FIC: Enough of its Glory Remains, Part 2

[balefully]

Enough of its Glory Remains

Part 1 | Part 2 | Art Post | Master Post



Bryant met them at a hardware store off Main Street. "Looks almost like home," Dean had said, looking at the rows of small-town shopfronts up and down the street, and Sam had given him a weird look.

Bryant was difficult to miss with a huge carpet bag and an old tarnished ankh on a gold chain hanging all the way down to her belly. "Sam and Dean?" she asked, between a bin of washers and a shelf of plungers.

"The very same," Dean said, and gave her a salute.

"Wow," she said, and gave them an unapologetic once-over. "I was expecting older."

"Well," Sam said, looking at his feet with a shy shrug. It was a little forced, like Sam was trying not to let himself be distracted. Dean clapped him on the shoulder, squeezing, wanting to ground him.

"We brought a chunk of change with us, you want to go ahead and do this?" Dean asked, not letting go.

"If you don't mind, I surely do. Got places to be," Bryant said. She had bushy brown ringlets peppered with grey, tied back in a leather strap. She was wearing a purple tanktop and ridiculously short shorts, despite the fact that she must've been at least sixty. She pulled them off, too. Dean offered her their manila envelope of cash, and Sam took her proffered carpet bag, checking over the books and making sure everything was present and accounted for.

All in all, it was one of their easiest hand-offs ever. They walked out of the store with her, but Bryant took a left and Sam and Dean took a right back to the truck. "Look me up if you need, boys," she called after them with a wave.

"Same to you, ma'am!" Dean said, and Sam laughed, shaking his head.

"Ma'am."

"Hey, show a little respect," Dean said, laughing too.

"Actually," came Bryant's voice, closer this time. Sam looked over his shoulder, surprised. "I could use you guys for a while, if you don't have to hurry back home just yet. Could consider it a favor to repay me giving you those books for half what they're worth?"

"Sure," Sam and Dean said in unison.

She gave them a mischievous look. "I couldn't help but notice you have a pickup."

"Need help moving?" Dean said, grinning.

"Something like that."

She did need help moving, but not the conventional things one would normally move like books and couches and lamps. "A sarcophagus?" Sam said, staring at the huge stone monstrosity. The inscriptions carved into the stone were intricate, and some of them were familiar.

"Sarcophagi, actually," Bryant said, surveying the other sheet-covered mounds proudly.

"Where exactly are we taking them?" Dean asked. It was going to be several trips - they'd be lucky if they could fit one comfortably in the bed of the truck, and they definitely wouldn't be able to double up.

"Oh, just across town. Shouldn't take more than an hour, there and back," Bryant said, tightening the laces on her hiking boots. "Not counting loading and unloading."

It ended up taking more like two hours per sarcophagus, with all the loading and unloading. Luckily Bryant was a fair hand at making sandwiches and she had what seemed like an endless supply of lemonade. It was seven PM before they'd stowed away the last load and dropped Bryant off at her respectable townhouse not far from Main Street. She'd hugged them and given them each a little scarab talisman for luck, tucked deep in their pockets. Sam took the carpet bag of books, and they said their goodbyes.

Afterwards, he and Dean walked quietly along the sidewalk back to Main Street. "Now what?" Dean said, listening to his uneven gait in counterpoint to Sam's stride. He was limping more than usual, the ache from all the heavy lifting deep and sharp. He hadn't done the same about of hefting as Sam, but it was still more than he was used to, and probably more than he should've been doing.

"Now-back home, I guess?" Sam sat on one of the faded benches along the curb so he could take one of the books out to have a look at it. It was a rich acid green, the leather cover something unusual-not the kind of leather you'd find in a normal bookstore. "Mushhushshu," he said, under his breath. His head cocked to the side, almost imperceptibly, but Dean knew that distant look. He got a shiver up his spine.

"Hey, how ‘bout we go get a drink to celebrate first?"

Sam blinked, then gave him a wary look, probably thinking about that trashbag of whiskey bottles. Dean was hurting, though, and just a little something to take the edge off would make a world of difference.

"You, me, a couple tequilas. How long has it been since we last got drunk together?"

Sam smiled and shook his head. "I don't remember the last time you got drunk, fullstop. Didn't think you could. Remember the Japanese spirit-"

"I'm sure we'll manage it," Dean said. "Come on, I remember seeing someplace down the road a ways." They drove the truck a couple blocks to the parking lot and left the bag of books concealed under an old blanket in the cab when they went in.

The bar was nondescript-Dean didn't remember the name as soon as they were inside. He got them a few tequila shots each, plus chasers to start. Sam picked out a booth on the far wall, away from all the skuzzy usuals crowded around the bar and the TVs. They downed all three rounds faster than Dean thought Sam would let them go-he kept them well-supplied, and he was feeling syrupy and pleased in that undeniably drunk way in a little over an hour.

"Hmm," Sam said, staring at the empty place beside him on the bench seat.

"You got an invisible friend with you?" Dean asked, genuinely curious and forgetting to pussyfoot with the end of his nose going numb.

"Nope," Sam said, smiling. "Was just thinking how nice it is that everything's quiet. It's just you."

"What's just me?"

"You're all I'm thinking about. Seeing. You're what's real." He took a slug of his beer, slouching indolently in the booth. His arms and legs went on forever, and his hair looked soft against his cheek. After a moment, he got up-unsteadily-and came around to Dean's side of the table, sliding in next to him. He poked Dean's shoulder, then his cheek, and ruffled one big hand through his hair. "See? Real."

"I know I'm real," Dean said, catching Sam's hand in his before Sam could mess up his hair any more. He loosened his grip, assuming Sam would too, but he didn't-he just held on, his fingers threading through Dean's. He didn't even seem to notice he was doing it.

"Probably we shouldn't drink anymore," Sam said as Dean shook their hands apart. He was getting too hot, feeling Sam too close to him on the bench. It was making him dizzy, lightheaded. It wasn't completely bad, but it was disconcerting. "Let's go for a walk."

"I'm not exactly the go-for-a-walk type," Dean muttered, but he let Sam pull him up out of the booth and propel him towards the door nonetheless.

"Then let's go sit in the back of the truck."

Sam hopped up into the bed of the truck with ease, despite the wobbly pirouette while finding his feet. He helped Dean up, too, and though his leg protested, the alcohol helped and it wasn't too bad.

People were coming and going from the bar with relative frequency, so there was the low hum of laughter and drunk conversation and droning jukebox music threading through the parking lot. It was a cool night, considering how hot it had been lately, and there were swarms of gnats visible around each and every streetlight, porch light, and headlight in all directions.

Sam and Dean sat with their backs against the sliding window separating the cab from the bed, their legs stretched out in front of them. Sam drew up his knees, hands clasped around the backs of his thighs. He watched a couple leaving the bar together, sloppily kissing on the front sidewalk. "How's your leg?" he asked, suddenly.

"Fine." The automatic response was out before Dean could even think about it.

"No, I mean really."

"I dunno. Hurts some. Actually pretty good right now, doesn't feel like much. Tight, mostly." Dean pressed his fingertips into the muscle, the edges of his knee cap, along his shin. Sam reached down, following the path of Dean's hand with his own, kneading. It felt spectacular. "Ohh," he groaned, unselfconscious. "That's good."

Sam huffed a breath through his nose. "Yeah?" He scooted closer, using both hands, and Dean let his fall to his sides, leaning his head back against the truck and closing his eyes.

"Yeah."

Sam kept it up for a while, Dean wasn't sure how long, lost in the hazy pleasure of the knots and kinks loosening under his scarred skin. Sam eased away, trailed his hands up to Dean's hip before stopping. When Dean opened his eyes, he was looking right at Sam, their faces closer together than he anticipated.

Sam leaned in, and Dean didn't think of anything at all as Sam's lips brushed his forehead, then his mouth. He tilted his chin and met the kiss, the second time, and it felt so easy and normal. Sam's mouth was warm and inviting, his hand on Dean's face soft, pulling him in.

"Oh," Sam said, letting his hand drop to his lap. Dean hummed, looking up at the swarm of gnats around the tall light in the parking lot. His face felt warm and his lips tingled-all of his limbs were heavy, relaxed. He felt-content.

"I think," Sam started, "that I'm good to drive, now. We should. Um. Get home."

"Sure, Sammy," Dean said, climbing off the back of truck with an ease he hadn't felt in far too long. The thought was beginning to surface, nagging and cold, I just kissed my brother.

Maybe it had been a peck on the lips at first, still a little weird, but completely explainable. Families kiss all the time. But then-it wasn't. They'd lingered, because they wanted to kiss longer, because they wanted more. Dean squeezed his eyes shut tight and put his head in his hands. Sam was tense beside him, left heel bobbing irritatingly. "I'm sorry," Sam said after what felt like an eon. "I was just-the tequila, you know, and I just wanted you to feel better, and-"

"Yeah," Dean mumbled into his hands. "It's fine, I know. Just got caught up in a weird situation, it's fine. It's fine." The more he told himself it was fine, the closer it would be to fine.

"So, uh." Sam cleared his throat and turned up the radio as he merged onto I70 and pointed them towards Berkeley Springs. "You been thinking about what kind of glasses you want?"

*

Sam drove Dean up to Hancock, Maryland for his appointment with Dr. Dolly Roberts, Optometrist. "I can't believe you're making me do this," Dean said, and Sam shrugged.

"Think of all the awesome people who had glasses. John Lennon, Buddy Holly, Woody Allen."

"I'm not saying there aren't awesome people who wear glasses, I just-never thought I'd see the day I'd have an actual appointment with an actual optometrist."

Sam laughed; Dean scowled. "See the day…" Sam said, and Dean groaned.

The office was small and clean, and though Dean was a little apprehensive about someone shining lights in his eyes and the puff of air for the pressure test was obnoxious, in general it really wasn't that bad at all. Sam came into the exam room with him-"Like hell I'd miss that"-and didn't hesitate to laugh at Dean blinking owlishly through all the test lenses. Dr. Roberts didn't seem fazed.

Dean was definitely farsighted, they discovered, although it was still pretty mild and he'd really only need his glasses for reading and probably at work, too.

"And now the fun part," Dr. Roberts said. "Picking out frames!" She gave Dean a cheerful smile, and Sam clapped his hands together once, gleefully.

They had a wide variety of different kinds of glasses, considering it was a pretty small shop. "I want something cool," Dean said immediately.

"I'm the one who's going to have to look at you," Sam said with a cocked eyebrow. "How about what I want?"

Dean grabbed the pair nearest to him and put them on. They were huge, and red, and looked like Sally Jessy Raphael's backup pair. "Here you go. This is about your speed, right?"

Sam grabbed them off Dean's face and put them back on the rack, barely suppressing a laugh. He was trying and failing to look irritated.

Dean tried a gold wire-framed pair of librarian glasses next, complete with gold chain, then cat-eye glasses, a pair of Napoleon Dynamites, and even a tiny pair of John Lennon circles that Sam called the Harry Potters. At that point, he wasn't even pretending to be annoyed, laughing with each ridiculous pair Dean put on, and it felt awesome.

Eventually he ran out of ridiculous frames to try, and ended up actually looking for what he'd want to wear for the rest of forever. There were some nice normal wire-frame ones, light, unobtrusive, but eventually he settled on a simple style of frameless, as minimalistic as possible, so he could pretend he wasn't even wearing them at all.

"How ‘bout these?" he said, all seriousness when Sam wandered over from where he'd been poking around in the front of the shop.

Sam nodded, closing his fingers around whatever was in his hand. "Sure, those are great."

"But…?" Dean coaxed, and grabbed Sam's wrist. Sam opened his hand, and there was a simple, solid pair of black rectangular Polo frames in his palm.

"Just liked these," he said, shrugging. Dean grabbed them before Sam could put them back.

"Can't hurt to try ‘em on." He put back the ones he was wearing and slid on the black ones instead. He peered in the mirror; they certainly looked like-glasses. He wouldn't be denying anything in these. "What do you think?"

Sam's smile was far from mocking, this time. "I like ‘em," he said, quietly. He met Dean's gaze and held it for a long time, something palpable between them. Dean couldn't look away. Eventually, "You can get the frameless ones, though. Just wanted to see those on you."

Dean nodded. He wasn't going to get the frameless ones.

*



Sam came home from work one day while Dean was sitting at the kitchen counter repairing the toaster. "Dean," he said, out of breath and excitable.

"What?" Dean said to the heating coil.

"There's-we gotta go."

Dean dropped his screwdriver and whipped around. Completely unexpected panic gripped his stomach, icy and scared. "What? Go? Are you-"

"Not go-go," Sam said, dumping his bag and covering the distance to the kitchen in three huge strides. He dropped his hand on the counter and leaned in, just inches from Dean, breath hot. "Tony and Mike, they were talking about this park thing they went to the other weekend in Martinsburg. Someone died Dean. They found him mangled and disemboweled, hanging in an upstairs bedroom. I looked it up, the place they went. The Poor House Farm Park. Dean, it used to be a workhouse, and then a mental institution. They say it's haunted."

"Haunted," Dean said, leaning back on the stool, cautious.

"You don't have to come, but I'm gonna go. Have to. It's in Berkeley County, probably just a few vengeful spirits. Please, Dean." There was something raw in Sam's eyes, and Dean could barely catch his breath.

"Yeah. Yeah, Sammy. We'll go. Like hell I'm letting you hare off on your own." He pushed at Sam's shoulder, making space to slide off the stool.

*

The drive to Martinsburg was uneventful, the mountains as quiet and stoic as they always were, Jefferson Airplane piping out of the tinny car stereo from 100.3 FM. "We've been going out of town a lot lately." Sam said suddenly. "We don't have to get back on the road," he added, looking over at Dean.

"We're on the road right now," Dean said dumbly. Sam wanted to Talk, and he really didn't.

"You know what I mean."

"No, Sam. I don't."

"I mean maybe we shouldn't rush out of Berkeley Springs. Like for good. I know you're thinking about it. That maybe building up Bobby's library in the basement makes it too permanent and we should stop and move on while we're ahead."

Dean sighed. "You mean-you do want to live there? Like for real live there? Bobby's-house live there?"

"Why not?" Sam said, and the fragile way it came out ripped at Dean's heart.

"I dunno, man. There's no real why not. Just that that's never been how we roll." Dean rubbed at the back of his neck and looked out the window, eyes narrow. His sternum hurt, like it was bruised.

"If you don't want to stay, I'm not saying we have to stay," Sam said, voice soft. "Just thought maybe you were doing good. Liking work. Maybe-do you remember what Alice said? Back when we signed the lease?"

"The house down the street?" Dean's hands were cold even though it was warm in the cab of the truck. He chafed them against his jeans.

"I know we sorta laughed at her then, but do you ever think-"

"I think I tried that already Sam. I can't do it. I don't want to do it. I drank more whiskey than anyone with a kid in the house should ever drink. I worried Lisa sick half the time. I had nightmares. I was always waiting for-well. It just wouldn't work."

"Waiting for what?"

"Waiting for you to walk through that stupid front door," Dean said. He didn't think he'd say it, but there the words were, just hanging there.

"What if I were living down the street instead?" Sam said after a heavy silence. He shifted gears and it was like a gunshot.

"I'm not walking down the street every night to come read to you while your wife mocks me, and then walk back to my stupid lonely house."

"Who says I'd have a wife? What about you?"

"What about me?"

"I thought maybe-Melody."

"Sam, she's a kid. And technically my boss."

"Jo was a kid too."

"Don't test me, man. I don't want to rent another house. I don't want to marry Melody or anyone. And I don't want you to leave me."

It just came out. He didn't mean to say it, he was just on a roll, words pouring out of him, his chest light and open.

Sam pressed his lips together and squeezed his hands on the steering wheel. "Somebody to Love" wailed on the radio, and Sam turned it down with clumsy fingers. "I wouldn't," he said, barely audible. "You know I wouldn't. Couldn't. Dean, you're why I came back. Every time, you're why. I just thought maybe you-"

"Well," Dean said, angry and confused. "You thought wrong."

*

An unnatural dampness clung to everything at Berkeley Poor House Farm Park. It was heavy, the air dank. "Woah," said Dean, and flicked on his EMF meter, which squealed erratically. The lake out front was several acres wide, but where there should've been ducks and geese and other typical pastoral staples, there was just-algae. Stillness. The faint, eerie lapping of the water against the reeds. There was an island in the center of the lake, a bridge leading to it from both sides. A gazebo sat on the island, dark wood looking soft and probably rotted.

There was a stone house beyond the lake, so shrouded in mist the highest gables were invisible. "That's where he died," Sam said, nodding at a tiny window high in the wall of the house nearest to them.

"Why was someone who came to play beach volleyball in the sand pit up there in the house in the first place?" Dean asked, surveying the grounds. There was a frame picnic area down the hill in the distance, the sand pits, an arena for small local concerts, and miles and miles of forest with walking paths. A brand new steep-roofed barn was set it from the road on the other side of the park-it was dry over there.

"No idea," said Sam. "I'm not counting out being under the influence of the spirit, though."

"It would have to be a really fucking angry spirit, then," said Dean, slinging his shotgun over his shoulder.

"I can't think of a better place for angry spirits than an alms house slash insane asylum," said Sam, edgy.

"What's up with you?"

Sam fidgeted, upset. "I know what that's like. Not a lot, anymore, but I've been there. Been where that spirit is. Hollow and in pain and angry and scared. You saw what happened to Bobby, and he wasn't even nuts before he got shot in the head."

Dean winced. "I'm sorry, I just-"

"Let's just do this," Sam said, and his face was more sad than angry. Dean's fingers closed around nothing, and that bruised feeling in his sternum was back.

Inside, the walls dripped with water. It ran in dark, condensing rivulets over the stone, collecting in the moldy running boards and seeping towards the drain in the floor of the kitchen, towards the fireplace in the parlor, the door to the basement in the front hallway. The wooden furniture smelled thickly of rot, dusted with white spores, cakey with black loam. Sam sneezed violently and Dean would've jumped if he hadn't sensed it coming.

The stairs were stone too - lucky in that Sam and Dean wouldn't punch their feet through and get rotten splinters in their thighs, but unlucky in that they were slick with slime and treacherous to climb, narrow and steep. The banister had rotted away many years ago.

The air was oppressive, unbreathable. It was like trying to breathe when Dean had the stream of the shower pointing at his face; it burned in the back of his nose, down to the top of his throat. Sam was heaving wet breaths, too, his thin tshirt soaked through and clinging to him like they'd just come in from a rainstorm. His hair was pasted in ringlets to the back of his neck and ears, droplets landing with pats against soaked fabric.



"Master bedroom," Sam said. "Tony said the guy was looking for a place to pee."

"And he came all the way up here rather than just take a leak on a tree?" Dean said, nonplussed.

"Guess he was shy," Sam said dryly.

The EMF meter in Dean's pocket trilled, and as they stepped into the slope-roofed room-Like my room, Dean thought-the water clinging to the walls iced over, white frost seeping across everything like a spreading pool of blood.

"Crap," Dean said, and cocked his shotgun, angling his shoulder in front of Sam, who had his handgun with salt rounds aimed over Dean's bicep. "Come on!" he shouted. "Don't make us wait all day, that's not very polite."

A welling splotch of darkness grew in front of the fireplace, like an ink droplet sucked into surrounding paper fibers. "What the hell," said Sam, squinting at it as if he were willing it to resolve into a form he recognized.

"That's new," said Dean, and fired into the amorphous darkness. It dissipated, sucked back into the heavy, wet air molecule by molecule.

A split second later, Sam was slammed bodily into the ground, breath gusting out of him on a pained moan. His eyes bugged, his arms twisted awkwardly, unnaturally. "Sammy," Dean breathed, and shot at the air, at the floor, scrabbling at Sam's body, his wet shirt, until he took huge gulping breaths of freezing air, both of them sliding awkwardly on the iced-over floorboards, skin red and sore where it touched the ice.

"What-" Dean started.

Sam shook his head. "I couldn't even see it. And it was so cold, I went numb all over. Couldn't feel anything. Couldn't breathe."

"Me neither," Dean said under his breath, and the tearing pain of the ice on his bad leg suddenly cut through the numbness. "Uh," he said, and couldn't help but contort his face when the cramping started, compounded by the needles of cold.

"Oh god," Sam said, and pulled himself up with stiff, sore joints, fingers digging into the icy-crisp mattress of the bed in the middle of the room. "We have to get out; this isn't just a vengeful spirit."



He bundled Dean up in his arms, carrying him down the stairs with dangerous, sliding strides, stomping out of the house and into the mists still clinging to grounds outside. Dean gritted his teeth hard and closed his eyes against the wave of nausea that hit him with the pain, and though he tried to walk, to help, Sam had to stop to heft Dean up onto his shoulder so he could run faster back to the truck. "It's okay, I got you," he said, breathless, and Dean just had to let it happen. Sam stretched him out in the back when they got to the truck, big hands around his leg, kneading, pressing, manipulating. Dean squeezed his eyes shut against the pain and reached over his head into the lockbox, grabbing the first pill bottle he could reach. "It's Vicodin, you're good," Sam said breathlessly, and Dean knocked back four like it was nothing.

He capped the bottle and dropped it to his side with a jarring clang against the metal of the truck bed. Covering his face with his hands, he just left them there, warming his nose and his cheeks even though the smell of mold lingered under his fingernails.

Sam's hands on him felt like nothing else, the contrast of his warm fingers against the pained, needling cold so much better even than Tipp City. Dean tried to sit up after what felt like hours, but Sam stopped him with a hand cupped around Dean's jaw. "Hey," he said, barely audible, with a gentle slide of his thumb over Dean's cheekbone.

And just like Tipp City, but starker, clearer, Sam leaned down to press a kiss to Dean's forehead, then to his lips, with a soft, damp press of salt and warmth and breath. He kissed the corner of Dean's mouth, big hand still cupped around his jaw, and Dean shivered-not from the cold.

It was wrenching, this time, nothing dulled by sleepy drunkenness, everything over-bright in the immediacy of being not-dead. Sam was melting him down and building him back up again, stronger.

Dean brought his arms up, thawed, and wrapped Sam tight, clutched at his solid body and curled his fingers into Sam's jacket. The ridged metal of the truck bed under him made it hard to get purchase, but he turned his face into Sam's neck, listened as Sam took rough, shuddering breaths.

Dean wasn't sure how long they stayed like that, breathing each other in, splayed awkward but necessary in the back of the truck. He could feel the heavy yoke of fatigue sagging his shoulders, though, making his eyes gritty and his limbs loose. He pulled back, just on the verge of falling asleep, catching himself. "I think we should go," he mumbled. "I can't-Sam. I'm exhausted. We can come back."

Sam nodded, but it visibly hurt him to let go of Dean, to get them both settled back in the cab of the truck. Dean wanted to ask what was going on in Sam's head, what he was seeing. But he didn't want to burst the fragile bubble carrying them through this.

*

It seemed dumb to get a motel room when they were so close to their own house, but Dean couldn't sit folded up in the car for one second longer than absolutely necessary to get them someplace he could stretch out and recover.

The motel was called the Dogwood Inn, and it wasn't too disgusting, all told. The formica was teal, the mini-fridge a rusty beige. The water was clean, though, and the bedsheets. The beds were rickety, too close together on the back wall of the room. The wallpaper was splattered with, of course, dogwoods. A little wooden-framed TV with an honest-to-god turn dial was perched on top of the Lucite table under the window.

Dusty rose curtains were tied back with frayed, faded gold ropes, tassels that had seen better days just brushing the awkwardly green carpet.

Dean laid out on the bed by the door, letting his eyes drift shut as he listened to Sam rummaging around and booting up his laptop. He could feel Sam's gaze, and nodded off under its weight. As soon as he began to dream, pain shot through him, tearing into his leg.

He was back in Purgatory, surrounded by the thick green forest and dark, twisted souls of dead monsters, now living, breathing-hunting him. The dragons were descending on him, jaws unhinged around molten blasts of lava pouring from their throats. The trees caught fire, the very ground burning under Dean's feet. He couldn't do anything but run, Castiel nowhere to be found, maybe even already dead. Then the roar of an engine-in the dream it only filled him with sick dread. The Impala. Sam had found him, and was driving straight into the deathtrap that had been set for them. The Earth-bound road reached the forest of Purgatory over a bridge, high above them, and Dean could see the sillhouette of the car careening over the chasm, much too fast. The dragons turned their sharp snouts towards the growl of the car, hissing fire at it from all directions. The screech of crunching metal was deafening, the car plowing into the forest floor, alight-it was mere seconds before it exploded, smelling overwhelmingly, sickeningly, like char and gasoline. Sam was there, he was in the car, there was no way he could've survived-Dean raced towards the wreckage, heedless of the debris and shrapnel raining down around him until suddenly the searing pain in his leg, the screams ripped from his throat-

"Dean," Sam said, hands firm on Dean's shoulders, shaking him just enough to bring him out of the dream.

Dean gasped,eyes wide, and clutched at his leg. It was excruciating.

"Hey," Sam murmured, and crawled onto the bed next to Dean, one big hand spread across his chest, coaxing him to lie back, the other on his leg, beginning to knead and rub just like he had in the bed of the truck. "It's okay, you're not there, you're here with me. Sam. West Virgina."

Dean forced himself to take deep breaths, gritting his teeth and putting his hand over Sam's hand on his chest, feeling the fast pounding of his own heart. He willed it to slow down. Sam massaging his leg felt unbelievable, and it leeched the vibrant color out of his flashbacks, made it all seem distant and less real.

Sam leaned forward, and it was just like before, the soothing thrum of Dean's muscles under Sam's hand, Sam's lips parted slightly as he leaned in. Dean met him this time, though, mouth soft and open for him, a deep ache in him begging to have Sam as close as he could be.

"Sorry," Dean said, after a long moment, the racing of his heart more from Sam's body pressed up against him than from the traces of his dream.

"Don't be," Sam said, eyes dark and cheeks flushed. He licked his lips. He sat back and cleared his throat, and Dean tried not to feel too bereft. "I know how it is. You've witnessed me doing the same just as often. I dream about hell, about the things Lucifer did to me. The things he showed me. I-it's hard to talk about. I know you don't judge me, though. Even when the nightmares don't stay nightmares."

Dean sat up against the headboard, making more room for Sam. "Of course not."

"Sometimes things are on fire," Sam said, with a bitter huff of a laugh through his nose. "Just random things. A table will be on fire, and I'll have to go stand next to it and wave my hand through the flames to figure out if it's real or not."

"The medication-"

"Helps a lot. You help a lot. I'm just saying, I understand that wrench when you realize that the horrible stuff you're seeing isn't reality."

Dean didn't have anything to say; he just grappled, as he always did, with knowing there were things Sam was going through that he couldn't fix. The silence wasn't heavy or awkward-it was reassuring.

After a while, Sam got up and grabbed his laptop. "So before we go back to get that thing for good, we should figure out what kind of vengeful spirit can be so vengeful it doesn't even look like a human anymore," he said, voice light an untroubled.

"Let's hear it," Dean said.

*

It manifested as a woman, finally, not just the yawning void of blackness and nothing, hate and fear and anger that had tried to consume them at the house the first time. The woman - really just a girl, only barely 14 - was Sharon Merryweather, one of the downtrodden girls who had nowhere to go but the alms house back in 1844. It was overcrowded, just turning into the insane asylum at the time, influxes of new people coming, straining the infrastructure and staff.

Sharon had known the streets all her life, had been in trouble more than once. The doctors at the alms house knew her, loved her. But with so many new patients and problems, no one was there to look after her.

McCarthy -the only name on record for the man, no first name, no birth date - wasn't considered a dangerous criminal when he was transferred to Berkeley County, but he wasn't exactly famous for his kindness and hospitality. He took a shine to Sharon, Dean had read, and it was his baby in her belly when she jumped off the roof.

"The voices made her," said one of the other girls.

She had never been schizophrenic. Sam's knuckles had turned white on laptop when he read that part out to Dean, and Dean bumped his boot against Sam's.

McCarthy was found in the air ducts one day, and it was only a matter of time until they traced his usual route to the vent in Sharon's room, where he whispered next to her head, his hot breath obscured by the cool air piping in from outside in the winter. The voice was his.

Sharon's spirit didn't go down easy that night, though Dean had pulled out all the stops and armed them to the teeth. She was tarry-black, wet with mud and icy water from the shallow bed of the lake where she landed, her spine sticking out the side of her neck, shiny with fluid and gristle, the skin around it blackened and peeling away, puss dripping down the delicate curve of her shoulder. Her uniform hung around her in tatters, her belly huge and round and low, like she was going to give birth at any moment - except it was misshapen, lumpy, dark bruises mottling it where it was visible through the rips in her dress. Dean thought he might vomit.

"Help me," she said, raspy and wicked. "Come closer, help me, please." She was next to Sam in a flash, icy long-fingered hands reaching out for his neck.

Dean lunged forward and got a shot off, straight through her belly. She burst into black wads of ectoplasm, and Sam staggered backwards with the shovel, changing course and running faster, deeper into the woods - there was a cemetery back there, the ramshackle remains of a little church cabin. Even if she'd committed suicide, Sharon would be buried there.

The ground was almost frozen, hard from the pervasive chill, but Dean chopped and hacked and got the dirt loose - his leg protested weakly, but the need to dig as fast as possible eclipsed the discomfort. They got into a rhythm, the way they always used to, the dig lulling them with the push and pull of the physical labor and the repetitive motions until finally there was the thick thump of the shovel blade against rotting pine.

The bones were hard and brittle with age, dark, and it was like they'd never stopped, never rested. Like their last salt and burn had been just last week. Sam doused her with lighter fluid and the bones flared into a warm, flickering fire that eased the crawling in Dean's skin. The icy air thawed, and in the distance, beyond the trees, Dean could see the mist lifting from around the old stone house.

Dean sat on the top edge of a tombstone just a few feet from Merryweather's grave. Sam sat on the ground beside him, legs drawn up, shoulders bowed in with the work of gravedigging.

"Okay, Sammy?" Dean asked, throat a little tight with the plumes of smoke starting to form.

"Not too bad, actually," Sam said, with a small smile. "Mind's clear." He looked up at Dean, meeting his eyes, saying a lot more in just that one look. "My arms hurt like hell, though. Gotten soft in my old age."

Dean laughed and scrubbed a hand through Sam's hair, down to squeeze his shoulder. He left it there, thumb and forefinger notched comfortable over the muscle between sam's neck and collar bone.

Sam let his head dip towards Dean, leaning against his good leg.

"I feel bad for her, you know. No wonder she was so violent. So cruel. She was driven to it."

"Sam," Dean said, worry lacing his voice. "Not everyone is driven to that." Sam shrugged, fretting in every line of his body. "You won't be. I'll make sure of it."

They stood up, all the better to breathe. The smoke from the bones was corpulent, heavy and fleshy where the body wasn't anymore. It hung low, opaque and grey in the puffs of breeze that tried to lift it. Dean wiped at his eyes, the sting almost like cutting onions. When he dropped his hand back to his side, he hit Sam's wrist.

Sam had sidled closer, shoulders hunched just a little. There was a wrinkle in his brow that meant he was thinking something but he wasn't sure if he wanted to say it or not.

"What?" Dean asked. He rubbed his hand on the back of his neck, kneading for a second at the knots of tension bracketing his spine.

"Nothing," Sam said. He obviously meant, Nothing you're going to want to talk about. Dean wasn't supposed to take that at face value, but Sam liked to give him an out anyway.

"Come on," he said, playing his part. Sam looked up at him - down, really, but it felt like up. He looked confused, and a little worried, and a lot strange. "Hey, you okay?" Dean asked, wanting to palm the side of Sam's face, check him over. He didn't, though. "I told you. I'm gonna look out for you. Always."

Sam didn't say anything, just pressed his mouth into a thin line. Maybe Dean read this all wrong. As the last of the embers burned down and the fire was nothing but a faint orange glow, Sam leaned forward, lips soft and parted, one big hand up on Dean's shoulder.

Dean backed up, surprised. He got a snoot full of smoke when he inhaled sharply, and if the involuntary back-step hadn't been enough to scare Sam off like a skittish colt, the hacking and retching from the lungful of bone-carbon certainly would be. He smacked Dean high on his back between his lungs with one big paw until Dean coughed out and caught his breath, but then his hands went straight in his pockets and he turned and walked away with his shoulders up around his ears. Air rushed in to fill the space where he'd been with curls of thick smoke.

Dean's eyes streamed but his airway was finally clear, so he jogged after Sam and didn't say anything at all.

Sam didn't say anything either, and Dean didn't push it, even when they were back in the motel room and it was time for one of them to call first shower. Dean sat on the bed and watched Sam, waited for him. Sam just busied himself with putting away the equipment, then took out his laptop. Dean couldn't handle the silent treatment, so he wordlessly claimed first shower.

He cranked the water to piping hot, but scrubbed up quickly, perfunctorily, so Sam would have some hot water too when it was his turn. He wriggled his toes in the warm pool covering the floor of the bathtub, let the stream pour over his face and reveled in each rivulet over his chest. Hot showers were one of the great joys in life. Hot showers, hot meals, and hot sex. Dean groaned a little, wishing he had the energy to work on that last one. But he didn't, and even if he did, he wasn't sure he'd want to right then. Not when he was so mixed up, when the tension coiled up in the shape of his brother not four feet away was still sitting anxiously in his gut.

He finished and gave himself a quick wipe-down with a sandpaper motel towel, annoyingly short such that it only covered him down to about mid-thigh when he wrapped it around his waist to go back out into the room. Sam had just shrugged into a hoodie and was banging his way out the door, eyes resolutely on anything but Dean. Dean couldn't say he was too sorry about that. He got dressed in peace and kicked back on his bed, pretending not to worry about Sam while he channel-surfed with the TV on mute.

It wasn't long before Sam came back. Dean jolted upright at the first sound of Sam's jangling key - pretending not to worry meant, of course, that he was worrying. Dean had to fix this, make it right. He knew exactly how.

He opened the door, leaning one forearm against it at about eye-level. Sam looked at him with soft eyes, skin radiating cool from the outside air, brisk in the dark of the parking lot. There was no moon at all, and the stars were thick like a blanket across the sky-breathtaking even in the weak backlit glow from the motel room. Like he and Sam were the only people on earth to see them. Dean pushed Sam back from the door instead of letting him in, and grabbed a six-pack from the stack next to the table in one hand and the comforter from the bed in the other. "Come on," he said, truce in every line of his body.

"Where are we going?" Sam said, not worried, just curious. He was loose, like maybe he went and read a book in the cab of the truck until he got worried about running down the battery-Dean found him out there sometimes at home, sitting in the carport like a husband out in a shed. Sam said he only did it because it was familiar, and Dean could sort of understand. Sam had been raised in a car. It just hurt that he had to sit in an old pickup truck, that the one member of their family they had left was gone. It felt more lonely than losing Dad, even. Than losing Bobby. He didn't blame Sam, of course, but there was an ache in his ribs that would never go away.

"Just-out, I guess," said Dean. They walked down into the woods behind the motel, outcroppings of mountain rocks every few feet. There was a huge flat one in a clearing about a third of a mile into the woods, illuminated just by the light of the stars. "Here we go." Dean spread out the comforter on the rock, plunked down the beers with the soft tinkle of glass.

"What's this?" Sam asked, but he got down on the blanket, sitting tailor style, knobby knees akimbo. Dean stretched out, leaning back on his elbows.

"I don't know. Nothing." There were fireflies in the woods, dozens of them. The soft, warm light of their glow winked in and out, crickets chirping, the breeze rustling the soft green leaves, new for spring. "Just wanted to look at the stars I guess."

"Remember when we were in heaven?" Sam said, swallowing thickly.

"Yeah," Dean said, quiet, gut twisting. Sam's heaven, where he wasn't.

"It was just like this, at first. Before you found me. There was a road, and I saw the stars the way I saw them with you. You know, when we were just kids and you'd drive me up to the point-"

"In Arizona?"

"Yeah, that one. You'd drive me up there and we'd sit on the hood and it was like no one else existed in the whole world. Not even Dad. Just sitting there with you, not saying anything-I don't know, man. That's something I can't get anywhere else."

"Me neither," said Dean.

They stayed like that for a long while, the woods around them, the Milky Way above them. Dean even nodded off, just a light doze, still aware of his surroundings but memories and the wispy beginnings of dreams soothing him.

He wasn't sure whether it was real or not when a shadow fell across his face and he felt Sam's cool beer-tinged lips on his. "Mmm?" he said, eyes opening to Sam's eyelashes and smooth cheekbones. "Sammy?" he murmured under Sam's mouth.

"Dean," Sam said, just a mumble, like he didn't want to stop for the inconvenience of words. "You die a lot. In my nightmares." He kissed Dean again, just a brush of his lips. Dean got goosebumps. "I can't help thinking about it. What I'd do."

Dean looked up at him, nods just enough to show he was listening. His mouth tingled. It sounded all too familiar.

"I always tell myself it's okay, because we were in heaven together." Sam held himself up so he could look down at Dean, arms on either side of him, chest to chest. His hair fell forward from behind his ears, darkening his face. "You heard Ash, right? When we were there?"

"Yeah," Dean said, heart thumping.

"Even if we're old and I get lung cancer and you have a heart attack and die in your bed, it's going to be you and me in heaven. We'll never be apart."

"Maybe not forever," Dean said, rolling Sam off of him, taking his hand. He just wanted to feel Sam's grip, the thin skin of his wrist against Dean's, pulse to pulse. "But if I go first, from a heart attack in my own bed or any other way, you're going to have to be alone for a while."

"Then I guess we just can't die, huh?" Sam said, half smiling.

"Not unless we do it together," Dean said, and turned over on his side, facing Sam, head on his shoulder. He stared at the faint beat of Sam's skin right over his pulse, the tiny shadow of it in the starlight.

Sam slid a hand down Dean's spine, back up again, slow and gentle. Dean pushed into it, not too much, just wanting Sam to know it was okay. He tilted his head towards Sam, open and easy when Sam kissed him again. Sam's other hand was on Dean's hip, fingertips brushing up under the edge of his t-shirt, curling against his belly. Dean shivered.

"Dean," Sam murmured, and Dean nodded, pressed up into Sam's mouth.



"Come on, Sammy," he said, and Sam fumbled with the fly on Dean's jeans, gripping him tight around the back with one arm and pulling him up, palming Dean's dick with the other. Dean was hard already, couldn't even be ashamed of it when his blood was pumping so desperately through him, when the need to have Sam touching him was clanging so loudly in him he couldn't hear anything else over the noise. Couldn't even feel the dull pain of his leg.

"Want to," Sam started, but trailed off into a gasp muffled against Dean's lips as he got his hand inside Dean's shorts, the cool of his fingers stark against the hot, hard line of Dean's cock.

"Do it. Do it," Dean huffed, breaths coming hard and hips hitching up against Sam's grip. His thighs slid apart and his back hollowed out, body coming alive with how bad he wanted this, how overwhelming it was to have Sam here, turning him on, wanting it too. He slid his fingers into Sam's hair, kissed him, pulled him closer as his tongue traced Sam's teeth, tasting beer and spit. It was heady, unreal. His thumb brushed over Sam's sideburns, the strong line of his jaw, and part of Dean thought it should feel weird or unsettling, but it didn't. It just felt right.

Sam fell into a rhythm, and Dean couldn't help the moan that slipped out. His little brother, honest-to-god jerking Dean off. His hand felt huge, perfect and tight. Dean could feel the heat in his own cheeks, too, was thankful for the darkness so Sam couldn't see him blush.

Sam thumbed at the knob of his dick on the upstroke, coaxing precome out of Dean with sure, purposeful squeezes. He knew what he was doing. If Dean thought too much about Sam doing this on himself, about Sam's dick, big and wet and hard for Dean, it would be over too soon. "God," Sam said, the slick noise of his palm spreading slippery wetness completely obscene.

"Sorry," Dean said, suddenly self-conscious.

"No, it's," Sam pulled back a little, searching Dean's face. "It's hot." Dean's hips hitched involuntarily, and he huffed out a pained breath, his leg twinging. He let his eyes fall closed and the pain receded, replaced by a desperate need he hadn't felt in years, not since the lonely nights he spent looking for hookups when Sam was away at school. It hit him in a wave, every nerve lighting up - he wanted Sam to fuck him. Wanted Sam to just push his jeans and shorts down to his knees right here in the middle of the woods and get his dick in Dean, make him feel it. His face burned, and he groaned deep in the back of his throat. Sam must've felt it, too. "God, Dean, I want-"

He grabbed at Dean's balls, tugging just enough to make Dean cry out, reaching up to clutch Sam's bicep, panting. "Yeah," Dean said, eyes rolling back and toes curling as he felt the pull in his spine, the tingling thrill pulling his thighs tight and making his hips buck into Sam's grip with abandon. "Please."

"Gonna fuck you," Sam murmured, breath hot against Dean's ear. "Want to watch you come apart right now, right here in the open where anyone could walk by. Hear you begging for it."

Dean swallowed, trying and failing not to whimper.

"But later-god, I wanna feel you under me. You'll let me, too, won't you? Gonna be so good. Jesus, Dean. Love you."

Each word twisted Dean up more, brought him closer. He came with his lips parted against Sam's, keening, everything the soft white of orgasm as his mind emptied and all he could feel was the wash of release. His fingers were tight in Sam's shirt, his dick pulsing with the beat of his heart, come oozing over Sam's hand as he twitched. Sam worked him through it, still making wet, messy sounds as Dean came down, skin buzzing and ears pounding.

"After you cool down," Sam said, softly, barely audible, "we're gonna go back to the room. I'm gonna have a shower. And if you want to do this, if you really-if this is gonna happen. Be waiting for me when I'm done."

Dean shivered, head to toe, aftershocks and fresh arousal warring in him. Sam did up his fly with slow fingers.

"If you go out to the car or to the vending machine or whatever, that's fine. We won't-we don't ever have to talk about it again."

Dean didn't trust himself to say anything. He just squeezed Sam's arm and pressed his lips to Sam's neck, breathing deep. Sam smelled like smoke and grass and sweat, and Dean's heart thumped painfully in his chest with how much he wanted to be waiting for him when he came out of that shower, damp and warm and hopeful.

*

Dean sat on his bed, one leg pulled up under him, awkwardly trying to decide if he should undress or leave his clothes on for Sam to peel off him when he was done showering. That he was even having that thought-Should I undress myself, or let my little brother do it before he fucks me?-was insane in and of itself. He took deep breaths, massaging his leg. It didn't even really hurt right now, just a little stiff.

He'd finally decided it would be easier for everyone if he just got his clothes off. He had his shirt over his head, arms nervously entwined in the sleeves, when he heard the bathroom door open. Sam's intake of breath was unmistakable, even though Dean couldn't see anything with his shirt stupidly stuck covering his face.

Sam was surprised to see him there. Relieved. Turned on. Dean could hear all of it in that one breath.

His footsteps on the motel carpet were deliberate. Dean could smell the standard-issue shampoo, the slightly-too-soft water. He felt Sam's shadow fall over him before Sam's hands tugged at his shirt, freeing him from it. Sam looked down at him, eyes hooded. Dean swallowed dryly, looking up, neck bared.

"You're here." Sam curled a finger under Dean's chin, and Dean tilted his head back a little more.

"Knew I would be," he murmured. Sam was wearing sweatpants, and his cock was already hard, tenting them out. It could have looked ridiculous, but it just made Dean's mouth water and he shifted on the bed, feeling greedy.

"I've been thinking about this since I was just a kid, Dean. About you." Sam's voice was low, and he flushed all the way down his neck. His chest was still wet from the shower, and Dean could see his heartbeat there, the skin fluttering. He put one knee up on the bed, between Dean's legs, hips listing forward. "It always seemed wrong, then, but now-I don't know. I'm not scared of it anymore. This is what feels right, and good. No one could ever compare to you, for me. I don't want to get a house down the street, either. I want to be Sam and Dean Smith."

Dean's breath caught in his throat, and his body felt to big for his skin. He couldn't get any words out at all at first, the weight of what Sam said sinking in, wrapping him up like a security blanket. "Me too, " he managed, hoarse.

Sam kissed him, pouring himself into it. Dean could feel every word in that kiss, all the years and the need and the near misses and what they used to be. He reached up, arms around Sam's neck, fingers pushing through the droplets on Sam's shoulders, on the smooth plane of his back. There was so much of him to touch, and Dean wanted to be up against him, every inch of their skin pressed together. He pulled Sam down onto the bed with him, scooting them both back awkwardly, and Sam rolled them to their sides. His hands ghosted over Dean's hips, up around his ribcage, then down to his ass, palming it roughly. "God," he breathed into Dean's mouth, "need to fuck you," and Dean's dick was hard again in no time, like he hadn't just come moments ago.

"Please," Dean said, burying his face against Sam's neck. The need was unbearable; he was going to burn up inside if Sam didn't do it soon. "Please, please-Sammy-"

Sam kissed him quiet, tongue hot in his mouth as he worked Dean's fly down, pushing at his jeans. Dean kicked them off, not caring about his leg, not caring about anything except Sam touching him. He slid his hands down to bracket Sam's waist, slight compared to his broad shoulders, and tucked his fingers into Sam's waistband. Sam's hands were back on his ass, gripping over his underwear, rubbing tantalizingly along the cleft. "Do you have-" Sam started, and Dean nodded, hitching himself closer, rubbing their dicks together artlessly through Sam's pants and his underwear.

"Think there's still some in the side pocket," he mumbled, and it was torture when Sam pushed away to go check for the lube.

He came back with it, the bottle that had lived in Dean's duffel for years. He didn't have a condom. Dean tried not to moan, but he couldn't help it-Sam's dick in him, raw. "Take those off," Sam said, gesturing to Dean's black boxer-briefs. He tossed the bottle of lube on the bed and pushed down his sweatpants, cock springing out thick and hard and red.

"Sam," Dean said, and Sam looked at him, panting, waiting. Dean shook his head-it was just so surreal. Sam kneed up onto the bed and between Dean's thighs, smiling down at him.

"I know," he said, and sat back on his feet. "Roll on your back. Better for your leg." His voice was rough, and he closed a hand protectively over Dean's bad thigh, tracing the twisted ropes of scars. Sam bent to kiss it, just once, gently, and it made Dean shiver even though he couldn't feel much of anything in the scar tissue.

Dean did as he was told and rolled over, the bad leg stretched out, the good one bent up, Sam's hand cupping his hip. He just watched as Sam lubed himself up, slick precome mixing with the lube, squelchy and messy over the veiny shaft of his cock, the wide head. The way Sam jacked himself was obscene, his slit opening around the dribbled of precome. Dean squeezed his eyes shut, his own dick jerking and twitching.

"Hey," Sam whispered, bent over Dean. "Look at me." Dean opened his eyes and Sam rubbed two lubed fingers over Dean's tight hole, pushing in just a little, stretching him and teasing. Dean sucked in a breath and groaned as Sam slid one finger in, working it around, crooking it, making Dean's thighs straight apart and balls pull up. "Good?"

"Yes," Dean breathed, and Sam eased another finger in. "More. Don't-don't have to be gentle."

"Fuck," Sam said, and started working his fingers harder, adding another, stretching Dean out and making him feel it all the way down to his toes.

"Please," Dean begged, hitching his hips desperately. "Fuck me, Sammy, please-"

Sam held his breath as he pushed in, ever inch prying Dean open, spreading him wide. Dean panted, whimpering, rocking his hips.

"Dean-" Sam huffed, and started moving, each thrust filling Dean up more. Dean arched his back and reached up, hands clutching at Sam's sides, urging him on. His dick curved hard and messy against his stomach, bobbing as Sam fucked into him over and over. "God, I can't-gonna come, Dean. Gonna come in you."

Sam's thrusts were erratic, pounding, and he leaned down, his forehead to Dean's shoulder as he came. His hips pushed flush against Dean, skin hot and thrumming wherever they touched. Dean could feel Sam's cock in him, hard, pulsing, and he sobbed out a breath as he came, too-dick completely untouched between them, except where Sam's stomach pressed against it. He couldn't come much, but it felt like he was being wrung out by his spine, full and sated with Sam's lips against his, Sam's body pressing him into the mattress.

They just lay there like that, both panting, slick with sweat and spunk, Sam softening slowly inside Dean. Dean never wanted him to move. Sam turned his face into Dean's neck and kissed him, then down to his collarbone, and finally he pushed up and off. His pulled out with dirty squelch, and Dean groaned. He felt empty, and open, and it was completely perfect.

Sam got up and got a washcloth, perfunctorily wiping them both down. Dean let himself enjoy the view.

"The other bed has clean sheets," Sam said, raised eyebrows hopeful. "We could share."

Dean grinned and let Sam pull him up and tuck them both into the unused bed. They both fell asleep without nightmares.

*

The ride on the way back to Berkeley Springs the next day didn't feel any different than any other trip. Dean felt calm, settled. It rained, a warm spring rain, and it pinched a little in Dean's knee and in his ankle but his leg didn't really hurt all that much at all. They stopped at a diner on the side of the road for lunch, a diner that set up inside a trailer - a little shabby, but full of divey charm. They ran through the rain, laughing, and Sam splashed through a puddle on purpose like he was just a little kid again.

The guy behind the counter was huge, with a cheerful face, shiny red, and hands as big as dinner plates. "What can I do ya for?" he asked, and Sam pushed Dean over to a booth. "Double bacon cheeseburger for him," Sam said, like it was nothing. "I'll have a cob salad and orange juice. You got beer?"

Elijah (said the man's nametag) nodded. "Sure do. Ice cold. Old Dominion."

Dean couldn't help but sigh - the good stuff.

"Two of those, then," Sam said, and joined Dean at the booth.

"Ordering for me now, huh?" Dean asked, and Sam laughed.

"You're an invalid, clearly I gotta take care of you."

Sam was kidding, but his voice shook a little at the end of his sentence.

"Same goes for you, man," Dean said. "Glad you let me wake up with you today."

"Me too," said Sam.

Dean looked out the window at the cars passing, the rain falling through the trees in thick droplets, gathering on each broad poplar leaf, rolling down and falling to the next, gathering more momentum the closer it got to the ground, where it would finally stop. Seep into the mulch.

"What are we doing?" Dean asked, quietly. The words hummed on his tongue, hung heavy in the air between them.

"I don't know," said Sam. He sucked at his orange juice, hair hanging over his forehead, making him look young. "Don't think we have to know. We're not in a rush. Nothing's crashing down on us. No one left in the entire world we have obligations to."

Dean sighed, taking a huge bite of his burger the second Elijah dropped it in front of him."I guess," he said, mouth full.

"Ew," said Sam. "Don't talk with your mouth full, you sound like a cow chewing cud."

"You love me," Dean said, smiling through burger mush.

"Yeah," Sam said, voice suddenly serious. His hands were in his lap, chest leaned against the table in a too-tall slouch. Dean would never forget it. "I guess I do."

*

When they were back at the house, Sam dumped their bags out in the laundry room and started a load of wash, and Dean made his way down to the basement. He had a pile of relics he still had to sort through and two shelves of books that needed to be catalogued, including the new Sumerian set from Bryant.

After a while, he heard the thump of Sam's boots coming down the stairs. "Hey," Dean called. "Want to help me sort through hex bag ingredients?"

Sam pulled up a chair across from him at the desk in the corner. "It's what I live for," he said, and started labeling jars. They sat in companionable silence for a while, until Sam set down his marker. "You know," he started, "if we ever left, we'd lose all this work."

Dean capped his marker. "It's a damn lot of work, too."

"Maybe," Sam said, smiling, "we should stay here. You know what Alice said. Rent-to-buy."

"Sam and Dean Smith, homeowners," Dean said, returning Sam's grin. "It would save having to rebuild all the shelves. Plus, there probably aren't many moving companies who'd ship this stuff." He nodded at the puke-inducing contents of the jars.

"Guess that settles that." Sam reached across the desk to Dean, pulling him closer by the pocket on his shirt. He leaned in for a kiss, cupping Dean's jaw in his hands, lips dry and smooth, day-old stubble perfect against Dean's neck, against Dean's shoulder as Sam pressed hot, open-mouthed kisses down Dean's throat. Their markers rolled and clattered to the floor.

Dean drew Sam's head up, kissing him back, tasting him, running the tip of his tongue over Sam's teeth, letting the warmth of Sam's body sink into him, anchor him, bring him home.

The pain in his leg wasn't so bad when they were like this. It didn't matter that he was half-sitting, half-bent awkwardly over a desk. It didn't matter that they'd both probably be in trouble at work for running off with no notice. Nothing mattered but that they were here, whole, even if they had some rough stitching holding them together. They made it through the war. That they could be safe, they could have each other, without giving up the good fight.

"Home sweet home, Sammy," Dean said, sitting back, and Sam smiled.

*

Sam moved into Dean's room not long after. Dean woke up with the sun in his eyes, his glasses neat on the bedside table despite the fact that he invariably fell asleep in them. Sam always took them off so he wouldn't get imprints on his face or roll over on them in the night.

They made coffee together in the mornings, and in the evenings after work, Dean peeled Sam out of his coveralls and they showered together, too. Sam insisted on regular PT for Dean's leg, and it healed up well, if not perfectly-he'd always have a limp, which Sam said gave him character, but he wasn't drinking quite so much anymore and he took Ibuprofen for breakthrough pain. Sam was doing pretty well himself; Dean made sure he took his meds and grounded him when he needed it most.

They installed a phone bank in the basement with separate lines for their fake law enforcement agencies, doctors, any and all levels of the US government. The rows of heavy wooden shelves stuffed with books opened out onto several new digital setups, too. They had contacts all over the country calling for texts, lore, rare ingredients for spells and rituals. Bobby would've been proud.

Dean certainly was.

*

THE END

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