(no subject)

[whereupon]

From Ashes
by whereupon
Sam/Dean, R, AU after season three, 4,031 words.
Maybe they would be okay, all the same.
For girlmostlikely. I'm not sure it's quite what you wanted, but I hope it's all right. ♥



They were in a diner like any other; the linoleum was dirty, footprint-smudged, and the vinyl seats were patched with duct tape, but there was coffee and it was refuge, however brief, from the chill of the morning. The silverware glinted, reflecting incandescent light, and Dean blinked. He bit back a yawn and looked again at the menu, staring at it without really seeing it; it was too early for cognition, and coffee steamed in their mugs, still too hot to drink.

"Do you want to settle down?" Sam asked, and Dean looked at him over the top of the menu. Sam looked back at him, expectant but not impatient, not intent.

It was a weird question, but then, his brother was weird, and it was far from the weirdest thing that had ever happened to them. Dean had gone to hell and Sam had brought him back, and once they'd had to put to rest the ghost of a killer truck.

Dean raised his eyebrows. "Uh, I'm flattered, Sam, but don't you think that'd be rushing things? And, dude, you didn't even get me a ring."

Sam rolled his eyes. "I'm just saying," he said. "Now that we, you know," and he paused, looked around as though to make sure no one was listening before finishing, his tone hushed, "saved the world." He said it like it was a secret, something shameful or sacred, and it was; hardly anyone else knew what they'd done, nor had any idea what it had cost.

In the end, cost hadn't mattered at all. They'd have paid a thousand times over, had it been necessary, and so maybe it hadn't ever been a choice; maybe there was no other way this could have gone, no other way it could have happened.

No other future but this one, no world in which today they were not eating breakfast in a shabby diner, when it was early enough that all good people should still have been in bed, and certainly, Dean thought, that included them; heroes should have been allowed to sleep a little longer. Another ten minutes, at least.

"There's always gonna be another apocalypse," he said, looking back down at the menu. The morning's special was eggs and sausage, which wasn't very special at all, though considering that there was still a world in which he could order it, in which eggs and sausage could be taken for granted, maybe that was something. "No rest for the wicked and all a' that."

"But we're not wicked," Sam said, slowly, deliberately, as though maybe he thought Dean had forgotten.

"Speak for yourself," Dean said, smirking.

"Dean, you got outta hell," Sam said. "I think that disproves your theory. Sorry, man."

"Whatever, I'm not gonna argue freakin' theology with you," Dean said, setting the menu aside. "It's too damn early."

Sam set his own menu down on top of Dean's. "You're not gonna argue because you know I'm right. You're gonna do the whole pearly gates thing. Hey, maybe you'll get a harp."

"Chicks dig musicians," Dean said.

"Yeah, but you'll be, like, new age," Sam said. "You'll be a hippie. You'll be Yanni."

"And you'll be right there with me," Dean said. "So it's not like you're gonna do any better, Tennille."

"And whose fault is that," Sam said.

"That'd be yours," Dean said. He grinned.

Sam shook his head. "Yeah, remind me again why I thought that was a good idea."

"'Cause you missed me," Dean said.

"Obviously," Sam said. His voice was hoarse, suddenly, and Dean didn't dare look at him.

"Not my fault I'm the best brother ever," Dean said, and his voice wasn't nearly as steady as he would have liked, but he figured that was okay. Sam had cracked first, after all.

"Right," Sam said. "Yeah, that's it exactly."

"I knew it," Dean said. He took a sip of coffee, finally. It was hot enough to make his eyes water; it burned his throat and he nearly spilled it in his haste to set the mug back down. "Motherfuck," he said when he could breathe again, and Sam's laugh was a little watery, a little too bright, but it was a laugh all the same, and that was what mattered.

Dean expected him to ask again, when they got back out to the car, and when they were arguing about the map, and after he let Sam win the discussion about whether or not they were lost, but Sam didn't mention it, and Dean was kind of grateful for that.

They drifted west, without a destination. They stopped for lunch at a truckstop two states over, where Dean bought a newspaper from the battered machine next to the front door. They read it while they ate; when Dean handed the newspaper to Sam, folded so that the article about the unexplained death of a jogger in Pasadena was on top, Sam only skimmed the headline and turned the page to read the horoscopes.

"You should avoid making any financial decisions today," he said.

"So I guess you're paying for lunch," Dean said. He reached over to steal the broadsheet back from Sam. "And your love life's gonna take a major hit. Sucks to be you."

"Thanks," Sam said. "And you can buy your own damn lunch."

"See, that's probably the kinda thing they meant," Dean said. "You should be nicer to your dates." He leaned against the back of the booth and his foot connected with Sam's under the table. Sam glanced up and Dean felt himself blush; it was inexplicable, he thought, and he covered by kicking Sam in the shin and then glaring at him.

"Because you're the expert on that," Sam said. "Have you ever actually gone on a date in, like, the past three years?"

"Have you?"

Sam shrugged. "Yes."

Dean narrowed his eyes. "That was for the job. It didn't count."

"Says the guy who's at zero."

"You don't have to be an artist to recognize great art," Dean said. "And I'll have you know, I'm an awesome artist."

Sam winced. "Please, please do not qualify that statement. I don't need to know."

"So stop arguing and eat your damn sandwich," Dean said. "Did you go on a diet while I was gone or what? Because you're starting to look seriously Kate Moss."

"Fuck you," Sam said. "Next time I'll make sure to eat regularly scheduled meals and you can just, you know, wait until I'm done."

"Good," Dean said. "'Cause if you'd, like, had an attack of the vapors or something in the middle of it, I'd'a been seriously pissed off. I didn't go to hell so you could go on a goddamn diet."

"No, you went because you're a stubborn jackass," Sam said.

"Runs in the family," Dean said. He ate a French fry and then reached across the table and used Sam's napkin to wipe ketchup from his fingers.

Sam paid for both of their lunches; they both knew better than to tempt fate.

When they got back out to the parking lot, Dean stopped next to the driver's side door of the Impala, waiting. On the other side of the car, Sam had his hands in his pockets and was, Dean thought, purposely avoiding making eye contact.

"Pick a goddamn direction," Dean said at last, because Sam had always been the stubborn one; it was entirely possible that they could stand there all day and he wouldn't give in, and one of them had to be mature about this.

Sam shrugged. "East, I guess." He might have been smirking, victorious, but that could have been a trick of the light. Dean narrowed his eyes, suspicious all the same, and got in the car. So Sam had won this one, but only because Dean let him, and it wasn't like Dean minded, really; it was a bright day, a good day, the blue of the sky like a promise and speed limits something that could easily be ignored.

Sam didn't even complain when Dean accelerated; he only slid on his sunglasses and unrolled the window so he could rest his arm on the side of the car.

"Do you even know where we're going?" Dean asked, loud over the noise of the wind and the engine.

"Uh, yeah," Sam said, just as loudly. "East."

Dean stared at him, waiting for the punchline, for an explanation, until Sam told him to keep his eyes on the road, please, which was close enough. He turned up the music and there was sunlight and the reverberations of the engine, the open road and Sam, like nothing had happened, like he hadn't ever been gone. And they couldn't start again, couldn't erase anything, but maybe they could move on, maybe they could pretend.

Maybe they would be okay, all the same.

Afternoon turned into evening, and with the fall of night, Dean knew that he'd been wrong. Sam fell asleep once the sun set, but Dean kept driving. Overhead, the stars flickered into visibility, and though Dean's eyes burned, he didn't dare stop.

It was because he'd missed this, he told himself. Because he'd been gone, because he'd been in hell, and now he was back. Now he had his car and Sam, which was practically the same as having the whole world, and he wouldn't give that up any sooner than he had to.

It was because he missed this. It wasn't at all because he was terrified of what would happen if he stopped, if the world stopped moving, because he was terrified of what might catch up with them, of what might happen then.

After all, they'd saved the world. His heart was pounding, certainly, but not with the fear-rush of adrenaline. He was happy, that was all.

He was happy, and his hands were shaking, and his foot was heavy on the gas, as though he thought he could outrun hell, as though if he drove fast enough, he could save them both. There were uncountable, inexplicable things moving sinuously within the black. There were things with teeth made for shredding skin, for rending bone, watching them from behind the trees. There were demons down every road onto which he turned and their laughter was the sound of the gravel crunching beneath the Impala's tires as the car burned fast and renegade into the dark.

The Impala spun to a halt on the side of the road before he knew what he was doing; he cut the engine and listened to the night settling in, settling around them. His hands were tight on the steering wheel once more and the moonlight slipped cold and cruel through the windshield, as though it meant to strip him down to bone, and he couldn't breathe.

For a moment, he couldn't breathe. He was going to asphyxiate behind the wheel of his car with Sam beside him; he would die happy, aside from the paralyzing fear.

"What is it?" Sam asked; Dean hadn't known that he was awake.

"Nothing," he said. He closed his eyes for a moment, willing his hands to stop shaking before Sam could see them. He didn't think it worked. "I just, uh. I didn't know where we were going."

Sam swallowed, straightened in his seat. "Want me to drive?" he asked.

Dean bit his lip. "Yeah," he said.

"Okay," Sam said. He pushed his hair out of his eyes and got out of the car, illuminated for a moment by the headlights. Dean slid over into the shotgun seat, but didn't look away from him until Sam was back in the car. He was only making sure that nothing happened to his brother, he told himself; it wasn't at all because Sam was the only sure thing, solid and real against the flickering pulse strafing beneath his skin, the scattered panic of night.

When they were back on the road, Sam glanced over at him. "You coulda just asked," he said.

"You were asleep," Dean said. He sounded defensive, childishly defiant, even to himself.

"Like you've ever cared about that," Sam said; there was no way he didn't know, of course, no way he hadn't seen, but he didn't say anything at all about it. Dean owed him for that.

Also, for saving him from hell, but that went without saying, most of the time.

"Have you looked in the mirror lately?" Dean asked. He reached down to undo the laces of his boots, toed them off. "Definitely in need of beauty sleep, dude."

"Yeah, and you're totally Miss America, yourself," Sam said. "Go to sleep already."

"It'd be a lot easier if you'd stop keeping me awake," Dean said, and Sam did. The car was too quiet, though, after that, even with the road noise, and Dean said, "Fuck this. I can't sleep unless you're talking."

Sam's laugh was startled, short-lived. "You just said I bore you to sleep, and now you want me to tell you a bedtime story?"

"Uh, yeah," Dean said. "And make it a good one, bitch."

Sam swallowed. "It was too quiet when you were gone," he said. "I couldn't sleep, either."

"Good thing I'm back, then," Dean said.

"Yeah," Sam said. "Even though you snore."

"I do not," Dean said, scandalized; it was easier than bravado.

"I hate to break it to you, but yeah, you do," Sam said.

"I'm surprised you could even hear it over yourself," Dean said.

"That doesn't make sense," Sam said.

"You don't make sense," Dean said. He turned away to face the window; he could do that, now, because Sam knew, because Sam had his back despite that. He'd barely dozed off when he awoke, though, gasping from a nightmare that he didn't remember. His skin felt clammy and he kept his eyes closed as the vestigial dizziness receded.

"C'mere," Sam said, his voice low, quiet, and Dean winced.

"It was just a dream," he said.

"I know," Sam said. "That doesn't matter." Dean licked his lips and tasted blood. His face burned; he was sure that was visible even in the dark, but he slid closer and let Sam rest a hand on the back of his neck, steady and firm, as though he were calming a nervous animal, a skittish horse. Or as though Sam was reminding him that he wasn't alone, that he was alive once more, and safe, and that was stupid, because Dean knew that, it had just been a dream, that was all, and he was really perfectly fine, but he could do this for Sam, he thought.

If this was what Sam needed, then that was okay.

He slept, after that, and he didn't wake up until they were parked at a gas station and the sun was beginning to rise, pale red light filtering over the jagged lines of the mountains. His neck hurt and the window was smudged where he'd rested against it sometime during the night. He was alone in the car, but he could see Sam through the windshield, coming towards him, a paper coffee cup in each hand.

"Where to?" Sam asked, once he'd handed Dean the coffees and gotten back in the car.

"Thought we were headed east," Dean said.

Sam nodded and started the engine.

They reached the Atlantic by late afternoon. It was the wrong time of year for tourists, too early and so too cold; the Impala was the only car parked in the lot overlooking the shoreline. "Guess we can't go any further," Sam said. He was leaning back in the driver's seat, his arms folded across his chest. The engine had long since cooled, but he hadn't said what he was waiting for, if he was waiting for Dean or if he was waiting for anything at all.

Dean raised his eyebrows. "Why, afraid to get your feet wet?" he said, and got out of the car. He didn't look back; he didn't need to. He heard the driver's side door open a second later, heard it shut a moment after that. They picked their way over the ragged rocks, down to the shore. The sea was vast and grey and there were seagulls shrieking in the distance, wheeling over the water. It was beginning to rain, small cold drops from the slate sky.

Dean took a deep breath. The air tasted like salt and cut like metal. It wasn't the edge of the world, he thought, but it was close enough; their world had always been bound by backroads and highway signs, anyway, and there was no reason to change that now.

Sam stood close beside him as though he thought that there was a good chance Dean would fall in. On another day, maybe, Dean would have elbowed him away, told him that Dean wasn't, like, somebody's elderly aunt or whatever, but right now, he didn't mind.

"It's 'cause of us," Sam said, looking out at the water, the horizon. "'Cause of you."

"You're the one who got me outta hell," Dean said. "You started it."

Sam grinned, quick and sharp and fatal, damning; it was at once a headshot and a punch to the gut, a strike to the heart, and it was funny how Dean didn't mind. He was used to it, maybe. "Now what?" Sam asked. His hair was damp, and beginning to curl at the ends.

Dean shrugged. "Guess we turn around, unless you figured out how to walk on water."

"I figured I'd leave the messiah angle to you," Sam said.

"Yeah, give me the hard part," Dean said. "I'm not the only one who came back from the dead, you know."

Sam ducked his head, looked back up. "Dean, I, uh. I'm glad, I, um. I missed you."

Dean let himself rest his shoulder against Sam's, then; it wasn't as difficult as he'd thought, or as awkward. They were supporting each other, after all; they were the only ones who could, the only ones who knew, but then, that's how it always had been.

This was all they needed.

"Yeah," he said. "Me, too."

They watched the water for a little while longer, and then Sam handed Dean the keys and they went back to the car.

Neither of them felt like driving any longer. They got a room in town, close enough to the shoreline that they could see the water. After sunset, Sam walked to the nearest convenience store to get them dinner. Dean stayed behind in the room, too tired to deal with people who weren't Sam, and flipped through television channels. There was absolutely nothing on, but it was a distraction, something to keep him from counting the minutes until Sam returned.

After all, it wasn't like he was obsessed or anything. He wasn't needy.

When Sam came back, he brought beer and beef jerky. Dean raised his eyebrows. "You call that dinner?"

"You think you can do better, be my guest," Sam said. "It's not like there was a buffet."

Dean tore open a package of jerky. "There's nothing on TV," he said.

"So why're you watching it?" Sam asked. Dean shrugged and picked up the remote, turned it off.

They sat in silence for a moment and then Sam said, "You wanna get outta here?"

"Like you gotta ask," Dean said instantly. He slid back into his jacket, grabbed the beer, and followed Sam out the door. The wind had died down; the air was calm and still as they walked to the beach. They sat on the edge of the rocks, where the boulders abutted the sand that ran into the water. Sam handed Dean a piece of jerky, and Dean handed him a bottle, clinked his own against it.

"Hell of a picnic," Dean said, a few minutes later.

Sam shrugged. "At least we don't have to worry about ants."

Dean drained his beer and said, "Fuck it, we're at the beach, I'm going in."

"You do realize the water's gonna be freezing." Sam said.

Dean grinned. "What, you chicken?"

"No, I'm sane," Sam said.

Dean untied his boots. "Whatever."

"You're not seriously going in there," Sam said.

Dean took off his boots and socks, rolled up the hems of his jeans. "You're not?"

"No," Sam said. "No way."

"Your loss," Dean said. He took a step into the water; it only came up to his ankles, but Sam was right: it was freezing. He grimaced and hoped it looked like a smile. "Seriously, you're missing out. It's awesome."

"You're shivering," Sam said.

Dean took another step. "No, I'm not."

"Dean, you know I can see you, right?" Sam said. Dean looked at him and he sighed. "I hate you." He left his boots next to Dean's and followed Dean into the water. "Holy shit, this is cold."

"It's refreshing," Dean said.

"You are absolutely insane," Sam said.

"I'm not the only one," Dean said.

Sam shook his head, and after a moment, Dean said, "The beach kind of sucks."

Sam laughed, but his teeth were chattering. "You're the one who wanted to go in the water," he said. No way was Dean going to be the first one to crack this time, but Sam was shivering, so Dean took a step closer to him, to the shore.

"You can back out any time," he said.

"So can you," Sam said, and then he said, "Truce?"

"Yes, definitely," Dean said. Their laughter was rendered thin and brittle with cold, as they returned to shore, and when Sam pulled Dean close, Dean didn't hesitate. He lifted his chin, and their teeth clattered as they kissed. They stood together, huddled against the dual expanses of the sea and the sky, and when the wind picked up once more, it turned to salt what had once been tears.

They made it back to the motel room; the door was closed before Dean tangled his hand in Sam's hair and pushed him down onto the bed, his mouth open on the pulse beating hot in Sam's throat. Their jeans were waterlogged and heavy, their fingers numb as they struggled with bootlaces and buckles, zippers and buttons, as they touched and pushed and sighed. Sam's skin was chilled as Dean worked his hands and mouth across it, leaving marks like promises, but it was Dean who shivered, still.

Sam's hands were rough as they skimmed the length of Dean's back, then, and his eyes were hot and dark and bruised. He bit at Dean's shoulder and Dean's breath caught, locked tightly in his chest. Sam said something, but it was too quiet, too close, for Dean to make out; instead he gasped into Sam's mouth and shuddered against his brother, lost and wrecked and ruined, found and made whole once more.

The moonlight seeping around the window was pewter across the floor, and Dean lay with his arm across Sam's chest, half-asleep, listening to Sam's heartbeat, imagining he could hear the ocean.

"I meant it, before," Sam said, rolling over to face him, and Dean blinked.

"What?"

"If you want to stop," Sam said. "We can. I mean, you went to hell, and we saved the world, I don't think we have to keep doing this anymore."

"You're the one who wanted out," Dean said.

"That was a long time ago," Sam said.

"There's gonna be another apocalypse," Dean said. "Even if there's not, it's not like there's not gonna be work to do."

"I know," Sam said. "But it doesn't have to be ours. If you want to, we can stop."

"I don't," Dean said, and his hand covered the ink worked deep across Sam's heart; this was all he needed, after all. It was at once so simple and so immense.

"Me, neither," Sam said.

"Okay," Dean said. "So stop talking about it, there's nothing to talk about," and then he kissed Sam, because Sam had never been good at listening to him, and because Sam's heart beat steadily beneath his palm, and because Sam's eyes were beautiful in bare moonlight.

When they left the next morning, the ocean shone behind them as they drove west, back into the world.

--

end