Archive of Our Own

Dean saves a hoodoo witch from her bitter ex lover thirty miles outside of New Orleans.

She thanks him with a hug and a kiss as she tucks something small against his chest.

“To help ease the pain of the one you lost.”

Dean doesn’t have to ask to know she isn’t talking about Mary.

He burns it. Or means to, anyway.

He plans it out in the motel later that night, exhausted and sweat-stained and bleeding from the open cut at his temple as he fingers the mottled wood, worn smooth around the edges and warped across the center. Sees himself douse the misshapen hunk of wood in kerosene and set it ablaze.

He thinks about it all night and into the morning. Thinks about it some more as the words, carved deep and jagged across the inside of the mask, stare back at him.

Latin was always more Sam’s thing than Dean’s. Ancient and secretive in a way that appealed to his giant nerd of a brother and his obsession with dissecting things better left alone.

But Dean’s learned to get by on his own. Has been doing just fine without Sam for the past three years.

A couple minutes and a Latin dictionary are plenty enough to do the trick.

Amissum carum reducere.

To bring back a lost loved one.

Dean’s jaw clenches.

Sam’s not lost. He left. And he’s never coming back. Some waterlogged hunk of wood isn’t going to change that.

Dean should toss it. He’s going to. Really.

But he can’t get John to answer his phone, and Sam is suddenly — miraculously — back, and then there’s fire and ash and a look so broken across his baby brother’s face, it hurts just to look at him.

And before he knows it, Dean’s forgotten all about the damn thing where it lies at the bottom of his duffel.

~*~*~*~

There are miles and miles of unspoken words crammed in the spaces between them.

For two people who spend the majority of their waking hours less than three feet apart, you’d think there'd be fewer secrets to go around.

But Dean can tell Sam is keeping something from him. He didn’t need Mary — bloody and broken as she crawled out from the flickering mirror — to tell him that much.

Sam is defensive and on edge. His smiles are plastic and vacant.

It gets worse after their run-in with the shifter.

Dean doesn’t know what that son of a bitch said to Sam, which of Dean’s own shameful secrets it aired out without permission, but Sam won’t look at him for weeks after. Leans against the passenger window and as far from Dean as possible while the Impala eats up miles of road beneath them.

It keeps him awake at night, thinking about all the things Sam might know. The needy, pathetic longing he keeps tucked beneath his ribs.

Dean spends his nights three feet apart from the most important person in his life, and feels more alone than if Sam weren’t there at all.

~*~*~*~

It isn’t until they go back to Lawrence and Dean sees Mary for the first time in twenty-two years that he lets himself think about the mask.

After all, he’s already got Sam by his side. And it isn’t like he has the necessary ingredients to bring Mary back. He wouldn’t dare use a magic-laced object to summon John.

But seeing Mary in the flesh, exactly as he remembered her — bright white nightgown and all — tears open a chasm in Dean’s chest, aching and vast.

He isn’t stupid enough to actually do anything about it. John taught him better than that.

That doesn’t mean he’s strong enough to keep his mind from wandering, though.

When Sam shoots him in the chest — rocksalt, but fuck does it hurt — Dean thinks he might finally break.

He locks himself away in the bathroom. Sam’s guilty pleading on the other side of the door only digs the salt deeper. He doesn’t want Sam’s eyes on him right now, doesn’t want to see the echo of revulsion he saw in Sam’s eyes at the asylum.

The shot to Dean’s chest may have been Ellicott, but the scornful words — the hateful disdain burning in his eyes — that was all Sam.

After, when Sam is asleep and Dean’s chest is as clean as it’s going to get, Dean goes to his duffel. He rests his hands on it, grips the edges in his fists for a long time and thinks about giving in.

It’s stupid, really. It’s not like it would even work.

Dean’s pretty sure the mask is supposed to bring back dead loved ones. Not ones that are alive and kicking, and just can’t stand the sight of you.

But he thinks about it anyway. Thinks about it long enough that he wakes up curled around his duffel, Sam’s gaze suspicious and rapt.

Dean flinches, and immediately curls in on himself with a pained groan.

When he finally catches his breath a few minutes later, Sam is still looking.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer.”

“Sorry.”

“Yeah,” Dean snorts. “Sorry looking.”

It lands about as flat as expected.

~*~*~*~

Sam is gone. Left Dean for California again.

And Dean let him. Left him all alone on an empty road in the middle of the night.

But Dean’s not the bad guy in this. Sam is. Selfish and insubordinate, same as he’s always been. Hellbent on the same all-consuming revenge he always derided John for, and if that isn’t the most twisted irony of all, Dean doesn’t know what is.

Christ, why does Sam have to be so difficult?

He paces the length of the cramped motel room, thinks about going back for Sam and just as quickly shakes the thought off. If Sam wants to act a fool, then so be it. Dean’s not going to bail him out this time. Let him come back when he’s ready, tail between his legs.

Except Dean knows Sam. Has never met anyone half as stubborn as his brother. Sam would rather walk all the way back to California on foot than accept defeat.

Stubborn asshole.

Dean sleeps fitfully, slipping in and out of consciousness, thoughts of Sam all alone on that empty backroad plaguing him through the night.

He spends the day investigating alone, and can’t quite seem to focus. Everything reminds him of Sam. The empty space to his right. The apple pie aura surrounding the town. The suspicious glares Sam’s puppy dog look would have curbed as Dean tries and fails to persuade the happy couple away from the scam car repair.

There’s nothing for it but to wait for sunset. He’ll tail the couple until they're safely out of town. Or come to their rescue — whichever comes first.

When it finally comes for them, the monster scarecrow is even fuglier than Dean remembers. Deadlier, too. A few more minutes and they would have been dead.

Dean gets back to his room with bile in his throat. He showers and changes and mentally prepares for the day ahead — research and libraries and ancient mythology, all of Sam’s favorite things — and tries not to think about his phone, silent on the nightstand.

Dean closes his eyes against the vast loneliness hollowing out his chest, and tries to sleep.

He caves.

He hasn’t let himself think too carefully about the odds and ends he’s been quietly collecting since Lawrence. Bits and bobs, herbs and spices, Sam’s DNA in the form of a few loose hairs.

But it’s all there when he empties his duffel, tucked away neatly in a small satchel. The ingredients are easy enough to mix, held together with jasmine and licorice root, a couple drops of Dean’s blood to seal the deal.

Because apparently Dean’s just stupid enough to mess with blood magic.

He pauses with the matchbox between his hands, stops to really think about what he’s doing. It's risky business, he knows. Especially when the spell isn’t all that specific on the particulars of how it works. Just offers a short incantation followed by two sets of instructions.

Expergiscere to activate the spell.

Obdormī to deactivate it.

Fuck it.

Dean stumbles over the incantation and then, with a shuddering breath, he lights a match and drops it into the bowl.

The mask lights up, a neon glow punching bright through the chiseled mouth and eyes.

This is it.

Swallowing back a sudden surge of unease, Dean steels himself.

“Expergiscere.”

He fumbles the word, worries for a moment it won’t work, and then falls back as the mask blinks up at him with hazel eyes.

Holy shit.

Two familiar dimples wink up at Dean in a slow, easy grin where before there was only wood.

“Hey, man.”

Dean stares in stunned silence as the rest of Sam materializes before him in twining bands, first Sam’s head, then his neck, and then the broad, endless expanse of his shoulders.

A horrifying thought sweeps through him.

What if the spell is pulling from Sam’s life force?

“Obdormī!”

The mask snuffs out instantly, nothing but a lopsided hunk of wood.

Dean’s breath rabbits through him, shaky and shallow, as he lunges for his phone.

“Pick up, pick up!”

One ring, then two. On the third ring, the vicelike grip around Dean’s chest finally loosens as Sam’s voice rumbles tiredly through the phone. “Dean? You okay?”

“Yeah. Just making sure you’re alive.”

“Seriously, man?” The apprehension previously threading Sam’s words drops abruptly, replaced by a familiar, bitchy edge. “You couldn’t have waited till morning?”

“Guess not.”

He ends the call before Sam can work himself up, then shoves the whole sorry mess back into his duffel and goes to bed.

He means to finally burn the damn thing in the morning. But one thing leads to another, and then Sam is back, and anyway, trying to get rid of it with Sam so close by is an unnecessary risk. Better to just keep it tucked away and out of sight.

~*~*~*~

Things get better between them.

All their unspoken hurts and wrongdoings seem insignificant — silly, even — with Dean at Death’s door. Only a few weeks to live. Months, if he’s lucky. And it’s the best things have been between them in years.

If Dean knew all he had to do was bite the dust for Sam to stop being a little bitch, he’d have gotten himself electrocuted years ago.

Dean has Sam’s unswerving attention. No more demon talk. No more bitching about John. No more talk of Stanford or Jess or ditching Dean in pursuit of something better.

So, yeah. Things are good. Aside from the whole dying part, that is.

But Dean will happily accept his untimely demise if it means Sam will keep looking at him like that.

Sam looks at Dean with worshipful eyes and gentle hands. It fills Dean’s chest with brilliant light, leaves him warm and floaty for days.

He breaks out of the hospital. It’s a terribly long and painful trek. Dean has to stop every few steps to catch his breath and slow his bum heart.

But it’s worth it for the careful way Sam tucks him close, strong and warm and good and whole.

It’s the happiest Dean’s felt in a long time.

And then he’s down on his knees in some faith healer’s tent, and everything goes to shit.

~*~*~*~

Sam is gone. Again.

Only this time, he didn’t leave.

No, Sam’s been taken. And Dean is just about losing his mind with panic.

There were cameras in the parking lot outside the bar. They must have caught something, a lead for Dean to work off of. But it’s the middle of the night, and Dean won’t be able to impersonate his way into the video feeds until morning.

Sam could be dead by then. If he isn’t already.

He drags his hands through his hair and racks his brain for something else, a way to get to Sam now, damn it.

With a jolt, his eyes land on his duffel.

He hasn’t let himself think about the hoodoo witch’s mask since his last disastrous attempt. There hasn’t been any need with Sam back where he belongs, safe and sound by Dean’s side.

He’s kicking himself now, though. The mask could have a psychic connection to Sam. Could tell Dean where he is.

Scrambling, he digs through his duffel, gathers the ingredients and hesitates for only a moment before hissing the incantation. There’s still the slight possibility that this spell could cause Sam harm. It’s got to draw its energy from somewhere, after all. Given the circumstances, though, it’s a risk he’s going to have to take.

“Sanguine et carne, facie mutuata, forma vacua quam tibi iubeo sumere,
te revoco, amissum carum reducere.
Revertere ad me et hoc cordis dolorem finire.

Redi ad me, nam dissolutus sum,
absentia formatus, desiderio attritus.
Sis satis prope ut dolorem sileas,
satis prope ut me requiescere sinas.

Memoriae manu et cordis decreto te evoco — revertere ad me.
Desiderium cordis mei imple.
Redi ad me, amissum carum.
Hic esto, prope esto — revertere ad me.”

Straightening his back, he strikes the match and watches as a brilliant light shoots through the mask.

“Expergiscere.”

Between one blink and the next, Sam’s hazel eyes stare back at him.

He watches as Sam’s neck, shoulders, arms, and waist materialize before him in a brilliant light. The glow shines lower still until Sam lies fully formed at Dean’s knees.

The air feels thick with anticipation.

“Sam?”

The Sam-shaped thing pulls itself laboriously onto its elbows. It slants a mercurial look at Dean.

“I had the strangest dream.”

The Sam-shaped thing heaves itself up off the floor and flops down onto Sam’s bed. “I was all alone. I couldn’t find you.”

It smiles up at Dean and says, “I missed you.”

It’s fucking with him.

Dean keeps his eyes on the Sam-like thing as he rises to his feet, careful and slow.

“You okay, man?”

“Where’s Sam?”

The creature on the bed slides a puzzled look across Dean and sits up. “What?”

“You heard me.”

It looks at him in a perfect facsimile of Sam and stands.

“Don’t move!”

The creature inches closer, heedless of the gun Dean suddenly has trained at its chest.

“Woah, easy there,” it says, manipulating Sam’s features into a mimicry of concern. “Dean, man. Calm down.”

“Tell me where he is!”

But something must stop working between Dean’s brain and his body, because instead of shooting the hoodoo skinwalker full of holes, he just stands there as it steps close enough to push Dean’s hands down. It wraps Dean in a hug, one arm tight around his shoulders, the other tucking Dean’s face against its neck.

“I’m right here, man.”

Dean shudders. Tries to shove the thing off him and ends up clinging to it instead.

“No,” he bites out. “You’re not.”

“Shh,” the creature whispers, warm and hot against Dean’s ear. “It’s okay. I got ya.”

Dean is shaking so hard, the whole building must be vibrating. He needs to find Sam. But his body keeps playing tricks on him, leaning into the Sam-shaped thing even as his shaking amplifies. It feels like Sam, is the thing. Fuck, it even smells like Sam. And Dean can’t help but breathe in desperately, taking it in with deep, greedy gulps.

“Sam.” Dean tries again, desperate to hold fast to reality. “I need to find him. Can you help me or not?”

Slowly, the creature pulls back. It looks down on Dean with adoring eyes and says, “I’m right here, Dean. Not going anywhere.” It lowers its head, leans close enough that their lips nearly brush, and says, “Gonna let you take care of me.”

Dean hesitates long enough to feel sick with self-hatred — long enough to feel the gentle press of Sam’s nose against his cheek — and then yanks away with everything he’s got.

“Obdormi!”

The mask falls harmlessly to the floor.

Dean doesn’t quite make it to the toilet before puking up his dinner.

~*~*~*~

Sam isn’t staying.

He doesn’t want things to go back to the way they were, and he isn’t going to stay.

“Where are you going?”

It’s nine o’clock at night a few miles outside of Albuquerque. Chicago is four days behind them.

“Out.”

Sam lays down the book he’s reading — a dog-eared copy of Frankenstein — and straightens.

“Yeah, I can see that.”

Dean pops the collar of his jacket. “Don’t wait up.”

“Seriously?”

“What can I say, Sammy?” Dean says as he grabs his keys off the dresser. “A man’s got needs.”

“Who the hell do you think you’re going to pick up?" Sam snorts. "You still look like last week’s roadkill.”

He’s not wrong. The daeva’s claws were a bitch and a half, nearly gouged Dean’s damn eyes out.

“And? Chicks dig scars.”

“Yeah — scars, Dean,” Sam says, tone incredulous, like he can't believe he has to actually spell this out for him. "Not gaping wounds.”

Dean rolls his eyes, tugs the door open with an easy grin. “Relax, princess. No one’s gonna care.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“That’s what they tell me.”

Sam’s muttered curse cuts off with the quiet snick of the door.

Dean doesn’t let himself think about what he’s doing until he’s parked outside the Starlight Motel two towns over. He checks in, sits on the bed, gets back up, paces the room, and then sits back down.

He doesn’t have to do this. There's time enough yet to turn back. He can find himself a bar to drown his sorrows, or just lick his wounds in peace in this rinky dink Motel.

But he can’t stop thinking about the way Sam so casually tore apart his world.

“I’m not gonna live this life forever, Dean. When this is all over, you’re gonna have to let me go my own way.”

This time when he says the magic words, he’s ready. He stands calmly over the bed as the creature wakes, eyes landing on Dean with a dreamy smile.

“Hey, man. I missed you.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

“What are you?”

The creature looks at Dean like he just sprouted a second head. “Uh… your brother?”

“I mean it. What is this? Do you, like, have a connection to Sam? Or are you just taking his form?”

“I am Sam.”

“Yeah, and I’m Steve McQueen.”

The creature rolls its eyes with the same bitchy flare as Sam.

“Look,” Dean says, trying to get back on track. “I just wanted… Fuck.” This is so fucking stupid.

The creature watches him patiently, eyes curious and so much like Sam’s, Dean can’t decide if he wants to knock its lights out or hold on tight and never let go.

“I wanted to ask you something,” he finally bites out.

“So ask.”

“I—” The words stick in his throat. “I don’t know how to say it.”

Fuck. Why can't he just say it? Why can't he just ask?

What's so good about Stanford? Why do you always leave? Why haven't I ever been good enough?

In a flash, the creature moves. It slides its feet off the bed and snakes two fists around Dean’s wrists.

“Hey!” Dean shouts, adrenaline flooding his veins. He tries to break free with a vicious yank, but the creature’s grip is iron. “Get the fuck off me.”

“No.”

“I swear to god, if you don’t—”

“I didn’t leave because of you, Dean.”

No. No, no, no, no, no.

“Shut up.”

“I didn’t,” the creature insists, hazel eyes suddenly sorrowful and bare. “I just… I felt trapped. By Dad. By the life.” It tugs Dean closer with inhuman strength, dragging him forward easy as a ragdoll and pins Dean in place between his thighs. “But it was never because of you.”

Dean’s struggles redouble. He feels claustrophobic and short of breath. “Get the fuck off me.”

But it only pulls Dean closer until it’s swallowing him whole with two arms around his back and his face in Dean’s stomach just like Sam used to do when they were kids. Back before he outgrew every other Winchester alive. “Leaving you was the hardest thing I ever did.”

It isn’t Sam, but then again, maybe it is. This creature — made of Dean’s blood — could very well be a version of Sam. One raised by Dean just as surely as the original, born of the same blood that runs through his veins.

A Sam of Dean’s very own creation.

Dean shuts his eyes against the overwhelming crest of emotion and clings back, shuddering as Sam — his Sam, specially made for Dean — buries his face deeper into his belly.

“Stay with me.”

Muffled as they are against the press of Dean’s shirt, the words ring loud and clear.

And — God help him — Dean does.

~*~*~*~

He isn’t going to do it again.

He isn’t.

Not after he woke up the last time, weak and exhausted for days. Wobbly as a newborn fawn.

That kind of reaction — there’s nothing natural about it. It’s bad news, plain and simple, and Dean knows it.

So he isn’t going to use the mask again. No matter what.

Except then Sam almost dies. Nearly gets a hole drilled through his head by some fucked in the head loser using corpses for friends. And Sam won’t even let Dean take care of him properly. Keeps shoving him off and bellyaching for space.

“Give it a rest already. I’m fine.”

And that may be so, but Dean’s body won’t stop panicking. Can’t seem to process the fact that Sam is alive and whole and breathing — not until he can get his hands on the kid and confirm as much for himself.

“I’ll see you in the morning.”

He doesn’t wait to hear Sam’s protests before slipping out the door.

Sam — the other Sam — is waiting for him in the trunk of the Impala. Dean drives them far enough that they won’t be interrupted and then checks them into a motel.

He works restlessly, impatient to wake Sam, can hardly wait to finally wrap his arms around the kid and make sure he’s okay.

“Expergiscere.”

He isn’t expecting the twelve year-old Sam that grins back at him.

“Dean!” It — Sammy — shouts, gleeful and bright as his body finishes transforming, clothed in a raggedy pair of jeans and the threadbare jacket he wore for years before his growth spurt hit. “You’re back! Where’d you go?”

Dean stands with his heart in his throat as Sammy wraps his arms around him in a pint sized bear hug.

“Dean?”

“Uh, yeah. Sorry, I… Uh.” It takes Dean a beat for his arms to come unstuck, and then he finds himself practically clinging to the kid, staggered by the swell of emotion that washes through him. Sammy. “I’m back now.”

“Good,” Sammy says, craning his neck back to peer at Dean. So goddamn small. “I missed you.”

“Yeah, Sammy.” Dean says, throat sticking. “I missed you, too.”

Dean orders pizza. They spend the night watching reruns of I Love Lucy and stuffing their faces full of as much pizza and pop as they can handle, with Sam — small as he is — tucked under Dean’s arm and grinning up at him the entire time.

Dean never wants it to end.

He’s just starting to drift off when a gentle tug gets his attention.

“Hey, Dean?”

“Mm?”

Sammy peers up at him, runs the tips of his fingers across Dean’s brow and breathes.

“Don’t make me go back there, okay?”

The words are quiet, feather soft and light. But a frisson of dread comes awake inside him.

“What?”

“It’s cold in there,” Sammy whispers, reedy and scared. “The place you send me when I go to sleep.”

Cold sweat breaks out across Dean’s skin.

“Promise me.”

Dean closes his eyes against the pleading in Sam’s gaze and whispers a gut wrenching, “Obdormi.”

~*~*~*~

It’s not safe anymore. Dean knows that.

A little energy leeching is one thing. Getting in his head like that — manipulation tactics — is another thing entirely.

He can’t stop thinking about him, is the thing. Can’t get the perfect way they fit together out of his head. The way he looked at Dean like he mattered.

Used to be, Dean and Sam spent every day in each other’s pockets. He remembers curling up together in bed, watching movies on the couch with Sam’s feet tossed across his lap, the way he could make Sam grin with a single glance. Sam used to look at Dean like he was his whole world.

Now, Dean is just a means to an end. A way to get back to a life without Dean.

Dean makes it five days before he caves.

He tells Sam not to wait up, and books himself a room in a motel twenty miles out.

When he wakes, Sam is twenty-two again. But he’s still the same where it counts: Sweet and soft and so goddamn happy to see him.

“Hey,” Sam says from where he lies there on the bed. “I missed you.”

Dean bites the inside of his lip and takes the whole of Sam in, from his eyes to his dimples to the little mole at the side of his nose.

He’s just working up the courage to touch when Sam reaches out and does it for him. He grabs Dean’s hand in his, rubs his thumb against the back of Dean’s hand and says, “Stay?”

And Dean does.

~*~*~*~

It gets to be a habit.

Dean slips out for the evenings — Sam’s eyes following him with increasing suspicion — and spends hours losing himself in his custom-made Sam: his smile, his hugs, the hero worship Dean hasn’t seen since before the kid hit puberty.

It doesn’t show up as a younger Sam again, which Dean is quietly glad for. He doesn’t want a younger version of Sam, not really. Doesn’t want to be reminded this isn’t real. He just wants his brother — a version of him that isn’t embarrassed by Dean or desperate to drop him the first chance he gets.

Dean and his custom-made-Sam spend night after night taking up each other’s space, nestled close as they watch TV, play cards, eat in.

Dean’s Sam doesn’t talk about going back to Stanford. In fact, he doesn’t talk about anything at all that doesn’t involve him and Dean together forever — us against the world — just like it used to be.

~*~*~*~

The thing about getting emotionally attached to a parasitic mask is that eventually, it starts to take a toll on you.

Not that Dean’s complaining. It’s worth it for the adoring looks and happy grins Sam bathes him in every night.

Dean would pay any price for Sam’s happiness.

But the energy suck gets harder to hide.

He gets sloppy on the job. Nearly takes a cleaver to the chest while they’re taking out a poltergeist in Rhode Island. It’s only Sam’s quick reflexes that save Dean from sudden death.

It gets worse as time goes on.

He’s exhausted all the time, nodding off halfway through witness interviews and too tired to get down more than a couple bites of food.

The other Sam, of course, starts to notice.

Dean is just shoving a napkin into his pocket — can’t have Sammy knowing he’s been coughing up blood — when Sam finally brings it up.

“What the fuck is going on with you?”

They’re in the Impala — Sam behind the wheel because Dean’s vision keeps going fuzzy — with no way for Dean to escape. Intentional, no doubt.

Bastard.

Dean shrugs, looks out the window. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Bullshit. You look like the rawhead all over again.”

Dean sucks his teeth. Thinks about derailing the conversation, telling Sam not to project his emo crap onto Dean, maybe throw in a comment about his dead ex-girlfriend.

But Dean’s too tired. He has a splitting headache that hasn’t let up since he woke this morning, and the couple bites he managed to choke down at lunch have been threatening to make a reappearance for the past hour.

“Dean, man — please.” Dean doesn’t have to look to know what expression Sam is wearing. He can hear the desperation in his voice well enough. “You’re my brother. I’m worried about you.”

A few months ago, Dean might have actually believed him. He might have looked over at those puppy dog eyes and bought the whole altruistic brotherly act.

But Dean knows what real love looks like, now that he’s had a chance to experience it firsthand. He knows what it feels like to have a brother who actually means it with every fiber of his being.

Dean may not be the smartest tool in the shed. Hell, he’s let Sam fool him time and time again.

But not this time.

Turning his back to Sam, he lays his head against the passenger window and closes his eyes.

“Wake me up when we get to Toledo.”

~*~*~*~

It isn’t that Dean doesn’t see the problem. He does.

It’s just that given a choice between living in reality with a Sam who leaves and dying quick with a Sam who stays, Dean will pick the latter every time.

~*~*~*~

Time becomes a tricky thing.

One minute, he’s sitting in a diner with the Sam who leaves glaring balefully in his direction, and the next, he’s smiling softly at the Sam who stays, legs tangled up together under the blankets. Thoughtful, Dean thinks idly. He’s been shivering near constantly the past few days. Sam must have noticed.

He goes on like that, moving across time between one blink and the next, until one night in March. He’s lying facedown on a bed in Whitefish, Montana, with the Sam who stays rubbing gentle circles into his back. The migraine he’s been nursing hasn’t diminished any, but it hardly seems important with the way Sam keeps rubbing his hand up and down his back.

Sam’s been getting extra handsy lately, not that Dean minds. All he’s ever wanted is for Sam to love Dean as much as he loves Sam. To feel confident in the strength of their bond, impenetrable by the outside world.

And for the first time since Dean can remember, that’s exactly what he has.

So what if Sam wants to add in a little heavy petting? It’s comforting, really. Maybe if Sam gets everything he needs from Dean, he won’t feel the need to stray — no school, no apple pie life, no girlfriend waiting on the sidelines to steal Sam away again.

Dean leans into Sam’s hands with a pleasant sigh.

He's drifting again, watching Sam out of the corner of his eye and wondering just when exactly his little brother got to be so big. Hell of a masseuse, too.

He must have said that last part out loud, he thinks, because Sam snorts. A lascivious grin breaks out across his face, and then he’s moving, swinging one leg over to straddle Dean’s thighs and crouching low to press a tender kiss against the back of Dean’s neck.

The breathy sigh Dean lets out is only mildly embarrassing.

“Dean?”

“Yeah, Sammy?”

Sam tilts his head, places a second kiss against the hinge of Dean’s jaw, open mouthed and wet. Presses himself snug against Dean, torso sliding up hot against Dean’s back. “Will you stay with me?”

It’s the same question Sam has asked every night for the past two months, but for once, Dean doesn’t feel the frisson of anxiety that usually accompanies the request.

He smiles to himself, musters every bit of his remaining strength, and reaches blindly for Sam’s hand. Brings it gently to his lips.

“Yes.”

And he doesn’t just mean tonight. He’s done locking Sam away, done leaving him alone in the darkness, where it’s cold. Dean’s staying — for keeps this time.

Dean is just starting to drift again (for keeps this time) when the door slams open with a violent bang.

“Dean!”

His migraine comes back full force as his eyes shoot open, gaze landing on Sam in the doorway.

But that can’t be. Sam’s crouched over him, heavy and warm and safe.

There isn’t time to try and make sense of things. The Sam in the doorway has a gun aimed at the Sam on Dean’s back, and he’s shouting furiously.

“Get the fuck off him!” When the Sam above him doesn’t move, the other Sam clicks the safety off, and shouts, “Now!”

Sam squeezes Dean’s hand and then, carefully, climbs off the bed.

“Dean? You okay?”

Dean blinks sluggishly, can’t quite figure out which Sam asked the question past the blinding agony tearing through his skull.

“You have two seconds to tell me why I shouldn’t shoot you full of holes.”

“I could say the same to you.”

“Sam.” No one answers him, but then again, Dean can’t be sure he actually said anything. He’s starting to suspect he might be hallucinating. Nothing feels real beyond the pain radiating from his head and into the very marrow of his bones.

“What are you?”

“I’m the brother he always wanted.”

A ferocious growl penetrates briefly past the pain, and then the world dissolves into a dizzying cacophony of sounds. There are gunshots and a thunderous crash and a pained shriek as Dean tries desperately to push past the paralyzing agony and focus.

“Dean!”

Oh, god. Sam. He has to help Sam.

He shores up every last shred of energy left in his useless, pathetic body and drags himself off the bed.

And promptly passes out.

~*~*~*~

Dean is lying on the floor when he wakes up, head resting awkwardly on something hard and lumpy. Someone is shaking him none too gently, a tremulous voice calling his name.

“Wake up. Dean, oh god. Please, man. You gotta wake up.”

Sammy.

Opening his eyes is laborious work. His lids feel gummy and sewn shut. And even after he finally manages to pry his lids apart, he has to wait for the black spots clouding his vision to clear before Sam finally comes into perspective.

He’s a mess, tears streaming freely down ruddy cheeks as he continues to shake Dean like the clumsy yeti he is, oversized lap making for the world’s worst pillow.

Dean’s baby brother, the not-so-gentle giant.

“Sammy,” he says when he can finally manage it. It’s a barely there whisper, but Sam hears it just the same.

“Dean! You’re awake.”

Dean grunts, tries to get up, and can’t. Still too weak. He looks around the room and takes in his surroundings: flipped over table, a mess of porcelain that may have once been the motel lamp, bedsheets strewn over the floor where Dean must have dragged them in his clumsy attempt to rescue Sam.

No mask.

“Hey, man,” Sam says above him, voice thready. “Talk to me. How are you feeling?”

“Where is it?”

Sam’s hands, which switched from shaking Dean to patting him down in a reflexive check for injuries, go still. “What?”

“The mask. Where is it?”

Sam’s mouth thins to a barely there line. “I burned it.”

A deep, aching sorrow spreads across Dean’s chest, cavernous and cruel.

“Let me get you some water.”

Dean wills himself to pull his shit together as Sam slides out from under him and ambles to the bathroom.

It wasn’t real, he reminds himself. It wasn’t.

~*~*~*~

Dean isn’t much help getting them to the Impala — keeps stumbling bad enough Sam has to practically haul him into the passenger seat — but he’s at least helpful enough getting them back to their motel. Sam is distracted and antsy, points the car in the wrong direction and then nearly misses the exit before Dean calls it out.

“Sorry,” Sam says, shooting Dean a guilty look. “Got a lot on my mind.”

Yeah. Dean knows the feeling.

Sam more or less carries Dean when they finally get back to their motel. Tucks him into bed with gentle hands and a fretful look. Can’t seem to stop running his hands over Dean, as if checking to make sure he’s live and whole.

Any other night, Dean might have taken pleasure in the careful handling.

Tonight, he rolls over and prays desperately to forget.

~*~*~*~

Dean wakes up achy and cold. His head throbs agonizingly with every beat of his aching heart.

There’s a warm weight pressing in against Dean’s side, and when he looks up, Sam is peering down at him attentively.

“Hey, man.” The words are fond and familiar as he cups Dean’s cheek, strokes his thumb once along Dean’s skin. “How you feeling?”

Dean mulls the words over. Thinks about telling him the truth, and then shrugs.

After all, what is there to say? Dean had a Sam that didn’t want to leave him, and now he doesn’t.

That’s life.

Above him, Sam nods like Dean said something material.

“It’s good to have you back, man.” Sam says after another few seconds. He leans down, presses a hot kiss to the corner of Dean’s jaw, and whispers, “I missed you.”