Supernatural: Living on Flood Tides [Part 1/2]
Title: Living on Flood Tides
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters/Pairings: Sam/Dean, past Sam/Lucifer, brief Dean/Lisa at the beginning
Rating: NC-17 for explicit sexual content (including somnophilia and the dubcon that comes with it), references to torture, non-con, and all other manners of fun Hell trauma (not graphic), implications of a relationship that has been going on since Sam was underage (he could have been 18, but it definitely started pre-series)
Word Count: 20,000
Author’s Note: This is my 2013 offering to samdean_otp's delightful minibang! Apologies to anyone who noticed I missed my original posting date. I had a project due and it turned out having to take precedence. Writing has been rough going for me lately, so the fact that I finished something at all is a small miracle, LET'S JUST FOCUS ON THAT OKAY? I would be betraying every one of you if I didn't admit right off the bat that the best thing about this fic is the art quickreaver created for it, so please go take a look and tell her that you love it! One of the pieces is a little spoiler-y, so if you intend to read the story and are not big on glimpses at the end of stories, maybe hold off on the art until after, BUT DEFINITELY LOOK AT IT. I also want to thank quickreaver, not only for claiming me and doing incredible art for my fic but for being a darling to work with and for her understanding when I had to get an extension at the lastest of minutes. As usual, I stole the title and basic premise from Josh Ritter. I gotta send that guy a fruit basket someday. Also, if anyone actually read The Three Little Wolves, I *am* aware that it was published a bit too late for Dean to have read it to Sam as a little kid, but hey! Let’s fudge that timeline. Cool beans.
Summary: AU after 5x22: Sam mysteriously returns from the cage and Dean thinks their problems are solved. Unfortunately, Sam is so shaken from his time in Hell that he can't-won't?-even talk to Dean, and when natural disasters begin to occur as frequently as they did when the Devil was walking the Earth, Dean realizes his brother may have acquired some of the angel's powers without picking up the ability to control them. In order to prevent Sam from hurting anyone, Dean finds a house as far from anything as he can manage and settles there to wait until the day Sam gets better-or until they both get killed by Sam's grace.
ART
AO3 // PDF
It's been raining for three days straight. Not the weirdest thing that's ever happened in Dean's life, given, but considering the drought that's been going on and the fact that no one-not even the weathermen-saw it coming, it's worth noting. Three days of steady pouring, like the sky has finally gotten so sick of watching over this festering wound of a planet that it's falling down.
There hasn’t been any rain for six months. Pretty much since Sam went under, though Dean's sure he's forcing that connection. Everything that happens gets measured like that these days: before Sam, after Sam. He doesn't know why it scares him so much, this rain, but he can't make himself walk away from the window. Maybe it's because things are moving on. When everything stopped with Sam, well, that made sense to Dean. But just look at those goddamn storm clouds. They're not stopping. The world is going on like before, like he wanted it to. That was the whole point of Sam taking the swan dive, after all.
There's a hand on his shoulder, soft but firm enough to jerk him back into attention. He half turns to see Lisa watching him with that worried edge she has, and Dean wonders, not for the first time, just what right he has to be here making her worry like that.
"They're saying the lakes are going to flood if it keeps up like this," she says with a slight laugh. "Can you imagine? Remember how empty Lake Michigan was last month?"
Dean gives her a distracted nod and turns back to the window. They'd taken Ben fishing, not that there was really anything to catch. All the fish that hadn't already dried up were pressing to the center of the lake, close as they could get to deep water. You could see where the waterline usually started and plenty of dry land under it. It was pretty depressing, not that Dean's one to judge what is or is not depressing.
He's trying not to think about it too much. That amount of change happening that quickly-the lakes ready to overflow after three measly days-it feels like a case. And Dean doesn't do cases anymore. Doesn't go looking for them, is not supposed to be finding them.
He scrubs at his face with one hand, hoping to find a little focus, and Lisa is still standing next to him, waiting for some kind of attempt at conversation. Something she can hold on to and use to convince herself that Dean is content and getting better and not thinking about how damn painless a death drowning would be. He owes her that much.
"Bet they're pretty happy for it down south," he says. "They might be able to grow something after all."
"No more dust storms," she agrees, her mouth quirking in that clever way Dean is really pretty fond of. "They're calling it God's work."
Dean swallows a lump. He's got no clue what it is, but he's pretty sure it's not that. "Don't they always?"
Lisa hmms and reaches up, running a couple of fingers over Dean's forehead, as if there's hair to tuck away. Dean leans into it, closes his eyes and kisses her back when she rises to her tiptoes. He does his very best not to remember how Sam's hair would never stay when he did that to it, or how annoying it was to have to get on tiptoes just to kiss his little brother.
"You ready to come up to bed?" she asks when she pulls away.
Dean manages a smile. "You go on ahead. I'm just gonna…"
Lisa frowns, looking worried again. "Don't stay here all night, Dean."
"I won't," he says. "Just wanna watch the rain a little longer. Makes me feel relaxed."
She stands there a few seconds more, and Dean can tell she knows he's full of shit, but she doesn't say anything. He watches her leave and turns back to the steady pattering of water on the window. It's not soothing, really, kind of the opposite of that, but it's hypnotizing anyway. Tonight won't be the first one this week that he spends standing here as if he's waiting for something or someone.
He knows no one's coming for him. But he stays right there anyway. Staring out into a dark street.
There's a crack of thunder that seems to shake the whole house. It keeps going so long Dean comes out of the trance the rain lulled him into and realizes it's not thunder at all. It's knocking. At the door. In the middle of the night during what might as well be a hurricane, if hurricanes could cover 48 states and start on dry land.
Dean's so damn confused he can't think straight, but the knocking won't stop or let up, and he doesn't want Lisa or Ben to wake and come down in case there's a monster standing outside. He flips the switch on the porch light, but it flickers and dies out. He doesn't know if that's the storm killing the power or the thing that's knocking. Power surges usually mean ghost or demon, and either way there's no chance it'll make it through the door. So Dean opens up.
Sam's standing there, staring placidly forward. A strike of lightning flashes across the sky just long enough for Dean to see the black wings coming out of his brother's back. So, Lucifer then. That explains the rain and the unsettled feeling Dean's had since it started, and it explains why he's here. Whatever minor inconvenience Sam caused him by jumping into that cage, those six months it slowed him down, those were Dean's fault.
Dean should maybe be worrying how he got out of the cage or how he's supposed to stop the Devil this time, with no smart ideas and no backup. All he can think is that his little brother is still in there. Whatever Lucifer is going to do to the planet after he's done with Dean, he's going to use Sammy to do it.
"Are you going to kill me?" he asks, hoping he doesn't live long enough to hear the answer.
Sam's face breaks, from indifferent to anguished, and his body crumbles to the floor in front of Dean. The rain stops, as does the thunder and the lightning. Everything goes quiet except for the howling of wind and the sobs coming from his brother's body.
Sam kisses Dean's feet.
By the time Lisa wakes the next morning, Dean's packed what few belongings he had scattered through her house back into the trunk of the Impala. She comes downstairs in her nightdress, looking confused but not alarmed. Then she sees Sam lying across the couch with a sheet tucked around him, his hand in Dean's as Dean watches him sleep, and her mouth closes before she can ask. She nods and doesn't show much on her face as she turns to the kitchen to make coffee.
She brings him a cup shortly after, and Dean reluctantly lets go of Sam's hand to accept it. Then she sits on the armchair to Dean's right and they're both quiet until finally she says, "When are you leaving?"
Dean takes a sip from the coffee and keeps his eyes on Sam's face. "As soon as he wakes up."
"You know you don't have to-" she starts, but she cuts herself off as soon as Dean looks up at her. She sighs and shakes her head. "You'll call, though? You'll still come see us?"
"You really think that's best? For Ben?"
"Yeah, that's really noble, Dean." Lisa's grip tightens on her coffee mug. "I bet you're telling yourself you don't have a choice right now."
"I don't," Dean says, looking back to Sam.
"That's bullshit. That's what you say to feel better about it." Lisa stands. "You don't have to stop living just because-"
"Lise."
She pauses, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. Yoga coping, Dean thinks. It works. The fight goes out of her voice. "Just call every now and then. Let me know you're not dead."
"I will," Dean promises, though he's pretty sure they both know he's lying.
She says something about having to get ready for work, and Dean knows to be gone by the time Ben wakes up. Sam stirs after she leaves the room, blinking his eyes slowly. He hadn't said anything last night; Dean had hardly been able to drag him in and onto the couch before he'd passed out.
"Dean," Sam says.
"Sammy." Dean presses a hand to his cheek. "Hey."
Sam turns his face into his pillow, away from Dean's touch, and starts saying Dean's name over and over again. It's another half hour before Dean manages to get Sam calm, by which time he's sitting on the couch, holding Sam up with his arms wrapped tight around his brother. Sam hides his face against Dean and whispers his name every few minutes, but he's mostly quiet. Not that it counts for much; Dean can still feel the tears trickling down his neck.
"Shh, Sammy, it's okay," he whispers. "Tell me what's wrong."
"Dean," is all he says, and he's still crying, and Dean has no goddamn idea what to do, so of course he blurts out the first idiotic thing that comes into his head.
"You're wrong," he says.
Sam stops crying for a few seconds, pulls back far enough for Dean to see his face, which is all blotchy and covered in snot and tears. But there's a confused smile at the corner of his mouth, and Dean frames Sam's face with his hands. "Hey, Sammy, you okay?"
Sam nods in Dean's grasp, bringing one big hand up to wipe at his eyes. Dean searches his face for any sign this is a trick-he knows he's an idiot for believing this is Sam, even for a minute. He saw the wings. And maybe Lucifer could break out of the cage, but Sam? No way.
Still. He's either doing a hell of a job pretending, or that's Dean's little brother in there, and if this is the Devil, if this really is just some elaborate plan to kill him, Dean thinks it's a pretty good way to go.
"You wanna go for a ride?"
Sam nods. Thank god Sam nods, because Dean really wants to get out of here without having to see anymore disappointed faces.
He leads Sam as far as the door before Sam laughs at him, shaking his head as he muscles past Dean and walks ahead on his own. It's kind of a relief, except for how it makes Dean want to trip the cocky little bastard.
The sun hasn’t risen yet. It's already nearing nine in the morning, so it strikes Dean as a little weird. He shrugs it off. He's got a brother who may or may not be Lucifer and is also probably crazy or in pain or something-Dean wouldn't know because Sam hasn't said a goddamn word except for his name. There are bigger things to worry about than a late sunrise.
The drive to Bobby's takes four days. Dean could have driven the distance in one day if he was determined enough, which he damn well is. But the road is insane-they get stopped by more storms, a blizzard, and so many tornados Dean loses count.
Sam sleeps through most of it, tossing and turning and whimpering for hours on end. He still won't talk to Dean, not even when they stop in motels or diners, but he doesn't scream or cry much after the first day. Dean can tell he's distracted by something, but he can always reach Sam when he tries. Sam at least knows who he is and is right there instead of dead, so. Dean's kind of feeling pretty okay about the whole thing, except for the part where the weather seems singularly determined to block them from reaching the one person on Earth who might be able to explain just what the hell Sam is doing topside and what that means for the little Apocalypse they thought they'd averted.
Bobby greets Dean with a wry look, a smack to the side of his head. "I should've known this mess had something to do with you," he says eyeing the storm clouds looming over his house. Then Dean points in Sam's direction. Bobby shuts up after that, staring open-mouthed from Sam to Dean and back to Sam again.
"Is it?" he asks, his eyes still trained on Sam.
"I don't think so," Dean says. "I ran all the tests, but…" Dean bites his bottom lip, not wanting to bring up the wings. Bobby will assume the worst, like Dean should have, and Dean…he can't. Sam's been back for days now and it's him, it's his brother. Dean would know. Dean would have to know. "I was hoping you might be able to tell me."
Bobby doesn't move. He doesn't hug Sam, but he doesn't pick anything pointy up, either. "Dean, that's not your brother," he says, taking a step back. "There's no way he's here, you know that."
"No, it is. It's him," Dean replies, tensing. Bobby is within arm's reach of at least five things that could be used as weapons, and now would be a really good time for Sam to say something in his own defense, but instead he stares ahead like he doesn't recognize a hunter about to strike when he sees it.
Dean trained him better than that.
Thankfully, one of them is paying attention, and Dean manages to catch the shotgun Bobby pulls from behind the door before he can properly aim it. "I know it's impossible, but it's him." He shoves the gun down, resisting the urge to laugh as he does it. "And if it wasn't, just what the hell good did you think shooting him was gonna do?"
Bobby makes a surly face and grudgingly lets go of his weapon. "How are you so sure it's him? What's he said?"
"He's not talking."
"Oh, that's real promising."
"He-" Dean turns to look at his feet. On the rare occasion that Dean has managed to make Sam laugh since he got back, Dean has seen the smile he fell in love with. That's it, that's all he's got. Bobby won't understand if Dean tries to tell him Lucifer could never hope to laugh like that, but that and the feeling in the pit of his stomach are all he has to go on. "If you've ever trusted me, Bobby, trust me right now. I know Sam when I see Sam."
Bobby makes an annoyed sound and hesitates a few seconds longer. "You seen the forecast lately, boy?"
"Now really the time to talk about the weather?"
"Weather's been going nuts-"
"You're telling me, we were driving through it."
"Exactly." Bobby gives Dean a sorry look. "I figured it was something supernatural, but I was hoping it was a coincidence it was coming from Michigan."
"What are you talking about?"
"It's only been happening on a straight line. Line of tornadoes right along the highway. Everywhere you and that thing must have passed. I'm telling you, Dean, it's not your brother. I'm sorry. I know you want to believe-"
Dean doubts himself for a second before he looks over and there's Sam and god fucking dammit, Dean just got him back, he can't lose him again. It's Sam. It has to be Sam. Dean steps in front of him. "Bobby, this is my brother and either you're gonna let us both in, or you're gonna shoot us both right now."
"We're trapping him in holy fire and calling for backup," Bobby says, but he finally steps aside to let Dean in. Dean watches the surprise on Bobby's face when Sam makes it through the door without a problem, and Dean breathes a sigh of relief, too. He'd had plenty of wards at Lisa's, but he knows Bobby's got a ton more tricks up his sleeve. Pretty much anything Bobby knows about-angels included-couldn't make it into his house, but Sam is standing in the hallway, staring up at the ceiling like he's never seen one before.
"Come on, Sammy," Dean says, tugging his hand forward. "Library?"
"Oh, yeah. Let's start a fire in my library," Bobby snaps. "Idjit."
They end up in the panic room, pretty much the last place on Earth Dean wants to take Sam, but if he recognizes the room at all, he doesn't acknowledge it. Bobby makes a small circle of fire around Sam and lights it, and Sam lets out a scared sound and sits down on the floor whimpering. Dean can hardly see him over the top of the flames, which is making him all kinds of nervous.
Rain starts, dripping in through the devil's trap skylight, and Bobby scoffs. "Goddamn weather," he murmurs. "Think he's trying to put out the fire?"
"No," Dean replies.
Bobby snorts. "No, of course you don't."
"You really think this crazy weather is following Sam?"
"No," Bobby says, pulling some herbs Dean immediately recognizes off a shelf. "I think it's following Lucifer. Just like it did last time."
"If he was Lucifer, don't you think we'd both be dead already? You really think he would have sat down like that and let you trap his ass in holy fire?"
"I don't know what he'd do, Dean. He's a sick bastard. You're probably putting on the best show he's seen in years."
"You gonna call Cas or what?" Dean asks, inclining his head toward the mix of crap on the small table Bobby's setting up.
"Oh, because you're so much quicker at setting up summoning rituals." Bobby lights a match and drops it into the bowl he's prepared, and Dean waits a few seconds before opening his eyes.
"Cas?"
"You may not have heard," says a gravelly voice just behind Dean, "but I am in the middle of trying to win a war. It's very important, so while I would love to stay and fraternize-"
Dean turns, feeling a smile coming on despite himself. "Hey, Cas. Long time."
"Should I start explaining why that is again?"
"I need you to tell me it's him," Dean says, grabbing Castiel's coat by the collar. "Please tell me it's him."
Castiel's eyebrows draw together, and he turns to Bobby, the question clear in his expression.
Bobby points behind him to the ring of holy fire. "We thought this was kind of important."
Castiel's big blue eyes get even bigger when he sees Sam, and Sam stands immediately, showing more energy for this than he has for anything else in days. They stare at each other for a long minute, and then Castiel says the one thing Dean was dreading.
"Lucifer?"
Sam looks back quietly. Or rather, Lucifer does. Dean can feel the weight of Bobby's 'I told you so' coming, but Bobby just squeezes his shoulder and looks sorry.
"I'll kill him," Dean says, seizing forward. "Give me the oil. I'm gonna burn the fucker alive."
Castiel puts a hand out, stopping Dean, shaking his head as he does so. "Wait."
"I don't care if he's your brother, Cas, save it. He's wearing my brother. I'll cook us both if I have to."
Castiel tilts his head. He hasn’t stopped gawking at Sam, and finally he looks to Bobby and Dean, but his face is terrified. "That is not Lucifer."
"You just said-"
"I was recognizing his grace. But I can see now, my brother is not here."
"So, who is then?"
"I would have to check to be sure," Castiel answers. "But the method is painful, and in this case, I think rather unnecessary. Whose soul do you think it is, Dean?"
"Sam," he says. "It has to be Sam."
"You would know your brother better than I would." He snaps, and the fire around Sam goes out, but Sam doesn't move. He's still sitting on the floor, rocking back and forth as the rain pours down on him. Dean rushes forward, picking him up and pulling him away from the part of the room with the open roof, though it's useless by now. Sam is soaked to the bone.
Dean kind of wants Bobby to apologize, but Bobby was pretty gracious when he was right, so Dean lets it drop. There's a much, much bigger picture here. "What did you mean you were recognizing his grace? There's leftover or something? Trace?"
"This is no trace. Lucifer's grace is intact. Your brother is still carrying it."
"So if there have been, say, a buttload of natural disasters this week? What does that mean?"
"It means Sam is very powerful, and his powers are bent on destruction."
"Sam wouldn't cause these things," Bobby says, still sounding skeptical about the whole thing. "People are dying."
"Sam," Castiel says, turning to face Bobby. "Is a human. However strong he has shown himself to be in the past, he cannot control this. The powers are acting out on their own without Lucifer to guide them. It's almost as dangerous to your planet as when Lucifer was controlling them."
"Well, make them stop!" Dean says.
Castiel shakes his head, turning to Dean and Sam. "I cannot."
"Why not?"
"He is stronger than I am," Castiel answers, as if that's just a normal fact and not something really kind of horrifying. Sam, Dean's idiot little brother who used to need Dean to pick him up just to reach a light switch, is walking around with his body packed full of the fucking devil. "I can’t overpower him. Only God and Death are stronger, and probably Michael. At any rate, one of them is locked up in Hell and the other two are likely indifferent."
"You can't do anything to make this go away?"
Castiel hesitates. Dean watches his hand clench and unclench at his side and finally he says, "There is something I could do."
"Do it then," Bobby mutters.
"I want to hear the but." Dean catches Castiel's eyes and manages to hold the angel's gaze. "There's always a but."
Castiel nods. "I could absorb his grace into myself. It would make me strong. Too strong, almost. It would make me god," he says, and Dean doesn't like his tone, the way his eyes darken. "I would be able to defeat Raphael easily."
"But," Dean pushes, and Castiel seems to jerk awake.
He frowns. "Dean, your brother was in Hell for a very long time. Lucifer did not treat him kindly. I can tell just by looking at him how much he's suffered."
"What did they do to him?" Dean asks.
"You don't want to know," Castiel answers sadly. "I can only see the damage, not what caused it. But I can tell you I do not want to know either."
"But what does that have to do with his grace?" Dean demands.
"It's the only thing holding him together," Castiel says. Dean feels all his hope collapsing. "If I take that out of him, there's no way his mind or his body will be able to cope with what’s been done to him. He may survive, but he will not be your brother. He might not walk or talk or he may very well simply die. I can't tell you."
Dean pulls Sam against him tighter. Four days and he's supposed to lose his brother again already. Even in Dean's world, that's too cruel to be real. "No," he says. "No."
"I'm sorry, Dean."
After a long period of silence, Bobby speaks up, "Dean, I…I hate to say it, but-"
"No," he growls.
"He could hurt someone like this. He'll probably end up getting himself killed, anyway. And you along with him."
"He'll suffer," Dean says weakly.
"He's suffering now," Bobby points out. "Dean, look at him he's not exactly the picture of mental health."
"And you wanna make it worse?" Dean looks at Castiel. "What do you think we should do?"
"I gave up as much as the rest of you to save this planet. I do not wish to see it destroyed." Castiel gives Sam a pitiful look. "But I do not cherish the thought of inflicting that fate on your brother."
"We can’t ask him this," Dean says, his fingers tangling in the knots at the back of Sam's hair. "We already asked for too much from him, and he did it."
"It's selfish, Dean," Bobby says. "I love Sam with all my heart, you know I do. But you're only thinking of yourself. You know Sam wouldn't have jumped into that hole if he wouldn't have preferred the suffering to causing it for other people."
Dean shakes his head, still holding onto Sam too tight. "I won't let you."
Castiel takes a step forward anyway, reaching a hand out toward Sam. "Sam, this should be your choice. What do you want us to do?"
Sam blinks at him and, after a long time, turns and huddles closer into Dean's embrace. "Dean."
"He can't go on living like this." Bobby points to the panic room floor. "There's already at least three inches of water in here. He'll drown us all."
Castiel nods. "Perhaps if he were isolated, the threat to others would not be as serious?"
Dean grabs onto that, onto the tiny shred of hope it offers. "You were tracking the disasters, weren't you, Bobby? Aside from the rain storm, they only followed us, right? Sam's only a threat within a few miles radius."
"That radius is a little more considerable than a few miles," Bobby says, scratching his beard. "And it's a hell of a gamble, either way."
Castiel turns to look at Dean. "If you leave him somewhere far enough from others, the chances are he will only hurt himself."
"Is there somewhere we can go?"
Bobby sighs. "I got a place in Montana. I let hunters stay there if they need a home base in the area. People hardly ever use it because there aren't many people for monsters to kill around, but I guess that's what you'd be in the market for?"
"That'd be perfect," Dean says. "Sam and I can go there and hole up and-"
"You'll die," Castiel says. "The likelihood is that Sam will destroy you."
"So what, you want me to leave him there by himself?"
Castiel looks away. "Believe it or not, it would be a kindness. When he dies, he will come to Heaven, you both will. You know that. I have seen to that much. He will not feel the cage in Heaven."
Dean's almost tempted to say it's a good time for them both to die, but Sam's hardly gotten to live since he got back. Dean can at least try this before giving up. Worst case is they die anyway. "You can take us there?" he asks Castiel.
Castiel nods.
Bobby interjects himself one last time. "It's a terrible plan, Dean."
"You saying I shouldn't do it?"
Bobby shrugs, but his eyes look almost amused. "I'm saying you're a moron, and that's all I have to say about any of it."
Dean smiles. "I love you too, old man."
Bobby steps forward, first hugging Dean, then giving Sam a longer hug, maybe to make up for not trusting him earlier. As if Sam had even noticed the slight.
"Alright, Cas," Dean says. "Let's get this over with."
Castiel steps forward, his fingers stretching out for Sam and Dean's foreheads and Dean stops him an inch before contact.
"And you'd better bring my car."
Dean sees the half smile on Castiel's face for a moment before he feels a cool rush of wind and hears wings flapping. He looks around to find that they're standing just outside of a pretty decent farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. Dean can only really believe it's his because the Impala's parked out front.
"Hey, thanks for helping," Dean says, turning around to find Castiel is still standing behind them with his hands outstretched.
"Don’t mention it," he replies, and then his lips turn down. "I mean that very seriously, Dean. I’m sorry to say I do not have time to stay and talk, and I cannot keep an eye on you and your brother. If this is a disaster, I will not know. Do not pray for my attention unless it is an absolute emergency."
Dean is about to make a witty rejoinder when Castiel disappears, leaving him and Sam-Dean doesn't even know where in Montana. Alone, for miles and miles alone, and that big, unfamiliar house in front of them is supposed to be theirs.
"Welcome home, Sammy," Dean says, hoping he doesn't sound nearly as terrified as he thinks he does.
Sam stares at the house for a few long minutes before hail starts to pelt them and they're forced to rush inside with a little less ceremony than Dean would have preferred.
She's a fixer-upper, that's for damn sure, but the house comes with devil's traps, salt lines taped down on every window, and surprisingly hot running water. Dean's pretty sure it would pass for a home to most people, but to him and Sam, it's practically the Playboy Mansion. Minus all the hot naked chicks. Dean promises Sam he'll work on fixing that, and Sam has the good grace to shake his head, laughing just a bit and shoving Dean's chest as he says his name. Considering it's almost the only word he's heard in the last week, Dean is not even a little bit tired of hearing his own name.
They spend a good chunk of time exploring. The place has three stories and from the top level they can see just how far the flat plains in their backyard go on before there's a fence. Dean kind of wonders how the hell Bobby afforded this, but then the land up here is probably not in high demand, and Bobby did say he'd had the place for years.
Either way, it's a palace as far as Dean is concerned. He stands at the window, staring out at all the empty land and wondering if he and Sam will ever get a chance to make something of it. If Sam will ever be Sam again, not that he's not now, but Dean does kind of miss conversation, as bad as Sam was at making it.
"What do you think, Sammy?" Dean asks, his arm wrapped around his brother's shoulder and his fingers soothing up and down his arm in a way that seems to calm him. "You like it?"
Sam puts his head on Dean's shoulder. There's a warm little smile on his lips, and Dean can't help wondering if Sam is the one causing the bright pink and purple sunset or if it's just a coincidence. It's kind of really beautiful (not that Dean would admit something like that out loud), and not a bad way to end their first-possibly last-day at home.
"You're so gay," Dean mutters.
Dean can just hardly see Sam's smile widening in the window across from them, and then he yawns.
"You tired?"
Sam makes a sleepy sound, so Dean takes his hand and leads him back down to the second floor where most of the bedrooms are. They've got bedrooms now, Dean thinks. What a novelty. Plenty to choose from and no need to wake up before noon to check out of them. The beds even looked halfway decent at first glance, though if they manage to survive more than a few days, Dean is getting some new cards and maxing them out on the best mattress money can buy. He's never had a damn mattress of his own before, he thinks he's earned whatever chance at a few good nights of sleep he can manage.
He picks the best room out and starts moving their few belongings in from the car. It's not the biggest or the best furnished, but Dean figures he can fix that. He can combine two rooms, maybe, or build a master bath here-they've got more space than Dean knows what to do with. Anyway, this room is squished between two others instead of facing out, it's only got one window. Dean figures that with Sam flinging weather around left and right, the best they can do is put as much wall between themselves and the elements as possible and hope it's strong enough to hold.
Dean helps Sam get ready for bed like he has for the last few nights, though he manages to resist the urge to hover and lets Sam try to do things on his own. He's pretty capable, even if he gets a little creepy when allowed to stare at one thing for too long. He can brush his teeth and wipe his own ass, which is more than Dean would be able to say for himself if he were in Sam's shoes.
"Like our new bathroom, Sammy?" Dean's sitting on the rim of their bathtub (they have an honest-to-god bathtub) watching Sam spit and rinse in the mirror. "I'm gonna make it much nicer than this, you just watch."
Sam dries his mouth with his wrist (there's a hand towel right within his reach, and Dean is kind of proud to see his brother finally acting like a real man) and turns to face Dean. "Dean," he says, voice all hushed and warm and it's amazing the amount of things he's managed to say in the last few days with just that one syllable.
Dean smiles. "Yeah, you're welcome. Don't start crying about it."
Sam rolls his eyes, waving a hand dismissively and leaving so Dean can have the bathroom for his own business. Dean doesn't ask Sam to stay, even though he'd really rather keep his brother in his sight right now. Sam is supposed to be the screwed up one, not him.
Sam is in bed by the time Dean is turning off the bathroom lights. Dean hesitates, suddenly realizing how much has changed and-Sam might not want Dean in his bed anymore. Dean doesn't want to make any assumptions, doesn't want to make Sam uncomfortable, but the thought of sleeping in some room down the hall makes him feel sick.
"Goodnight, Sammy," Dean says, whispering in case Sam is asleep already. Then he crosses in front of the bed, making for the door but walking slow enough to give Sam a chance to-
"Dean."
Dean turns to see Sam sitting up in bed, his face clearly upset. Outside, Dean can see the windows beginning to turn white with frost.
"Dean," Sam says again, stretching his arms out, his mouth pouting like a spoiled child.
Dean smiles, crawling under the covers on the empty side of the bed and pulling Sam into him until his brother's big back is pressed against his chest. They've been sharing motel rooms since Sam got back, but not a bed, not yet. The familiarity of this makes Dean's entire body relax, makes him finally start to trust this just a little bit. It feels right, lying down to sleep like this, right in a way sleeping at Lisa's never did and never was going to, no matter how hard they both tried.
Sam burrows into the mattress, tugging the comforter tighter around them as he settles. He's half naked under the blankets, the way he's liked sleeping pretty much since it started making Dean have all kinds of uncomfortable thoughts about him. Dean tries pressing closer to feel more of his skin, even though he's as close as he can get.
Dean knows how fucked up it is to find any happiness in this situation, but Sam is back, warm (too warm, like he always is when he's not dead), and all his. They have a house, and if Sam hasn't burnt it down and both of them with it by tomorrow, Dean is going to make it a home. It's going to be the kind of place Sam always dreamed of. The kind of place Sam wouldn't run away from, even if he had a choice.
It's the most Dean can ever remember wanting to survive until the morning.
Dean wakes up with Sam's hand stuffed up his shirt. It's not the first time he's woken up like this, though he certainly wasn't expecting it today, and he kind of wants to laugh, roll over on top of his pervy little brother and kiss him breathless.
At least until he sees the look on Sam's face. Sam's covered in tears, and Dean realizes his fingers aren't feeling around for fun. He's moving in some kind of pattern, tracing little squares right over Dean's heart.
Dean grabs Sam's wrist and holds it still. "Hey, Sam, what's wrong? What're you doing?"
Sam shakes his head, trying to pull his hand away.
"It’s okay, man. Come on." Dean swipes the pad of his thumb over Sam's cheeks. "Don't cry. I got you. No one's gonna hurt you out here."
For some reason, this makes Sam cry harder, and whatever Dean tries to do for him only makes it worse. Finally Dean asks if he should just leave and, frankly to his surprise, Sam nods. So Dean goes downstairs to the kitchen to make breakfast, which just leads to the realization that there is no food in his and Sam's Malibu Dream House, and he either has to take Sam to the nearest store to get some or leave Sam home alone.
Dean doesn't even know where the nearest store is or how long of a drive it would be to get there. He runs a hand through his hair, slamming the fridge shut a little harder than he intends and cursing under his breath. Probably, they could have thought the food situation out a little better.
"Dean?"
Dean turns from making distressed faces at the closed refrigerator and sees Sam standing by the door. He looks fuzzy from sleep, his hair is sticking out at all angles and he's still squinting at the light pouring in through the windows. But he got here all on his own and even managed to remember to put a shirt on. It takes a lot of restraint for Dean not to run across the room and grab Sam into a hug and squeeze until his arms are sore.
"Hey, Sammy," he says instead. "Good morning."
Sam smiles and shuffles into the room, taking a seat at the table. He does all of this without his eyes leaving Dean's face once, and Dean isn't really sure what to make of the staring. His expression is blank, though, and through the window Dean sees mild weather. It's not the clearest day he's ever seen, but he's counting it as a blessing.
"You hungry?"
Sam nods.
"I was gonna make breakfast," Dean leaves his spot by the fridge to lean against the counter just across from where Sam is sitting, "but it looks like we forgot to do the grocery shopping."
No response. Sam blinks a few times, and that's about it.
"Was thinking of driving into town to get some things," he continues, almost just to fill the silence. Sam's not gonna respond, he's not even sure Sam's listening. He might as well be talking to himself, not that it would be the craziest thing he's done. "Don't know if you want to come."
Don't know if you should come is what Dean's really thinking. Because he can just imagine what will happen if they go and Sam gets upset by the line or by someone shoving past him or by something he wants being sold out. Sam could open a hole in the floor and swallow them all or cause a tornado that would wipe the whole town away without even meaning to.
But then he thinks of leaving Sam, of returning to find out his brother was burning while he was standing in some supermarket trying to remember which flavor of Poptarts Sam prefers. He can picture the bright orange flame, the way his heart will catch in his throat from three miles away when he first sees it, but he knows he'll deny it, dread it the entire rest of the drive home. And then he'll, what? Go back to Lisa? Throw himself in with the flames? They've had a home for less than 24 hours, Dean would really like to keep it standing just a little while longer.
"Do you?" Dean asks, scrutinizing his brother, hoping maybe a gleam in his eye or the way he breathes will give away what the right thing to do is. "Do you wanna stay here?"
Sam gapes at him, his mouth just open enough for him to look a little like an idiot. "Dean."
"You're fucking lousy company." Dean turns around as he says it, as if there's something in the sink or cabinet he can use to distract himself. That was bad, and Dean doesn't want to know if he hurt Sam's feelings.
He doesn't hear Sam stand, doesn't hear Sam do anything, but it's only a few quiet moments before he feels someone come up behind him, push him until his body is crushed against the counter and Sam's body is packed just as tightly against his back.
Sam's mouth finds Dean's ear, and he whispers Dean, Dean, Dean until the word has lost all meaning and Dean would swear he's saying something complicated and perfectly intelligible. Dean decides he's taking Sam, because even Sam's worst company is better than anything else he's gonna find.
"I wanna leave within the hour," he tells Sam. "So if you're gonna shower, shower now."
Sam takes a few extra seconds to squeeze Dean just a little tighter, and then he relinquishes his grasp. By the time Dean turns around he's alone in the kitchen, and the water is already running in the bathroom when he reaches the top of the stairs. He heads into their room, pulling up his duffel and thinking that they should unpack later, since apparently they'll be staying long enough to memorize which drawer has shirts and which has pants and maybe Dean can even pull a set in from another room, let Sam have his own and go buy enough shit for Sam to fill it up since their lives no longer have to fit into a goddamn bag.
"Dean," he hears. Dean looks up, taken completely by surprise. He lost himself for a minute there, and now Sam is standing in the doorway to the bathroom, his arms crossed over his chest and a bitchy look on his face.
"Right," Dean says. "Getting ready to go."
Sam huffs, and Dean can just hear the and you were rushing me in the way his shoulders get all straight. Dean waves a hand at him, dismissing his attitude, secretly wanting to fucking dance or something over how Sam the whole thing is.
Dean's gamble pays off. They make it in and out of Albertson's without any incident, stock up on all the things a house needs to support life: toiletries and food and all the blueberry Poptarts Sam is going to be able to eat in his life. Dean takes the chance to get to know the nearest town a little before heading back, because he's not sure when they'll get be able to come in again. They even stop and have lunch at a burger joint, and it's not until 4 pm, when Sam starts looking edgy and the clouds start drawing together, that Dean decides they should head back. He uses the milk going bad in the car as an excuse, which Sam seems to find very wise if the way he rests his hand on the back of Dean's neck as they walk is any indication, and Dean's choosing to believe it is.
They get home and Dean tries to unload the groceries, but Sam keeps swatting him away, because apparently the drawers at the bottom are only for vegetables and Dean is supposed to put cold cuts in the other drawer and the milk can't get pushed to the back. Dean can't do anything right according to his brother's anal retentive standards, so Dean defers to Sam's superior knowledge of all things domestic and lets him take care of the food if it means so much.
Instead, Dean stays true to his plan of moving in, which takes a grand total of 45 minutes. Dean's sure Sam will come up later and throw a fit about unfolded socks and Dean choosing the wrong things to hang in the closet, in fact he's looking forward to it. He finds their washing machine in a closet he'd been planning to pull linens out of and learns that there's a shelf over it for them to stash detergent on. Then he finds the actual linen closet and is surprised to learn that Bobby keeps the place stocked with plenty of clean sheets. Dean picks a dark green for their room, replacing the flowery pink that had been on the bed they used last night when they arrived and wonders if it would be a violation of everything manly to try buying matching curtains the next time they're in town.
Dean puts the rest of the crap they bought while they were in town away while Sam makes dinner, because it's a task that gives him the excuse to swing by the kitchen every few minutes and make sure everything is under control. Not that Sam has proved himself untrustworthy, but if he has an episode-and Dean has every reason to believe Sam's got those coming in spades-he would rather know if it's going to be while he's using a stove.
Sam does okay-their lasagna tastes like nuked assholes, but that's just how Sam cooks. Dean had forgotten that, the reminder is almost welcome, or at least he's pretty sure it will be once he's brushed it out of his mouth.
They spend the majority of the night on the couch watching what seems like the same episode of Law and Order eight times over. Dean holds Sam's feet in his lap and Sam says his name warmly every now and then, and, idiot that Dean is, he forgets for a few hours how fucked up everything is and just lets himself feel happy.
The next morning, Sam is doing the same thing with his fingers as the day before, only now he's tracing squares on Dean's bicep. He's not crying, not looking too upset, though his expression is a sort of dim resignation, and Dean can remember too well how scared Sam had been about it yesterday. He has no way of knowing what it means or how to deal with it; that's always been a nightmare for Dean. He can fix anything Sam tells him about, but when Sam hides he's useless. And now, Dean's not even sure if Sam is hiding things on purpose or if he really came back from Hell with just that one syllable: Dean.
Dean sits up, forcing Sam's hands to drop and distracting him away from whatever he's doing.
"I'm gonna make breakfast," he announces, and he looks down to where Sam's still lying on the bed. Sam doesn't look upset with him for moving, so he files the information away in case Sam gives him the same wakeup call tomorrow. "You coming with?"
Sam shakes his head, burrowing into the pillows. Dean thinks back on all his years of waking Sam up for school, seeing that stupidly adorable response from his brother, usually accompanied by the "five more minutes, Dean" that Sam doesn't supply now.
Dean nods and goes downstairs to brew coffee, knowing perfectly well that five minutes means 10. Dean's scrambling eggs and singing a pretty excellent rendition of Ramblin' On when Sam makes it in and grumbles an annoyed Dean as he sits down at one of the spots Dean set up at the table.
Dean turns to give his brother a grin. "You gonna come in here and tell me the show ain't good enough when I'm making your prissy ass breakfast?"
Sam just pouts, and Dean stops singing, but he keeps whistling good and loud. Just so Sam won't think he won or anything. Can’t have that.
He sets the plate down in front of Sam as soon as it's done, but he snatches it away when Sam picks up his fork.
"Dean," Sam complains, reaching out for the eggs.
Dean stays firm, keeps the plate in his hand and sits next to Sam. He puts it on the table. "I'll let you have it if you say something."
Sam opens his mouth, and Dean stops him before he can try it. "Other than my name."
Sam's mouth closes at that and he glares at Dean. He doesn’t say anything. Maybe he knows Dean is bullshitting. It's not like he's about to starve him.
He hesitates, is about to give up and slide the plate across to Sam, but then he gets another idea. A bad idea, maybe, but it's something he wants and if he shouldn't be asking for it-well, Sam has already demonstrated his ability to say no.
"I'll let you have it if you kiss me," Dean tries.
Sam's glare turns into wide, surprised eyes, but then he smiles so big and as he leans in, Dean can almost swear the sun is starting to shine in just a little brighter. He presses a kiss to Dean's lips, good strong pressure, and holds it there, right hand coming up to cup Dean's cheek. Then he pulls back, a business like expression on his face that turns into a very self-pleased smirk when he snatches his plate of eggs back to his side of the table right under Dean's nose.
"Yeah, take them, you little pain," Dean mutters, trying to play his part despite the overwhelming urge to just smile and smile and smile until his face gets stuck like that.
It's a pretty good morning after a pretty good night before and day before that, so Dean is ready for the trouble lurking around the corner. Don't get him wrong, he's appreciative that they got any break at all, but he's been living the Winchester life since he was four, and he's pretty much done falling for false senses of security.
Dean isn't surprised to hear the cry Sam lets out when he's in the shower, doesn't let himself get hung up on how unfair the whole thing is before he busts in and finds Sam bleeding all over the tiles on the wall that used to be white but are now turning crimson. Sam's got a cut on his forehead. That's good, that means the blood looks worse than it'll actually be, but the good news goes right down the drain with the blood when Dean realizes how it got there. Sam's hand is pressed flat against the tile and he tries to smack his head against the wall again but Dean catches him, pulling him back and forcing him to sit down in the tub as he washes the cut and turns the water off.
Sam isn't crying or anything; his face is back to that blank state, as if he wasn't just trying to break his head open.
"Goddammit, Sam, what the fuck are you doing?" he asks, not expecting an answer, which is good because he doesn't get one. Sam sits unmoving as Dean inspects him and pulls out rubbing alcohol to clean it. It's a small cut. Dean is more shaken by how it got there than anything. Sam had seemed so okay just half an hour ago when Dean had watched him wander upstairs.
Sam stares up at Dean with a glassy expression of terror fixed on him. His mouth starts moving, as if he's trying to say something, but at first it's just abrupt little sounds that get lost on the way to becoming actual words.
"What, Sammy?" Dean guides him up out of the tub, and Sam comes easily when he pulls him into his chest. "Sam, why would you do that?"
Sam shakes his head and pulls back and Dean can see how hard he's trying.
"Dean," he says. He starts something else, but then he stops. It's another half a minute before he regains his focus, looks Dean in the eye and starts over. "Dean."
"Yeah, I got that part." Dean holds his gaze, afraid if he breaks it Sam will give up on whatever he's trying so hard to explain, and if there's any chance in hell he can get an explanation for what just happened, Dean is not doing anything stupid to screw it up.
"I'm," Sam finally manages, speaking very, very slowly.
"You're what, Sam? C'mon, it's okay."
He forms the next words deliberately, like the speech pattern is new to him, like he's learning English for the first time. In a way, maybe he is. Dean gets a shiver thinking of how long Sam was in Hell, who's to say they let him talk? "Dean, I'm sorry."
Dean frowns. "It's alright, Sam. You scared me. You can't do it again, alright? But it's okay, I forgive you."
Sam shakes his head. "I'm sorry," he says, and again, "I'm sorry," with this pleading voice like Dean just isn't getting what he's saying and he really needs Dean to get it.
"Sorry for what?" Dean passes his fingers through Sam's wet hair and Sam closes his eyes, letting out a dull sob. "You can tell me. Whatever it is. Just tell me."
"I'm sorry." Sam leans into Dean's touch. "Dean."
"Shh, it's alright. Whatever it is, Sammy. It's okay. It doesn't matter. I forgive you."
Again, Sam shakes his head, and now he opens his eyes and takes Dean's hand between his own, pulling it away from himself and placing it on Dean's thigh. Dean tries to reach for him again, but Sam backs away this time, even though he'd been perfectly content to take comfort from Dean a few seconds ago. Dean finds this annoying, but he swallows that, because that's not really what Sam needs right now. Not that Sam is letting Dean give him what he needs right now.
Dean turns the water back on. The blood has all drained from the water, though there are still red marks on the tile. Dean averts his eyes and focuses on Sam instead. "You're finishing with a bath," he informs his brother. "And I'm sitting right here."
Dean is expecting Sam to give him some kind of complaint about it, about the fact that he's old enough to clean himself, which he has just demonstrated is not the case, but instead Sam nods.
"Hand me the shampoo," Dean tells him. "And put your hair under for a moment."
Sam obeys, lets Dean wash his hair and soap him down, even closes his eyes and seems to take some pleasure from it every now and then. When it's all done, Dean wraps him in a towel and dries his hair as much as he can before gently nudging Sam into the bedroom. He picks out a shirt and pajama pants and Sam puts them on obediently. After the excitement in the shower, Sam seems to have sunk into a sleepy complacency, so Dean leads him to bed and tucks him in.
"Dean." Sam reaches out for him once he's comfortable, and Dean lets his brother pull him into bed. He stays lying over the covers but relaxes so that one of his arms is cradling Sam's head and the rest of him is pressed to Sam's side.
"I'm sorry," Sam murmurs. He sounds like he's just a few seconds from falling asleep, which Dean thinks will be good for him.
"Don't be sorry," he says. He puts a finger under Sam's chin and makes Sam look up at him. "All I want-if you're really sorry, you gotta show me by not hurting yourself again, okay? Don't tell me, just don't you ever scare me like that again. You got me, Sam? You promise?"
Sam lets out a long breath but after a while he nods a few quick times, drawing closer to Dean.
"Good," Dean tells him. He presses a kiss to Sam's forehead, just over the Band-Aid he put there, even though it's not really necessary, because it made him feel the tiniest bit better about how powerless he is to help. "Good boy."
Sam's asleep before long, and Dean lies there, not able to sleep himself, more because of the shock than because it's only a little after noon and he's not really tired enough for a nap. It still feels nice to be here, to have Sam like this, mostly warm except for the wet hair soaking into his pillow. Man is Dean going to hear about that tomorrow. But still, Sam looks peaceful for the moment, almost content. Dean tries not to wonder about what nightmares are lurking underneath that deceitfully calm exterior.
Sam's hand is curled up on Dean's chest, a few fingers holding the fabric of his shirt so that he has to be careful disentangling Sam when he decides to get up and clean the blood out of the shower. After that Sam is still out for the count, so Dean decides it's a good time to make dinner. He doesn't want to leave Sam alone, but he really doesn't want to leave Sam alone while he's awake. They've got some of those canned soups in the pantry downstairs, so Dean makes Campbell's and brings it up to Sam.
Sam blinks awake, smiling when he sees Dean, as if he's completely forgotten the entire traumatic incident in the shower already.
"You hungry?" he asks, just for conversation, and Sam nods.
Dean pulls the wicker chair in the corner up to the bedside and spoon feeds Sam, like he used to do when Sam was a kid and sick.
After Sam finishes eating, Dean takes Sam's hand in his own. "We gotta get a TV in here," Dean says, trying to keep his tone light. "This room is boring as shit."
Sam laughs.
"Wanna go down? See if anything exciting is on?"
Sam shakes his head 'no,' and Dean would be lying if he said he wasn't relieved. Okay, he's a clingy paranoid freak, but he doesn't want Sam on stairs or anywhere harder to supervise than a bed.
He doesn't even know what the hell overtakes him as he says, "Wanna hear a story?" Maybe it's how young and old Sam looks at the same time as he lies there in bed with his eyes fixed on Dean.
Dean is expecting to get laughed at, but instead Sam nods. Dean thinks back on when Sam really was a kid, tries to remember the stories he used to tell Sam to get him to sleep. There'd been one book-Dean had stolen it from a public library in Michigan because Sam had loved it so much. It was the first thing he ever stole. He'd spent months convinced the police would batter down the door any day and take him away, but Sam had loved it.
He chuckles at the memory, about to say, Hey, Sam, remember The Three Little Wolves and The Big Bad Pig when he remembers that in the end of that, everyone had lived and the bad guy had changed for the better and no one had to get hunted or eaten. Sam had loved that about it, but that's not how things go in the real world. Sam knows that by now. Dean thinks he'll take the original over that any day. All the pigs die except the little brother. The little brother lives because he's the smartest and it's fair, even if it isn't happy.
"Once upon a time," Dean says, "there were three little pigs-"
"Dean!" Sam says.
Dean's chest feels like caving in. Sam sounds exactly like he did when he was little, when Dean would start to tell the story about the wolves and Sam would cry out his name all exasperated like that and tell him that's not how the story goes, they're supposed to be pigs, and he would laugh and roll on his bed like the reversal was the greatest damn thing he'd ever heard. It had seemed at the time like that was never going to get old, and now when Sam says Dean Dean knows what he means is you're telling the story wrong.
"Three little wolves," he corrects.
Sam smiles and nods and Dean continues until Sam's face is turned toward his and his eyes are half-shut and the story is over. Then he climbs into bed behind Sam and tells his brother the next thing that pops into his head until they're both yawning through the happily ever afters.
ON TO PART TWO
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters/Pairings: Sam/Dean, past Sam/Lucifer, brief Dean/Lisa at the beginning
Rating: NC-17 for explicit sexual content (including somnophilia and the dubcon that comes with it), references to torture, non-con, and all other manners of fun Hell trauma (not graphic), implications of a relationship that has been going on since Sam was underage (he could have been 18, but it definitely started pre-series)
Word Count: 20,000
Author’s Note: This is my 2013 offering to samdean_otp's delightful minibang! Apologies to anyone who noticed I missed my original posting date. I had a project due and it turned out having to take precedence. Writing has been rough going for me lately, so the fact that I finished something at all is a small miracle, LET'S JUST FOCUS ON THAT OKAY? I would be betraying every one of you if I didn't admit right off the bat that the best thing about this fic is the art quickreaver created for it, so please go take a look and tell her that you love it! One of the pieces is a little spoiler-y, so if you intend to read the story and are not big on glimpses at the end of stories, maybe hold off on the art until after, BUT DEFINITELY LOOK AT IT. I also want to thank quickreaver, not only for claiming me and doing incredible art for my fic but for being a darling to work with and for her understanding when I had to get an extension at the lastest of minutes. As usual, I stole the title and basic premise from Josh Ritter. I gotta send that guy a fruit basket someday. Also, if anyone actually read The Three Little Wolves, I *am* aware that it was published a bit too late for Dean to have read it to Sam as a little kid, but hey! Let’s fudge that timeline. Cool beans.
Summary: AU after 5x22: Sam mysteriously returns from the cage and Dean thinks their problems are solved. Unfortunately, Sam is so shaken from his time in Hell that he can't-won't?-even talk to Dean, and when natural disasters begin to occur as frequently as they did when the Devil was walking the Earth, Dean realizes his brother may have acquired some of the angel's powers without picking up the ability to control them. In order to prevent Sam from hurting anyone, Dean finds a house as far from anything as he can manage and settles there to wait until the day Sam gets better-or until they both get killed by Sam's grace.
ART
AO3 // PDF
It's been raining for three days straight. Not the weirdest thing that's ever happened in Dean's life, given, but considering the drought that's been going on and the fact that no one-not even the weathermen-saw it coming, it's worth noting. Three days of steady pouring, like the sky has finally gotten so sick of watching over this festering wound of a planet that it's falling down.
There hasn’t been any rain for six months. Pretty much since Sam went under, though Dean's sure he's forcing that connection. Everything that happens gets measured like that these days: before Sam, after Sam. He doesn't know why it scares him so much, this rain, but he can't make himself walk away from the window. Maybe it's because things are moving on. When everything stopped with Sam, well, that made sense to Dean. But just look at those goddamn storm clouds. They're not stopping. The world is going on like before, like he wanted it to. That was the whole point of Sam taking the swan dive, after all.
There's a hand on his shoulder, soft but firm enough to jerk him back into attention. He half turns to see Lisa watching him with that worried edge she has, and Dean wonders, not for the first time, just what right he has to be here making her worry like that.
"They're saying the lakes are going to flood if it keeps up like this," she says with a slight laugh. "Can you imagine? Remember how empty Lake Michigan was last month?"
Dean gives her a distracted nod and turns back to the window. They'd taken Ben fishing, not that there was really anything to catch. All the fish that hadn't already dried up were pressing to the center of the lake, close as they could get to deep water. You could see where the waterline usually started and plenty of dry land under it. It was pretty depressing, not that Dean's one to judge what is or is not depressing.
He's trying not to think about it too much. That amount of change happening that quickly-the lakes ready to overflow after three measly days-it feels like a case. And Dean doesn't do cases anymore. Doesn't go looking for them, is not supposed to be finding them.
He scrubs at his face with one hand, hoping to find a little focus, and Lisa is still standing next to him, waiting for some kind of attempt at conversation. Something she can hold on to and use to convince herself that Dean is content and getting better and not thinking about how damn painless a death drowning would be. He owes her that much.
"Bet they're pretty happy for it down south," he says. "They might be able to grow something after all."
"No more dust storms," she agrees, her mouth quirking in that clever way Dean is really pretty fond of. "They're calling it God's work."
Dean swallows a lump. He's got no clue what it is, but he's pretty sure it's not that. "Don't they always?"
Lisa hmms and reaches up, running a couple of fingers over Dean's forehead, as if there's hair to tuck away. Dean leans into it, closes his eyes and kisses her back when she rises to her tiptoes. He does his very best not to remember how Sam's hair would never stay when he did that to it, or how annoying it was to have to get on tiptoes just to kiss his little brother.
"You ready to come up to bed?" she asks when she pulls away.
Dean manages a smile. "You go on ahead. I'm just gonna…"
Lisa frowns, looking worried again. "Don't stay here all night, Dean."
"I won't," he says. "Just wanna watch the rain a little longer. Makes me feel relaxed."
She stands there a few seconds more, and Dean can tell she knows he's full of shit, but she doesn't say anything. He watches her leave and turns back to the steady pattering of water on the window. It's not soothing, really, kind of the opposite of that, but it's hypnotizing anyway. Tonight won't be the first one this week that he spends standing here as if he's waiting for something or someone.
He knows no one's coming for him. But he stays right there anyway. Staring out into a dark street.
There's a crack of thunder that seems to shake the whole house. It keeps going so long Dean comes out of the trance the rain lulled him into and realizes it's not thunder at all. It's knocking. At the door. In the middle of the night during what might as well be a hurricane, if hurricanes could cover 48 states and start on dry land.
Dean's so damn confused he can't think straight, but the knocking won't stop or let up, and he doesn't want Lisa or Ben to wake and come down in case there's a monster standing outside. He flips the switch on the porch light, but it flickers and dies out. He doesn't know if that's the storm killing the power or the thing that's knocking. Power surges usually mean ghost or demon, and either way there's no chance it'll make it through the door. So Dean opens up.
Sam's standing there, staring placidly forward. A strike of lightning flashes across the sky just long enough for Dean to see the black wings coming out of his brother's back. So, Lucifer then. That explains the rain and the unsettled feeling Dean's had since it started, and it explains why he's here. Whatever minor inconvenience Sam caused him by jumping into that cage, those six months it slowed him down, those were Dean's fault.
Dean should maybe be worrying how he got out of the cage or how he's supposed to stop the Devil this time, with no smart ideas and no backup. All he can think is that his little brother is still in there. Whatever Lucifer is going to do to the planet after he's done with Dean, he's going to use Sammy to do it.
"Are you going to kill me?" he asks, hoping he doesn't live long enough to hear the answer.
Sam's face breaks, from indifferent to anguished, and his body crumbles to the floor in front of Dean. The rain stops, as does the thunder and the lightning. Everything goes quiet except for the howling of wind and the sobs coming from his brother's body.
Sam kisses Dean's feet.
By the time Lisa wakes the next morning, Dean's packed what few belongings he had scattered through her house back into the trunk of the Impala. She comes downstairs in her nightdress, looking confused but not alarmed. Then she sees Sam lying across the couch with a sheet tucked around him, his hand in Dean's as Dean watches him sleep, and her mouth closes before she can ask. She nods and doesn't show much on her face as she turns to the kitchen to make coffee.
She brings him a cup shortly after, and Dean reluctantly lets go of Sam's hand to accept it. Then she sits on the armchair to Dean's right and they're both quiet until finally she says, "When are you leaving?"
Dean takes a sip from the coffee and keeps his eyes on Sam's face. "As soon as he wakes up."
"You know you don't have to-" she starts, but she cuts herself off as soon as Dean looks up at her. She sighs and shakes her head. "You'll call, though? You'll still come see us?"
"You really think that's best? For Ben?"
"Yeah, that's really noble, Dean." Lisa's grip tightens on her coffee mug. "I bet you're telling yourself you don't have a choice right now."
"I don't," Dean says, looking back to Sam.
"That's bullshit. That's what you say to feel better about it." Lisa stands. "You don't have to stop living just because-"
"Lise."
She pauses, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. Yoga coping, Dean thinks. It works. The fight goes out of her voice. "Just call every now and then. Let me know you're not dead."
"I will," Dean promises, though he's pretty sure they both know he's lying.
She says something about having to get ready for work, and Dean knows to be gone by the time Ben wakes up. Sam stirs after she leaves the room, blinking his eyes slowly. He hadn't said anything last night; Dean had hardly been able to drag him in and onto the couch before he'd passed out.
"Dean," Sam says.
"Sammy." Dean presses a hand to his cheek. "Hey."
Sam turns his face into his pillow, away from Dean's touch, and starts saying Dean's name over and over again. It's another half hour before Dean manages to get Sam calm, by which time he's sitting on the couch, holding Sam up with his arms wrapped tight around his brother. Sam hides his face against Dean and whispers his name every few minutes, but he's mostly quiet. Not that it counts for much; Dean can still feel the tears trickling down his neck.
"Shh, Sammy, it's okay," he whispers. "Tell me what's wrong."
"Dean," is all he says, and he's still crying, and Dean has no goddamn idea what to do, so of course he blurts out the first idiotic thing that comes into his head.
"You're wrong," he says.
Sam stops crying for a few seconds, pulls back far enough for Dean to see his face, which is all blotchy and covered in snot and tears. But there's a confused smile at the corner of his mouth, and Dean frames Sam's face with his hands. "Hey, Sammy, you okay?"
Sam nods in Dean's grasp, bringing one big hand up to wipe at his eyes. Dean searches his face for any sign this is a trick-he knows he's an idiot for believing this is Sam, even for a minute. He saw the wings. And maybe Lucifer could break out of the cage, but Sam? No way.
Still. He's either doing a hell of a job pretending, or that's Dean's little brother in there, and if this is the Devil, if this really is just some elaborate plan to kill him, Dean thinks it's a pretty good way to go.
"You wanna go for a ride?"
Sam nods. Thank god Sam nods, because Dean really wants to get out of here without having to see anymore disappointed faces.
He leads Sam as far as the door before Sam laughs at him, shaking his head as he muscles past Dean and walks ahead on his own. It's kind of a relief, except for how it makes Dean want to trip the cocky little bastard.
The sun hasn’t risen yet. It's already nearing nine in the morning, so it strikes Dean as a little weird. He shrugs it off. He's got a brother who may or may not be Lucifer and is also probably crazy or in pain or something-Dean wouldn't know because Sam hasn't said a goddamn word except for his name. There are bigger things to worry about than a late sunrise.
The drive to Bobby's takes four days. Dean could have driven the distance in one day if he was determined enough, which he damn well is. But the road is insane-they get stopped by more storms, a blizzard, and so many tornados Dean loses count.
Sam sleeps through most of it, tossing and turning and whimpering for hours on end. He still won't talk to Dean, not even when they stop in motels or diners, but he doesn't scream or cry much after the first day. Dean can tell he's distracted by something, but he can always reach Sam when he tries. Sam at least knows who he is and is right there instead of dead, so. Dean's kind of feeling pretty okay about the whole thing, except for the part where the weather seems singularly determined to block them from reaching the one person on Earth who might be able to explain just what the hell Sam is doing topside and what that means for the little Apocalypse they thought they'd averted.
Bobby greets Dean with a wry look, a smack to the side of his head. "I should've known this mess had something to do with you," he says eyeing the storm clouds looming over his house. Then Dean points in Sam's direction. Bobby shuts up after that, staring open-mouthed from Sam to Dean and back to Sam again.
"Is it?" he asks, his eyes still trained on Sam.
"I don't think so," Dean says. "I ran all the tests, but…" Dean bites his bottom lip, not wanting to bring up the wings. Bobby will assume the worst, like Dean should have, and Dean…he can't. Sam's been back for days now and it's him, it's his brother. Dean would know. Dean would have to know. "I was hoping you might be able to tell me."
Bobby doesn't move. He doesn't hug Sam, but he doesn't pick anything pointy up, either. "Dean, that's not your brother," he says, taking a step back. "There's no way he's here, you know that."
"No, it is. It's him," Dean replies, tensing. Bobby is within arm's reach of at least five things that could be used as weapons, and now would be a really good time for Sam to say something in his own defense, but instead he stares ahead like he doesn't recognize a hunter about to strike when he sees it.
Dean trained him better than that.
Thankfully, one of them is paying attention, and Dean manages to catch the shotgun Bobby pulls from behind the door before he can properly aim it. "I know it's impossible, but it's him." He shoves the gun down, resisting the urge to laugh as he does it. "And if it wasn't, just what the hell good did you think shooting him was gonna do?"
Bobby makes a surly face and grudgingly lets go of his weapon. "How are you so sure it's him? What's he said?"
"He's not talking."
"Oh, that's real promising."
"He-" Dean turns to look at his feet. On the rare occasion that Dean has managed to make Sam laugh since he got back, Dean has seen the smile he fell in love with. That's it, that's all he's got. Bobby won't understand if Dean tries to tell him Lucifer could never hope to laugh like that, but that and the feeling in the pit of his stomach are all he has to go on. "If you've ever trusted me, Bobby, trust me right now. I know Sam when I see Sam."
Bobby makes an annoyed sound and hesitates a few seconds longer. "You seen the forecast lately, boy?"
"Now really the time to talk about the weather?"
"Weather's been going nuts-"
"You're telling me, we were driving through it."
"Exactly." Bobby gives Dean a sorry look. "I figured it was something supernatural, but I was hoping it was a coincidence it was coming from Michigan."
"What are you talking about?"
"It's only been happening on a straight line. Line of tornadoes right along the highway. Everywhere you and that thing must have passed. I'm telling you, Dean, it's not your brother. I'm sorry. I know you want to believe-"
Dean doubts himself for a second before he looks over and there's Sam and god fucking dammit, Dean just got him back, he can't lose him again. It's Sam. It has to be Sam. Dean steps in front of him. "Bobby, this is my brother and either you're gonna let us both in, or you're gonna shoot us both right now."
"We're trapping him in holy fire and calling for backup," Bobby says, but he finally steps aside to let Dean in. Dean watches the surprise on Bobby's face when Sam makes it through the door without a problem, and Dean breathes a sigh of relief, too. He'd had plenty of wards at Lisa's, but he knows Bobby's got a ton more tricks up his sleeve. Pretty much anything Bobby knows about-angels included-couldn't make it into his house, but Sam is standing in the hallway, staring up at the ceiling like he's never seen one before.
"Come on, Sammy," Dean says, tugging his hand forward. "Library?"
"Oh, yeah. Let's start a fire in my library," Bobby snaps. "Idjit."
They end up in the panic room, pretty much the last place on Earth Dean wants to take Sam, but if he recognizes the room at all, he doesn't acknowledge it. Bobby makes a small circle of fire around Sam and lights it, and Sam lets out a scared sound and sits down on the floor whimpering. Dean can hardly see him over the top of the flames, which is making him all kinds of nervous.
Rain starts, dripping in through the devil's trap skylight, and Bobby scoffs. "Goddamn weather," he murmurs. "Think he's trying to put out the fire?"
"No," Dean replies.
Bobby snorts. "No, of course you don't."
"You really think this crazy weather is following Sam?"
"No," Bobby says, pulling some herbs Dean immediately recognizes off a shelf. "I think it's following Lucifer. Just like it did last time."
"If he was Lucifer, don't you think we'd both be dead already? You really think he would have sat down like that and let you trap his ass in holy fire?"
"I don't know what he'd do, Dean. He's a sick bastard. You're probably putting on the best show he's seen in years."
"You gonna call Cas or what?" Dean asks, inclining his head toward the mix of crap on the small table Bobby's setting up.
"Oh, because you're so much quicker at setting up summoning rituals." Bobby lights a match and drops it into the bowl he's prepared, and Dean waits a few seconds before opening his eyes.
"Cas?"
"You may not have heard," says a gravelly voice just behind Dean, "but I am in the middle of trying to win a war. It's very important, so while I would love to stay and fraternize-"
Dean turns, feeling a smile coming on despite himself. "Hey, Cas. Long time."
"Should I start explaining why that is again?"
"I need you to tell me it's him," Dean says, grabbing Castiel's coat by the collar. "Please tell me it's him."
Castiel's eyebrows draw together, and he turns to Bobby, the question clear in his expression.
Bobby points behind him to the ring of holy fire. "We thought this was kind of important."
Castiel's big blue eyes get even bigger when he sees Sam, and Sam stands immediately, showing more energy for this than he has for anything else in days. They stare at each other for a long minute, and then Castiel says the one thing Dean was dreading.
"Lucifer?"
Sam looks back quietly. Or rather, Lucifer does. Dean can feel the weight of Bobby's 'I told you so' coming, but Bobby just squeezes his shoulder and looks sorry.
"I'll kill him," Dean says, seizing forward. "Give me the oil. I'm gonna burn the fucker alive."
Castiel puts a hand out, stopping Dean, shaking his head as he does so. "Wait."
"I don't care if he's your brother, Cas, save it. He's wearing my brother. I'll cook us both if I have to."
Castiel tilts his head. He hasn’t stopped gawking at Sam, and finally he looks to Bobby and Dean, but his face is terrified. "That is not Lucifer."
"You just said-"
"I was recognizing his grace. But I can see now, my brother is not here."
"So, who is then?"
"I would have to check to be sure," Castiel answers. "But the method is painful, and in this case, I think rather unnecessary. Whose soul do you think it is, Dean?"
"Sam," he says. "It has to be Sam."
"You would know your brother better than I would." He snaps, and the fire around Sam goes out, but Sam doesn't move. He's still sitting on the floor, rocking back and forth as the rain pours down on him. Dean rushes forward, picking him up and pulling him away from the part of the room with the open roof, though it's useless by now. Sam is soaked to the bone.
Dean kind of wants Bobby to apologize, but Bobby was pretty gracious when he was right, so Dean lets it drop. There's a much, much bigger picture here. "What did you mean you were recognizing his grace? There's leftover or something? Trace?"
"This is no trace. Lucifer's grace is intact. Your brother is still carrying it."
"So if there have been, say, a buttload of natural disasters this week? What does that mean?"
"It means Sam is very powerful, and his powers are bent on destruction."
"Sam wouldn't cause these things," Bobby says, still sounding skeptical about the whole thing. "People are dying."
"Sam," Castiel says, turning to face Bobby. "Is a human. However strong he has shown himself to be in the past, he cannot control this. The powers are acting out on their own without Lucifer to guide them. It's almost as dangerous to your planet as when Lucifer was controlling them."
"Well, make them stop!" Dean says.
Castiel shakes his head, turning to Dean and Sam. "I cannot."
"Why not?"
"He is stronger than I am," Castiel answers, as if that's just a normal fact and not something really kind of horrifying. Sam, Dean's idiot little brother who used to need Dean to pick him up just to reach a light switch, is walking around with his body packed full of the fucking devil. "I can’t overpower him. Only God and Death are stronger, and probably Michael. At any rate, one of them is locked up in Hell and the other two are likely indifferent."
"You can't do anything to make this go away?"
Castiel hesitates. Dean watches his hand clench and unclench at his side and finally he says, "There is something I could do."
"Do it then," Bobby mutters.
"I want to hear the but." Dean catches Castiel's eyes and manages to hold the angel's gaze. "There's always a but."
Castiel nods. "I could absorb his grace into myself. It would make me strong. Too strong, almost. It would make me god," he says, and Dean doesn't like his tone, the way his eyes darken. "I would be able to defeat Raphael easily."
"But," Dean pushes, and Castiel seems to jerk awake.
He frowns. "Dean, your brother was in Hell for a very long time. Lucifer did not treat him kindly. I can tell just by looking at him how much he's suffered."
"What did they do to him?" Dean asks.
"You don't want to know," Castiel answers sadly. "I can only see the damage, not what caused it. But I can tell you I do not want to know either."
"But what does that have to do with his grace?" Dean demands.
"It's the only thing holding him together," Castiel says. Dean feels all his hope collapsing. "If I take that out of him, there's no way his mind or his body will be able to cope with what’s been done to him. He may survive, but he will not be your brother. He might not walk or talk or he may very well simply die. I can't tell you."
Dean pulls Sam against him tighter. Four days and he's supposed to lose his brother again already. Even in Dean's world, that's too cruel to be real. "No," he says. "No."
"I'm sorry, Dean."
After a long period of silence, Bobby speaks up, "Dean, I…I hate to say it, but-"
"No," he growls.
"He could hurt someone like this. He'll probably end up getting himself killed, anyway. And you along with him."
"He'll suffer," Dean says weakly.
"He's suffering now," Bobby points out. "Dean, look at him he's not exactly the picture of mental health."
"And you wanna make it worse?" Dean looks at Castiel. "What do you think we should do?"
"I gave up as much as the rest of you to save this planet. I do not wish to see it destroyed." Castiel gives Sam a pitiful look. "But I do not cherish the thought of inflicting that fate on your brother."
"We can’t ask him this," Dean says, his fingers tangling in the knots at the back of Sam's hair. "We already asked for too much from him, and he did it."
"It's selfish, Dean," Bobby says. "I love Sam with all my heart, you know I do. But you're only thinking of yourself. You know Sam wouldn't have jumped into that hole if he wouldn't have preferred the suffering to causing it for other people."
Dean shakes his head, still holding onto Sam too tight. "I won't let you."
Castiel takes a step forward anyway, reaching a hand out toward Sam. "Sam, this should be your choice. What do you want us to do?"
Sam blinks at him and, after a long time, turns and huddles closer into Dean's embrace. "Dean."
"He can't go on living like this." Bobby points to the panic room floor. "There's already at least three inches of water in here. He'll drown us all."
Castiel nods. "Perhaps if he were isolated, the threat to others would not be as serious?"
Dean grabs onto that, onto the tiny shred of hope it offers. "You were tracking the disasters, weren't you, Bobby? Aside from the rain storm, they only followed us, right? Sam's only a threat within a few miles radius."
"That radius is a little more considerable than a few miles," Bobby says, scratching his beard. "And it's a hell of a gamble, either way."
Castiel turns to look at Dean. "If you leave him somewhere far enough from others, the chances are he will only hurt himself."
"Is there somewhere we can go?"
Bobby sighs. "I got a place in Montana. I let hunters stay there if they need a home base in the area. People hardly ever use it because there aren't many people for monsters to kill around, but I guess that's what you'd be in the market for?"
"That'd be perfect," Dean says. "Sam and I can go there and hole up and-"
"You'll die," Castiel says. "The likelihood is that Sam will destroy you."
"So what, you want me to leave him there by himself?"
Castiel looks away. "Believe it or not, it would be a kindness. When he dies, he will come to Heaven, you both will. You know that. I have seen to that much. He will not feel the cage in Heaven."
Dean's almost tempted to say it's a good time for them both to die, but Sam's hardly gotten to live since he got back. Dean can at least try this before giving up. Worst case is they die anyway. "You can take us there?" he asks Castiel.
Castiel nods.
Bobby interjects himself one last time. "It's a terrible plan, Dean."
"You saying I shouldn't do it?"
Bobby shrugs, but his eyes look almost amused. "I'm saying you're a moron, and that's all I have to say about any of it."
Dean smiles. "I love you too, old man."
Bobby steps forward, first hugging Dean, then giving Sam a longer hug, maybe to make up for not trusting him earlier. As if Sam had even noticed the slight.
"Alright, Cas," Dean says. "Let's get this over with."
Castiel steps forward, his fingers stretching out for Sam and Dean's foreheads and Dean stops him an inch before contact.
"And you'd better bring my car."
Dean sees the half smile on Castiel's face for a moment before he feels a cool rush of wind and hears wings flapping. He looks around to find that they're standing just outside of a pretty decent farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. Dean can only really believe it's his because the Impala's parked out front.
"Hey, thanks for helping," Dean says, turning around to find Castiel is still standing behind them with his hands outstretched.
"Don’t mention it," he replies, and then his lips turn down. "I mean that very seriously, Dean. I’m sorry to say I do not have time to stay and talk, and I cannot keep an eye on you and your brother. If this is a disaster, I will not know. Do not pray for my attention unless it is an absolute emergency."
Dean is about to make a witty rejoinder when Castiel disappears, leaving him and Sam-Dean doesn't even know where in Montana. Alone, for miles and miles alone, and that big, unfamiliar house in front of them is supposed to be theirs.
"Welcome home, Sammy," Dean says, hoping he doesn't sound nearly as terrified as he thinks he does.
Sam stares at the house for a few long minutes before hail starts to pelt them and they're forced to rush inside with a little less ceremony than Dean would have preferred.
She's a fixer-upper, that's for damn sure, but the house comes with devil's traps, salt lines taped down on every window, and surprisingly hot running water. Dean's pretty sure it would pass for a home to most people, but to him and Sam, it's practically the Playboy Mansion. Minus all the hot naked chicks. Dean promises Sam he'll work on fixing that, and Sam has the good grace to shake his head, laughing just a bit and shoving Dean's chest as he says his name. Considering it's almost the only word he's heard in the last week, Dean is not even a little bit tired of hearing his own name.
They spend a good chunk of time exploring. The place has three stories and from the top level they can see just how far the flat plains in their backyard go on before there's a fence. Dean kind of wonders how the hell Bobby afforded this, but then the land up here is probably not in high demand, and Bobby did say he'd had the place for years.
Either way, it's a palace as far as Dean is concerned. He stands at the window, staring out at all the empty land and wondering if he and Sam will ever get a chance to make something of it. If Sam will ever be Sam again, not that he's not now, but Dean does kind of miss conversation, as bad as Sam was at making it.
"What do you think, Sammy?" Dean asks, his arm wrapped around his brother's shoulder and his fingers soothing up and down his arm in a way that seems to calm him. "You like it?"
Sam puts his head on Dean's shoulder. There's a warm little smile on his lips, and Dean can't help wondering if Sam is the one causing the bright pink and purple sunset or if it's just a coincidence. It's kind of really beautiful (not that Dean would admit something like that out loud), and not a bad way to end their first-possibly last-day at home.
"You're so gay," Dean mutters.
Dean can just hardly see Sam's smile widening in the window across from them, and then he yawns.
"You tired?"
Sam makes a sleepy sound, so Dean takes his hand and leads him back down to the second floor where most of the bedrooms are. They've got bedrooms now, Dean thinks. What a novelty. Plenty to choose from and no need to wake up before noon to check out of them. The beds even looked halfway decent at first glance, though if they manage to survive more than a few days, Dean is getting some new cards and maxing them out on the best mattress money can buy. He's never had a damn mattress of his own before, he thinks he's earned whatever chance at a few good nights of sleep he can manage.
He picks the best room out and starts moving their few belongings in from the car. It's not the biggest or the best furnished, but Dean figures he can fix that. He can combine two rooms, maybe, or build a master bath here-they've got more space than Dean knows what to do with. Anyway, this room is squished between two others instead of facing out, it's only got one window. Dean figures that with Sam flinging weather around left and right, the best they can do is put as much wall between themselves and the elements as possible and hope it's strong enough to hold.
Dean helps Sam get ready for bed like he has for the last few nights, though he manages to resist the urge to hover and lets Sam try to do things on his own. He's pretty capable, even if he gets a little creepy when allowed to stare at one thing for too long. He can brush his teeth and wipe his own ass, which is more than Dean would be able to say for himself if he were in Sam's shoes.
"Like our new bathroom, Sammy?" Dean's sitting on the rim of their bathtub (they have an honest-to-god bathtub) watching Sam spit and rinse in the mirror. "I'm gonna make it much nicer than this, you just watch."
Sam dries his mouth with his wrist (there's a hand towel right within his reach, and Dean is kind of proud to see his brother finally acting like a real man) and turns to face Dean. "Dean," he says, voice all hushed and warm and it's amazing the amount of things he's managed to say in the last few days with just that one syllable.
Dean smiles. "Yeah, you're welcome. Don't start crying about it."
Sam rolls his eyes, waving a hand dismissively and leaving so Dean can have the bathroom for his own business. Dean doesn't ask Sam to stay, even though he'd really rather keep his brother in his sight right now. Sam is supposed to be the screwed up one, not him.
Sam is in bed by the time Dean is turning off the bathroom lights. Dean hesitates, suddenly realizing how much has changed and-Sam might not want Dean in his bed anymore. Dean doesn't want to make any assumptions, doesn't want to make Sam uncomfortable, but the thought of sleeping in some room down the hall makes him feel sick.
"Goodnight, Sammy," Dean says, whispering in case Sam is asleep already. Then he crosses in front of the bed, making for the door but walking slow enough to give Sam a chance to-
"Dean."
Dean turns to see Sam sitting up in bed, his face clearly upset. Outside, Dean can see the windows beginning to turn white with frost.
"Dean," Sam says again, stretching his arms out, his mouth pouting like a spoiled child.
Dean smiles, crawling under the covers on the empty side of the bed and pulling Sam into him until his brother's big back is pressed against his chest. They've been sharing motel rooms since Sam got back, but not a bed, not yet. The familiarity of this makes Dean's entire body relax, makes him finally start to trust this just a little bit. It feels right, lying down to sleep like this, right in a way sleeping at Lisa's never did and never was going to, no matter how hard they both tried.
Sam burrows into the mattress, tugging the comforter tighter around them as he settles. He's half naked under the blankets, the way he's liked sleeping pretty much since it started making Dean have all kinds of uncomfortable thoughts about him. Dean tries pressing closer to feel more of his skin, even though he's as close as he can get.
Dean knows how fucked up it is to find any happiness in this situation, but Sam is back, warm (too warm, like he always is when he's not dead), and all his. They have a house, and if Sam hasn't burnt it down and both of them with it by tomorrow, Dean is going to make it a home. It's going to be the kind of place Sam always dreamed of. The kind of place Sam wouldn't run away from, even if he had a choice.
It's the most Dean can ever remember wanting to survive until the morning.
Dean wakes up with Sam's hand stuffed up his shirt. It's not the first time he's woken up like this, though he certainly wasn't expecting it today, and he kind of wants to laugh, roll over on top of his pervy little brother and kiss him breathless.
At least until he sees the look on Sam's face. Sam's covered in tears, and Dean realizes his fingers aren't feeling around for fun. He's moving in some kind of pattern, tracing little squares right over Dean's heart.
Dean grabs Sam's wrist and holds it still. "Hey, Sam, what's wrong? What're you doing?"
Sam shakes his head, trying to pull his hand away.
"It’s okay, man. Come on." Dean swipes the pad of his thumb over Sam's cheeks. "Don't cry. I got you. No one's gonna hurt you out here."
For some reason, this makes Sam cry harder, and whatever Dean tries to do for him only makes it worse. Finally Dean asks if he should just leave and, frankly to his surprise, Sam nods. So Dean goes downstairs to the kitchen to make breakfast, which just leads to the realization that there is no food in his and Sam's Malibu Dream House, and he either has to take Sam to the nearest store to get some or leave Sam home alone.
Dean doesn't even know where the nearest store is or how long of a drive it would be to get there. He runs a hand through his hair, slamming the fridge shut a little harder than he intends and cursing under his breath. Probably, they could have thought the food situation out a little better.
"Dean?"
Dean turns from making distressed faces at the closed refrigerator and sees Sam standing by the door. He looks fuzzy from sleep, his hair is sticking out at all angles and he's still squinting at the light pouring in through the windows. But he got here all on his own and even managed to remember to put a shirt on. It takes a lot of restraint for Dean not to run across the room and grab Sam into a hug and squeeze until his arms are sore.
"Hey, Sammy," he says instead. "Good morning."
Sam smiles and shuffles into the room, taking a seat at the table. He does all of this without his eyes leaving Dean's face once, and Dean isn't really sure what to make of the staring. His expression is blank, though, and through the window Dean sees mild weather. It's not the clearest day he's ever seen, but he's counting it as a blessing.
"You hungry?"
Sam nods.
"I was gonna make breakfast," Dean leaves his spot by the fridge to lean against the counter just across from where Sam is sitting, "but it looks like we forgot to do the grocery shopping."
No response. Sam blinks a few times, and that's about it.
"Was thinking of driving into town to get some things," he continues, almost just to fill the silence. Sam's not gonna respond, he's not even sure Sam's listening. He might as well be talking to himself, not that it would be the craziest thing he's done. "Don't know if you want to come."
Don't know if you should come is what Dean's really thinking. Because he can just imagine what will happen if they go and Sam gets upset by the line or by someone shoving past him or by something he wants being sold out. Sam could open a hole in the floor and swallow them all or cause a tornado that would wipe the whole town away without even meaning to.
But then he thinks of leaving Sam, of returning to find out his brother was burning while he was standing in some supermarket trying to remember which flavor of Poptarts Sam prefers. He can picture the bright orange flame, the way his heart will catch in his throat from three miles away when he first sees it, but he knows he'll deny it, dread it the entire rest of the drive home. And then he'll, what? Go back to Lisa? Throw himself in with the flames? They've had a home for less than 24 hours, Dean would really like to keep it standing just a little while longer.
"Do you?" Dean asks, scrutinizing his brother, hoping maybe a gleam in his eye or the way he breathes will give away what the right thing to do is. "Do you wanna stay here?"
Sam gapes at him, his mouth just open enough for him to look a little like an idiot. "Dean."
"You're fucking lousy company." Dean turns around as he says it, as if there's something in the sink or cabinet he can use to distract himself. That was bad, and Dean doesn't want to know if he hurt Sam's feelings.
He doesn't hear Sam stand, doesn't hear Sam do anything, but it's only a few quiet moments before he feels someone come up behind him, push him until his body is crushed against the counter and Sam's body is packed just as tightly against his back.
Sam's mouth finds Dean's ear, and he whispers Dean, Dean, Dean until the word has lost all meaning and Dean would swear he's saying something complicated and perfectly intelligible. Dean decides he's taking Sam, because even Sam's worst company is better than anything else he's gonna find.
"I wanna leave within the hour," he tells Sam. "So if you're gonna shower, shower now."
Sam takes a few extra seconds to squeeze Dean just a little tighter, and then he relinquishes his grasp. By the time Dean turns around he's alone in the kitchen, and the water is already running in the bathroom when he reaches the top of the stairs. He heads into their room, pulling up his duffel and thinking that they should unpack later, since apparently they'll be staying long enough to memorize which drawer has shirts and which has pants and maybe Dean can even pull a set in from another room, let Sam have his own and go buy enough shit for Sam to fill it up since their lives no longer have to fit into a goddamn bag.
"Dean," he hears. Dean looks up, taken completely by surprise. He lost himself for a minute there, and now Sam is standing in the doorway to the bathroom, his arms crossed over his chest and a bitchy look on his face.
"Right," Dean says. "Getting ready to go."
Sam huffs, and Dean can just hear the and you were rushing me in the way his shoulders get all straight. Dean waves a hand at him, dismissing his attitude, secretly wanting to fucking dance or something over how Sam the whole thing is.
Dean's gamble pays off. They make it in and out of Albertson's without any incident, stock up on all the things a house needs to support life: toiletries and food and all the blueberry Poptarts Sam is going to be able to eat in his life. Dean takes the chance to get to know the nearest town a little before heading back, because he's not sure when they'll get be able to come in again. They even stop and have lunch at a burger joint, and it's not until 4 pm, when Sam starts looking edgy and the clouds start drawing together, that Dean decides they should head back. He uses the milk going bad in the car as an excuse, which Sam seems to find very wise if the way he rests his hand on the back of Dean's neck as they walk is any indication, and Dean's choosing to believe it is.
They get home and Dean tries to unload the groceries, but Sam keeps swatting him away, because apparently the drawers at the bottom are only for vegetables and Dean is supposed to put cold cuts in the other drawer and the milk can't get pushed to the back. Dean can't do anything right according to his brother's anal retentive standards, so Dean defers to Sam's superior knowledge of all things domestic and lets him take care of the food if it means so much.
Instead, Dean stays true to his plan of moving in, which takes a grand total of 45 minutes. Dean's sure Sam will come up later and throw a fit about unfolded socks and Dean choosing the wrong things to hang in the closet, in fact he's looking forward to it. He finds their washing machine in a closet he'd been planning to pull linens out of and learns that there's a shelf over it for them to stash detergent on. Then he finds the actual linen closet and is surprised to learn that Bobby keeps the place stocked with plenty of clean sheets. Dean picks a dark green for their room, replacing the flowery pink that had been on the bed they used last night when they arrived and wonders if it would be a violation of everything manly to try buying matching curtains the next time they're in town.
Dean puts the rest of the crap they bought while they were in town away while Sam makes dinner, because it's a task that gives him the excuse to swing by the kitchen every few minutes and make sure everything is under control. Not that Sam has proved himself untrustworthy, but if he has an episode-and Dean has every reason to believe Sam's got those coming in spades-he would rather know if it's going to be while he's using a stove.
Sam does okay-their lasagna tastes like nuked assholes, but that's just how Sam cooks. Dean had forgotten that, the reminder is almost welcome, or at least he's pretty sure it will be once he's brushed it out of his mouth.
They spend the majority of the night on the couch watching what seems like the same episode of Law and Order eight times over. Dean holds Sam's feet in his lap and Sam says his name warmly every now and then, and, idiot that Dean is, he forgets for a few hours how fucked up everything is and just lets himself feel happy.
The next morning, Sam is doing the same thing with his fingers as the day before, only now he's tracing squares on Dean's bicep. He's not crying, not looking too upset, though his expression is a sort of dim resignation, and Dean can remember too well how scared Sam had been about it yesterday. He has no way of knowing what it means or how to deal with it; that's always been a nightmare for Dean. He can fix anything Sam tells him about, but when Sam hides he's useless. And now, Dean's not even sure if Sam is hiding things on purpose or if he really came back from Hell with just that one syllable: Dean.
Dean sits up, forcing Sam's hands to drop and distracting him away from whatever he's doing.
"I'm gonna make breakfast," he announces, and he looks down to where Sam's still lying on the bed. Sam doesn't look upset with him for moving, so he files the information away in case Sam gives him the same wakeup call tomorrow. "You coming with?"
Sam shakes his head, burrowing into the pillows. Dean thinks back on all his years of waking Sam up for school, seeing that stupidly adorable response from his brother, usually accompanied by the "five more minutes, Dean" that Sam doesn't supply now.
Dean nods and goes downstairs to brew coffee, knowing perfectly well that five minutes means 10. Dean's scrambling eggs and singing a pretty excellent rendition of Ramblin' On when Sam makes it in and grumbles an annoyed Dean as he sits down at one of the spots Dean set up at the table.
Dean turns to give his brother a grin. "You gonna come in here and tell me the show ain't good enough when I'm making your prissy ass breakfast?"
Sam just pouts, and Dean stops singing, but he keeps whistling good and loud. Just so Sam won't think he won or anything. Can’t have that.
He sets the plate down in front of Sam as soon as it's done, but he snatches it away when Sam picks up his fork.
"Dean," Sam complains, reaching out for the eggs.
Dean stays firm, keeps the plate in his hand and sits next to Sam. He puts it on the table. "I'll let you have it if you say something."
Sam opens his mouth, and Dean stops him before he can try it. "Other than my name."
Sam's mouth closes at that and he glares at Dean. He doesn’t say anything. Maybe he knows Dean is bullshitting. It's not like he's about to starve him.
He hesitates, is about to give up and slide the plate across to Sam, but then he gets another idea. A bad idea, maybe, but it's something he wants and if he shouldn't be asking for it-well, Sam has already demonstrated his ability to say no.
"I'll let you have it if you kiss me," Dean tries.
Sam's glare turns into wide, surprised eyes, but then he smiles so big and as he leans in, Dean can almost swear the sun is starting to shine in just a little brighter. He presses a kiss to Dean's lips, good strong pressure, and holds it there, right hand coming up to cup Dean's cheek. Then he pulls back, a business like expression on his face that turns into a very self-pleased smirk when he snatches his plate of eggs back to his side of the table right under Dean's nose.
"Yeah, take them, you little pain," Dean mutters, trying to play his part despite the overwhelming urge to just smile and smile and smile until his face gets stuck like that.
It's a pretty good morning after a pretty good night before and day before that, so Dean is ready for the trouble lurking around the corner. Don't get him wrong, he's appreciative that they got any break at all, but he's been living the Winchester life since he was four, and he's pretty much done falling for false senses of security.
Dean isn't surprised to hear the cry Sam lets out when he's in the shower, doesn't let himself get hung up on how unfair the whole thing is before he busts in and finds Sam bleeding all over the tiles on the wall that used to be white but are now turning crimson. Sam's got a cut on his forehead. That's good, that means the blood looks worse than it'll actually be, but the good news goes right down the drain with the blood when Dean realizes how it got there. Sam's hand is pressed flat against the tile and he tries to smack his head against the wall again but Dean catches him, pulling him back and forcing him to sit down in the tub as he washes the cut and turns the water off.
Sam isn't crying or anything; his face is back to that blank state, as if he wasn't just trying to break his head open.
"Goddammit, Sam, what the fuck are you doing?" he asks, not expecting an answer, which is good because he doesn't get one. Sam sits unmoving as Dean inspects him and pulls out rubbing alcohol to clean it. It's a small cut. Dean is more shaken by how it got there than anything. Sam had seemed so okay just half an hour ago when Dean had watched him wander upstairs.
Sam stares up at Dean with a glassy expression of terror fixed on him. His mouth starts moving, as if he's trying to say something, but at first it's just abrupt little sounds that get lost on the way to becoming actual words.
"What, Sammy?" Dean guides him up out of the tub, and Sam comes easily when he pulls him into his chest. "Sam, why would you do that?"
Sam shakes his head and pulls back and Dean can see how hard he's trying.
"Dean," he says. He starts something else, but then he stops. It's another half a minute before he regains his focus, looks Dean in the eye and starts over. "Dean."
"Yeah, I got that part." Dean holds his gaze, afraid if he breaks it Sam will give up on whatever he's trying so hard to explain, and if there's any chance in hell he can get an explanation for what just happened, Dean is not doing anything stupid to screw it up.
"I'm," Sam finally manages, speaking very, very slowly.
"You're what, Sam? C'mon, it's okay."
He forms the next words deliberately, like the speech pattern is new to him, like he's learning English for the first time. In a way, maybe he is. Dean gets a shiver thinking of how long Sam was in Hell, who's to say they let him talk? "Dean, I'm sorry."
Dean frowns. "It's alright, Sam. You scared me. You can't do it again, alright? But it's okay, I forgive you."
Sam shakes his head. "I'm sorry," he says, and again, "I'm sorry," with this pleading voice like Dean just isn't getting what he's saying and he really needs Dean to get it.
"Sorry for what?" Dean passes his fingers through Sam's wet hair and Sam closes his eyes, letting out a dull sob. "You can tell me. Whatever it is. Just tell me."
"I'm sorry." Sam leans into Dean's touch. "Dean."
"Shh, it's alright. Whatever it is, Sammy. It's okay. It doesn't matter. I forgive you."
Again, Sam shakes his head, and now he opens his eyes and takes Dean's hand between his own, pulling it away from himself and placing it on Dean's thigh. Dean tries to reach for him again, but Sam backs away this time, even though he'd been perfectly content to take comfort from Dean a few seconds ago. Dean finds this annoying, but he swallows that, because that's not really what Sam needs right now. Not that Sam is letting Dean give him what he needs right now.
Dean turns the water back on. The blood has all drained from the water, though there are still red marks on the tile. Dean averts his eyes and focuses on Sam instead. "You're finishing with a bath," he informs his brother. "And I'm sitting right here."
Dean is expecting Sam to give him some kind of complaint about it, about the fact that he's old enough to clean himself, which he has just demonstrated is not the case, but instead Sam nods.
"Hand me the shampoo," Dean tells him. "And put your hair under for a moment."
Sam obeys, lets Dean wash his hair and soap him down, even closes his eyes and seems to take some pleasure from it every now and then. When it's all done, Dean wraps him in a towel and dries his hair as much as he can before gently nudging Sam into the bedroom. He picks out a shirt and pajama pants and Sam puts them on obediently. After the excitement in the shower, Sam seems to have sunk into a sleepy complacency, so Dean leads him to bed and tucks him in.
"Dean." Sam reaches out for him once he's comfortable, and Dean lets his brother pull him into bed. He stays lying over the covers but relaxes so that one of his arms is cradling Sam's head and the rest of him is pressed to Sam's side.
"I'm sorry," Sam murmurs. He sounds like he's just a few seconds from falling asleep, which Dean thinks will be good for him.
"Don't be sorry," he says. He puts a finger under Sam's chin and makes Sam look up at him. "All I want-if you're really sorry, you gotta show me by not hurting yourself again, okay? Don't tell me, just don't you ever scare me like that again. You got me, Sam? You promise?"
Sam lets out a long breath but after a while he nods a few quick times, drawing closer to Dean.
"Good," Dean tells him. He presses a kiss to Sam's forehead, just over the Band-Aid he put there, even though it's not really necessary, because it made him feel the tiniest bit better about how powerless he is to help. "Good boy."
Sam's asleep before long, and Dean lies there, not able to sleep himself, more because of the shock than because it's only a little after noon and he's not really tired enough for a nap. It still feels nice to be here, to have Sam like this, mostly warm except for the wet hair soaking into his pillow. Man is Dean going to hear about that tomorrow. But still, Sam looks peaceful for the moment, almost content. Dean tries not to wonder about what nightmares are lurking underneath that deceitfully calm exterior.
Sam's hand is curled up on Dean's chest, a few fingers holding the fabric of his shirt so that he has to be careful disentangling Sam when he decides to get up and clean the blood out of the shower. After that Sam is still out for the count, so Dean decides it's a good time to make dinner. He doesn't want to leave Sam alone, but he really doesn't want to leave Sam alone while he's awake. They've got some of those canned soups in the pantry downstairs, so Dean makes Campbell's and brings it up to Sam.
Sam blinks awake, smiling when he sees Dean, as if he's completely forgotten the entire traumatic incident in the shower already.
"You hungry?" he asks, just for conversation, and Sam nods.
Dean pulls the wicker chair in the corner up to the bedside and spoon feeds Sam, like he used to do when Sam was a kid and sick.
After Sam finishes eating, Dean takes Sam's hand in his own. "We gotta get a TV in here," Dean says, trying to keep his tone light. "This room is boring as shit."
Sam laughs.
"Wanna go down? See if anything exciting is on?"
Sam shakes his head 'no,' and Dean would be lying if he said he wasn't relieved. Okay, he's a clingy paranoid freak, but he doesn't want Sam on stairs or anywhere harder to supervise than a bed.
He doesn't even know what the hell overtakes him as he says, "Wanna hear a story?" Maybe it's how young and old Sam looks at the same time as he lies there in bed with his eyes fixed on Dean.
Dean is expecting to get laughed at, but instead Sam nods. Dean thinks back on when Sam really was a kid, tries to remember the stories he used to tell Sam to get him to sleep. There'd been one book-Dean had stolen it from a public library in Michigan because Sam had loved it so much. It was the first thing he ever stole. He'd spent months convinced the police would batter down the door any day and take him away, but Sam had loved it.
He chuckles at the memory, about to say, Hey, Sam, remember The Three Little Wolves and The Big Bad Pig when he remembers that in the end of that, everyone had lived and the bad guy had changed for the better and no one had to get hunted or eaten. Sam had loved that about it, but that's not how things go in the real world. Sam knows that by now. Dean thinks he'll take the original over that any day. All the pigs die except the little brother. The little brother lives because he's the smartest and it's fair, even if it isn't happy.
"Once upon a time," Dean says, "there were three little pigs-"
"Dean!" Sam says.
Dean's chest feels like caving in. Sam sounds exactly like he did when he was little, when Dean would start to tell the story about the wolves and Sam would cry out his name all exasperated like that and tell him that's not how the story goes, they're supposed to be pigs, and he would laugh and roll on his bed like the reversal was the greatest damn thing he'd ever heard. It had seemed at the time like that was never going to get old, and now when Sam says Dean Dean knows what he means is you're telling the story wrong.
"Three little wolves," he corrects.
Sam smiles and nods and Dean continues until Sam's face is turned toward his and his eyes are half-shut and the story is over. Then he climbs into bed behind Sam and tells his brother the next thing that pops into his head until they're both yawning through the happily ever afters.
ON TO PART TWO