breathing. Even with his new, hellish self bent and twisted and at war with itself, Sam saw Dean as a warm glow, a healing force, the polar opposite of the black cold dark wrong pit inside him.
Sam pushed Dean away, unable to bear seeing Dean’s golden glow corrupted by his darkness, still terrified of someone touching his shell and cracking him open, letting Lucifer out, Humpty Dumpty with a twist.
But Dean persisted, damn him, and Sam’s rage faded as Dean’s soul twined with his. It was an instinctive, natural thing, unconscious on Dean’s part, and Dean’s soul built up the fortifications that Sam had made around Lucifer.
More of Dean’s soul left to join Sam’s as they grew closer, giving Sam a shaky grasp on cognizance. He was still mostly gone, confused and split into pieces, a galaxy crammed into an eraserhead.
But with enough time, Dean rewrote Sam’s soul, and Lucifer was expelled, repelled by the purity, attacked by their bond.
Lucifer was what had been purged from Sam in the lake, what had turned the body of daytime into a false, cancerous night.
Sam was still fearful. When the dust had settled, he was still a bright spot of light, but darkness curled at his core. He had been sewn up by Dean like a patchwork doll, his important parts replaced with buttons and cotton. He was not the boy he had been before.
Sam let go of Dean and Dean gasped, thoughts whirling. He looked at Sam and found Sam’s eyes wet, his expression completely miserable, a stray out in the cold.
“What was that?” Dean asked, dazed.
“Now you see,” Sam said thinly, throat clogged with tears. “He’s a part of me. It’s only a matter of time--”
Dean cut Sam off with an embrace, getting his arms between Sam and the mattress and hauling Sam up into a bone crushing hug. He let out a sigh.
Sam’s arms hesitantly came up to lightly touch at Dean’s back, a half attempt at hugging him back. “Dean?” Sam said, confused.
Dean pulled back. He was crying. Sam went quiet at the sight. “I can still see you,” Dean said. “I can still see your brightness.”
Sam’s eyes squeezed shut at that. He didn’t believe Dean. Dean put a hand on Sam’s shoulder, and Sam looked back up at him, though he didn’t look like he wanted to.
“After what you’ve been through-” Dean almost couldn’t get it out. He persevered. “You’ll have a little darkness. So do I, Sammy. You’re not him.”
“You don’t know that,” Sam croaked.
“I do,” Dean said, tone firm. The conviction within him was an immovable stone, strong and sure and loving. He couldn’t fully understand the part of him that knew, the part of him that had reached out to help Sam, but he trusted it. “I don’t see him, Sammy. You did it. You beat him. You got out. You’re safe.”
Sam folded. He initiated the hug this time, hands scrabbling at the material of Dean’s shirt like Dean would disappear if Sam didn’t hold on tight.
Dean was pretty sure they were both crying, but he couldn’t tell. He couldn’t see anymore, blinded by Sam’s brightness, and he submitted to something deep and old inside his chest, his soul curling out of him and ensnaring it self inseparably with Sam’s.
***
Cas searched Sam’s soul and confirmed Dean’s beliefs. Sam was safe. He also confirmed that Sam and Dean’s souls were indistinguishable from one another now, curled around each other like sleeping pups. It took Bobby a little longer to come around, but once he did, he was tearfully embracing Sam in the middle of the kitchen while Sam did dishes. Dean watched from the study, watching Sam fight against his instinct to push Bobby away and leaning into the hug instead.
Sam apologized to Cas, and Cas assured him it wasn’t his fault. Cas left more and more frequently now, and he no longer updated them on heaven’s situation. Dean was afraid to ask, and the subject of heaven made Sam go pale, so he dropped it.
They stayed at Bobby’s, focusing on Sam’s health and nothing else.
If Dean could just ignore Sam’s agonized nightmares, and the way Sam’s soul dimmed each night, then he could pretend it was all a happy ending, a fairy tale where the knight defeats the monster.
Reality, however, begged to differ.
The End