Archive of Our Own ^beta

Dean jerks awake, fingers clenched around a feather that he knows isn’t there. The image of Sam still burns the back of his eyelids, the branches of the maple tree limned with eerie light casting shadows over Sam’s shoulders.

Stay, is what Dean always asks Sam in the dream, every night for the past two and a half weeks, and every night Sam disappears, leaving Dean with the phantom feeling of feathers in his grip.

He pushes up on an elbow, punching his pillow into a more comfortable shape, then punching it again because he can. “Damn it,” he whispers, the sound coming out weak in the dark.

It’s mid-December and the only time he sees Sam now is in his dreams. A storm blew in at the beginning of the month—Sam’s doing or not, Dean doesn’t know. But afterward Sam was gone, and no matter how deep Dean searched the woods, he didn’t find any evidence of his brother. No feathers. No footprints.

Just dreams. The same one, over and over again.

—

By the time Bobby calls, it’s 7:34 and Dean’s on his second cup of coffee. He tucks his cell phone into his neck and pours himself a bowl of cereal. “I swear, you call earlier and earlier,” he says.

“Oh, I’m sorry, did the servants not bring you breakfast in bed?” Bobby’s voice sounds tinny and far away, and Dean can hear the sound of something sizzling, probably the ham scramble Bobby swears by. “Some of us have been up since four with work to do.”

“Hey, I was up at four,” Dean says, mouth full of cereal.

There’s a scrabbling noise, and then Bobby’s voice sounds clearer, the background noise muted once he takes Dean off speakerphone. “Dreams again?”

“Yeah. Same dream, no Sam.”

“I’m guessing that means you ain’t seen hide or hair of Castiel, then, either.”

Dean stabs his spoon at the cereal in his bowl. “Nope. Typical. The guy’s a master at turning a deaf ear.”

“He might still be listening, Dean.”

“Then that’s worse,” Dean says levelly. He pours the remains of his cereal out in the sink, suddenly not hungry anymore, and rinses out the bowl.

Over the sound of running water, Bobby clears his throat—always the sign of something Dean’s not going to want to hear—and says, “I don’t suppose there’s any point in me asking you to come to Sioux Falls for the holidays, is there?”

Dean turns off the water and resists the urge to sigh. “This you asking?”

“Just for the week. You get here and you want to leave, that’s fine, I won’t stop you.”

“Bobby,” Dean rubs a hand over his forehead, “I can’t take that chance. I’m not saying never, but until I find out what the hell’s going on with Sam, I’m staying put.”

There’s the clatter of a dish on a counter and the scrape of a spatula. “Well. Can’t say I’d do different. Guess that leaves me coming down to Pooles to visit you, then.”

That surprises a smile out of Dean. “And ruin our plumbing? No thanks.”

“Shut your damn mouth,” Bobby growls, but there’s no heat in it. “You’d be lucky to have me.”

“Yeah, I know. Thanks anyway.”

“Well. You change your mind, offer stands.”

“Thanks. I’ll let you know,” Dean says, but it’s an empty promise and they both know it.

It doesn’t matter where Sam is. Dean’s not going anywhere until he comes back.

—

On Fridays, after work, Dean goes to Stairway. Not every week, but more often than he used to. He still can’t look at the bar without seeing Sam puttering on the other side of it, but it gets easier each time. He’s quiet, mostly, sits in the back corner by the jukebox and makes small talk with whoever comes in. He orders fries from Javier and quizzes Kara on her homework. He never stays long.

Tonight he arranges peanut shells in a staggered row on the table, his mind conjuring up Sam’s snowy footprints, while he finishes his beer. Joanne swings by with another, but he pushes his chair back and leaves a ten on the table. “Got an early start tomorrow,” he uses as an excuse. It’s transparent as glass, especially when both Cary and Grant shoulder their way through the door a minute later, stamping snow off their boots, but Carol smiles anyhow.

“See you next week?” Carol asks, like always.

“Don’t know yet.” Dean shrugs on his jacket. “We’ll see. Keep the light on for me.”

The night is dark when the door to the bar closes behind him, the sounds of coarse jokes and the clatter of the pool table muffled. The blank emptiness of the house rises in his mind and for a minute he wavers, tempted to go back in.

It’s the image of Sam standing behind the bar, holding up a hand to let Dean know he still has five minutes left on his shift, that decides it for him.

He opens the door of his truck and jams the keys into the ignition, gassing the engine until it turns over. The truck’s headlights flip on, illuminating the dark street with drifts of dirty snow shoveled to either side. The town turns in early during the winter and most of the stores are closed, the lights off and the shades drawn. It doesn’t look abandoned, exactly, but it’s a near thing.

“Cas, you bastard,” Dean mutters under his breath. He puts the truck into gear and starts the short drive home, not knowing if he’s waiting for an answer or not. At the edge of town, Dean clenches his jaw and says, “I’m not gonna keep doing this.”

He waits a minute longer, listening as the truck’s tires crunch over asphalt and salt and snow.

“I don’t know if you can even hear me anymore,” he finally says, “or if you just don’t want to listen. But here’s the spiel again. I know Sam’s part angel, okay? I know, I’ve seen him, I’ve got my brother’s friggin’ feathers sitting in a glass in the kitchen.” He stops, biting the inside of his cheek until his voice isn’t so hoarse. “I just want to see Sam. I need to know he’s okay. I’m not asking for the moon or explanations or apologies, I just want my brother back. Just for a little while.”

He pulls into the driveway and turns the truck off, waiting in silence as the engine ticks in the night air. As usual, there’s no answer.

—

When someone knocks on his door the next morning, he half hopes it’ll be Sam, his prayers answered, Cas apologetic about the delay. Sparrow gives a sharp bark and runs to the door, twirling in anxious circles in the hallway, and Dean’s chest clenches.

It’s not Sam, though. Because why would it be? Instead it’s Abby, red hair pulled up in a ponytail, her smile as brilliant as sunshine on snow.

“Surprise,” she greets him, a dimple popping in one cheek at the stunned look on Dean’s face.

It takes a minute before he can get his lips to move. “What are you doing here?”

“Nice to see you, too.” Abby lifts the plastic bags in her hands. “Can I come in?” She slips inside before he can do more than nod dumbly and dumps the bags on the kitchen counter. Packages of Christmas lights spill to the floor, and Sparrow noses at them. “Home Depot was packed. I basically had to arm wrestle someone for these.”

“Wait, aren’t— Aren’t you spending Christmas with your family? I thought you moved to Oregon.”

“I did,” Abby says, “but they’re going on a cruise for Christmas and I have the New Year’s shift at the hospital.” She makes a face. “Lucky me.”

“So you’re visiting your aunt and uncle,” Dean guesses, grinning in spite of himself.

“And apparently saving you from becoming the Grinch. You helped Carol Finley put up her lights and bought her a tree but didn’t get one for yourself? What happened to all the decorations you and Sam had last year?”

“They’re in the garage.”

Abby raises her eyebrows. “Yeah, we’re going to have to do something about that.”

--

Dean lets the cardboard box fall to the coffee table with a thunk and dusts off his hands. “There you go. Think that’s the last one.”

Abby turns, her long ponytail swinging behind her, and smiles brightly. “Perfect, start unloading.”

Dean shoots Abby a glare, which only seems to make her happier, and obediently starts pulling ornaments out of the box. “You know, this is nice and all, but you really didn’t have to do this.”

“It’s the middle of December. You didn’t even put your lights up. There was no way I wasn’t going to do this.” Abby picks up a handful of bells strung on ribbons and disappears down the hallway to hang them on the doors. When she returns, she’s carrying the plastic bags of dangly icicle lights. “Also, just so you know, this is your Christmas present this year. Don’t expect anything else from me.” She drops the bags in the corner and tilts her head as she surveys the bare living room. “And I was serious about getting you a tree.”

Dean grumbles, but apparently Abby learned his weak spots from Sam. That, or Dean is going soft. Either way, an hour later he and Abby are unloading a Christmas tree from the truck bed. Ten minutes after that, Dean finds himself back in the garage, rooting around for another box of lights at Abby’s request.

All in all, it’s better than he thought it would be. He complains, sure, but if he’s being honest he’s been dreading December since summer ended. Sam had loved the season, had wanted it with a fierceness that reminded Dean of the Christmas before his deal, and Dean had gamely gone along with whatever Sam asked. Putting decorations up without Sam, though, would have been like volunteering for torture. He’s pretty sure either he or Abby would die of embarrassment if Dean expressed how grateful he is to have her there.

“Your star is crooked.”

Dean glares down at Abby, who’s sprawled on the floor, and nudges the tree topper in the other direction.

“Perfect. No, now you bumped it again. Just a little…”

Dean jams the star on the branch and gets off the ladder. “There. Done.”

“Mm, yes.” Abby tilts her head. “The forty-five-degree angle is so avant-garde.” She has red glitter on her sleeve and a sprig of pine needles caught in her hair, but she looks satisfied when she gets to her feet and steps back to survey their work. “Not bad. You need a tree skirt.”

“I am not putting a skirt on that tree.”

A helpless smile crosses Abby’s face. “It’s not… You know what, never mind. You’re right, it looks great.”

“Damn straight,” Dean says, picking up empty plastic containers and stuffing them into a trash bag. Abby rolls her eyes and catches his arm.

“You didn’t even look at it,” she protests. She stands him next to her and gestures grandiosely. “Well?”

It does look good. The tree’s not as tall as the one he and Sam wrangled last year, but at least they can fit the tree topper on this time. Abby outdid herself with the lights, winding them to the tip of every branch so they reflect off the red and gold ornaments. Even the tiny Matchbox Impala that Sam tied a ribbon around last year is hanging up high, swaying gently as if Sam placed it there just a second ago.

Yeah, Dean thinks. It looks great.

“Think he’d like it?” Abby asks quietly.

“Yeah,” Dean says. His voice comes out mostly steady. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure he would.”

—

They order in Thai food for dinner. Abby beats Dean to the door and elbows him in the gut when he tries to sneak a twenty-dollar bill past her. “I told you, I’m paying,” she says, then smiles sweetly at the delivery guy. They spread the plastic cartons out on the coffee table and turn on the TV for background noise while they eat. Sparrow lounges in her basket bed, gnawing on one of her tennis balls until they finish and Dean flicks leftover pieces of chicken to her from his plate.

When they’ve decimated the pad thai and spicy beef, Abby stretches, leaning back against the couch cushions and gazing up at the Christmas tree. “I can’t believe it’s Christmas already.”

“What are you talking about? We’ve still got, like, two weeks left,” Dean says. He pushes his plate away and reaches over to pet Sparrow’s head.

“No, I mean the season. It’s my favorite holiday, you know? I wait all year for this. For the snow and the pine trees and the eggnog.” She suddenly sits up and points at Dean. “Oh my god. Eggnog. We need eggnog right now.”

“What? No.”

“Yes.” Abby pushes to her feet and rummages around in her purse for her keys. “It’s tradition, we decorated the tree, we totally need eggnog.”

“No,” Dean says again. It comes out harsher than he intends and Abby freezes, watching him. “No,” he says, and this time it’s almost apologetic.

“Okay.” Abby finally nods. “No eggnog.” To Dean’s surprise, she comes back to the couch, facing him with her back to the armrest and her arms looped around her knees. “What do you want, then?”

Dean laughs dryly, staring at the remains of their dinner. “Man, if the big guy in red was real, would I have a list for him.” He shakes his head once and pushes to his feet. “In the meantime, I’ll settle for a beer.”

He ducks into the kitchen, feeling Abby’s eyes on his back, and grabs the six-pack from the fridge. Abby joins him a minute later, dumping their abandoned cartons in the trash. She slides the glass of Sam’s feathers to her and perches on a stool behind the counter, finger tracing the rim of the glass.

“I’m sorry,” Dean says. “I just…”

“Bad memory?” Abby tips her head.

“No. Good memory,” Dean admits. “Bad timing.”

“I get it, it’s fine.”

Abby’s smile is soft, forgiving, the kind of smile that probably makes her a favorite with her patients. It makes Dean want to curl his hands into fists. Sam could have had this, he thinks blindly. We could have. He huffs a breath and digs his palms into his eyes until he sees stars. He drops his hands when he feels fingers tug at his arm.

“Hey,” Abby says. “Talk.”

“About what?”

Abby nudges Dean’s beer closer to him. “Tell me how you’re doing. Tell me about life right now, with the holidays and all.”

“Without Sam, you mean.”

Abby shrugs.

“Honestly?” Dean plants his hands on the kitchen counter and studies the white tiles. “It was better. A few weeks ago it seemed better. But recently it’s worse.”

“Ups and downs like that are natural,” Abby says. She squeezes his hand when Dean shakes his head. “Really, they are. He was your brother, Dean. The grief’s not going to just go away.”

Dean’s smile is so raw it hurts. “Why not? That’s what he did.”

Abby searches his face with wide blue eyes, and after a few seconds Dean looks away. He doesn’t move when he hears the stool scoot back, although his eyes flutter shut when he feels the soft press of lips to his cheek. “You’re going to be okay, Dean. I promise,” Abby whispers, then steps back. Dean can hear her putting on her coat in the hall, giving him the space he needs to clear the lump in his throat and put up a brave front.

When he opens the door for her, she’s smiling the same as she always does, bright and open, with dimples like Sam’s.

“Listen, I don’t know if you’re interested or if you have plans, but it’s just me and my aunt and uncle for Christmas this year. My aunt’s making pot roast, and my uncle has bourbon because apparently he always has bourbon on Christmas. And you’re welcome to come, if you want. You don’t have to dress up or anything, just…show up.” Abby’s voice turns wheedling. “I’ll make sure there’s pie.”

Dean cocks his head. “I knew there was a reason I kept you around.”

“So you’ll come?”

“No promises.”

Abby gives him a look as she heads into the crisp night air. “I’m counting on you, Dean Campbell. Don’t you dare make me eat all those pies alone.”

That surprises a laugh out of Dean. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

--

What he does dream of is Sam. They’re standing by the maple tree, like they always are in Dean’s dreams these days, but this time it’s different. Sam is hunched over, his arm curled around his ribs, and when he moves Dean can see his shirt sticking to his side with blood. Dean curses, trying to step forward and finding himself rooted to the spot, as always.

“Damn it, Sam, where the hell are you? What happened?”

“I made a choice,” Sam says. He grimaces as he presses a hand to his side, but his face smooths over a moment later, as if he’s not covered in blood and dirt and looking like something used him for a chew toy.

“Sam,” Dean says, “man, come on, give me some answers. Something’s going on. Let me help.”

“I made a choice,” Sam says. His eyes fix on Dean, solid and determined, but Dean’s had a lifetime of reading his brother and even in a dream he can see the exhaustion flickering in Sam’s eyes. “It was my choice to make.”

“What was? You leaving? What, Sam?”

He tries to reach out again and can’t, his limbs held back by an invisible force. He tries to get Sam to talk to him, but Sam repeats the same phrase to every one of Dean’s questions, the sound of it echoing in Dean’s head when he wakes up.

—

Maybe it’s because the dream changed, maybe it’s because Christmas is around the corner, but the next week is one of the worst Dean’s had. The truck is hesitating for no good reason, and it snows all week, which leaves Sparrow cooped up inside where she decides to rip up a corner of the living room carpet. Worse still, the dreams become constant, playing each night on an endless loop with Sam looking more desperate each time.

When Castiel shows up, Dean almost isn’t surprised. Work at the garage that day was a bitch: Dean signed off on a shipment of parts that later turned out to be wrong, they were short-handed, and Sam’s whispered my choice had driven Dean to skip lunch and try to catch a nap in the truck, only to have the dream play out more vividly than ever.

So, of course there would be an angel waiting on his doorstep.

Castiel is wearing his familiar suit and trench coat, each item painstakingly arranged as if Jimmy Novak’s wife had just pressed them. He squints in the glare of the truck’s lights, but remains by the front door even after Dean turns off the engine and gets out of the truck, slamming the door behind him.

“Where’s Sam?”

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel says.

“The next words out of your mouth better be about my brother, Cas, I swear to God.”

“They are,” Castiel says, eyes leveled on Dean as he strides to the door. “I’ve come to ask a favor.”

“A favor,” Dean spits. “After you’ve been MIA for the last year, you show up at my door with the balls to ask for a favor? What the hell does Heaven want now?”

“To give Sam back,” Castiel says, and Dean’s world spins. “Just for a little while—a few weeks at most.”

Dean curses, passing a hand over his mouth. Finally, he says, “I’m not buying it. You keep him under lock and key for a year but he gets to come home for Christmas break?”

“It’s not like that,” Castiel insists. “Sam came willingly. And he stays willingly. But even the best soldiers falter. Sam needs some time to recover, regain his strength, to rest for what lies ahead.” Castiel’s face grows pinched, a line forming between his brows. “Sam is not…doing well, at the present time.”

Dean’s spine goes stiff as he remembers the blood on Sam’s shirt. “Not doing well, what does that mean? You said you’d take care of him.”

“I have,” Castiel says, “as much as I can. But it is rare that I have cause to go to the front lines—I am a strategist, a negotiator. Sam is the muscle, as you call it. He often goes on missions unaccompanied. And lately there have been signs that he’s tiring. He’s been granted a temporary leave of absence.”

“And you think letting him sleep in and eat cereal for a couple weeks is going to solve that? Cas, he’s not meant to be up there. He’s human.”

“I know,” Castiel says sharply. He sighs and rubs his forehead. “I do know that. A few months ago I believed that Heaven’s influence enabled Sam to strike a balance with his powers. But recently he’s been struggling again. He can control his powers but he has yet to commit fully to the cause. Indecision can make any soldier falter.”

Dean fights the urge to grab Castiel by the lapels and shake him. “That’s because it’s not his cause. He’s still Sam. I don’t know why no one can get it through their heads but, powers or no powers, Sam has always been Sam. He wasn’t a demon before, he’s not an angel now. So let him come home.”

Castiel takes a breath. “I can’t. Human or not, he’s still useful to Heaven. He’s won us many victories. I don’t want to do it, Dean, but we can’t let him go yet. All he needs is some time to rest. So he can return to the fight with new purpose.”

“But why—”

“Dean,” Castiel says, and his voice is deeper, holding echoes of the angel he was when they first met. “I didn’t come to argue with you. This isn’t a debate. It’s a request.”

Dean shakes his head, jaw clenched so tight it aches. “Fine,” he finally grits out. “What do you need?”

“Dean,” Castiel repeats, with a solemnity that suggests he’s reciting a contract, “do you agree to take Sam?”

“Is that even a question? Yes. Yes, damn it.”

“Do you agree to care for him to the best of your abilities and to enable his swift return to his post?”

Dean glares. “Yes.”

“Good.” Castiel’s shoulders drop. “I will bring him to you tomorrow. But, Dean,” he cautions, “don’t forget. The agreement is that Sam returns to the war once his leave is over.”

“Yeah, I heard you the first time,” Dean snaps. “Believe me, I know the agreement.”

“You have to uphold the agreement.” Castiel fixes Dean with a look. “It would only make things more difficult if you tried to convince him to stay.”

Dean lets the silence hang between them, then says in a low voice, “You've known me long enough to know that I don't do well with threats, Cas. No matter who they’re from.”

Castiel holds his gaze, then finally dips his head. “I also know you don’t like advice, but it would be easiest if you didn’t tell anyone about Sam.”

Dean spreads his arms. “Who would I have to tell?”

“Bobby Singer, for one. Your friends in town.”

“Fine,” Dean bites out.

Castiel observes him carefully. “Keep watch for Sam,” he says, then disappears, the sound of wings echoing in his wake.

Dean’s breath clouds in the air as he barks a humorless laugh. “I always do.”

--

Dean calls in sick to work the next day. It’s a weak excuse and he’s ninety percent sure that he’s already used more than his share of whatever sick days they’re given, but Rick must hear something in his tone. He gives a dry chuckle at Dean’s request and Dean can picture him shaking his head, squinting through the office window at the rest of the guys working in the garage.

“I don’t remember you being this sick last year,” Rick says.

“Yeah, I’m a little off my game. Gotta invest in chicken soup or something.”

“Listen, Dean.” Rick’s chair squeaks as he leans back. “You sure you’re doing okay?”

Dean rolls his eyes and gives a couple short coughs before he answers, “Of course I’m not okay. I’m sick.”

Rick gives a skeptical snort, but Dean can hear the smile in his voice. “All right,” he says reluctantly. “Take the day. You’ve gotta make it up, though.”

“I will,” Dean promises. “Thanks.”

He hangs up and drums his fingers against the kitchen counter. Sparrow huffs from her place at his feet and Dean looks at her.

“Want to play cards?”

—

Dean has been on stakeouts since he was twelve. He can practice patience when he wants to, but Sam was always the one who had a knack for tucking himself away and keeping quiet. Dean could handle waiting, so long as he had something to keep him busy.

Which means that waiting for Castiel to bring Sam is close to torture.

It takes him thirty minutes to clean and categorize their weapons, then another thirty to let Sparrow outside to burn off excess energy. Finally, in a fit of desperation, he pulls a stack of rags out of the linen closet and gets to work, cleaning the house from top to bottom with Sparrow nervously following him from room to room. At lunchtime he calls it quits and slides one of Carol’s frozen dishes—enchiladas—in the oven, then stands by the timer and watches the numbers tick down.

Sam still hasn’t come.

When the enchiladas are done, Dean pulls them out of the oven and dishes up two plates, then checks the yard for the hundredth time. Still nothing. He sits down to eat by himself at 1:15, the enchiladas long gone cold, but gives up after a few bites. Sparrow whines from her place under the counter, anxious and fidgety, and Dean curses, shoving his plate away. It knocks into the plate he’d made for Sam and nearly sends the glass of feathers—Sam’s feathers—to the floor.

Feathers. Sam has wings.

Sam is coming home.

Dean fists his hands in his hair. A glass of whiskey—hell, a bottle—sounds perfect right about now, but the last thing Dean wants is for Sam to show up after a year as Heaven’s whipping boy to find his brother drunk off his ass. He pushes up from the counter and scrapes his uneaten enchilada in the trash, chiding himself mentally. He’s a hunter with almost two decades of experience under his belt. He’s put down things other hunters don’t even know exist, has tangled with angels and demons, has bargained and bartered and baited until both he and Sam have been to Hell and back.

He can wait. He knows how to wait.

—

It’s late afternoon before Castiel shows up. Dean is in the garage, roughly organizing the boxes he and Abby rummaged through the week before, and he nearly drops a box of Carol’s old china when a jolt runs down his spine. Sparrow’s ears perk up and she gives a sharp bark, but she doesn’t move until he does, flicking off the garage light and closing the side door of the garage with exaggerated care. It’d be a lie to say his hands aren’t shaking.

He goes inside the house and locks Sparrow in the bedroom, then grabs one of Sam’s coats from the hall closet and opens the back door. The field stretching behind their house is empty, snow-covered and still, but Dean tramps through the drifts anyway, stopping a few yards from the porch to wait for the sound of wings.

Then it comes, and whatever he was expecting, it isn’t this.

In between one blink and another, Castiel appears, looking the same as he did the night before, the same as he always does.

And next to him is Sam.

Sam. And yet, not Sam.

The hopeful feeling rising in Dean’s chest dries up as he takes in the figure standing next to Castiel. The shaggy hair is the same, the line of his jaw and the slope of his nose just as familiar. But Sam’s eyes are distant, tracing Dean’s face with only the faintest spark of recognition, and the wings spanning Sam’s shoulders stop Dean in his tracks.

He knew Sam had wings. Hell, he’d kept the feathers Sam left lying around like they were some kind of trophy. But to see him like this, alive and there, with midnight blue pinions rising over his shoulders… Sam looks powerful, Dean decides. Unearthly. Like something John Winchester would hunt.

Dean clenches his jaw, willing his eyes to stop burning with tears. “Hey, Sammy.”

Sam’s eyes sharpen, something moving in their depths. "Dean," he says quietly. He looks bigger than Dean expected. Not at all like the beaten-down kid Dean was expecting.

Dean shakes the unease from his shoulders and turns to Castiel. “How we doing this?” he asks gruffly. “You need me to sign a permission slip or something?”

“No.” Castiel’s mouth turns up. “Your word that you will return Sam at Heaven’s bidding is enough.”

“Yeah, okay.” Dean looks at Sam. “You ready?” he asks, suddenly aware of the three feet of space between them, like some invisible line has been drawn in the snow for Sam to cross. Sam doesn’t answer, but he takes a step forward, eyes sliding past Dean to survey the house.

“I’ll return to collect him after the year’s end,” Castiel says. He reaches to shake Dean’s hand solemnly, like they’re closing a deal. Then, with the sound of invisible wings, Castiel is gone, leaving Dean alone with his brother.

--

Dean clears his throat and holds up the coat he got from the closet. “I didn’t know if you’d have…but, uh, I guess you do.”

Sam looks down at his clothes, then says, “I do.”

“You, uh, wanna come in?” Dean asks. He tilts his head to the house.

Sam nods, moving past Dean, and Dean’s vision is suddenly filled with Sam’s wings.

The fistful of feathers in the kitchen couldn’t do anything to prepare him for seeing Sam’s wings in their entirety. He’d caught a brief glimpse in the woods, a quick snap of sapphire, before waking up in his own bed with the wings nothing more than a vivid memory. They look different now. Mantled, they cover most of Sam’s back, the longest primaries stopping at his calves. They’re dark but clearly blue, the tips of the feathers lighter than the true midnight found at the base of each shaft, and they cover Sam’s back like a cloak, heavy and powerful. Dean’s reminded of thunder, of the dark indigo of rainclouds.

He doesn’t even know he’s staring until Sam stops on the porch and turns around to wait for Dean, his face impassive.

“I like the porch,” Sam says, tipping his chin to the smooth-sanded boards that Dean put more tears into than sweat or blood.

Dean watches Sam’s face as he comes up the steps, searching for any sign that Sam really did share his dreams, that he remembers sitting out here while Dean nursed a beer and prayed that the brother next to him was real.

“Summer project. I got a dog now, too,” Dean says.

A small smile tips Sam’s mouth. “Spero,” he says. “I know.”

Dean opens the back door, letting Sam go in first, then shuts the door behind them. For a brief moment, seeing Sam in the hallway of the house, Dean has the sudden urge to take Sam on a tour, as if he’s never been in the house before, as if Sam wasn’t the one who had said it was perfect for them.

Sam glances in the living room, eyes widening slightly at the Christmas tree in the corner. He turns to Dean, eyebrows raised, and Dean grimaces as he waits for the expected taunt.

It doesn’t come.

Instead, Sam says, “It’s December?” with more uncertainty than Dean thinks a guy with seven-foot wings should be able to muster.

“Yeah,” Dean says. “Almost Christmas.”

Sam nods, face like it’s carved from stone.

“You didn’t know?” Dean asks.

“They didn’t tell me.” Sam says it quietly, like he’s admitting an offense. He turns and Dean can tell when he glimpses the feathers on the kitchen counter. He stiffens, then a smile breaks over his face—quiet, solemn, but so Sam that Dean feels the knot in his stomach begin to loosen. He hasn’t lost his brother. Not yet. “You kept them,” Sam says, sifting a hand through the long primaries in their glass.

“What can I say?” Dean says. “Always picking up after you.”

Sam gives him another smile, then sits down at the counter with twice his usual grace, despite the wings branching out on either side.

“So.” Dean clears his throat, fingers idly drumming on the counter to fill the thick silence stretching between them. Sam watches him inscrutably and Dean finally shakes his head and plunges in. “What the hell happened, Sam?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?” When Sam doesn’t say anything, Dean continues, “You make a deal without telling me, without giving me any idea about what you were going to do? You were supposed to say no, Sam.”

“I was,” Sam says. “I did. Until the choice wasn’t mine anymore. I had to decide before my powers decided for me. I waited as long as I could.”

“And you said yes,” Dean says.

“I didn’t want it to weigh on you.” The furrow in Sam’s forehead digs deeper, like he’s concentrating to be understood. “It was my choice to make. It was the best I could do. I knew you wouldn’t have left me dead and kept on living. And that’s what I wanted most—you still out there, being stubborn and maybe hunting and—and alive.” Sam’s eyes shift lower, looking past Dean’s shoulder, and his voice drops, like the sentences that have been pouring out of him have taken all his effort. “It made my tasks easier, thinking of you out here. Probably doing your best to cause all kinds of trouble.”

A strangled laugh is pulled from Dean’s throat. “I swear to God, Sam, I almost didn’t. I almost…wasn’t.” He waits until Sam looks up again before continuing. “I thought about getting into the Impala and just ending it more times than I could count.”

“But you didn’t. You started working on the porch instead.”

Dean scrubs his neck. “Yeah, well. I wasn’t clocking out without knowing what the hell happened to you. And then out of the blue you started showing up. You know, I almost thought you were a hunt back in October.”

Sam ducks his head, hair sweeping over his eyes—an unconscious habit that reminds Dean of the kid he used to be. “I probably would have been if you’d gotten too close. I don’t remember everything. Bits and pieces." He looks up and gives a little nod. "I wasn’t myself, exactly. But I’m getting better.”

Dean ventures, “Been pretty rough up there, huh? Cas said.” Sam’s face goes still, closed off, and Dean changes the subject. “How’re your powers doing? You seem…better. All things considered.”

“Better,” Sam echoes. "You could say that. Yes."

“The last time I saw you…” Dean’s throat closes up and he swallows past the knot. “You were practically at death’s door. Honest, Sam, I didn’t think you were going to make it much longer.”

“I wasn’t,” Sam says. “It’s why I did what I did.”

“But things are good now,” Dean prompts. “You’ve got ‘em under control.”

Sam thinks for a minute, then admits, “I get lost up there. Sometimes everything is just like normal, and other times it’s like—” Sam breaks off, searching for words. When they come, they’re quiet, as if there’s someone else in the room besides him and Dean. “I think sometimes I’m losing my mind. I’m not like I used to be. I’m not….” He trails off. Dean watches his hands curl into loose fists. “I can handle the powers, now, physically.”

"And mentally?" Dean prompts.

“I need a break, some time to recover. My…balance.” Sam’s brow furrows and Dean realizes he’s searching for words. Struggling for words, really.

“How do you guys communicate up there?” Dean asks suddenly. “Or is that top secret information.”

Sam’s mouth curls. “Enochian. Sometimes Latin.”

Dean nods to himself, then eyes Sam. “You’d tell me if something was up, right? Commanders or no, big brothers have rights.”

The corner of Sam’s mouth lifts and he huffs a breath, shoulders and wings curling inward. “I remember.”

He looks hollow, Dean realizes. Like he’s been pressed out to take up even more space than he did before, but it’s left him empty on the inside. There are circles under Sam’s eyes and his skin looks brittle, far from the perpetual tan Sam seemed to carry with him from Stanford.

“What have you been doing up there?” Dean asks, mostly to himself. Luckily Sam doesn’t take offense, just props himself up against the counter and drags a hand through his hair.

“Nothing I can talk about.”

“C’mon, Sam.”

“I can’t,” Sam says. “I mean it. I couldn’t tell you if I tried. And right now, I only want to sleep.”

“Okay,” Dean says. “Yeah, okay. Good idea.”

“Is the room still the same?”

“Yeah, everything’s still up there. Let me just let Sparrow out so you guys can meet.”

“Wait.” Sam stops Dean with a hand on his arm, then pulls back again almost instantly, movements jerky like he’s forgotten how to touch. “Later. If I could.”

Dean blinks. “Sure, yeah,” he says, studying Sam’s face. “Okay. Let me go get the dog.”

Upstairs, Dean closes the curtains and puts an extra blanket at the foot of Sam’s bed, then collars Sparrow to take her down. Sam might have come back, he reflects, but even a stranger could see that the Sam downstairs is not the Sam he knew.

The addition of wings might be the most obvious change in his brother, but they aren’t the only one.

--

Sam sleeps for the rest of the afternoon and through dinner, long enough that Dean calls it quits and heads up to bed himself. Still, Dean hardly sleeps that first night. He dozes through most of it, dreaming of Sam falling into the yawning pit in Stull Cemetery and waking to Sam in the bed next to his, wings draped over him like a dark blue blanket, velvet in the blackness of the room. Sam doesn’t stir, his breaths long and even, and Dean drifts off again marveling that all it took was being drafted into Heaven’s war to turn Sam into the kind of soldier who sleeps as often and as deep as he can.

He’s not sure whether to be proud or worried.

There's no way in hell he's going in to work today, promises or no, but he slips out to the garage to make the call, leaning against the Impala's tarp-covered side and sending out a Hail Mary to whoever's listening these days that he doesn't lose his job over this. Rick is silent when Dean tells him, then Dean hears the click of the office door closing.

"Dean," Rick says, "you can't keep doing this. We're a small business, I know that, but any of the other guys did this and I'd have them out on their asses. I can't have people coming in when they feel like it and calling in when they don't."

"I understand," Dean says. "I don't know what to tell you. I wish I could say it won't keep happening but…some things have come up, and I've got to take care of them. I don't know how long that's going to take, but--"

"What happened to your brother?"

The question is like a right hook, snapping Dean's head back with the force of the blow.

"What?" he gets out through a throat that feels raw.

"I'm sorry to ask," Rick says, "and I don't want to pry. Normally I'd say it's only my business when it's about my business. But I have a feeling that whatever's going on with you these days is about your brother, which makes it your business, but it affects how I run mine. I don't need explanations, Dean, but I do need answers. Is all this… Is it about Sam?"

Dean runs his tongue over the inside of his cheek, tasting where he's bitten down and drawn blood. "Yeah. It is."

Rick almost sounds relieved. "All right. Take today. I'm not gonna put you in the mix until Monday."

The Impala rocks as Dean's knees threaten to buckle.

"But I'm putting you in instead of Gary for Christmas week," Rick continues. "And I don't want more excuses, Dean, you hear? Take some time, get yourself in order, then get your head down and get back to work." His voice lowers, goes soft. "It's hard, no one's saying it's not, but you either swing with the pitches or you strike out."

Dean clears his throat, pushing off from the Impala. "Thanks, Rick. I owe you."

Rick barks a laugh. "Ain't that the truth. See you Monday."

Dean hangs up, then squares his shoulders. He's got a whole 'nother set of problems waiting for him in the house.

--

The next couple of days are disturbingly normal. Sam spends a lot of time sleeping. Dean spends a lot of time watching Sam. Apart from the miracle of Sam's sudden reappearance and Sam's new ability to sleep through almost anything, Sam has also—finally—learned to eat for someone his size. He consumes whatever Dean puts in front of him with a single-mindedness that reminds Dean both of the summer Sam finally had a growth spurt and grudgingly inhaled whatever junk food Dean had in the kitchen and the time Castiel agreed to sit down to a meal with them and chewed his way through a burger as though its only purpose was nutrition, not taste.

“I picked up zucchini from the store yesterday,” Dean says, watching Sam swallow and take another bite of the bratwurst sandwich Dean cobbled together for lunch.

Sam doesn’t say anything, just looks up and nods. He takes another bite, chews four times, then swallows.

Dean does the same, trying not to match Sam’s mechanical rhythm. “Honestly, I can’t believe you haven’t thrown that thing against the wall yet and demanded a salad.” At Sam’s silent look, he continues, “You’ve eaten more red meat in the last two days than you’ve probably eaten in your whole life.”

Sam shrugs and his wings rise with him. “Lasts longer.”

“Hey, I’m not complaining,” Dean says and tucks back into his sandwich. Still, he thinks, maybe he should be.

For all he can tell, Sam is Sam. Aside from the practicality of his sleeping and eating habits and freaking wings, Sam seems normal. Which, in Dean’s mind, means that they’re due any day for Sam to break down or blow up.

He doesn’t do either.

Instead it’s Dean who has the breakdown.

—

On Monday, Dean’s more than tempted to call in sick to work again—after all, leaving Sam alone with Sparrow seems like a disastrous combination—but Dean needs the job and he’s relied too long on Rick’s sympathy. Besides, it’s only one day.

Still, he calls every couple of hours, just in case.

“She’s fine,” Sam answers for possibly the hundredth time. “Still a little skittish, but she’s fine.”

“Did you let her out?”

Irritation leaks into Sam’s tone. “After the fourth time, I left the door cracked so she can come and go when she wants.”

“You left the door…” Dean bites back a curse and instead heaves a sigh. “Please tell me you turned down the thermostat, or the heating bill is going to be hell.”

“You’ve had this dog for months,” Sam says. “Most people would have invested in a doggie door by now.”

“Doggie doors are for pussies,” Dean gripes, but relief is washing over him in waves. This is Sam. This is Sam. He’s doing a bad job of hiding the smile splitting his face if the looks the other guys are sending him are any indication.

“It’s 2:13 and I’m still not terrorizing your dog. Was there something else you called about?” Sam asks.

“Yeah, how’re you?”

“Fine.”

“Descriptive.”

Sam’s sigh gusts over the line. “What do you want me to say, Dean? It’s been three days. I’ve mostly been sleeping. Not exactly a lot of time to get my feet on the ground, here.”

“Okay, okay,” Dean says. “I’ll quit asking.”

“Thank you,” Sam says in the same tone that had their dad seeing red when Sam was a teenager, and hangs up.

Dean flips his phone shut and slides it into his pocket, then raises an eyebrow at the look Grant gives him. “What?”

“Nothing.” Grant shrugs, still watching Dean’s face. “Just didn’t know you were dating anybody.”

Dean stifles a groan. “Shut up.”

--

He doesn’t call again, even though his fingers start reaching for his phone a couple hours later. Instead he grits his teeth and keeps an eye on the clock. The second that five o’clock hits, Dean shoves out of his coveralls and grabs his coat, keys to the truck already in his hand.

The drive home seems to crawl by. He stops to pick up Chinese food for dinner, cursing every red light on the way back. There’s no way in hell he’d admit to having separation anxiety, but it’s the longest he’s been away from Sam, and the nightmare that the whole thing is a dream still haunts him. He practically peals into their driveway, almost forgets the Chinese food in the truck, and finally gets the front door open without having to kick it in.

Sparrow gives a sharp bark of greeting, and Dean rounds the corner to the kitchen to see Sam crouched on the ground, wings folded behind him, trying to coax Sparrow to eat her kibble.

Dean dumps dinner on the counter and pulls a hand down his face, cursing under his breath.

“How was work?” Sam asks, then looks at Dean again. His brow furrows. “What happened?”

“Fine. Uh, nothing,” Dean says. “Nothing. Brought dinner. Uh, I’m gonna go wash up.”

He goes up the stairs, closes the bathroom door, and turns on the shower, then sits on the edge of the tub with his palms pressed against his head. It’s not until the steam starts clouding the mirror that he realizes he’s panicking. Things are okay—good, even—and he’s panicking.

Dean fumbles for the shower knob and shuts off the water, listening to it gurgle down the drain. If he listens closely, he can hear Sam downstairs quietly praising Sparrow, probably for daring to get close enough to eat her kibble next to Sam and his wings. Dean braces himself above the sink and splashes a handful of cold water over his face.

Sam is back. He’s here.

But he’s leaving.

It’s almost a relief to drag the thought out into the open and acknowledge it in the full light of day. Dean dries his face on a towel, listening to the clatter of silverware as Sam sets out dinner, and considers his options. Castiel had made him promise to allow Heaven to take Sam back once his time was up…but he hadn’t said anything about Sam deciding to stay.

Dean tosses the towel into the sink and opens the bathroom door, breathing deeper than he has in weeks.

Sam might have changed from his time in the great blue yonder, but he’s still Dean’s brother. And Dean knows his brother. When Castiel comes to take Sam back, they’ll have a game plan. They’ll figure something out, like always. Make another bargain, cash in all their chips, and Sam can stay. Sam will stay.

“Dean?” Sam calls from downstairs. “Food’s getting cold.”

“Yeah, yeah, keep your panties on,” Dean calls back.

Sam will stay, he tells himself, and goes downstairs.

—

Dean wakes to absolute stillness, broken by a shuddering gasp from the other bed. Through the darkness he can see Sam’s wings held tight against his body, rising and falling with another gasped breath, then going motionless again.

“Sam,” Dean calls.

Sam’s eyes open instantly, breath rushing out of him like he’s been hit in the stomach. He pushes himself up, still trying to regulate his breathing, and Dean flicks on the lamp on the nightstand between their beds. Sam is sitting cross-legged on his bed, squinting in the weak light, hair tousled and looking all of four.

“I’m sorry,” he croaks out. “Nightmare.”

“S’okay,” Dean says, turning to sit facing him. “You want to talk about it?”

Sam’s mouth curls up humorlessly. “No,” he says shortly, then lays back down again.

“You know, most dreams are stress related. They tend to go away when you deal with the problem.” Dean shrugs easily. “Or so they say.”

Sam stares up at the ceiling, his face devoid of expression, but Dean learned stubbornness from his brother.

“I’m not exactly volunteering to talk about things I’ve done under duress,” Dean says, “but I’m going to go out on a limb here and guess that there isn’t much of a gap between what you’re asked to do as Alistair’s pupil and what you’re asked to do as Heaven’s Terminator.”

Sam leans up on an elbow, forceful despite the relaxed position. “I am not talking about Heaven or its war.”

“Okay,” Dean allows, “fine. We don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to. But you’re struggling, man. Maybe it would help.”

Sam barks a laugh. “I’ve only been here a few days,” he says. “You can’t expect me to be normal after that long.”

“C’mon, Sam, you were never normal,” Dean says. “I just want you to be you.” I want my brother back, Dean thinks.

Sam sits up again, all the way this time, and watches Dean closely, head tilted in a way that reminds him of Castiel. Dean waits, quiet, and Sam finally tucks his chin with a sigh. “I am…” Sam starts, then swallows, throat moving silently, and it’s human, it’s Sam, trying to get his words out with his whole body. “I’m trying,” he says, his voice soft in their small circle of light.

Dean nods. He knows. It was almost funny the first time he came down the stairs and saw Sam struggling with the coffee maker, but when Sam studied Dean loading the dishwasher like it would save his life one day, Dean knew something was wrong. He’d thought Sam’s movements, his speech, were aftereffects of being human and living in Heaven for a year. And maybe they were. But Sam has always excelled at adapting to whatever situation he’s in. The problem is that Sam’s not recovering from life in Heaven. He’s adapting to life on Earth, and the fact that Sam is so far gone that simple muscle memory isn’t helping him to make coffee in the mornings has Dean worried.

“I know you are,” Dean says. “And I get it—it’s not easy. I mean, your brain’s been hijacked six ways from Sunday. You’ve been through a lot, man. So maybe just…relax a little. It’ll come back to you.”

Sam doesn’t say anything, but he lies down and folds his arms over his stomach like he’s ready to go to sleep. Dean reaches over and turns the lamp off, then settles back in his bed.

Sam’s voice is quiet in the dark. “What if it doesn’t?”

You can’t tell me this doesn’t freak you out.

Dean’s answer is equally quiet. “It will.”

This doesn’t freak me out.

--

The rest of the week crawls by for Dean. He radiates tension at work, he knows. Rick is keeping a sharp eye on him and the rest of the guys give him a wide berth that he can’t help but feel grateful for. Bobby calls halfway through the week and knows that something’s up from Dean’s tone. Dean talks to him on the drive home, then sits in the driveway for a half hour, doing his best to convince Bobby that he’s not going to shoot himself.

“I swear,” he says for the hundredth time. “I swear on Dad’s grave.”

“You’re not acting like yourself,” Bobby says. “I’m coming down there, Dean.”

“No, you’re not, you’re going to stay right where you are. I’m fine. Work’s been busy.”

“Don’t give me that crap,” Bobby growls. “You work at a garage, boy. You and I both know that ain’t hard labor.”

Dean rolls his eyes to the ceiling and drops his head back against the headrest. “All right. You win.” He scrapes his teeth against his lip as he thinks of a plausible lie. “I’ve been thinking about hunting again.”

The line goes silent for long enough that Dean checks to see if he lost the connection. Then Bobby says, “Don’t bullshit me, boy.”

“I’m not.” Dean winces. Then again, if somehow Sam can stay… Then they’re back to square one. Hunters looking for them, except now they have an even bigger target on Sam’s back—literally. They won’t be hunting again anytime soon.

Bobby sighs. “And that’s it? This ain’t about you trying to track down your brother?”

“No.”

“All right.” Dean can see Bobby nodding to himself. “All right. You make up your mind, you tell me. You hear? I don’t want to find out you decided to come back from someone who ran into you on a job.”

“I promise,” Dean says, “the minute I make up my mind, you’re the first to know.”

He hangs up and eases out of the truck, boots crunching on the salt he scattered over the driveway. The minute he opens the front door, he hears a loud bang and a frustrated growl from Sam. Sparrow meets him in the hallway, whining anxiously. He follows her to the kitchen where Sam is glaring at the microwave like it personally offended him.

“What’s going—”

Sam lifts his arm and Dean grabs it before Sam can hit it again.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he says. “No smiting. Talk to me.”

“It won’t turn on,” Sam bites out. “I know I’ve done it a thousand times, it’s a microwave, I know how to do this.”

“I know, man, don’t worry about it. Here, sit down.” Dean steers Sam to the kitchen counter and pushes him down on a stool. “What’s going on with you? This is kid stuff. Usually you freak out over curing cancer or something.” He dips his head to see Sam’s face, waiting for an answer.

“I apologize,” Sam says, then winces. “I’m sorry. I’m…having a hard time. Adjusting.”

“I kind of got that from the yelling and the pounding.”

Sam’s forehead furrows, mouth turning down as he shakes his head. “I didn’t think it would be different, coming back, but… Castiel tried to warn me. I see things—” he flings an arm at the microwave “—and I remember using them. I guess remembering and doing are…” Sam shrugs, “not the same.”

Dean pulls out the stool next to Sam and sits down, folding his hands on the kitchen counter. “You’ve been trying real hard, huh?”

Sam’s teeth are bared in something between a grimace and a smile. “I couldn’t help changing. I had to. I just didn’t know how much…” He cuts himself off, but Dean can finish for him.

“Until you got here.”

Sam nods miserably.

Dean echoes the gesture, running the edge of his thumb over a dark smear of grease on his hand, and thinks about how exhausted Sam was those first couple of days, already at the end of his rope and suddenly scrambling to adapt to a life he thought he knew.

“I called you about fifty times that first day at the garage,” Dean says.

Sam huffs what could be a laugh. “You did. It felt like the first time Dad took me shooting. The phone rang and I couldn’t even remember which button to push. It never got easier, no matter how many times I picked up.”

He talks different, Dean realizes with a pang. The words are close, but there’s too much hesitation, not enough of the drawl Sam picked up during his high school years when John spent three years taking hunts in the South. It’s nothing in the long run—nothing compared to wings and secret missions that Sam won’t talk about—but Sam has always used words, to fight back, to soothe victims, to thread together a case. Of all the things to have changed, the way Sam talks might be the hardest for Dean to accept.

As if Sam knows what he’s thinking, Sam darts a look at him and licks his lips. “Angels don’t talk, really. It’s thoughts more than anything, and in Enochian. I’m out of practice.”

“It’ll get easier,” Dean promises.

Sam fixes Dean with a look. “It doesn’t matter, though, does it? I only have a few more weeks,” he says, and panic claws its way up Dean’s spine again.

“Nobody’s taking you anywhere, Sam,” Dean says. “No one’s making you do anything you don’t want to. Got that?”

Sam doesn’t answer, his mouth twisted in what could be called a smile.

“Sam. We’ll work it out. We’ll tell him no. What’re they gonna do? Your Jedi stuff is under control, nobody’s gunning for us. We can do whatever we want.”

Sam does laugh, then, barely a breath but it hooks Dean’s attention, somehow important in its smallness. “Can we?” Sam says. He spreads his hands out on the counter, measuring the length of them against the tiles, then stands. “I’ll practice talking, then.”

“You do that,” Dean answers, thinks about saying something like, Don’t keep me awake with it, though. Instead he says, “I’ll help,” and Sam smiles for real.

—

The next morning is cold and white. Snow fell during the night, leaving a soft layer of white over the yard, pillowy and perfect—until Dean opens the door and lets Sparrow out. He watches ruefully as she takes off across the back field, stopping every so often to nose at the fine powder and bark in excitement. She’s panting by the time she lopes her way back to the porch, clumps of snow, mud, and stray pieces of damp brown grass caught in her fur.

“Happy now?” Dean grumbles at her. She cocks her head, one ear swiveling, blue eyes guileless. “Troublemaker,” Dean says, unfolding his arms and turning to go back to the warmth inside.

A playful growl stops him, and Dean turns back to see Sparrow backed on her haunches, taunting him with a brittle wooden stake, twine trailing from one end like a limp ribbon.

It takes Dean back to November when Sam’s tentative plans for a garden were nothing but a pile of muddy sticks and twine, and the pit in Dean’s chest seemed to expand with every passing day.

Dean blinks. The field is churned-up white, the sticks are nothing but sticks, and Sam isn’t gone anymore. Dean gives a breathless laugh. Sam is here.

“You can keep that,” he tells Sparrow, who paws at the remaining stakes heaped under the snow. She drops the one in her mouth once she sees she’s not going to get a game out of it, then shakes, snow flying from her fur. “Don’t bother thinking I’m letting you inside,” Dean warns, opening the door.

Sparrow holds his look, then makes a dash for it. Dean blocks her with a knee, but the brief scuffle ends with Sparrow wriggling through the opening and Dean spitting out dog hair with a rueful grin, Sparrow’s collar dangling from his fingers.

Sam is in the kitchen, shielded by his wings, but he turns with a smile when Dean comes in. “I thought I’d make breakfast,” he says, tipping his chin to the bowl of batter he’s whisking. The stove is on, a chunk of butter slowly melting in the pan.

“Knew I kept you around for something,” Dean says, tossing Sparrow’s collar on the counter. He smacks Sam’s bicep with the back of his hand and grabs a fork to prod the butter around the pan.

Sam snorts, then shifts, one wing lifting to scoot Dean out of the way while Sam pours batter into the sizzling pan. It’s a small gesture, harmless, but Dean jerks out of the way fast enough that Sparrow gets up from her bed in the corner and gives a short bark. Sam freezes, his whole body going still in that eerie way that reminds Dean there’s a good chance his brother is more angel than human.

There’s a moment of silence, then Dean gives a hoarse laugh. “Sorry,” he says, “reflex.”

Sam doesn’t say anything, but his shoulders come down a little. Already skittish around Sam, Sparrow still won’t get within five feet of Sam’s wings, but she curls up on her bed while Dean takes over the pancakes, prodding the bubbling batter and surreptitiously watching Sam fumble his way through setting out plates and silverware from memory.

“Cupboard,” Dean says, nodding at the right one, when Sam hesitates with the carton of orange juice in his hand. Sam grabs two glasses with a quiet, “Thanks,” and sets them next to the plates.

With Sam’s back turned, Dean’s vision is filled by the wings that he still can’t quite believe are his brother’s. Earlier in the week he’d almost had a heart attack when he rolled over in the middle of the night and caught the edge of a wing from the corner of his eye. Too many monsters had wings, too many angels, and remembering that it was Sam under the feather canopy had only come after a few heart-stopping seconds. In the light of morning, though, with Sparrow a steady presence in her corner and the tension run out of Sam’s shoulders, they’re fascinating. The dark blue feathers are too thick near the base for him to see how they’re attached to Sam’s body, and for the first time Dean wonders how Sam navigates something as simple as shirts.

“Do you wear armor?” Dean asks. “When you’re out on missions.”

Sam turns, the question clearly catching him by surprise. He blinks, then says, “In a sense. Nothing you’d notice, though.”

Dean nods, letting the subject drop.

“You can touch them, you know.”

Dean’s head snaps up to catch Sam watching him. His brother lifts the edge of one wing.

“You sure it’s safe?” Dean asks, only half joking. The feathers he’d saved from tracking Sam earlier in the year were still electrically charged weeks after sitting in a cup on the counter. To touch Sam’s wings… Dean shakes his head.

Sam studies Dean’s face, then rolls his eyes—muscle memory, Dean thinks, but Sam is trying like he promised—and stretches out a wing to brush Dean’s hand.

Dean’s throat closes on a yelp, but the electric jolt he’d expected doesn’t come. In fact, there isn’t anything—just the feeling of stiff, elegant feathers that are softer than they should be. A small smile lurks in the corner of Sam’s mouth as Dean tentatively lifts a hand and brushes it over a row of primaries. After the brief touch, there’s nothing, but after trying again, slower, a feeling sweeps up Dean’s arm, not a snap of electricity—more like taking a deep breath of icy air. He waits for Sam’s nod, then does it again, sensing warmth deeper, rising closer the longer he touches the feathers.

“Pretty cool, huh?” Sam says, the words still awkward as if he’s practicing a foreign language.

Dean has a sudden image of Sam sitting in the house on his first day back, doing his best to remember the easy way he and Dean used to speak like he would an old Latin text. Answering Dean’s stupid questions about Sparrow and the heating bill must have been the result of hours of Sam searching his memories, doing his best to be the brother Dean remembers.

Dean swallows and drops his hand. “Do they work?”

Sam shrugs and the wings rise with his shoulders, then settle. “I guess there was one good thing that came out of this.” He grins, dimples carved into his cheeks. “Dumbo finally learned how to fly.”

--

Things get easier. Dean goes in to work on time every morning and Rick doesn’t fire him from his job. Sam digs up some box from the garage that’s filled with a bunch of Latin texts that Bobby dumped on them years ago when Sam had a broken foot and needed something to do. Dean snorts when he sees Sam settle on the living room couch with a notebook, a pen, and the biggest book in the box, but Sam has barely made a dent in his translation when Dean heads to work two days later.

“It’s harder,” Sam explains. “Different from the Latin that we—they—speak.”

And that right there is progress. Sam talking about anything Heaven-related is practically a home run, but Sam talking is something Dean doesn’t think he’ll ever stop being grateful for. His words come easier now, the colloquialisms and mindless responses to Dean’s chit-chat flowing easier. He’s settling, too, getting into a routine. He’s staying, Dean reminds himself, but it’s a game plan he hasn’t really talked about with Sam, mostly because each time he thinks to bring it up, Sam does something, something simple and mundane and human, and Dean can’t bring himself to talk about Sam’s other side when the Sam he wants is right in front of him, cursing when he spills hot coffee, then shooting Dean a glance to see if he did it right, like he’s thirteen instead of twenty-eight.

And that’s what pushes Dean to decide to ask Sam for more answers. He’s too old to be hiding from anything anymore and keeping even well-intentioned secrets never did the Winchesters any favors.

Sam, though, doesn’t agree. He gives Dean small glimpses into what life is like as the sole member of Heaven’s special ops, but shuts down when Dean presses for more details.

“I’m basically a hybrid, Dean, remember?” Sam says.

“So?”

“You’ve hated angels because of some of the things they’ve done.”

Dean scoffs. “I’ve hated angels? Last I checked they weren’t on your good list either.”

Sam holds up a placating hand. “I know. And they’re still not, but…some of the things they’ve done… I guess what I’m trying to say is, I understand, now.” Before Dean can ask, Sam gets up. “You don’t want to know,” he says, and heads out the back door, boots clomping on the porch, leaving Dean in the living room.

The thing is, Dean does want to know. That’s what’s made Sam so distant—it’s not the wings or the angel-stuff, it’s the damn secrets. And finally he’s struck the edges of whatever Sam is keeping from him.

The thing is, all of Sam’s secrets have been terrifying.

—

Work is slow on Friday. It’s the day before Christmas Eve and Dean isn’t doing anything more than fiddling with an oil filter and arguing with Carey about that week’s football game when Rick tells them they can all go home early. Dean’s more than happy to wish the guys Merry Christmas and head home, see if he can’t get Sam to try his hand at a game of poker, maybe pop some beers.

Dean rubs his hands together briskly as he heads out to his truck. Snowflakes delicately drift their way to the pavement, settling and hinting at more to come. The truck’s tires make treads in the half inch that’s already fallen as Dean pulls out of the parking lot and heads home. His mind immediately goes to Sam and the way a fresh blanket of snow always seemed to bring him a measure of peace. A few weeks ago, the sight of snow falling from the sky would have driven cold spears of dread into Dean’s chest. The last thing he’d needed were more memories of Sam’s last year.

Now, though, the snow isn’t a threat, and Dean is humming, God help him, to the Christmas music on the radio. He grins even bigger when he pulls up to the drive and sees Sam sitting on the front step with Sparrow, the two of them apparently—finally—reconciled. Sam’s wings are spread to the side, feathers ruffling a little in the slight breeze. One wing is curved over the dog, forming a blue-green cave to keep her warm. Dean gets out of the truck and jerks his chin to where Sparrow is burrowed close to Sam.

“Looks like you got yourself a shadow.”

“She decided they weren’t so bad once she figured out they were useful,” Sam replies absently. His eyes are distant, looking beyond Dean like there’s someone behind him. For some reason, Dean’s mind goes to Carol, the vision of her picking her way carefully down the snowy walk to get the mail appearing clearly in his head. He glances behind him, even though Carol’s house is hidden by the bend in the road, then turns back to Sam.

“She visited her daughter up in Maine for Thanksgiving,” Dean offers. “They’re all coming down for Christmas, I guess, flying in tomorrow. Cheaper tickets on the 24^th.”

Sam nods silently, eyes still fixed over Dean’s shoulder.

Dean steps forward until he’s standing in front of Sam. From here he can feel the warmth from Sam’s wings, soothing and soft, as if the electric jolt his feathers always gave before has been tempered, grows more gentle the longer Sam is here. “You want me to say anything for you?” he offers. “To Carol?”

Sam shakes his head.

It reminds Dean of Sam as a junior in high school in the wake of one of his and John’s fights. By then, Sam had packed away his tears, never crying in front of John unless he was injured, and only offering simmering anger when he and John butted heads. After, though, Sam would sit quiet with Dean, still angry but mostly hurting. Twelve years later, the expression of aching loneliness on his face still looks the same, and Dean berates himself that he didn’t think of this, that most people in town think Sam is dead, that with his wings Sam can’t be seen.

“I’m sorry, Sam,” Dean says.

Sam ducks his head and nods a little.

Dean squeezes Sam’s shoulder as he goes into the house, and slides a pizza in the oven.

—

Sam comes in a few minutes later, snow swirling in behind him. “It’s starting to really come down,” he says, brushing a hand over Sparrow’s head to dislodge a few flakes.

Dean looks up from the oven. “That isn’t you?” he asks, surprised.

Sam shrugs, the action dwarfed by the pinions rising above his shoulders. “It started that way,” he admits. “I told you before, Dean, I don’t control the weather.” There’s a gleam in Sam’s eye and a dimple popping in one cheek. He’s still too formal sometimes, distant in a way that is completely foreign to Dean, but there’s a change in him, even after only a few weeks. Dean can see it, like the thawing of a block of ice, slow but steady.

Spero, he thinks, hope rising in his chest as he looks between the dog and Sam.

“You really expect me to believe that,” he gripes, then tosses the oven mitts on the counter as a thought occurs to him. “Hey, let’s go out. Hit the town, get some burgers. Or Italian at that place in Leesburg.”

Sam’s forehead wrinkles. “Aren’t you heating up a pizza?”

Dean shrugs. “We’ll eat it later.”

Sam thinks for a minute, then shakes his head. “I shouldn’t leave. If someone sees me…”

“We’ll get it to go and eat in the car. C’mon, man. Lasagna from Giovanni’s.” Dean jingles his keys and watches a smile creep over Sam’s face.

“I promised Sparrow a walk.”

“Ah, she’ll be fine.”

Sam pinches his bottom lip between his thumb and finger, a habit from when he was a kid, then drops his hand. “Okay. Let’s go.”

“Atta boy.” Dean tosses the keys, catches them, and leads the way to the front door where he pauses. “Wait a sec, is this going to be a problem for you? Getting into the truck?”

Sam reaches past Dean and opens the door. “I think I’ll be fine.”

True to Sam’s word, he settles in the passenger side of the truck as if there weren’t six foot wings blooming from his back. Dean watches him do it and still misses the exact moment that Sam’s wings vanish. Sam smirks at Dean’s face and outright laughs when Dean’s jaw drops at the sight of glossy feathers crowning Sam’s shoulders, the edges of one or two blending with the hair at the nape of his neck.

“Holy crap, man,” is all Dean says. “You’re like a walking freak show.”

“I have to be able to blend in sometimes,” Sam explains. “I can’t always have people watching me.”

“So you just, what, suck in your gut? But with feathers?”

“It’s like holding my breath,” Sam corrects. “You still see them because you expect to.”

“Are you gonna be able to hold your breath all the way through dinner?” Dean asks.

“I’ve had a lot of practice,” Sam says. He reaches across the seat and starts the truck’s engine. When Dean still hesitates, he rolls his eyes. “I’ll be fine, Dean.”

It’s like something clicks into place behind Dean’s ribs. If he closes his eyes, he can almost—almost—imagine that the steering wheel in his palm, the engine rumbling under the hood, all belong to the Impala and Sam is next to him with a map spread over the dashboard, ready with a Hey, get this.

“Hey,” Sam’s voice says, and Dean’s eyes fly open. “We going?”

It’s not quite the same, but it is Sam next to him, which means it’s just as good.

--

Giovanni’s is the same as Dean remembers: small, crowded, and warm, with toasted garlic rolls and lasagna as broad as Sam’s hand. Dean holds his breath as they’re seated in a tucked-away corner, but no one looks at Sam any differently and the wings have faded away even from Dean’s eyes by the time their food arrives. Dean is reminded of them again as they leave the restaurant, full of lasagna and meatballs and the piece of tiramisu that Dean ordered and Sam stole.

The snow, which had almost stopped on their drive into Leesburg, has picked up again, and Sam’s wings arch over his shoulders like a feathery cloak, snapping into nothingness the minute he folds into the truck. Dean shakes his head and starts the engine. “Weirdest thing, I swear,” he mutters.

“You’ll get used to them,” Sam says.

Dread curls next to Dean’s stomach, next to the lasagna. “Yeah, about that…” he starts, but Sam catches him before he can start.

“This is temporary,” Sam says, “a reprieve. Castiel reminded me before he left.”

Dean pulls onto the highway as he considers his next words. He glances at Sam, trying to gauge his reaction. “Doesn’t have to be.”

Sam goes still in the shadows on the passenger side, moonlight illuminating the planes of his face. “I’d like that,” he says, finally, in a low voice. “I’d like to come back.”

Dean’s brow furrows. “Come back? Sam, I’m talking about not leaving, period. If you’re gonna draw a hard line, Heaven’s not going to bargain with you. As far as they’re concerned, you signed on the dotted line.”

“Then I don’t have a choice.”

Dean’s head rears back, and now Sam has his full attention. “No choice?” he repeats. “That’s the kind of crap that’s been shoved down our throats for years now, and we’ve always told the powers that be to shove it. Now you want to bend over for them?”

Sam’s face splits in a bleak smile, barely visible in the dark.

“Fine, then, you tell me. What do you want, Sam? What is it you want? ‘Cause hell if I know.”

Sam doesn’t answer and Dean swallows back the panic crawling up his throat. Sam will stay. Sam will stay.

Dean’s thumbs rub over the steering wheel as he tries another tactic. “Why would you go back, Sam?” he asks. “After all the crap they’ve put you through, why would you sign up for more?” Sam stays silent and Dean sighs. “Look, we’ve gotten out of deals before. We’ll call Bobby, see if we can find a loophole—”

“No,” Sam says firmly. “He can’t know I’m here.”

“Why not? He’s family. Sam, if you stay, he’ll find out eventually.”

Sam’s mouth stays a firm line.

“Seriously?” Dean snaps. “You’re gonna sit quiet and let him go on thinking you’re dead?”

“Yes.”

“Why?” Dean demands.

“Because I can’t stay. It will be easier,” Sam says, face washed white then plunged into shadows by the flare of passing headlights, “when I have to go back.”

“Not if we find something—”

“Dean,” Sam says, sharply enough that Dean glances at him before turning his eyes back to the road. “I have to go back.”

“What do you mean?”

Sam is silent.

“Oh, no, we are not doing the whole cryptic-comments-then-clam-up crap,” Dean says, dividing his attention between Sam and the road. “You’re going to tell me what the hell you’re talking about.”

Sam straightens, eyes fixed in front of him. “Pull over.”

“No, absolutely not—”

“Dean. Pull over,” he says again, and Dean finally sees.

There’s a car tipped into the ditch along the side of the road, its tail lights shining feebly in the falling snow. A few yards away is another car with a smashed bumper, broken glass littering the pavement between them. An SUV is parked on the other side of the road, and there’s a guy crouched next to the open door of the car that got hit. He waves a hand as Dean pulls up and shouts, “You guys paramedics?”

“No,” Dean yells back, fumbling for the flashlight in the glove box. Sam is already out of the truck, boots crunching over the glass. He doesn’t look back to make sure Dean is following, but Dean can feel the echoes of Sam’s feathers tingling pins and needles in his hand. He can see Sam sliding down the embankment, silent, certain, and just like that his Sam is gone, replaced by Heaven’s soldier. Dean slams the truck door, swearing as he follows.

He swears again when he reaches the bottom of the slope and sees Sam standing by the crushed door of the driver’s side, checking for the pulse of the girl pinned by the steering wheel.

“She’s awake,” Sam says.

The girl can’t be more than nineteen and her face is ashen in the flashlight’s beam.

“Damn it,” Dean says and pulls out his phone.

The girl makes a choked sound, wide eyes blinking at Sam, then hanging on the space behind his shoulders. Dean realizes with a jolt that he can see Sam’s wings, broad and black in the night. He’d bet the Impala that the girl can see them too.

“Sam,” Dean growls, a combination of a curse and a warning.

“The man already called 911,” says Sam.

“We don’t know for sure,” Dean argues, punching in the numbers, but Sam wraps his fingers around the screen of his phone, quicker than Dean is used to.

“I do.” Sam nods up the embankment at the other car. “That driver will live. The man who’s helping him is a doctor and an ambulance is on its way.” He bends down, his face an inscrutable mask, and reaches through the shattered window to gently brush the blood-matted hair from the girl’s temple.

Her lips come together, trembling with cold or fear. “Please,” she says, a whisper of air. “Pl-please.”

The blankness drops from Sam’s face and he steps away, looking back up the embankment. Naked pain is written in the line of his jaw, in the tightness of his mouth.

Dean crouches by the crumpled door and does his best to smile at the girl. “Help’s coming, all right? Hey, look at me. Can you tell me your name?” He waits for her to focus on his face and gives an encouraging nod.

The girl blinks slowly, lips trembling as she tries to form the words. “Em… E—” The word cuts off in a low moan.

“Emily.” Sam’s voice is hoarse. “Her name is Emily Mason.”

The back of Dean’s neck prickles and he stamps down the urge to grab Sam close and make him hide the wings again, make him stop being this other thing and just be Sam. Instead, he drags a smile from somewhere and reaches through the shattered window for the girl’s cold hand. “Okay, Emily. Just hang in there, okay? You’re doing good.”

Blood trickles from the corner of her mouth, a dark line against the whiteness of her face. Her eyes fix on Dean as her mouth forms one word, a gasp that’s nothing more than a movement. “Please.”

Sam makes a quiet noise, and Dean only has the chance to catch motion from the corner of his eye before he’s suddenly pushed off balance, shunted to the side by a midnight wing. There’s the quick whisper of another language as Sam presses his lips to the girl’s forehead, heedless of the broken glass, then fits a careful hand over the girl’s eyes. Her eyelashes flutter against his palm, mouth pressed together to form another plea.

Then Sam touches two fingers to her forehead.

There’s no sound, no dying breath, but when Sam stands up and steps away, it’s no secret that the girl—choking and bleeding and alive a minute ago—is dead. The snow falling around them suddenly feels very cold.

“Sam,” Dean says, breath clouding, “what the hell did you do?”

Sam’s shoulders are set, broad and imposing like when he first arrived with Castiel, but his eyebrows are pulled together, misery written in the lines of his face. “What I had to,” he says.

“What you…” Dean breaks off, tearing his eyes away from his brother. His hands are shaking, a combination of adrenaline and anger. He curls them into fists and thinks about slamming one of them into Sam’s stomach, wonders if Sam would fold from the blow, whether he’d dodge. Whether it would even touch him.

The wail of sirens reaches them, breaking the silence of falling snow. Dean grabs Sam’s arm and gives him a shove up the embankment. “We have to go,” he says. Sam scrambles up the slope obediently, his wings tucked in close. Dean’s lips curl away from his teeth as he follows, ignoring the urge to rip the damn things from Sam’s back.

Sam must have some idea of Dean’s anger because his wings are nothing more than indistinct smudges from where he’s waiting by the truck. Dean jerks open the driver’s door as an ambulance pulls up and jams his keys in the ignition, turning over the engine and driving off fast enough that anyone watching would be suspicious. As it is, no one gives them a second glance, and Dean shakes his head viciously, wondering if Sam had something to do with that too. 

—

The ride home is silent. The words Dean wants to say are piled up in his throat, leaving him with nothing to do but grit his teeth. Sam doesn’t say anything, and that angers Dean more than he would have expected. Instead Sam sits with his shoulders hunched like he wants to apologize but won’t.

It’s Dean who finally breaks the silence.

“What the hell was that?” he asks, his voice a growl in the dark.

Sam doesn’t say anything.

Dean shakes his head as he pulls down their street, dirty snow and salt crunching beneath the truck’s tires. He pulls into their driveway and turns the engine off, then shifts to face Sam head-on. “You killed that girl. You get that, right? You killed her.”

Sam doesn’t look at Dean, doesn’t even fidget like Dean’s Sam would. When he speaks, his voice is quiet, measured, like he’s explaining something to a child. “She wasn’t going to make it, Dean.”

“We don’t know that!”

“Yes,” Sam says, “I do.”

Dean stares at him, speechless, then gives a broken laugh. “I don’t believe this.” He fixes his eyes on Sam and shakes his head. “This—this is…” He drags a hand down his face, then stops as all the pieces come together. “Sam,” he says, “is this what you do? Is this what Heaven is making you do?”

Sam shifts minutely, and suddenly the wings are back, feathers shadowing Sam’s neck, his face.

“Answer me, Sam, damn it. Are these the kind of missions they’re sending you on?”

For a long minute, Sam doesn’t say anything. When he finally turns to look at Dean, his eyes are dark with anger. “I told you,” he says, biting off each word. “I told you, Dean.” You don’t want to know. “Don’t ask me to tell you again.”

Then he's gone, shoving his way out of the car faster than Dean can see. The front door slams behind him, loud enough to wake the whole block.

Dean lets out a string of curses and follows.

--

Dean almost wishes he had to go to work the next morning, but the garage is closed for three days, starting Christmas Eve, and for once Dean has nothing better to do than sleep in. Normally he’d spend the morning tossing tennis balls for Sparrow in the back field and then running errands in the afternoon, but the minute Dean blinks at the sunlight coming in through the curtains he knows that’s not going to happen.

Sam’s bed is empty, the sheets rumpled. A quick glance at Sparrow’s bed shows that she’s gone, too. Dean sighs and drags his fingers over his scalp, then goes downstairs for coffee. Sam and him might not be speaking, but Sam at least was generous enough to have made enough coffee for Dean. He never gets the chance to drink it, though. Before he pours himself a cup, a flash of blue through the window catches his eye and Dean makes his way outside.

The field is marked by tracks, Sparrow’s paw prints gallivanting next to Sam’s footprints for a while, then veering off when the line of footprints abruptly ends. He doesn’t have to wonder where Sam went, though—he can see his brother, wings bottle-blue in the morning light, flying in low, lazy loops near the trees at the field’s edge.

It’s impossible, effortless. Dean doesn’t realize his heart’s in his throat until Sam circles back and lands a few feet away, a smile flickering over his face.

“Been out here long?” Dean asks.

“No. My wings were getting stiff, so… I thought I’d stretch them a little.”

“Did you keep an eye out?”

“No one saw me,” Sam says. “I’ve been flying low.” The tilt of his head shows that he understands the double meaning. “You want to try?” he asks.

Dean’s eyebrows jump. “You know I hate flying.”

“Not like this, you wouldn’t.” Sam shoots a longing look at the clouds in the sky, cotton balls against the blue, and then turns back to Dean. “Tomorrow?”

It’s an olive branch. A few years ago, that olive branch might have come in the form of a burger piled with onions or a new tape for his collection. Sam is still looking at him, waiting for an answer. It’s hard to reconcile this Sam, his Sam, with the one from the night before, the Sam who sets his jaw and kills people without a thought.

Sam’s eyebrows pinch together, the smile disappearing from his face completely, and Dean gives in. “Maybe.”

Sam smiles and nods like it’s decided. “Tomorrow,” he says. “My Christmas present to you,” and then he’s gone again.

Dean stuffs his hands in his pockets and hunches his shoulders against the cold air. Sparrow trots back, tongue lolling, and butts her head against his leg affectionately before collapsing at his feet. Dean bends down to rub a hand through her fur, thinking. A year ago Sam was having visions and dodging reapers. A year ago Sam had asked for a Christmas party and Dean had given it to him. A year ago Sam ate soup in the diner and Dean ate a bacon cheeseburger and they didn’t know it was almost over.

The awful thing is that it still feels that way, like any minute something will to take Sam back and leave Dean grasping at air. The awful thing is that that feeling is true.

“What are we doing here?” Dean mutters, eyes fixed on his brother who looks more at home in the sky than he does on the ground.

--

They stay outside until Sparrow is too tired to chase Sam on his low sweeps over the field and Dean’s collar is soaked under his jacket from the odd airborne snowball. Sam touches down, sweat running down his neck, with a smile on his face that finally looks like peace.

“Better?” Dean asks.

Sam bends to scoop up a handful of snow and press it to the back of his neck. “Better,” he agrees, panting.

They go inside and Sam makes sandwiches while Dean towels Sparrow off and sets her loose in the living room. They eat in front of the TV, Sam sitting next to the Christmas tree and brushing a hand over its branches to release the scent of pine.

“You’re a freak about Christmas, man, you know that?” Dean says when he sees him.

“I’m a freak about a lot of things. We have any eggnog?”

Dean shakes his head slightly, more disbelief than anything, and doesn’t bother hiding the grin on his face. “We’ll get some.”

—

They both end up falling asleep, Dean stretched out on the couch, Sam on his stomach with Sparrow snoring on the floor next to him. By the time Dean wakes up, the TV is off and it’s dark out. He sits up, groaning, one hand pressed to his neck.

“Comfortable?” Sam’s head peeks through the doorway to the kitchen. He grins at Dean’s sour look. “I heated the pizza from last night.”

“Eating again?” Dean gripes at the same time his stomach growls. “What time is it?”

“Seven.”

Dean stands up and stretches, his back popping, and shuffles into the kitchen. Instead of curling up in her bed, Sparrow is trailing Sam around the kitchen, snorting when her nose brushes against Sam’s feathers. The old radio is set up on the counter next to the toaster, crackling out Christmas carols that Sam hums to as he pulls on an oven mitt and slides the pizza out. Dean grabs two plates and sets them on the counter, then snags two beers from the fridge and sits down.

When Sam doesn’t, Dean looks up at him, then back down to survey the food. “What’s wrong? We missing something?”

Sam’s nose wrinkles. “Salad?”

—

They finish the pizza, except for one lone slice that Dean gives to Sparrow when Sam’s not looking. Somehow Dean wrangles Sam into cleaning the dishes, which Sam does by hand despite Dean asking, “Can’t you use the Force?” which gets him a scathing glare in return. Sparrow settles in her basket with her pizza crust and watches the two of them move around the kitchen, her tail thumping every so often when one of them speaks.

Dean knows the feeling. They haven’t talked at all about last night and if Dean has his way they never will—the memory of Sam with his fingers pressed against that girl’s forehead still raises the hair on Dean’s arms—but this right now is good. They’re good. After almost a month Sam’s shoulders are slowly bending, losing that soldier-straight rigidity, and he even laughs when Dean makes a joke about his wings. It’s a halting version of the familiarity they once had, but it’s still a thousand times more than Dean ever hoped for.

Then the phone rings. Dean looks at it, hesitating, his eyes going to Sam and waiting. Sam catches him at it and rolls his eyes.

“Last time I checked, you still have to pick it up in order to hear anybody,” he says.

Dean shakes his head and tucks the phone into his neck. “Hello?”

“Dean, hi, it’s Abby. How’s it going?”

“Good.” Dean cuts a glance at Sam and mouths, Abby. An inscrutable look crosses Sam’s face, leaving it blank in its wake. He turns back to the dishes, running his dishcloth over the plates with careful thoroughness, and Dean retreats to the living room, close enough for Sam to hear but far enough that he can ignore the conversation if he wants to. “Good, we’re good. How ‘bout you?”

“Crazy with Christmas stuff, as usual, but other than that, good. I was just calling to remind you about tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” Dean echoes.

“Dinner? Remember? My aunt’s cooking pot roast and we’re eating at six, it’s super casual, I promise. And there’s pie, which you promised to help eat.”

“Dinner, wow,” Dean hedges, looking behind him at Sam still at the sink. “That’s… Yeah, I do remember.”

“You forgot.”

“No, no, I didn’t. I just, I’ve already got something going here. Sorry.”

“Oh. Well, if you wanted to come over after dinner or something, that’s fine too. We’re really low-key, I promise.”

“Abby,” Dean says, his voice dropping. “I’m good. Really.”

Abby takes a minute, probably doing her best to read between the lines, and then her voice drops too. “Dean, what’s going on? You’re not—you’re not going to do something stupid, are you? Because you know I’ll—”

“No,” Dean says quickly, “no, everything’s fine, I promise. I’m good. I swear, I’m not looking up directions to the nearest cliff or anything.”

“You’re driving me to the airport Wednesday,” Abby says firmly. “You agreed, okay? No checking out on me; I need my ride.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Dean gives a nod, even though she can’t see. “I’ll even buy you coffee beforehand.”

Abby’s silent for a moment, then she says, “This town cares about you a lot, Dean Campbell. You do a lot of good here.”

Dean folds his mouth in a smile. “This is getting kinda deep for a dinner invitation.”

Abby laughs. “Shoot, you’re right, sorry. Anyway, Merry Christmas. Have a good time doing whatever it is you’re doing. I’m going to ask a bunch of invasive questions later, just so you know.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less,” Dean says, then hangs up.

Sam is quiet when he comes back in the kitchen. The dishes are clean and the counter is immaculate. Sam himself is perched on one of the stools behind the counter, eyes fixed on the feathers in their glass twirling in time with the circles Sam’s index finger is making in the air. He doesn’t look at Dean when he asks, “How’s she doing?”

Dean puts the phone down and jams his hands in his pockets. “Fine. Good.”

Sam nods silently and Dean curses at the carefully blank look on his face.

“You can’t,” Dean says, knowing Sam will have heard every word of Abby’s invitation, knowing Sam will understand what he means. To explain his sudden disappearance and his miraculous reappearance would sabotage the reason they came to Pooles in the first place. Especially if Sam’s going to disappear again when Heaven snaps its fingers.

“I know,” Sam says. “But you could.” He looks at Dean, already knowing the answer—as if Dean ever would. Then, he admits, more human-sounding than Dean has heard him, “I miss her.”

“I know. I wish it was different.”

Sam drops his chin to his chest, hair hiding his eyes. He’s still for a minute, shoulders bowed, then he looks back up at Dean. “I wish that, too,” he says. His mouth twists in something that could be called a smile. “Part of me.”

“And what does the other part want?”

Sam’s smile pulls wider and he stands. The kitchen lights catch on the tears in his eyes. “It’s no good, Dean. I know, I’ve tried it. You can draw and quarter monsters but not souls.”

“Then what do you want? What do you want, Sam?”

Sam’s eyes flash, anger, or maybe frustration, thrumming in the heavy lines of his wings, in his curled fists. Then it ebbs away, folding Sam with it. When he finally speaks, his voice is just a mumble. “What do I want,” he says, half to himself, turning the words over in his mouth. “I know that. That at least I know.” He leans against the counter, shoulders slumped. “I want to not want. I want to have.”

Dean swallows. “You can, Sam. You can, okay? We’ll figure it out.”

“No, you don’t understand.” Rancid desperation threads through Sam’s voice. “I can’t stop.”

“Sam—”

“I can’t stop.” Sam’s voice rises. “I can’t leave Heaven, not when I can help.”

Dean’s forehead wrinkles. “Yes, you can. That’s exactly what you can do, you can just walk away. Leave it.”

He draws back when Sam barks a laugh, high and hurting. “Oh, Dean. You should know how this works, you spent more time with Dad than anyone.” When Dean doesn’t do more than look at him blankly, Sam presses, “Think of how many times Dad got drunk over wanting to do the same thing. Hunting? Dean, he hated it. He just didn’t have a choice, not after he knew what was out there.”

“Sam,” Dean says, making sure to keep his voice steady. “It’s not the same. All right? This is Heaven’s war, Heaven’s agenda.”

Sam smacks a hand down on the counter, and despite himself Dean jumps. “That’s not the point!” Sam shouts. “Because now I’m part of it! They ruined me. How do you keep a soldier on the front line? You make him care about the cause. And what happens when the war doesn’t end?” Sam flings out his arms, knocking the glass of feathers to the floor with a crash. “When it stretches on for centuries and there’s nothing left to fight for but this idea? Don’t you get it? I can’t come back. I can’t— I’m—”

Dean stares as Sam covers his face with shaking hands. The line of Sam’s shoulders is tight, his wings drawn close, and as the horror of what Sam’s saying registers in Dean’s mind, his own body goes rigid. Sam’s powers have divided him. It’s as great a schism as Stanford, wider even, because California was somewhere Dean could visit and this time he doesn’t know half the things Sam has to do, is forced to do, does because he wants to.

How horrible, Dean thinks, to want something you don’t want. To be made to love something.

Sam makes a wounded noise, jerking Dean out of his thoughts. Dean steps forward, his head echoing with the memory of the panic room door muffling Sam’s screams. He reaches out a slow hand to curl around Sam’s nape and gently pulls him in.

“I hear you, Sam,” he says into the hair by Sam’s ear. “I hear you, little brother.”

—

They don’t stand there long. Sam doesn’t let them. He shifts in Dean’s arms and Dean lets him go, like he always does. Sam stands and sniffs and does his best to pull himself together, shore up his cracks, be the wall holding back the ocean for the whole world, and Dean lets him.

Then Dean tips his head to the front door and says, “C’mon.” Two minutes later they’re in the truck, cruising slow while Dean fiddles with the controls until the radio is crackling out Silent Night and the heater hums just below. Sam doesn’t say anything, just hunches in his seat, wings nothing more than shadowed outlines at his shoulders.

A faint smile curls Sam’s mouth when Dean pulls in front of the first house with Christmas lights decking every eave. There’s a plastic reindeer with a red lightbulb for a nose next to the mailbox. At the next house, a blow-up Santa is on the roof next to the chimney, looking over the nativity set on the ground below. Sam sighs and settles in, leaning his forehead against the truck’s window like it’s an old friend. His hair spreads over the glass, a dark halo echoed by the gleam of Christmas lights through the window.

Dean swallows and keeps driving.

They’re on the second row of houses when Sam turns, putting his back to the glowing lights and facing Dean. He doesn’t say anything for a few minutes, long enough that Dean glances over to see if Sam’s gone to sleep. He hasn’t. He’s looking at Dean the same way he did before he left for Stanford, before he made up his mind to go to California and wreck the fragile cohesion of their little family, wishing and wanting with his heart on his sleeve. Dean almost hates him for it, waits for the inevitable blow, and then Sam says in a broken voice, “Dean, what do I do?”

Dean shakes his head, chest aching. Choosing between things he wants is something he’s never been good at. “I don’t know, Sammy.”

Sam huffs a laugh, more a breath of air than anything, and sniffs. “Me neither.”

Dean rolls forward to another house, this one with angel figurines bordering the walkway, trumpets held in their glowing hands.

“Whatever you decide to do, though,” Dean clears his throat, “just remember that I’ve got your back. Whether you want to go or you want to stay, it’s your choice. You get to choose. And whatever happens…” He shakes his head, a smile tugging at his mouth. “I’m with you, Sammy. All the way.”

Sam is silent, but when Dean glances over Sam is smiling, relief so plain on his face that Dean has to look away.

“Thank you,” Sam says, reaching out to grip Dean’s wrist.

Delicate flakes of snow begin to fall as Dean grips back.