Archive of Our Own

He Won’t Ever Leave Me

Little boy with the dimpled smile, the dark mop of hair that descended into curls around his ears, the oversized flannel shirt that kept slipping past chubby hands, and the face that was kissed with three distinct birthmarks, as if by an angel, their mother used to say.

Dean downed another shot of whisky, the burn in his throat a welcomed distraction from the aching throb in his chest. He had experienced pain before, hell, he had suffered more broken bones, sprains, and fractures then most nearly anybody, he imagined. But this…god, this was torture unlike he had ever experienced. And Dean knew torture…he knew what it felt like to have your skin slowly and meticulously flayed from your body, what it felt like to have fire seared into your own rotting flesh, all the way down to the bone. But this…this was like breathing in a constant stream of cold water into his lungs, this was like a weight slowly crushing down on his chest, this was tearing, and burning, and scratching, and stabbing, and aching, and clawing all at once. And nothing, damn it, nothing ever took the edge off. Not even the whisky. But it did help him to pass out for at least a few hours, he reasoned, as his shaky hands struggled to pour another shot.

Lisa had asked him to come to bed hours ago. But he couldn’t…because the little boy with the dimpled smile wouldn’t leave him be. Dean didn’t even say anything, he just had to look at her and she knew. She knew what he was dealing with, who was haunting him tonight. Every night. Every damn night since the first night…the night when he had first showed up at Lisa’s doorstep, half out of his mind with grief.  Lisa had held him for as long as she could and he had let her, shaking and crying through gritted teeth, clutching onto her arms as if she could somehow save him from drowning. But the little boy never let him go, dragging his head beneath the waves again and again. Finally, he could no longer stand it, and he was roaring his rage, fist stuffed into his mouth in a failed attempt to stifle the dark torrent that streamed past his lips …damn God and damn the angels and demons and damn Castiel and damn Dean for not being able to hang on tight enough…to keep that little boy from slipping through his fingers.

He didn’t cry anymore, only sometimes late at night when he was all alone and the pain just became too much to hold in. But mostly now Dean just stared…stared off into the distance, seeing the little boy just around every corner and every horizon. Waiting for Dean, arm outstretched, waving at him. Telling Dean to follow him…to follow him to some silly hiding place he had found in a junkyard…or to a fort they had built in a tree in the woods…or to Stanford…or into a pit in the ground.

Dean downed another shot of whisky. Part of him just wanted to be dead already. But another part was scared he might actually be saved, and that meant going to heaven. And the little boy wouldn’t be waiting for him there, and so being dead would be just as torturous as being alive, only worse…so much worse, because there the little boy would permeate every damn memory and haunt every crevice of his mind…and the little boy would be real enough to touch there, to talk to, to laugh with…and yet, he’d just be a poor imitation…just a faded ghost of all that had once been real and precious.

Plus he promised the boy he would live. And damn it if Dean wasn’t gonna do one thing right in his godforsaken life. So he would live and he would down his whisky and he would try and forget long enough to pass out and get some sleep. But even in sleep there were dreams. Dreams of a dark mess of hair and curls, dreams of a scared, brave face, dreams of a flash of hazel eyes that searched Dean’s face for strength, and dreams of a fading memory of the little boy swallowed whole by the open earth.

Dean buried his face in his hands.  He hadn’t said the boy’s name in weeks now. He couldn’t. If Dean said his name, than his absence would be all too real. If he said his name and the boy didn’t answer, it would be with the realization that he would never answer again.  More shaky pouring, more whiskey, more burning in his throat. Dean’s mind was starting to blur now, which meant he might get just drowsy enough to have at least a few hours of dreamless sleep. He had hoped that would’ve been what death was like…a dark nothingness with no conscious thought. Screw consciousness.  Consciousness was the enemy. If only death could truly be the freakin’ end…for both him and the boy. Because right now the boy was getting flayed…and torn…and shredded…and goddamnit—Dean threw the whiskey bottle against the wall and it shattered into a hundred unfixable pieces. He was shaking, fighting off the tears, a large lump settling in his throat. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t swallow…he could just stand there and tremble…the little boy with the dimpled smile still seared into every waking thought he had. Who was he fooling; there would be no sleep tonight. Just the boy. Always the boy.

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“Sammy.” And it was the first time that Dean had said his name in a month. It gargled past his throat like sludge, as if so unused that he almost forgot what it sounded like to say it.

“What was that?” Lisa pressed, staring at him from across the table. It was after breakfast and Ben had already gone to school. She stopped clearing the dishes and paused, as if knowing what it meant to him to have said that name.

He used to make Sammy scrambled eggs before school. Kid used to eat ‘em with ketchup. Dean used to playfully act all pissed off, he went through the trouble of seasoning the eggs and Sammy would just pour ketchup all over ‘em?

Dean’s eyes went glassy at the memory, grabbing his plate off of the table and standing suddenly. “Nothing.” He mumbled, quietly. He was still too exhausted to share memories with others, maybe he would always be.

It had been a month since he had seen Sammy. He had pictures, sure, but something was starting to fade. Something about Sammy’s smile, something about how his laugh had sounded, or how his voice would pitch up whenever he was giving Dean some bitchy rant about how much of an idiot Dean could be. God, Dean was losing him…he was losing him again…

Dean stared out the window in silence. He faintly felt Lisa walk up behind him and rub little circles on his back. Cas had done that…once. Only once. Coulda, woulda, shoulda, didn’t with that one. With Sammy gone, taking the time to figure out what he and Cas had shared together seemed exhausting, impossible. Cas was starting to fade too. And there were no pictures of him, just a shock of blue eyes and memories of a lot of ‘almosts’ ‘maybes’ and ‘nevers’.

The wind blew and a whirlwind of scarlet leaves tumbled past the sidewalk. Sammy loved the fall. It meant snuggling up on the couch with a good book and freshly brewed tea. Dean used to tease him about that. Maybe he had teased him too much. Hard to remember anything straight anymore. Had Sammy known how much Dean had loved him? Damn it, Dean shoulda came right out and told him how much. But Dean had never wanted to say it, because, damn it, he had said ‘I love you’ to Mom and she was dead. He had avoided saying it to Sammy for that very reason, but hell, he was just as gone as Mom now, wasn’t he? Shoulda said it. Shoulda, woulda, coulda, didn’t. That seemed to be Dean’s specialty in life.

Dean shook his head. Sammy had known. Everything else might be fading, but how much he loved his little brother surely wasn’t. Of all Dean’s regrets, that wasn’t one of them. Sammy always knew, Sammy always knew everything Dean was feeling…and if Dean forgot everything else, he damn well could never forget that.

“Maybe it would help to talk about him.” Lisa murmured, and Dean remembered that she was still there. He wondered how long he had been staring out the window. Sometimes minutes felt like hours to him now.

Dean shook his head, taking in her words. “No…no, I can’t.” He hissed, his lungs constricting in his chest. Breathing in cold, ice water everyday…drowning a little more each time. He shook his head more resolutely, moving away from the window. “I can’t.”

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He used to write Sam dumb postcards, when Sam had been away at Stanford. Never sent any of them. Sam hadn’t been answering his phone lately, so it probably went to reason that he wouldn’t appreciate getting postcards either.  Sam wasn’t answering his phone because of the last conversation he had with Dean, most likely. It wasn’t even an argument; it had just been more of the same crap that they had said over the past two years.  It had been awkward and stilted, both boys holding back all of the things that they really wanted to tell each other. Words like ‘I miss you’ and ‘Please come back, it’s just me and Dad, and it’s driving me insane.’ Instead, Dean had asked Sam to simply come home, just like he always did. But instead of launching into his usual detailed explanation of why he couldn’t, Sam just sounded very weary this time. He had sighed a very defeated ‘no’ and then mumbled something about being really busy and how he couldn’t really talk right now. And after that, Dean’s calls just went straight to voice mail. He had even left a message once, but Sammy hadn’t called him back. And, well, Dean didn’t want to look pathetic for needing to talk to Sam, when the kid obviously didn’t give a damn anymore about talking to him. He had done everything for Sammy growing up and had never asked for a damn thing in return. Had never wanted to, because Sam had always been worth it. But now the very least that the little pain in the ass could do in return was answer his damn phone. Screw that, Dean was done trying to talk to him.

So instead Dean had collected postcards, one from every place he and Dad had visited. Dean used to scrawl messages to Sam, writing every dumb joke he would have said should his brother have been present. And he would imagine Sammy’s response, his pursed lips, his flared nostrils, his intent stare of disapproval. It woulda been hilarious. And right before Dean mailed any of ‘em, he’d just toss ‘em away instead. But it had helped some anyway…it had helped ease some of the intense, perpetual loneliness that he had suffered throughout those two years of no contact with his brother. ‘Cuz the truth was that without Sammy…there was nothing. And that scared Dean at times, but it was the truth. Being alone with no one but Dad could be difficult. Dad was brave, and admirable, and smart, and Dean loved him to death, but he could also have intense moods, and anger, and driven vengeance, and scathing remarks that truly hurt. And so some days writing those postcards to Sam seemed to be the only thing keeping Dean going.

Dean pressed the button on his cellphone. He had avoided doing this before, because it had seemed so irrational, so borderline delusional. But now he was doing it for a different reason. He knew that no one would answer. He just needed to remember…it was all fading so quickly now…Sammy’s voice in his head stilting and staling…fading to grey…

“You reached Sam’s phone. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you.”

Dean felt something choke in his throat. He hadn’t forgotten…not really. It was like Sammy was in the room with him, that’s how real he sounded to Dean right now.

 “Sammy…it’s me.” Dean whispered, clutching at the phone with white-knuckles to his ear. And before he could stop himself, all the familiar pleas were tumbling past his lips, “Sammy…please come home. Please. I—I need you. I can’t do this without you. And even if I could…I—I don’t wanna.” Dean closed his eyes, bringing up his hand to cover his mouth. “Damn it, Sammy. Please. I can’t…I can’t do this anymore…so just…” His throat was closing up; he rubbed at his bleary eyes, wearily. “Just come home, man.”

He snapped the phone shut and pressed it against his forehead. Begging for it to ring, for Sam to be on the other side. Guess him calling Sam’s number had still been delusional, but Dean didn’t care. He gave a heavy swallow, knowing deep down that just like all those years ago, Sam wasn’t going to return the call. He was gone…gone…gone…but if he was truly gone, then why was he still everywhere…in every breath Dean took, in every echo and flashback from the past, in every step taken, in every waking moment, in every restless dream…damn it, if he had to be gone, then just stay gone…damn it….

Dean gritted his teeth, a hot tear slipping past his lashes and dribbling down his flushed cheek. He couldn’t take this anymore, he was sure to go mad. Forgetting him was impossible. More than impossible, it was unthinkable. Dean craved the memories, even if they were slowly killing him. Funny, how damned exhausted he felt all the time, when loving Sammy had once been the most effortless thing in his life.

“Dean…?” It was Ben, standing in the doorway to the study.

Dean quickly swiped at his face, trying to clear away all traces of tears. “Yeah?” He cleared his throat, in a desperate attempt to steady it. “Yeah, what is it, Ben?”

“Mom wanted me to tell you that dinner is ready.” Ben explained, slightly cautiously, as if sensing something was very wrong.

Dean gave a quick nod. He felt a wave of guilt sweep over him, Lisa and Ben always having to talk to him as if he were some fragile child, about to break apart at any minute. That was no way for this poor family to live. “Yeah, thanks. I’ll be right there.”

Ben hesitated, clearly wishing to say more. Finally, he added, “I heard you talking to him. To your brother.”

Dean shook his head, his face suddenly flushing hot with embarrassment at having been overheard in such a vulnerable moment. “It was nothing.” He insisted, trying to force a grin, but it faltered and died on his lips. “Go on, I’ll be right there.”

Silence permeated the room. Ben bit at his bottom lip uncertainly, closely watching Dean, before asking, “What was he like? Your brother?”

What was Sam like? What kind of question was that? How could Dean ever hope to answer? Sam was Sam…he was quiet, nerdy, snot-nosed little brother, obsessive to the point of both annoyance and endearment…he was brave, smart, understanding, puppy-eyed sweetness…and strong…stronger than anybody else in the world, Dean included. But not the kind of strength that everyone expects to see…no. Sam was a quiet strength, an internal strength, something small but fiery that came from within. Sometimes Dean was jealous of that strength…but most of the time he was glad for it. Because it had helped make Dean brave too.

“He was brave.” Dean settled on saying, and that was the first time since Sam had been gone that he had spoken about him to anyone else. He gave a curt nod of his head and hissed out in a gravelly voice, “He was very brave.”

And that was all he could say at the moment, and so they left the room together and headed to the kitchen table for dinner. It was mash potatoes and roast beef…Sam woulda liked these meals. No greasy diner food anymore. Good, homemade cooking. So Dean took an extra scoop of mashed potatoes for Sammy, even though he still had no appetite himself.

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It had been six months since Sam had gone, and Dean was still waking up in a cold sweat every morning. He wasn’t drinking as heavily anymore, mostly because he knew Sammy would’ve been disappointed in him if he continued to walk around the house in a drunken stupor.

‘This isn’t what I asked you to do, Dean.’ Sam would’ve said with patented disapproval. And Dean could still hear the way Sam used to say his name in a sentence like that, with heavy emphasis and a drawling whine. Deeean. It had been both annoying and endearing at the time, but now it was just heartbreaking. What he wouldn’t give to hear his name said like that again.

And so since Sammy could no longer ‘Deeean’ him into doing the right thing, he had to do it for himself. That meant more taking care of himself and less drinking. Of course, less liquor only meant more dreams.  And Dean’s dreams were always a mix of the terrifying and the heartwarming. Both kinds were horrible, because in one dream he had to watch Sam disappear into a hole over and over again…and in the other he would be driving down a stretch of endless blacktop down a Midwestern highway…Sammy safe and by his side…peacefully sleeping, head propped up against the window…only to awake and remember that Sammy was not safe at all…that he was trapped with the goddamn devil in a cage…being cut to pieces…only to be made whole and then cut up again and again…

Dean entered the shower, turning the nozzle so that the water blasted out with icy coldness. He welcomed the pain that he knew it would bring, so cold that it burned and prickled against his skin…because he knew that Satan burned like ice. And he wanted to do this for Sammy, to always remember what his brother had sacrificed for him.

He placed his head up against the shower wall, thinking about how angry Sam would be at him for all of this, cold showers included. Dean knew that it was time to sober up and it was time to find work. He couldn’t put Lisa and Ben through anymore of his endless grief; he couldn’t stand to drag them down with him. The water beat down against his back…like cold, jabbing needles…good, he needed to feel even a fraction of what Sammy was feeling right now, it helped keep them connected even when separated by hellfire and earthly plains.

Dean splashed his face with the ice cold water. He was starting to become numb to it, which hurt him even more. Numbness was even worse than the pain. Numbness meant you were barely even human anymore, all sensation rendered obsolete. You were just a damn robot, going through the motions with no point or purpose.

You need to get a job, Dean. You need to busy your hands, your mind. I don’t want you to become numb, you need to feel. Even if its pain, you need to feel.

Sammy was right, of course. He needed to busy his hands, and more importantly, his mind. His days needed purpose and structure again, something that he was sorely missing. This could be good…this would’ve made Sammy happy.

A job would make the days go quicker too, and that’s all Dean could ask for. He’d ask Lisa if he could use her old junker to take a spin around the city and see if anyone was hiring. He still had his baby, of course, but she wasn’t to be driven anymore. No, the Impala was to be kept safely tucked away in the garage…the new rule being that she could only be driven if Sammy was riding shotgun.

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Dean slowly drank his scotch as he read under the dim light of the study. The desk was littered with every type of book on the supernatural that he had collected over the course of the year. Books on the devil, and hell, and any type of lore he could find about the Cage. There had to be something here that would help him spring Sam. Yeah, sure, fine, he had promised Sam that he wouldn’t mess with trying to get him out of the cage. But it was coming up on a year now…and Dean knew all too well that in hell time, Sam had suffered for nearly a century by this point. Dean couldn’t live with himself if he didn’t at least try and save his little brother from that horrible fate. Plus, Sammy shoulda known by now that Dean would try and figure something out. It wasn’t so much breaking a promise as it was fulfilling his little brother’s expectations.

Dean couldn’t ever tell if he was actually making any progress…sometimes he’d find a lead, only to discover that it was just another dead end. It was frustrating work, but at least it felt like he was doing something…now he could sympathize with how Dad and Sam must’ve felt all those years after losing Mom and Jess. Working, researching, obsessing…it was better than just feeling the relentless stab of guilt and heartbreak every time you drew a breath. At least you felt useful again instead of just broken and hopeless.

Hmmm…here was an old witch’s spell…it dated back centuries and it looked promising. Dean gritted his teeth together before slamming the book shut in disgust. Who was he kidding. No witch’s spell could break into the Cage.

“Dean.”

Silence…nothing could be heard except for the soft tick, tick, ticking of the clock…

That voice. And then time slowed to a sudden crawl, shivers rushing up Dean’s neck and making his hair stand on end. That damn voice. No, it couldn’t be. Damn it, he didn’t even dare to believe it, as he spun around in his chair, having grabbed his shotgun off the side of the desk and poised it directly at the intruder’s heart.

“Cas.” Dean blurted out, his voice sounding cracked and strained. He still hadn’t lowered his weapon, his heart hammering up against his ribcage. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Castiel, his intense eyes as glacial blue as ever, watched Dean intently. He seemed almost a bit hurt that Dean was still pointing the gun at him, but he didn’t say anything. Instead, he took several commanding steps forward, glancing down pointedly at the scattered books on the desk. “Dean, what are you doing?”

“Hello to you to, Cas.” Dean responded sarcastically, finally placing the shotgun back down on his desk. He drew in a deep breath, attempting to remain outwardly calm, despite how shaken he felt.  He never thought he’d see the angel again, never in a million years. He wet his lips, forcing himself to speak again. “Now what the hell are you doing here? I haven’t seen you in a damn year, and now you’re suddenly popping into my house all unannounced?”

“Yes, I apologize for the intrusion.” Castiel replied, and it was clear as day that their familiarity of before had all but melted away.  Or maybe it was still there, which is why this felt so damn awkward. Because deep down they both knew what they had shared together…the almost…the maybe…the never. And almost lovers can never recapture whatever easy friendship they once had…because too many ‘maybes’ always remain so obviously unspoken between them.

“So what then?” Dean demanded, jumping up onto his feet and slowly making his way towards the angel. His angel. Or almost his angel. Almost a whole year ago now.

Castiel’s eyes shifted subconsciously towards Dean’s lips. Oh, no. Dean would be damned if they were gonna play this game again. Not now. Not after everything Dean had lost. He couldn’t go through this again. He was too broken this time around.

“I asked you why you were here!” Dean snapped suddenly, slapping his hands together for emphasis. He had sounded much angrier than he had intended, and was almost as shocked as Castiel now appeared, those glacial blues widening in surprise.

“You can’t go poking around the Cage, Dean.” Castiel insisted sharply, but his eyes softened in Dean’s direction. He seemed almost sad…if Dean could be certain that angel’s felt such things. At one time he wouldn’t have questioned Cas’s emotions…but now. Well, now it had been a damn year and he hadn’t heard so much as a peep out of the angel.

Dean shook his head in disbelief. “Is that what you dragged your ass all the way outta heaven to come and tell me?”

Castiel pursed his lips together and sighed. As if just now remembering what a little shit Dean could be. “Yes.”

“Well, sorry then, but it was a wasted trip.” Dean snapped, turning his back on Cas and placing his palms firmly down onto the study table. Trying to keep his knees from giving out on him…seeing Cas right now hurt like hell. Hurt like hell because whatever they had once shared together was so far gone and broken now. Hurt like hell because it reminded him of the time he and Cas and Sammy had saved the world. Hurt like hell because he didn’t need to be reminded of all that he had once had before losing everything.

 “Dean, you need to hear me.” Castiel replied, his voice unimaginably softer than Dean had ever been expecting. “You needn’t worry about saving your brother.”

You needn’t worry? Dean felt his blood boil beneath his skin. What the hell did Cas know? It had been a damn year of nothing but worry and pain and regret, and Cas thought he could just show up out of the blue and tell Dean that he needn’t worry? Screw that!

 Dean rounded on Cas, his bright green eyes flashing as he did so. “Look, Cas, I dunno what the hell you’re talkin’ about, but you can’t just show up after a damned year and tell me not to worry. My brother is being tortured in hell by Satan! So don’t you think that if there’s even the smallest of chances that I can save him, that I’m gonna try and take it?”

“Sam is at peace.” Cas insisted, pointedly, his eyes still tracing Dean’s features ever so carefully. The way the angel looked at him…almost as if he wasn’t looking at Dean, but rather through him. It was so damn unnerving sometimes. “And you need to make your peace with his death, Dean.”

“What do you mean, Sam is at peace?!” Dean shouted, taking several dangerous steps closer towards Castiel. “He’s in the freakin’ Cage, what part of that don’t you understand?”

“Sam is not in the Cage, Dean.” Castiel spoke, his voice taking on that deep, commanding tone. He matched Dean’s intense gaze, still searching him closely, before adding, “God has rewarded his sacrifice.”

Dean shook his head, incredulously, the words not fully sinking in. He wished Cas would cut the crap, he was getting angry. “And what the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Sam’s soul is in heaven. I helped guide it there myself.” Castiel explained, softly…gently. He reached his hand up to uncertainly place it onto Dean’s shoulder…it was awkward, as if he was uncertain as to how to go about interacting with humans again…or then again, maybe it was just how to go about touching Dean? “Sam talks about you often, you know.”

The clock ticked, ticked, ticked somewhere in the distance. Cas’s words hung in the air, daring to be heard, daring to be believed.

Dean felt his legs give out beneath him. Before he knew what was happening, he had collapsed into Castiel’s arms. The angel awkwardly caught him, as if uncertain how else to react. Dean felt some strangulated sob bubble up within him, his eyes blurry with something burning and wet. He shoved his fist into his mouth and bit down, his heart beating erratically in his chest.

“Sammy…” He groaned, squeezing his eyes shut. God, he hadn’t realized how much pain he had been carrying around with him until this moment. He gasped and choked on it, the cold ice water that had been collecting in his lungs all year rushing up into his throat. Then something horrible and twisted wriggled its way into his brain. He straightened himself up, gazing at Castiel with intent, fiery green eyes. “How do I know you’re telling me the truth? How do I know you’re not just sayin’ this to get me to stop pokin’ around with the Cage?”

Castiel looked slightly hurt by this line of questioning. He tilted his head to the side in concern. “Dean…” He rasped, blinking heavily, his voice filled with unshaken sincerity. “You actually believe that I would lie to you? Especially about your brother?”

And Dean knew that he was telling the truth. God, he was actually telling the truth, Dean could see it reflecting in those big blue pools.

“Take me to him.” Dean gasped out, his hands clenching into fists around the lapel of Castiel’s trench coat, his fingers twisting desperately into the fabric.

“Dean…” Castiel sighed, wearily.

“Damn it, Cas, take me to him!” Dean roared, his anger and desperation pouring out of him with unrestrained passion. He needed to see Sammy…to care for him. His little brother had just been tortured for a damn year, he needed someone to make sure that he was okay…and Dean doubted that any of those assholes in heaven would be of any help.

“You can’t see him, Dean, your soul cannot enter into heaven while it still resides in your body.” Castiel replied, his voice dark and serious, but his eyes bleeding with deep concern.

“Fine then.” Dean shrugged, impulsively grabbing the shotgun off the table and cocking it. He needed to see Sam. That was the singular thought rushing through his brain before he was ready to put a bullet through it.

“Damn it, Dean!” Castiel snapped, quickly grabbing onto the shotgun in Dean’s trembling hands. “Sam wants you to live, don’t you understand?”

“I need to see him. He might be hurting, I need to take care of him.” Dean gasped, his voice finally catching slightly as he tried to speak. His fingers shook slightly beneath Castiel’s warm grasp as he whispered, “Please, Cas. I need to make sure that he’s okay.”

“Dean, Sam is alright. He did not spend a year in hell; God saved him three days after his initial sacrifice.” Castiel replied, hurriedly. He gave a heavy swallow, his eyes darting up to arrest Dean’s gaze. “I have seen him myself, Dean. He is alright.”

Three days…three days…something didn’t sound right about that…

“Wait…three days?” Dean demanded, Castiel’s words suddenly sinking in and hitting him like a sucker punch to the gut. “Three freakin’ days? And you wait a goddamn year to tell me this? A freakin’ year?!”

“Dean…”

“You couldn’t take five damn minutes outta your busy day playin’ some damn harp on a cloud to put me outta my misery?” Dean shouted, now using his fists to grab onto Castiel by the collar of his trench coat. He gave the angel a small shake. “You let me suffer for a year?”

“Dean, much has changed since we last spoke. Heaven has been engulfed in civil war.” Castiel hissed, a desperate plea creeping into his usually stoic voice. He parted his lips, soundlessly, before adding, “I have been fighting a faction of angels led by the Archangel Raphael…”

“I don’t give a damn about that, what about Sam?” Dean demanded, tears blurring his vision. “He’s been in heaven for a damn year? While this wacko angel war is goin’ on?”

“All of the souls are safe.” Castiel replied, growing a bit short and angry, a dark fire blazing in his sharp blue gaze. “Sam is not in any danger.”

“No?” Dean shook his head, bitterly. “And you’ve personally talked to him?”

Castiel nodded his head, “Yes. We have had many talks together, Sam and I. He…well, I’ve come to understand him better. He is a good soul.”

“Oh, wow, newsflash, Cronkite.” Dean snapped, still feeling dark and bitter over the whole situation. “Maybe in another year you can tell me somethin’ else I don’t know.”

“Dean.” Castiel murmured, and this time his voice was filled with something deep and painful rather than admonishing.

“You shoulda told me sooner, man.” Dean whispered, Castiel’s broken features causing his own demeanor to soften ever so slightly. He rubbed at his mouth with his hand and sighed. “I…I kept thinkin’ that maybe you’d check in…but…but you never did…”

“You had already sacrificed so much, Dean.” Castiel replied, barely above a whisper. He shook his head, sadly…eyes filled to the brim and nearly overflowing with so many ‘almosts’ and ‘maybes’. “I couldn’t…do that to you. Not again.”

“You coulda told me about Sam though.” Dean continued, his blurring gaze trained intently towards the ceiling as he placed his hands on his hips. “It was about Sam.”

“I know.” Castiel murmured, gently. “But please believe me when I say that I wanted to. But the angel war made it impossible for me to leave heaven for quite some time. Raphael…he wanted to restart the Apocalypse. I had to stop him…so that Sam’s sacrifice wouldn’t be in vain. I—I had to stop him for…” Cas faltered on his words, glancing away at the last moment as if losing his nerve. Finally, he whispered, “…for you, Dean.”

Dean gave a heavy swallow, his eyes also now subconsciously darting down towards Castiel’s lips. Soft and plush and the color of satiny pale skin…just as he remembered them being. The feel…the taste…that part was starting to fade, though, a year removed from all of their hushed passion…he wondered if he dared to try and remember now…?

“Why can’t I just die?” Dean demanded, the hot wetness pressing up against the corners of his eyes. His hands trembled at his sides and he tried to suck in a shaky breath. “I can’t do this anymore, Cas. I miss him, damn it. And it never…it never gets any damn easier.”

“It will, Dean. This is all part of the grieving process…”

“Oh, what the hell do you know?” Dean snapped, his heart aching in his constricted chest. “I’m tired, man. I’m barely hangin’ on anymore. I keep tellin’ myself that I’ll keep goin’ for his sake…but I swear to god, I just can’t do it anymore.” He blinked heavily, trying to stop the tide of wetness that now clung to his lashes. He gave a shaky sigh, his lips shuddering as he spoke, “What am I supposed to do? How can I even keep livin’? He’s everywhere I go…in everything I do…and it just…it just hurts all the damn time. And I’m tired.”

Castiel remained silent, watching Dean closely without judgment or comment. Good. Good, he was glad. He needed that. That was a very Sammy Winchester thing to do, and Dean quietly appreciated it.

“He was the good one.” Dean choked out, his eyes staring straight ahead…hoping that the little boy would somehow appear again just over the horizon. “He was the good one, the smart one. So tell me why…why…is he gone and I’m still here?” Dean shook his head, tears finally falling from his eyes and down his cheeks. “You know, when we were just little kids, he used to hang onto things. Like, things he did wrong, things he messed up. Stupid kid things, like the time he bent one of my baseball cards on accident. It would bother him so damn much whenever he made a mistake, and I could never understand it. I was the one who was trouble, who was always screwin’ up. And Sammy…” Dean let out a choked gasp, moving his hand up to try and wipe away his now freely falling tears.  “…well, he was just so damn good, ya know? And everyone he ever came across could see it. Everyone but him.”  Dean released a shaky sigh and sniffed loudly. “Demon blood and all, he was better than any of us.”

And Castiel remained silent…listening…soundlessly comforting. And Dean was grateful.

Dean wasn’t sure exactly how long they stood there in the dark silence, but it felt like forever. Two hearts beating steadily into the night. The tick, tick, ticking of the clock almost counting down to their next heartache. And then, like the ghost of a shadow, Castiel was suddenly next to him… lips soft and plush and the color of satiny pale skin…just as he remembered them being…their mouths pressing together with soft intensity. And he wasn’t sure what he would do if Lisa happened to walk in on them…but he couldn’t help himself…he had longed for this for so long now…

Dean brought his hands up to tangle into Cas’s dark, thick hair. He allowed the angel to push him silently up against the wall, their kiss deepening as their soft pants and gasps broke the tranquility of the night.

And suddenly it was as if no time had passed between them. This part had always been easy…it was all the other crap that came afterward that was so damn hard.

Dean felt his fingers slip down to loosen the tie around Cas’s neck, breathing hard as he continued to crush his mouth into the angel’s…his angel…funny how it came back so naturally.

 Cas’s hand came up to tenderly trace along Dean’s jawline with obvious adoration. His eyes were screwed shut as he continued to press himself firmly into the kiss…suckling at Dean’s bottom lip ever so torturously…but Dean knew how breathtakingly bright and intense those eyes still were just beneath his lids.

Dean felt a small moan break past his lips, Cas’s hair hopelessly mussed beneath his fingertips, all of his heartache and desire bubbling to the surface from some deeply repressed well within him. If only life could be like this…him and Cas being able to be…whatever the hell they were together…Sammy in the other room, reading a book…unaware that his older brother was scandalously stealing kisses again. Together building a sort of small but safe family structure. God, why was Sammy gone…why was whatever the hell he had with Cas so damn confusing whenever they weren’t wrapped up in each other’s warm embrace…and Dean moaned again…louder this time…but sadder too.

And that seemed to break Castiel out of whatever trance that Dean had put on him. He pulled away slowly, their lips breaking a part…Dean leaned forward, noses brushing, in the hopes that they could make this feeling last for just a moment longer…just a little while longer, please…but it was too late. It was over, and reality was fast sinking back in. Once again, they were just almost lovers…maybe lovers…never lovers.

“Dean…if I could stay…” Castiel murmured, hopelessly…sorrowfully.

“I know.” Dean gave a curt nod of his head. His damned voice caught in his throat again as he whispered, “I know, Cas.”

Castiel titled his head to the side, watching Dean longingly with large blue orbs. He pursed his lips together and returned Dean’s knowing nod.

“Hey…um, can you promise me somethin’, man?” Dean asked, trying to make his request seem lighthearted, but the words came out too strained and broken for that to ever be believable. “Can you…” Damn it. He felt the hot wetness leak into his vision again. Damn it, damn it, damn it. Nonetheless, he squared his shoulders and bravely pressed on, trying to convey the importance of his request, “Can you take care of my little brother for me?”

Cas nodded his head, and there was a small, sad ghost of a smile that seemed to grace those plush, satiny pale lips. “Of course, Dean.”

And with that he was gone. Winking away without so much as a goodbye. Again.

Dean picked up his glass of scotch and drank it. Goodbye almost lover. Goodbye maybe lover. Goodbye never lover. Dean took another swig, his eyes burning into the spot where Castiel had once stood only moments ago. At least Sammy was safe and being taken care of. He trusted Cas to look out for him. Cas mighta been a freakin’ child at times, but he always came through. He rubbed at the corner of his eye, sucking in a slow and shaky breath. And this time he knew that it was really the end. Because Cas didn’t know that Dean needed him…and Dean didn’t know how to put it into words. If Sammy was still here…maybe it woulda been easier. But without Sammy…well, everything just hurt too damn much. Dean was too tired these days to try and do anything other than remember…to try and remember Sammy’s soft smile…shy, gentle laughter…heartbreaking tears…terrible anger…gentle understanding…warm goodness.

His unconditional love.

Dean downed the rest of the scotch. Cas had been good too. Too good for Dean, and yet, just flawed and fallen enough to be just right for him. But just like Sammy, this time Cas was really gone.  He placed the scotch down on the table and continued to stare off into the distance. Goodbye almost lover.

************************************************************************************************************************************************

There were still nightmares most nights.  How could there not be? But then, eventually…slowly…the good dreams started to filter back into Dean’s tormented mind. Dreams like fishing on a peaceful dock…or sitting under the stars…or walking down a long and winding dirt road in quiet reflection.

His job as a construction worker was nice too. It kept his hands and mind busy. Most importantly, it made the days go by quicker. And that was really all Dean could ask for.

He began to make a few acquaintances. He’d go out and get a beer here and there. He’d go to Ben’s soccer games. He’d take Lisa out to dinner every now and then.

But Sammy was still with him. In everything he did.

And Dean was…well, he was as close to happiness as he supposed he ever would be with Sammy gone. He was…content. Yeah, maybe that was the word for it.

He would go to barbeques and backyard parties and live that apple pie life that Sam had wanted so badly for Dean…and for himself. And if Sammy couldn’t have it like he had deserved, then Dean was sure as hell gonna appreciate it for him.

Sure, some days were better than others. Some days…especially after the nightmares, after having to relive the day when the earth had opened up and swallowed Sammy whole…Dean didn’t even want to get out of bed. He’d run his fingers through his hair and sigh, feeling that familiar ache burn in his chest, as if the ice cold water was still leaking into his lungs with every breath he took. But most days…most days he found that he could breathe a little easier than before.

But Sammy was still with him. In everything he did.

His little brother echoed throughout everything that Dean did throughout the day…but more as a reminder now than as a torment. When he was teaching Ben how to fix a car…he remembered doing the same for Sammy. When he handed one of his coworkers a beer after work…he remembered the little ritual he and Sam used to do together, clinking their glasses, partners in crime as always.  When he salted something in the kitchen…he remembered every hunting trip with Sam. And damn if a part of him didn’t miss the hunting too…Sammy by his side, ready to take on the world together. If he ever felt impatient…he would remember how patient and kind Sam could be…how endlessly forgiving…okay, that part was still hard for Dean to follow through on. But he tried anyway.

Breathing was easier. But Sam was still with him, in every breath he took.

And some nights he would still feel that familiar ache in his chest, that familiar constriction in his lungs. He would stare out the window into the abyss and the abyss would stare right back. He would think about how easy it would be to see Sammy again, should he just give up. Should he just stop fighting and give in to the exhaustion.

But Sam would be so pissed. And Dean owed him. Yeah, Dean did everything for Sammy growin’ up, that was true. But Sammy did everything for Dean too. He was the emotional bedrock that Dean could always count on to help him keep his sanity. And, sure, Dean never made it easy for him. Sam mighta had to ask him one, two, three…maybe five times…before Dean would finally open up to him. But it always saved Dean. Every single time that Dean was balancing on that precipice…god, Sammy always knew how to help bring him back down.

And that’s why loving Sam had been so damn easy. The easiest thing that Dean had ever done. See, Dean mighta sacrificed everything for Sammy growin’ up, but it had never been a hard choice to make…it had hardly seemed like a sacrifice at all at the time. Because Sammy had always been worth it. And so Dean didn’t give up…he kept fighting…and kept breathing. Because he had made his little brother a promise. And he owed the kid.

************************************************************************************************************************************************

“What’s this?” Lisa asked, pulling out an old postcard with a picture of a lighthouse on it. It was from the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. Dean was helping Lisa to clean out the attic…and he had forgotten the old box of randomized possessions that he had stashed up here. She raised her eyebrows as she read the back of the card. “You wrote this?”

Dean felt something warm and good flutter within his chest. So he hadn’t thrown out all of the old postcards. He took it out of Lisa’s hands, flipping over the watermarked, frayed material.

Hey, Bitch—

Dad and I just ganked a rugaru. It was pretty badass. Too bad your lame ass isn’t here. You better be doin’ something cool, like goin’ to parties or gettin’ laid. Although you’re probably too busy bein’ a nerd and gettin’ all A’s and shit.

Miss you.

—Dean

Dean released a gruff laugh…and it might have actually been the first time he had laughed in years. A real laugh too…not just some fake, happy crap that you only did around company. It almost hurt his throat, as if he hadn’t been expecting to ever laugh again.

“Who’s ‘Bitch?’” Lisa asked, glancing up at Dean in confusion.

“Bitch was Sammy.” Dean chuckled, the words spilling from his lips before he realized what he was doing. He hadn’t talked about Sam this freely since he had been gone. And thinking about Sam hadn’t made him laugh in…well, in what felt like forever.

“Why did you call him that?” Lisa grinned, quirking her lips to the side.

“’Cuz…” Dean smiled…and it pulled at his lips so easily now…he didn’t even have to try. “’Cuz whenever he got pissed off, he used to just bitch at me.” Dean shook his head, another soft laugh escaping him. “…but that’s okay, ‘cuz I was a jerk.”

“You never sent the postcard.” Lisa pointed out, softly. She looked up at him, her dark brown eyes swimming with curiosity.

“Nah.” Dean shrugged, flipping the postcard over in his hand. “It woulda been funny though, if he had gotten it. He used to give me this…this look…” Dean laughed again, eyes blurring…but this time with relief because it felt so damn good to talk about Sammy and not feel like he was slowly drowning in an ocean of ice water. He shook his head, growing serious once more. “Didn’t need to send it anyway. He knew I missed him…and he knew how I felt about him. He always knew somehow, even though I used to try so damn hard to put on a brave face for him.”

“He sounds like he was a good guy.” Lisa replied, softly, bringing her hand up to gently stroke at Dean’s arm.

“Yeah.” Dean smiled…happy that he still remembered how to. He slipped the postcard into his back pocket and gave one last chuckle, “Yeah.”

************************************************************************************************************************************************

Five years later. Sammy would have been thirty-one today. Maybe he would have had a family of his own by now. Or maybe he’d still be driving across the country while saving people and hunting things with Dean… the two of them against the world.

Dean could breathe most days now without any pain. The nightmares never completely went away, and he imagined that they would likely always be with him, but he had a lot of good dreams now too.

The Impala was still tucked away in the garage…probably didn’t even work anymore, her engine out of commission for nearly half a decade. That was okay though…she had done her time. She deserved to retire just as much as Dean did.  And driving her would never be okay without Sammy riding shotgun…that just went without saying. But that was okay too. Dean figured that she woulda agreed with him, if she could’ve.

There were still a lot of woulda, coulda, shoulda, maybes, almosts, and nevers that ran through Dean’s brain at times. What he coulda had with Cas…had it all gone a little differently. But he had grown comfortable in his life with Lisa and Ben. No, it wasn’t true love, but he wasn’t a child either. Dean knew that being comfortable was a hell of a lot more than what most couples got to enjoy together. Maybe somethin’ stronger coulda happened between him and Cas, but he’d never know now. But that was okay too. True love was just for fairytales, anyway.

Dean sat out on the back porch by himself, swigging his beer, looking up towards the night sky. Wondering what Sammy and Cas mighta been talkin’ about together in heaven. They were two of the nerdiest sons of bitches he had ever met, so he was actually damn glad that he couldn’t hear ‘em right now. Dean smiled to himself, taking another drink. He hoped that Sammy was helping raise a little hell up there. Heaven had been too damn quiet for Dean’s taste. He imagined his little brother sassin’ those asshole angels, givin’ ‘em more snark then they’d ever know what to do with. He imagined Cas giving that ghost of a smile as Sammy bitched out the heavenly hosts, secretly pleased that the Winchesters’ mouths matched his internal dialogue.

“Happy birthday, Sammy.” Dean smiled, lifting his glass up towards the heavens. “This one’s for you, little brother. Give ‘em hell for me.”

************************************************************************************************************************************************

Dean never did give up, for Sam’s sake. And, as much as he hated to admit it, Castiel was right too. It did get a little easier to keep going over time. But Sammy never left him. Sammy wouldn’t ever leave him.

 Dean and Lisa eventually had a child of their own, a little girl named Mary. Mary Samuel Winchester. Lisa had wondered if they should make her middle name Samantha in order for it to be more feminine, but Dean had just quirked his lips and shook his head. Nah, she needed to carry his name…his real name. He was certain that it would make her grow up to be kind and beautiful and brave and selfless, just like her uncle.

And Mary was a whole new world…a whole new reason to get up in the morning and to keep fighting another day. She was joy and pride and hope and anguish all mixed into one wonderful and heartbreaking package…just like Sammy had been.

At first Dean was nervous to be a father, especially since he had such a complicated relationship with his own.  As much as he loved his dad, he never wanted to be him. He never wanted to scare this little precious bundle, to make her feel anything less than worthy, to put any undue burdens on her tiny shoulders.

But as soon as she was born…and he cradled her in his arms…he saw that she had a round little birthmark right smack dab next to her nose…just like Sammy.  And in that instant he knew…loving her was gonna be the easiest thing he had ever done.

She took her first steps towards her daddy…just as Sammy had once done. And when he caught her when she fell, he was glad that he hadn’t given up all those years ago. She was warmth and love and goodness once again…just like Sammy had been.

He liked to ‘boop’ her birthmark with his finger…just as he had done to Sammy when they were both little boys. She would giggle and smile…her eyes were bright green like Dean’s and she had Lisa’s dark hair. But she had dimples like Sammy.

And, all too soon and certainly without Dean’s consent, she grew up…and she broke his heart several times…and she got hurt…and she cried…and she took responsibility for herself…and she became beautiful…and kind…and good…and selfless…just like Sammy.

She got married and she had three beautiful children of her own. She named the youngest one Samuel, after the sweet and brave uncle who she had heard so much about. They called him Sammy. Hearing a chubby little mop of dark brown curls answer to that name once more always made something warm and precious ache within Dean’s heart.

Sam’s memory was beloved by all, Dean made certain of that.  Mary loved him and all of her children loved him. Sammy loved him too, emerald green eyes as big as saucers, whenever Dean would regale him with the tales of his namesake’s bravery during their hunting adventures.

Dean never told anyone about Cas, though. That was just for him to remember. His almost, maybe, never lover was his preciously tragic secret to hold close to his heart and his secret alone.

But despite any regrets and might-have-beens, life was beautiful once more. Loving Mary…loving her children…loving Sammy…it all came so easily to Dean.  And little brother Sam was still with him in everything that Dean did…every step forward taken…every breath drawn in…his love burning red throughout it all.

And eventually, it finally came time to stop fighting. Dean was eighty-seven years old and his heart had long since given out, only a pacemaker having kept it going for even these many years. Funny thing, Dean’s downfall being his heart. There was a cosmic joke in there somewhere, Dean was sure.

He was laying in his bed at home…grumpily declaring that he wasn’t gonna die in some lame ass hospital…and Lisa, Ben, Ben’s family, Mary, Mary’s husband, and all of the grandchildren had gathered around him…surrounding him… as he drew in his final shuddering breaths.

Mary pressed her lips to the back of his hand…tears burning bright in her soft green eyes…whispering to him in a hushed, choked voice that he could let go now…that it was alright, he didn’t have to struggle anymore, each breath obviously growing harder and more belabored than the last…that he could finally be with Uncle Sam again.

Dean’s eyes fluttered shut. He exhaled slowly…softly…sinking peacefully into the dark abyss. And when he opened his eyes again, the room and all of his loved ones were gone.

He was in the Impala.

Dean blinked heavily, trying to gain his bearings once more. He was young…in his mid-to-late twenties at least…but this didn’t seem odd to him in the slightest. It was as if this was how it was always supposed to be…just a young man and his ride, traversing the back roads and highways of Midwestern America…living in hotels that reeked of old whisky and stale cigarette smoke…eating in diners that featured homemade pies…making his way through the world with nothing but a little brother who he loved more than anything and who loved him back just as completely.

 And then suddenly he blinked again, and he was outside of the Impala. It was still there, ready to roar down the gravelly pavement at a moment’s notice…but there was something else right here that needed to be noticed first. He just couldn’t see it yet…but it was here…just around the corner or over the horizon…he could sense it, somewhere deep down within him.

“Dean.”

Dean spun around, his heart leaping up into his throat. That voice…he knew that damn voice. It was the almost voice…the maybe voice…the never voice.

“Cas.” He murmured, blinking heavily….gratefully.

Cas gave him that soft, ghost of a smile. He titled his head to the side, sharp blue eyes piercing into Dean’s with fiery intensity. “Dean.” He greeted him, those glacial blues sparkling with adoration. “There’s someone here who’s been waiting to see you.”

  Little boy with the dimpled smile, the dark mop of hair that descended into curls around his ears, the eyes that were never the same color twice…blue and green and orange and flecked with gold like a kaleidoscope, and the face that was kissed with three distinct birthmarks, as if by an angel, their mother used to say.

Dean swallowed heavily, searching for words that would surely fail to come out, his throat closing up on him and his lungs burning with an incessant, hopeful ache.

Forgetting him had been impossible…unthinkable. Because he had never left Dean, not really.  His love had burned bright red throughout everything that Dean did. It had echoed in flashbacks with every step that Dean took, with every shaky breath drawn in.

Loving him had been the easiest thing that Dean had ever done.

And oh god, Dean had loved him so damn much.

And now they were side by side forever, soul mates through time and space, heaven’s laws rendered obsolete by a bond that had been forged through profound loneliness and heartache, through cuts, breaks, bumps, bruises, and patch-ups, and stupid fights, and shared tears, and all-encompassing hugs, and endless car rides, and hotel rooms that reeked of old whisky and stale cigarette smoke, and diners with cracked floor tiles and impossibly greasy fries, and songs sung out of tune together at 2AM, and shattering separation, and a warm, unconditional love that overshadowed all else. The two of them together and united against the universe, sure to raise a little hell in the process, ready to disrupt everything quiet and perfect about this whole damn place.

Dean blinked back tears that he no longer could ever hope to stop from falling...and he found that he no longer cared in the least. A smile trembled across his lips as he murmured softly, “Hiya, Sammy.”

Fin.