Big Bang story: Winter, part one

[destina]

See master post for notes.


Winter
by Destina

Art by culper355

2008
March

The first flurries of snow started coming down around twilight, fluttering between the trees to the frozen earth. Sam stood out on the porch and watched them fall until the intermittent flakes became a steady blanket of white. When the sun disappeared past the horizon, taking the warm golden glow with it, the temperature dipped below Sam's comfort level. He picked up two armloads of the wood he'd just cut and pushed the cabin door open with his toe. Dean was inside, sitting at the table and fiddling with the radio. "Any luck?" Sam asked. He stacked the wood next to the fireplace, dropping one of the smaller sticks on the fire for good measure.

"No. Damn it, I hate not knowing what's going on out there." The steady whine of the dead air rose and fell as Dean turned the knob, and then he clicked it off with a frustrated twist. "If anything is going on at all," he added, with a pointed look at Sam. Just one more stone thrown in an argument that had been going on for days.

"I don't know what you want me to say." Sam shrugged and peeled off his coat. The room was warm enough now to do without, though there was a draft cutting across the center of the room. He'd have to look for cracks in the walls, come morning.

Dean stood up from the table and kicked the chair back. "It doesn't sit right with me, Sammy. Coming up here now. There's not...there's not much time left." He glanced up at Sam, doubt written all over his face. "Are you sure about this?

Sam sat down in the other chair and took a deep breath. Everything in his body was singing yes, yes, this is where we need to be. More than that, he was certain they'd made it just in time. He wasn't sure how he knew, but he did. Even so, he didn't feel safe, or relieved. His skin was still prickling. So he only nodded, because to say anything more would just invite questions he wasn't prepared to answer.

The back of Sam's neck still itched with that feeling, the urgent sensation that they had to get away from San Diego as fast as they could. He didn't even remember waking Dean, didn't remember half-dragging him to the car, but he remembered fragments of the nightmare that set him into motion. Darkness and demons and death, and his father's frantic shout, now now now Sammy, get moving! You know where to go! His father's voice, clear as a bell, and as real as if John was standing there in front of him now. Cold fear still pooled in his belly, churning inside him.

"So if you knew we had to come here, shouldn't you know how long we have to stay here?" Dean was giving him that sharp glare, the one that asked all the questions without asking: What have you seen? What do you know? What are we running from now? And the one question he wanted to ask most of all, the one Sam couldn't answer. He hadn't had a vision since Dean had killed the yellow-eyed demon. They'd both thought the visions were gone forever.

"Dean, I don't know what's happening," Sam said truthfully, aware of the effect it would have on his brother, and shook his head when Dean grabbed the chair and shoved it back under the table. "I just know we have to stay here now."

"I'm not getting trapped up here," Dean said. "I'm going down before the next big snowfall."

Sam knew they weren't going to be going down, not so soon, but he was not willing to argue. Not about this. He was acutely aware of time ticking by, the seconds left on Dean's life clock slipping away like snow flurries in the air. "It's snowing, but not hard," he said instead.

"Too warm for it." Dean went to the window and looked out, though there was no moon, and it was too dark to tell. "It'll melt off by morning."

"Probably." Sam looked at the assorted stuff on the table: most of their guns, their remaining ammo, and various weapons that weren't so easily categorized.

When he met Dean's eyes, he saw a shadow there for the first time. Not fear, but determination; they were in it together, no matter what it turned out to be.

For the weeks Dean had left, anyway. A shiver of fear and desperation crawled up Sam's spine.

The fire Dean built in the main fireplace was big enough to heat the main room, though smoke billowed back occasionally. "Got to clean out that flue," Dean said, choking on a foul gray cloud, and Sam waved the smoke away, nodding.

"God only knows what's crawled in there and died over the years," Sam said.

Dean grinned at him. "Free dinner."

Sam rolled his eyes. "You want to help me with this?" He laid out stolen motel sheets, which would no doubt be charged to the fake card belonging to Mr. Ginger Baker, along with four blankets, a couple pillows and a pile of towels Sam had scooped up on the way out the door.

"You seem to be doing fine without me," Dean answered, and with a couple of minutes of concerted effort, he got the front window open a crack. The night air crept in as the smoke drifted out, taking all their heat with it. "Hey, choke or freeze, take your pick," Dean said, as Sam pursed his lips and looked at him.

"Some choice," Sam said. He tossed all the stolen blankets over the bed, motel beige and yellow, and sat down, staring at the fire. Neither of them wanted to sleep in the small bedroom that had belonged to their father. Too cold without a working stove, Dean had said, but Sam knew it had nothing to do with how cold it was. They would both still fit on the full-sized mattress in the main room, if they actively worked not to kick each other while settling in.

"You bring in the games from the car?" Dean asked, rubbing a hand through his hair.

"Hello," Sam said, pointing to the neatly made bed. "Arms full of life-saving supplies."

Dean picked up the keys from the table and lifted his collar. "I'm going to get the rest of the crap out of the trunk so I can kick your ass at bones. Don't have too much fun without me."

When the door slammed shut behind Dean, Sam closed his eyes. Fire, crackling in the hearth; the low moan of wind, caught under the eaves. And nothing else. Only silence. He'd become used to the sounds of the road, traffic just outside the door. Its absence was...creepy.

He glanced at the door, with its rotting baseboards, and at the window, still cracked open. He was amazed the glass was still there after so many years of neglect. The salt canister was where he'd left it, just inside the door, so he picked it up and tossed down thin lines around the door and on the sills. He had no idea what kind of demon would come out into the wilderness, but better safe than sorry. So many things were chasing them now - demons, humans, hunters. Even time.

Dean didn't miss the salt on the floor. "Expecting company?" he asked, stepping over the line and dropping all four duffel bags on the table.

"Hope not."

Together they rooted through the supplies and unpacked, efficient as always, stowing everything where they had been taught to place it. For Sam it was like muscle memory; everything was coming back to him, a little at a time.

"Let's get to it," Dean said, spilling the dominoes across the table. Sam rolled up his sleeves, and settled in his chair across the table from Dean, who was already mixing the bones.

They played for a half an hour, waving their hands once in a while to disperse the smoke still collecting in the chill, until Dean started to understand that he couldn't win, which Sam could have told him from the beginning. Sam got up and opened a can of peaches, and they took turns stabbing peach halves out of syrup, nibbling them off their forks until the fruit was gone.

"Dude, I so own you," he told Dean, grinning as he stuck his fork down, fishing for the last piece. He had one domino left to play, and he knew he had Dean.

The pain stabbed through his left eye without warning, and the fork clattered to the table.

"Sam?"

"It's just...gah..." Sam pressed one hand to his forehead and tried to let it happen; the visions hurt less if he didn't fight them, but this one...He gasped and flailed back, searching for something to grab onto.

"Sam!" Dean was there beside him, hands on him to brace him, but Sam could barely feel it, couldn't hear or see --

The atmosphere is a suffocating mass of sulfur and screaming; there is no ground below, no sky above.

There's no way to be sure it's Dean, no way for Sam to identify him, but he would know his brother anywhere. Dean crouches on a pile of bones, the charred, bloodied skin of his back to Sam. The sinuous cloud of black smoke at Dean's side shifts suddenly, curling around his ankle. Dean's head comes up, and he turns black eyes to Sam. There's a beating heart in his hand, and in his mouth, and when Dean smiles, blood trickles from between his teeth.

"The Boy King," he says, his voice a hoarse parody of what Dean used to sound like, used to be. "Come at last."

The air around Sam flutters like the beating of wings. There is a shine of silver in the darkness, and a low voice at Sam's shoulder, saying, "We don't have much time."

The curl of smoke slips away from Dean and writhes at Sam's feet. Dean's gruesome smile widens as he crouches low. "We are yours to command," Dean rasps, and Sam shakes his head, spreads his arms wide.

"No," Sam gasped. Dean's hands were holding him up, but it wasn't enough; the darkness splintered through him, and he unraveled, falling into it.




1992
November

Sam and Dean clambered out of the Impala and stood staring at the cabin in disbelief. It was tiny, barely more than a shack, with a rickety fireplace on both ends and a door that looked like it could be caved in if they exhaled too hard against it. "You gotta be kidding me," Dean said, giving their dad a horrified look. "We're staying here the whole winter?"

"Five months, give or take," Dad said. He popped the trunk and began tossing out their gear. "These provisions need to be stowed inside. Get a move on, boys."

"But we didn't buy enough food for five months," Sam said. He was not comforted in the least when Dean turned and stared at him with perfect agreement. The last town they had passed had been hours ago - they hadn't seen any cars or people, or roads, in all that time.

Dad dropped a bag on the ground and fixed Sam with a pointed look. "Now is not the time for questions, Sam. Do what I told you." He turned that look on Dean. "Both of you."

"Yes, sir," they said, almost in unison, and began lugging in boxes and bags full of stuff their father had crammed into the Impala's trunk, stashed amidst the ever-growing collection of guns and ammo.

Sam put his foot through the rotted wood on the steps on his way up, and Dean started to snicker. "Shut up, asswipe," Sam hissed, and kicked Dean in the ankle.

"Ow, you little-"

"Boys," thundered their father from behind them, his arms full of supplies. Dean turned a vicious look on Sam that said later for you, and Sam returned the scowl.

The inside of the cabin was not quite as bad as it looked from the outside, but close. The windows were half out of the frames, and the fireplace chimney had clearly been a happy home for all kinds of critters. There was a bedroom to the left, and some kind of weird-looking bedframe to the right, next to the fireplace. The only other furniture was a dusty couch, plus a table and two chairs. There was a pump sink in the corner, set into a counter that was clearly meant to be a kitchen.

"No bathroom?" Sam asked with dismay.

They turned their faces to their father in unison, but he only sighed and began checking the cupboards that lined two walls.

"This is going to suck," Dean said.

**

2008

Sam crawled up from the darkness and forced his eyes open; the broken glass feeling was in his eyes, in his brain, everywhere. He closed his eyes again, a moment's relief from the pain. Copper-taste on the back of his tongue, like an old penny. He wondered if he'd bitten his tongue.

"Sammy." He felt the ground bend beside him as Dean sat down - no, not the ground. He could smell the mustiness of the mattress now, feel its lumpy softness beneath his back. Dean's hand touched his shoulder gently.

"Dean," he answered, the word slurred beyond recognition. He tried to raise his hand to touch his face, to be sure he was still in one piece, but Dean caught his fingers and lowered them back to his chest.

"It was a bad one," Dean told him quietly, as if Sam couldn't tell. But he understood - bad for Sam, scary for Dean. He swallowed, bringing his voice back online.

"I blacked out?" he asked. This time the words sounded normal.

"Yeah," Dean said, and something about his voice, the tone, made Sam try to open his eyes again. This time he managed, and Dean's face swam into focus, his worried expression framed by daylight.

Sam frowned. It had barely been dark when he felt that vision coming on. "I was out all night?"

"Sam," Dean said. His fingers tightened on Sam's shoulder, then eased. "It's been two days."

"That's..." Sam's voice failed him. He'd never been out so long - never felt this wrecked by any vision, either, not even the first few.

"Want to tell me what you saw?" Dean wasn't really asking; it was a command, disguised as a request.

"Death for you," Sam said, and watched Dean's face transform, concern easing into fear, and then a resignation, and Sam hated it. "And...I think...for me, too." That did it; the hell, no came back into Dean's eyes.

"Sammy, I swear, if this is your way of trying to get me to-"

"Dean." Sam struggled up on his elbows, batting Dean's hand away. "You asked me what I saw. I told you."

"Do you want to maybe elaborate?"

He didn't, but he tried to pull images from the vision to the forefront. It was worse than usual; only one clear snapshot he could pull from the darkness, Dean's black eyes, his blooded teeth. The rest were just impressions, and most of those emotional, based in darkness. "You were...I think it was...you. In hell. I was there, too. I don't know, it was like a nightmare."

"A nightmare," Dean said, in that tone of voice that clearly conveyed how much he wanted to shake the snot out of Sam. "Hell is like a nightmare. Duh, Sam. That's the best you can do?"

"Dean, if I had more than that, I'd tell you."

"Would you." It wasn't a question, it was an accusation.

Sam pressed his fingers against his forehead and willed the aching pain to go the fuck away, because dealing with that and Dean's pissy cabin fever at the same time was going to take every ounce of energy he had. "I'm not keeping anything from you. You know I'd do anything I could, to..." He stopped, because the words could only be said so often before they began to lose their power, their utter truth.

Dean stood up and went to the window. Light filtered in across his face, showing Sam just how pale he was. "Sam, I gotta tell you, I don't get this. If it was a vision, why were you in hell with me?"

Very carefully, Sam swung his legs down out of the bed, testing the waters. He hadn't had a vision this violent since the very early days. "I don't get it, either."

"Is it that yellow-eyed son of a bitch? Is he still alive somehow?"

Sam sighed. "I don't think so. This feels...different." Like the end of the world, he wanted to say, but Dean wouldn't appreciate the exaggeration, no matter how true it felt to Sam.

Dean was watching him, though, and he'd never been any good at hiding from Dean's watchful perception. "So you're seeing visions of my deal. And we're both in hell."

"Yeah. Yes." Sam stood up, wobbling a little. "And no. It was confusing."

Dean was eyeing him like he was some kind of suspect to be interrogated and taken down, and Sam's legs must not have liked the implication, because they gave out. He crashed back down on the rickety bed, which drew Dean to him in an instant. "Jesus, Sammy. Get back in the damned bed."

"I'm sorry," Sam said, not even sure what he was apologizing for. "Dean, there's more to this than a simple deal. You were changed. I was...not like you. I think Lilith wants your soul, but...however it happens, she gets me, too."

"Like hell," Dean breathed. He tried to pull the covers up over Sam, but Sam pushed his hands away. A thousand icepicks jabbed at his head, and he closed his eyes. Dean waited until Sam dropped his head back on the pillow, and then he pulled the covers up over Sam. "Get some sleep," he said, his hand resting on Sam's chest. Sam wanted to argue, to try to pick apart the vision, but they had time. He could afford to sleep.

He sank down into the warm dark, weighted by Dean's touch.

**

1992

They were busy until after sunset. Dean was given the task of neatly storing supplies and cleaning up the furniture, while Sam kept busy sweeping dead leaves and dirt out of the small rooms. Dad cleaned out the chimneys and poked around on the roof, stamping his feet so hard that dust showered down on Sam's freshly-swept floors. "Dad!" he hollered, but of course his father ignored him.

Dinner was cans of beef stew cooked over the fire Dad built in the fireplace, and nothing had ever tasted so good to Sam. It wasn't that he was hungry, exactly, it was just that he felt weird and out of place and really confused. Why were they here? What in the world could they possibly do for five months? It was strange to think of Dad sticking around that long, not taking off on a hunt and leaving them alone. Things would be different with him there every day. Better, maybe, and the idea of them all being together fluttered warm and hopeful in Sam's chest.

They sat on the floor by the fire; Sam and Dean threw a small rubber ball back and forth at each other, harder and harder until Dean tipped over laughing in an attempt to catch it and nearly pitched into the fire.

"Be more careful," Dad said, looking up from his journal, and Dean sobered up right away. It didn't stop him from flinging the ball right at Sam's head, though, and when it bounced off Sam's forehead, they both collapsed into laughter.

"Boys," Dad said. He closed his journal and set the pen down on the table, and they immediately gave him their full attention. "I guess you're wondering why we're here, aren't you?"

"Yes sir," Dean said. Sam could hear the ball rolling toward the corner behind him, and he tried to ignore it.

"I think you're both old enough now...old enough to learn, and to understand." He said it so thoughtfully, but he was looking at Sam, not Dean, and Sam knew it was because he was growing up, not a kid anymore. "We own this place now. It's ours."

"This place?" The look on Dean's face was priceless. "Dad, what the hell?"

"Watch your mouth," Dad said, and Dean turned pink, but his frown was back. "Yes, this place. We own the land it's on, too. This place is a safe place, boys. If anything ever happens - if something so bad comes that you need a place to get away - you come here. You remember how to get here?"

"No," Sam said, at the same time Dean said, "Yes."

Dad looked from Sam to Dean and back again, and he had that look like he wanted to laugh. Sam wondered sometimes why he never did, when he looked that way. "Sam, you pay attention when we leave here in the spring. That way you'll know, too."

"Yes sir."

Dad stood up and stretched, then sat down on the floor with the boys. "It's going to be a mild winter, looks like, but it'll be enough for you to learn. I'm going to teach you what you need to know to survive. How to hunt, how to make a fire. How to build things. We're going to repair this cabin from top to bottom, make it weatherproof, so we can be warm and comfortable."

"But, Dad," Sam started, and Dean gave him a shove, just enough to make him shove back.

"I know, son. You're wondering about food, am I right?"

Sam nodded. He'd just eaten, and already his stomach was growling.

"Everything you need is here in these woods. You'll learn that, too. Maybe you won't like it all the time - there's no sugar here, no packaged food - but you'll eat, and you'll live. I don't want to hear any complaining, and I don't want any backtalk. You need to pay attention to everything I'm going to teach you, and remember it. All right?"

They nodded. Sam couldn't remember their father ever being so serious.

"Where're we going to sleep?" Dean asked.

Dad jerked his head toward the weird bed frame in the corner, and Dean rolled his eyes. "Dad. I'm not a kid anymore. I don't want to sleep with Sammy!"

"I don't want to sleep with you, either!" Sam shot back, hurt but determined not to show it. Dean was way taller now, and he'd always been a bed hog, but that wasn't the point.

"Too bad," Dad said. "Lesson number one: it's warmer when you share body heat. You'll figure that out soon enough, but I'm going to save you the time."

"Where are you going to sleep?" Dean said, suspicious, and Sam choked back a snicker.

"In the bedroom."

"You get the good bed?" Dean said, eyeing the wire frame of the thing they'd be sleeping on.

"Yes," Dad said, and that ended the discussion. They'd never had trouble telling when they could ask questions, and when not to.

They made the bed with a thin mattress and a ton of blankets, tossed across the frame haphazardly. The cabin wasn't freezing, but there was a definite chill in the air, and though they weren't far from the dying fire, Sam's toes were cold. He glanced at the door, and then back at the bed, weighing his options.

"What?" Dean said, stopping mid-motion as he tugged on his pajamas.

"I have to pee," Sam said, and Dean started laughing.

"Hey, good luck with that," he said, and jumped into the bed.

"Dean!" Sam said, startled. He'd thought maybe Dean would go with him. Their father was already closed up in the tiny bedroom, and besides, Sam would never ask him. Dean continued snickering. "Fine," Sam said, and turned his back on his brother. He flung open the front door and sucked in a breath.

There was nothing outside but darkness. No lights, nothing to help him find his way. He stood there staring, until a hand landed on his shoulder. "Come on," Dean said, and switched on the flashlight. "But just this once."

**

2008

Sam counted the stack of books on the ground beside him: thirty-two. All shapes and sizes, full of the most arcane histories and magic, apocalyptic prophecies, stuff Sam had never studied because he'd never had time. Bobby had given them most of what Sam asked for, stuffed hurriedly into a heavy trash bag at Sam's urging, but this tiny library was a finite resource. He pored over each word and symbol, determined to see things that weren't there, to create text in between the lines where none existed.

Each book carried its particular wisdom on the backs of brittle pages and yellowed art, testament to the hundreds of fingers that had traced their strange lines and pry open their secrets. He found lyrical verse recounting the visions of oracles, lies and truths foretold. There were interpretations of prophecy, lists of the names of demons, and where they nest; there were descriptions of blood-filled skies and sirens' voices filling the air, drawing seekers to their doom. Each was woven into the mythology of their world, the hunter's paradise, one treasure trove of death after another, if only each could be deciphered in time. None of it was what Sam needed, but he felt himself falling into the seductive grasp of knowledge. Now there was time, and yet there was no time; he had work to do.

He had planned to spend his time researching references to things seen only in his visions, on top of ways to break deals with demons. His portable library was only meant for one purpose, and it made Dean twitchy. Sam's relentless focus, even without constant verbal reminders, only seemed to make Dean more determined to pretend there was no answer. It was one way to avoid believing in the future.

Sometimes Sam closed one book and opened another, and in the moments between he'd notice Dean, feel the weight of Dean's stare settle on him. Dean's presence eased the ache Sam's bones, the restless pain in the back of his skull. Whatever was out there waiting, Dean was still here. Sam could feel Dean testing the tethers, but they hadn't broken. For now, that was enough.

Other days, Dean settled at the table opposite him, reading through the books Sam had set aside, his eyebrows drawn together as he frowned at the precious texts. Together they squeezed meaning from every phrase and definition, and stored the knowledge up to be drawn upon at the moment it was most needed. Sam interpreted the movements of Dean's fingers over the yellowed pages as renewed hope - for the future, for a solution. They read and breathed, talked and were still together, and Sam watched his brother, memorizing every nuance of his expression. The urge to touch him was a constant surprise, but he pressed his hands flat to the pages, anchoring him to his purpose.

Once, Dean looked up and met his eyes, his own hands curled around the edges of the table. Sam was a scholar of many things, his brother most of all, but Dean wasn't an easy read anymore, and Sam was afraid to see too much. The moment stretched as the wind caught under the eaves and rattled against the cabin door, like a visitor in the dark demanding entry.

Sam was the one to turn his eyes away, a slow hot flush rising on his cheeks. They had work to do.

Dean kept setting fresh mugs of hot coffee at Sam's elbow, but Sam was often lost in the research, and the coffee grew cold, forgotten. Eventually, Dean nudged him, not gently, and Sam looked up from a page of arcane prophecy. Dean's eyes seemed too vivid, shocking green in the firelight. "Sammy, either you drink something, or I swear to god I'll hold your nose and pour it down your throat," he said quietly, not a hint of humor anywhere in his expression.

Sam nodded, wrapped his hands around the mug, and sniffed. Cinnamon on top, and spiked with whiskey - and not even a joke from Dean about girly coffee. He smiled into the lip of the cup as he took a sip. If Dean was parting with his precious stash of booze, he was serious. He drank it all and let the warmth seep through him, filtering out into his cold hands to ease the stiffness. He was so cold; he thought he might never be warm again.

"Find anything?" Dean asked. His chair scraped across the floor as he pulled it out and turned it around, straddling it.

"Not what I need," Sam said, as Dean took a long swig of whiskey and set the bottle on the table, not so subtly nudging one of the massive books out of the way.

"No libraries down the street. No internet."

That was a challenge, or an invitation; Sam couldn't tell which. He shook his head. "We'll make do with what we have."

"Will we?" Dean's thumb scratched at the label on the bottle, taking shavings of paper with it. "While we hide out here, Sammy? Come on, man. This isn't what we do. Let's get the fuck out of here and get back to work."

Sam was primed for the argument. He'd been working on his answers for hours now, fitting them into the spaces between the bits of information they had picked up, shaping his responses to the things he knew about Dean, all the things that made Dean susceptible to persuasion. But he never managed to get any of them said because nausea welled up within him, riding the back of another vision, and he toppled off the chair, groping for something to pull him back upright.

Dean's hand closed around the back of his neck, resting there while Sam puked his guts out on the floor, and the vision hammered him, relentless, the same image as before: Dean, lord of a pile of bones; Sam, brimming with power at the edges of hell. There was something else, this time - a darkness circling and swirling in his blood, and a need. No. Not need. Want. Seductive darkness, warm--

The same smells, the same oppressive hatred and fear as before, so palpable Sam can taste it, feel it welling over him like a stinking tide. Dean is there, naked, pieces of his flesh torn off, the white of his ribs and the pink of muscle shifting under the skin.

Take it, Dean, the creature beside him says, less words than impressions, evil and temptation all at once. Take it, and ease your burden. Haven't you earned a little rest? I think my terms are quite reasonable.

Dean never speaks, but his hand - half bone, half flesh - closes around the hilt of the knife.

Everything shifts sideways, and Sam is on his knees in a strange house, Dean heavy in his arms, torn to shreds. Sam struggles to tame his grief, but the rage consumes him, hot tears only fueling the anger. There's fresh power welling in him, newly awakened.

He lifts his head, looks at Sam - the Sam of now - with eyes as dark as midnight, and surrenders to the rage.

"Oh god," Sam said, the back of one hand pressed to his mouth. Dean pushed the hair out of his face, silently urging his explanation. "It's because you die," he rasped. "It's...when you die, I...it breaks loose in me."

"It...what?" Dean leaned forward, but Sam shook his head.

"If you die, Dean, it's over. It's over for me. Don't you get that? This is what triggers it. You...you're gone, and without you, without a purpose, I...I turn."

"Sam." He heard Dean's reassurance even before Dean spoke, had heard it a thousand times. "That's not going to happen."

"Yes," Sam whispered. "It is."

**

1992

"Come on, boys. Up and at 'em." The big, insistent hand shaking Sam's arm was warm, like the bed and Dean's back, and Sam grumbled a little under his breath, but Dean was already moving, stretching, pushing back the covers. Sam opened his eyes and saw that it was still dark. No wonder he was so tired. He never had to get up this early for school.

That's when it struck him, and he whipped around to where his father was unwrapping something from some foil. "Dad," he said. "What about school?"

Dean stopped at the edge of the bed, perched there in the act of reaching for his shoes, and stared at him. "This is better than school, dork!"

"You won't be going back this year," Dad said, without looking at Sam. "This is a different kind of school, Sammy. It's just as important. You remember what I said last night?"

"Yeah," Sam said, frowning as he thought of all the cool things his teacher had promised him about next year's classes if he got A's on his math tests. Now he wouldn't even be able to take the tests. His father fixed him with a stare, and he hastily corrected himself. "Yes, sir."

"Good. We'll keep up with your math and reading, don't worry."

Dean was finished dressing, bouncing around like he was still Sam's age. "What're we gonna do first, Dad?"

"Eat breakfast," Dad said, smiling. He poured three glasses of water from a pitcher and pointed to Dean. "Your first job, from now on, is to bring in wood in the morning and evening. Once the snowfall starts, it'll be harder. You think you're up to it?"

"Yes, sir," Dean said, in a tone that told Sam he thought Dad was crazy for even asking him. Dean could do anything. Sam knew it already, and not just because Dean told him ten times a day.

"Your job, Sam, is to prime the pump and get the water moving." Dad pointed to the chair in the corner. "I'll show you how to do that, later."

"Okay," Sam said, hopping off the bed and pulling on his jeans and sneakers.

He had a quick shoving match with Dean for who got to wash their face first, which Dean won, and then he hopped up into one of the chairs, water dripping off the hair over his face. His father reached out and pushed the hair out of Sam's face, smiling a little. Sam saw then that breakfast was cinnamon rolls; that's what his father had brought in the foil.

"Hey!" he said, surprised.

Dad's smile widened.

After breakfast, Dad gave them a lesson in sharpening knives and axe blades. Dean was bored; he was fidgeting around everywhere until Sam kicked him in the shin, and then there was payback in his eyes, but Sam didn't care. This was the most time he'd spent with Dad in forever, and besides, Dad never showed him cool stuff like knives and guns. He saved all that for Dean, and it wasn't fair. He stuck his tongue out at Dean when their father wasn't looking, and then Dean tackled him in the dirt, wrestling around with him until their father pulled them apart.

"What did I tell you boys about paying attention?" he demanded. Dean grinned at Sam, who made a face at Dean, and together they went back to listening to their father's demonstration of how to chop wood.

Turned out that was another thing Sam wasn't allowed to do, but he didn't mind. Dean was really, really bad at it. So bad, in fact, that Sam could tell he was going to spend hours and hours at it until he could do it as well as Dad. He watched Dean bang away at the wood over and over, until the whole pile Dad had brought was gone, and then he looked at his hands like he hated them.

Dad didn't say anything. He just poured water over Dean's hands and wrapped them up with cloth, and then he told Dean, "Keep those blisters clean."

"Yes, sir," Dean said, not looking at Dad. He didn't look at Sam, either, and Sam wanted to see his blisters, but he figured he'd better not ask. Not after the way Dad had bandaged them.

They had bread and peanut butter for lunch. Dean struggled with the knife, and winced when he picked up the bread. "Let me do it," Sam whispered, and he spread Dean's bread with a thick layer of crunchy, like Dean liked it, so Dean wouldn't get peanut butter on his bandages.

Dean got a strange look on his face, but he let Sam do it, and when he whispered, "Thanks, Sammy," Sam smiled up at him.

While they ate, Dad sat them down on the porch and lectured them. Sam thought it was a lot like school, and he didn't mind that at all.

"The first thing to remember, boys, is that you always need a plan. You boys know what to do in the city, when there are phones and buses and places to stay, but it's different when you don't have those things. You never know what might happen. You could get lost or separated, and you have to think ahead."

Sam thought about that for a minute, while he licked peanut butter off his fingers. He'd never stayed in a place without a phone. Not even the cheap places Dean hated so much. That was weird to think about.

"Every operation has an objective. You need to know what you want to do before you begin, and you make your three-part plan: entry, objective, and recovery. That applies to everything - hunting, survival, even daily tasks. Never go anywhere or do anything without a plan. Think it all through before you start, and know what you'll do for every contingency."

Contingency. Sam really wanted to ask what that meant, but the look on his dad's face stopped him cold.

"Always leave yourself plenty of time to do what you need to do. Don't get caught off guard because you didn't plan things out right. If you're scared or hurt, or tired, you won't be thinking straight. Plan for that, too. And always share your plan with each other. Be on the same page. You understand?"

"Yes sir," they answered, but Dean lagged just a second behind Sam.

Dad lifted his chin. "You have something to say, Dean?"

"Good soldiers don't get scared or tired," Dean said, curling his hands up over his stomach. Sam looked at them and saw blood on the white wrap.

Dad looked away, out toward the forest, then at Sam, and finally at Dean. "No, son. Everybody gets scared and tired sometimes. Good soldiers just don't show it."

Sam waited for Dean to say something, because they'd seen their father scared and tired lots of times and he was a good soldier, but Dean just nodded and put his head down.

Dad went on as though he hadn't been interrupted. "One more thing. Equipment and weapons. You take care of them, they'll take care of you. Always pack what you need, and always keep your equipment in top condition. You won't have time to get it up to speed when you need it. A gun is no good to you if it's unloaded. A knife has to be sharp. You get me?"

"Dad," Sam said, watching Dean's face. "When do I get a knife?"

Sure enough, Dean whipped around and stared at him, snorting. "Dad lets you shoot a .45 and you want a knife?" he asked, and reached out to knock Sam in the head, but Sam scrambled away, pointing at his hands.

"Don't touch me with those, you freak!"

"Oh, I'll-" Dean started to get up, but Dad snatched him by the collar and sat him back down.

"If you boys don't pay attention, you will both be very sorry. I can promise you that."

Dean settled down right away, and Sam scooted over to sit beside him. They jostled elbows for a minute, then looked up at their dad, waiting.

**

2008

You know what to do, son. There isn't much time.

John's voice still lingered in the back of Sam's mind when he woke to a dark, cold room. He twisted to the side and found Dean still asleep, curled in on himself, a furnace against Sam's body. The fire had dwindled down to nothing, and moonlight slipped across the slatted floorboards, giving contrast to the dark.

Even asleep, Dean was wearing a version of the troubled frown that had been deepening ever since they hauled ass out of San Diego. Sam reached over, struck by a momentary urge to smooth Dean's forehead, but caught his hand before he actually touched his brother. Dean would wake up the moment he did, and for no good reason. Not like there was anything Dean could do about the goddamned visions.

Sam leaned sideways to keep the bed frame from creaking and set one foot on the floor to bear his weight, then slid out of bed and pulled the covers up in one smooth move. Dean turned his face toward the pillow and sighed, but he slept on, body twisted down into the covers in the absence of Sam's warmth.

Sam's jacket felt like a nylon ice cube, but he slipped it on and crouched down to toss a couple logs on the fire. Their shoes were tumbled across the hearth, warmest place for them; Dean's socks strewn across the tops, Sam's neatly balled inside. He pulled on his shoes and thought about the dream, about John's voice, soft and sure, telling him he knew what to do. It wasn't any more true now than it had been the five thousand other times his father had said it to him; it was always Dad's way of implying Sam should have figured it out, should bluff his way through if he hadn't. Sam wasn't good at trusting his gut when it came to the life or death stuff. That was Dean's specialty.

Outside, moonlight caught on patches of snow, the light sharp and crystalline-clear. The air crackled as it entered his lungs, breathed out in slow clouds of frost.

It had been months since Sam came back from the dead. Only a few weeks left until Dean made the trade final; they'd long since passed the literal mid-point, the place between past and future, life and death. For Sam, it all boiled down to the simple fact that he was running out of time.

Sam had tried, in those first few weeks after Dean killed the demon, to imagine those days when Sam wasn't in the world, what it had been like for Dean. The moment his heart touched those ideas, they skittered away, leaving faint images of Dean bound up in Sam's blood, covered in it, visible signs of grief written on his skin. He'd tried to ask Dean, once, but Dean only turned pale and shut him out, and left him to imagine it as best he could on his own.

Sometimes he looked at Dean and saw the ghost of those days in his eyes, felt it in his touch; the need to confirm, to believe, to know it was worth what he'd paid. Sam was beginning to understand that, too - some things were worth the price exacted for them.

He still had no idea what to make of the visions. Seeing Dean turned into something out of a horror movie was bad enough, but Sam could still remember the sensation of pure power coursing through him, the knowledge he had only to extend his hand, and he could erase everything he saw before him, remake it into something new. Something pure.

Even the remembered knowledge from a fragmented vision was enough to frighten him to the core, and he shivered, thinking of all that power without form.

You know what to do.

The tiny nagging voice urging him on wasn't really his father's, anymore. It would never give him that advice. Not about embracing his powers. If Dean knew what he was thinking, he'd remind him of that fact ten different ways to Sunday. But they were out of options.

If he lingered on the thought long enough, Sam could almost feel the weight of Dean's body in his arms, and the knives of grief ripping at him.

He shivered and squinted over at the pile of stones Dean had dropped next to the steps, most of them the right size to shore up the crumbling fireplace. They were no different than that old spoon Dean had held up before him with skeptical worry in Saginaw, Michigan, when he'd told Sam to bend it, give him proof of what Sam claimed he could do - had done, when Dean's life was in danger because he was in Max's way. Sam probably had as much chance of moving a single rock now as he did the moon.

He turned the shape of the stones over in his mind, touching them with his thoughts. It wasn't like he hadn't read a thousand articles about how psychics trained their powers, but most of that was Uri Gellar crap. No one had real advice about stuff like this, unless it was Ruby, and he couldn't trust her. He thought about calling Missouri, but no way was he taking a chance on her. No telling who she might tell - Bobby, or even Dean - if she thought he was wrong. Missouri's world contained very few shades of grey, and even if she had a clue how to go about this, there was no guarantee it wouldn't bring danger on her, or anyone else he went to for help.

It was almost possible to predict the argument she'd make against it - using his powers might take him exactly to the dark places he wanted to keep Dean from; it might bring on exactly what Dean most feared. Catch-22. Endgame, poorly played.

But maybe not. Maybe the key was to learn to use it before he needed it. Before Dean was lost to him. If he could get himself grounded, get it under control, maybe that was all it would take.

Sam looked at the rocks, and thought about Dean's broken body, about hell, and darkness pressing in on them. He looked at them until he didn't see individual stones anymore, until all he could think of was what Dean's body would feel like in his arms when the life left it. Panic boiled up in him; tears welled in his eyes, and he tossed his head back, mouth open, gasping.

The power burned up, out through him, into the cold night air, lifting all the oxygen from his lungs like a soundless shout, and then the crack, crack, crack as rocks flew off the ground and bounced off the edge of the porch. Sam dropped to one knee and put his bare hands in the frosty patch of grass, melting imprints of his fingers into the frozen ground. Blood dripped from his nose, splotching dark over his fingers.

"Dean," he whispered, not calling his brother to him, but warding all the dark things away.

After a moment, Sam pitched over on the grass, cold ground beneath his ass and the frost melting, seeping into his jeans. The rock pile looked like someone had put their foot in it and knocked it around; there were a few small rocks scattered across the ground, like an uneven breadcrumb trail. "Guess that answers that question," Sam whispered, leaning forward to reach for the one nearest his foot. It was clammy in his hands, just a rock. Nothing mysterious.

He wiped the back of his jacket sleeve across his nose and then followed it with his fingers, but the nosebleed was only a trickle. With the rock tucked into his pocket, he got to his feet and made his way back inside as quietly as he could. Every step, every board seemed determined to creak and whine, to give him away, but he managed. He'd had a lot of practice; Dean used to make chalk marks on the super-squeaky ones, daring Sam to tell Dad. He never did.

Sparks burst up from the hard wood twigs in the fireplace, and Sam stood with his back to the door, watching Dean sleep. One arm thrown out over the space where Sam should be, head back on the pillow, face turned to the side; he looked poised to wake, to fight. Dean was contradictory that way. He could sleep so deeply a bomb wouldn't wake him, if he felt safe, or so lightly that the smallest noise would make him instantly alert.

Sam wondered what he was dreaming, if he'd fallen asleep planning to pack the car and drive down the mountain, ignoring Sam's visions and his fears and everything else, all chance of survival shot to hell. If Sam could just get a handle on all these things he could do, and do them at will instead of when he was overwhelmed by fear or love, he could break the deal and control demons. He could do anything. He could destroy hellhounds with a simple thought, tell any crossroads minion to shove it.

He could walk into hell, if he had to. He still had the Colt. He could put the key in the lock and open the door. All he'd need was someone to close it behind him, and he could cross into that realm. His breath quickened, and he reached into his pocket.

The rock was cool and smooth under Sam's touch.

Dean had been the one to walk Sam home after school, the one who wiped his runny nose when he was sick, the one who beat up anyone who even looked at Sam funny until he was big enough to do it himself. Dean had cooked his meals, paid for his pencils, taught him to shoot.

No matter what, he wasn't going to let Dean throw his life, his soul, away. Even if it meant Dean hated him in the end.

He sighed and shrugged off his jacket, setting the stone on the sagging mantelpiece before tossing a few more pieces of wood on the fire. It'd be enough to keep them warm until morning. When he crawled into bed, Dean shifted, restless, and turned toward Sam, pressing his cold nose into Sam's back, right between his shoulder blades, just like when they were kids snuggled together.

The bittersweet ache in Sam's heart made it impossible for him to sleep.




1992

Sam woke up cold, and with too many clothes on. He thrashed around for a second until his father's voice, next to his ear, calmed him instantly: "Quiet, Sammy, you'll wake your brother." His dad was putting socks on his feet, dressing him like he had when Sam was just a little kid, and Sam was about to protest when he realized Dean was still in bed, but Dad was dressed. Whatever was going on, Dean didn't get to be part of it. A pang of fear went through Sam, but also a tiny thrill of pride. Dean didn't get to be the only one who did stuff with Dad anymore.

He took his shoes from Dad and yanked them on, then pulled on his coat and hat and followed Dad out onto the creaky porch, down onto the faint path to the woods. He glanced back at the cabin, thinking about Dean. "Dad," he whispered. "Are you just going to leave Dean?"

"He'll be fine, Sam. You just keep your mind on what we're doing."

"Okay," Sam said, still looking back over his shoulder. Dad grabbed his hand and pulled him along. Sam resisted, tugging his hand back until Dad let him go. He wasn't a baby anymore. He could follow Dad on his own.

They walked for what seemed like forever, until the dark sky had turned bright blue and the sun was up. Everything was frosty, and it was so cold even in the sunshine that Sam's breath made cloudy white puffs when he ran to catch up with Dad every few feet. Once he stopped and said, "Dad!"

"What, Sam?" Dad didn't stop.

"We're off the path!"

"I know," Dad said. "Hurry up."

"But..." Sam stared at his father's back, then ran to catch up again. "But where are we?"

"Don't worry about that. I know exactly where we are. You'll be okay, Sammy."

"But what if Dean needs to find us?"

Dad didn't answer. Sam frowned and looked up at him, but his father was silent.

Finally they emerged into a little clearing. Sam stopped, out of breath, and looked around. Dad dropped down to one knee and laid a hand on his shoulder. "It's time for you to show me what you've learned, Sam. I want you to build a shelter and lay the foundation of a fire. But don't light the fire. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, sir." Sam could practically feel the excitement splitting his skin. Dad was finally treating him like a grown-up. He was going to get to prove he could do stuff.

"One other thing, Sam. I'm going to go out into the woods for a while. A long while. You'll be alone."

All the excitement bled out of Sam in the space of two heartbeats, and he stared at Dad. "Alone?" he said faintly. In an instant, his father's words came back to him: Everybody gets scared and tired sometimes. Good soldiers just don't show it. He nodded, stood up a little taller. "Okay."

"Good man." Dad patted his shoulder. "Remember, Sammy, we don't want to advertise that we're up here. The cardinal rule is, no shouting out. You never want to tell potential predators where you are. Okay?"

"Okay."

"I'll be back before sundown. Hard to say when." Dad smiled at him, and Sam grinned back. Dad pressed a heavy canteen into his hand. "Do your best."

"I will!" Sam watched until Dad had disappeared into the thick growth of trees, and then he looked around the small clearing. All alone.

It was then he realized his father hadn't left him any tools or food. He shivered.

For the first couple of hours, he was more than busy dragging branches and leaves back from the woods to the clearing. When he had a pile almost as tall and long as he was, he sorted out his loot. There was a fallen tree trunk near the edge of the clearing, and he looked it over carefully. No snakes, no skunks, no possums; a few ants, but not a colony. Nothing he'd have to chase out. It would be perfect. On hands and knees, he started burrowing down beneath, scooping out a hollow with broad branch. His stomach was growling, but he wasn't hungry enough to look for plants to eat. Yet.

The sun was almost overhead when he stopped to drink some water. He was hot, but he didn't want to take off his coat. Too much risk of getting chilled when his sweaty skin hit the cool air. He sat in the dip he'd created, which was still too shallow, and thought about how hard it was to dig all that dirt alone, and how much easier it would be if Dean was there, too. He wondered if Dean was mad that Dad took him out alone. The thought of it made him feel bad. Maybe he could offer to do Dean's chores. Dean would like that.

Finally he got up, tired as he was, and went back to scooping. By early afternoon, he had a nice Sam-sized hole, and he started laying heavy branches over it, leaned against the log so water would run off. He weaved smaller branches and leaves through it for a little roof. When he had it looking as good as it probably ever would, strong enough maybe even to keep out snow, he grabbed a few handfuls of bark and twigs and piled them a few feet from the shelter, then looked at them. Some of them had been on the ground and were soft. He kicked them away and went back into the woods, grabbing branches from trees and snapping them, to make a better pile.

When he'd finished stacking finger-sized sticks around his tinder like a wigwam, he flopped over on the ground and looked up at the sky. It had taken all day, but it was done. When Dad got back, he'd be shocked. Sam grinned.

He rolled over on his belly and dragged the canteen toward him. It was more than half full. He sipped some water, ignoring his growly stomach, and thought about dinner. Dad would probably cook something he'd trapped. He'd been promising to teach them how to-

"Sam!"

Sam scrambled to his feet, staring out into the woods. He knew he'd heard his name. He wasn't imagining it, but Dad would never -

"Sam!"

Sam's breath hitched. It was Dean, and he sounded scared. Really scared. Sam opened his mouth to call out, but stopped himself at the last second. Dad had told him - he had said, don't call out - and Dean knew it, too. He hopped forward, dropping the canteen. What if Dean needed help? What if...where was Dad?

"Sammy!!"

Without thinking, Sam ran to the edge of the clearing, listening. Dean was closer now. If he called out again, Sam was going to go find him. He could hear something - the rustling of someone coming closer. Maybe it wasn't Dean. Maybe -

He turned back toward the shelter, wondering if he should hide there, but there wasn't much point. Anyone who came into the clearing would look there first. Maybe he should hide in the woods, but Dad had said...He bit his lip.

Just then Dean came crashing out of the woods, staring at Sam. He ran straight for Sam, dropped down to his knees and dragged Sam into a hug. Sam squirmed in his arms, his heart pounding almost as hard as Dean's was against his body, and he said, "Dean! Dean!"

"Jesus Christ, Sammy." Dean's entire body was shaking, and now Sam was terrified. He bit his lip harder, trying not to cry, because he was too old to cry. Dean pulled back, his arms on Sam's arms, and looked at him. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah," Sam said. "What's wrong, Dean?"

"Why the hell did you come out here alone?" Dean shook him just a little, and now he looked furious. "Why, Sammy?"

"What?" Sam blinked at him. "But I didn't, Dean. I swear. Dad brought me. He said - Dad said I should..." He faltered, brought to a dead halt by the expression on Dean's face.

Dean released him and stood up. He turned around and saw the shelter, and the neatly made campfire, and his hands clenched into fists. "Dad brought you?" he said, so quietly Sam ran around him to hear him better.

"Yeah. Dean, why were you yelling? Are you okay?"

Dean looked down at him, and the look on his face made Sam press into his side. "I'm fine," he said. "Come on. We're going back."

"But Dad said -"

"Fuck that," Dean said, and though his tone was soft, even gentle, Sam was scared all over again. "We're going." He reached out his hand and took Sam's, and Sam squeezed it hard. Dean looked down at him. "It's all right, Sam."

"But I don't know where -"

"I do."

Dean led them back, and the walk through the woods seemed to take twice as long as it had going in. Dean didn't talk, and Sam didn't dare. He could feel how mad Dean was, but he didn't understand. Dean stopped every so often to look around, to check things, to pick up markers he had dropped on his way in, and Sam noticed that he always seemed to know where he was.

They made it back to the cabin just before dark, and Dad was there on the porch, sitting on the steps with his head down, his hands clasped. "Dad!" Sam slipped his hand from Dean's, and with a glance at Dean, he ran up to his father, who stood up, smiling at him. "I got it all done before Dean got there, Dad!"

"I know you did, Sammy. Tomorrow we'll go look at it and see if it held up overnight." He tousled Sam's hair. "You did good."

Sam grinned, but the moment Dad looked at Dean, he didn't feel like smiling anymore. Dean was still standing at the edge of the path, staring at Dad. "Sammy, go inside and get cleaned up. You know how to prime the pump?"

"Yeah," Sam breathed, not really wanting to move.

"Go," Dad said, glancing down at him, and Sam made himself go, up the steps, into the cabin. He closed the door and leaned against it, listening, though he knew it was wrong, but Dean's face, Dad's voice, it was all wrong.

It took a minute, and then Dean said, his voice low, "You told me he ran off. You told me-"

"And you didn't know any different. I came in there and took him out of the bed you were sleeping in, Dean, and you couldn't be bothered to wake up. How long were we gone before you noticed? What if it hadn't been me?"

"That's not fair," Dean hissed. "You made me think something had happened to him."

"Maybe next time you'll pay better attention to your responsibilities."

"You asshole," Dean said, and Sam stepped back from the door, tears in his eyes. He could hear the scuffling, knew what was happening, and he turned and pressed his back to the door.

"You watch your mouth, boy. You're not nearly old enough to take me on," Dad said. He was breathing hard, and Sam heard a sound, Dean, like he was in pain. "You couldn't even stay quiet in the woods. Sam stayed quiet. He followed the rules. But you just couldn't follow the rules, could you?"

Dean was quiet. Sam wiped his face, wiped off the tears. Dad didn't say anything, either, and then, finally: "Sit down, Dean." Sam heard the porch boards creaking, and he touched the door. "I made it hard for you to find him; I covered the tracks. But you found him anyway. You did good."

No answer from Dean; just something that sounded like Dean crying. Sam dug his nails into the door. He turned and went to the pump, pulled a chair closer to reach it. Once he'd primed it, he filled a pitcher and began scrubbing his hands and face until the water ran black. He tried not to listen to anything else.

Just as he was pushing the chair back under the table, Dean came in and squatted down by the fire, very still, not looking at Sam. Sam went to him and sat down beside him, snuggled up against his side. Dean looped an arm around his neck.

"It was a good shelter, Sammy," he said softly.




on to part 2