With These Rings
A/N: An AU for Season 5. Dean's said yes, Bobby's paralyzed, Cas has defeated Pestilence, Sam thinks his brother is safe in the panic room, and God is about, but not where anyone's looking. I'm neither a Bible thumper nor the anti-Christ. I hope everyone can enjoy like grown-ups.
***
Michael inside him hurts. He can't even crack a joke about it. He's ripped away from himself, filled up with a seething, roiling fire under his skin, and it hurts almost like hell, and stays just as long. Michael fidgets, shrugs his--Dean's--shoulders, flexes his fingers, takes tentative steps. He's not Lucifer: he hasn't had a practice meat-suit. He's Michael and he's finally in possession of his one true vessel, and Dean wants nothing more than to take it back.
***
Cas, only half-angel, is still the most radiant being Dean has ever seen. Dean feels widely, blindly hopeful for a moment that the being that freed him from hell can free him from this.
Cas' eyes go wide in Jimmy's face. "Michael--"
"Goodbye, brother."
Dean opens his mouth and finds he can't scream.
***
Dean hates flying. He hates the burn under his skin. He hates that the countryside he'd driven his Baby through is nothing but a quick hiccup of color between ferocious white light. He feels homesick, father-sick, heaven-sick.
Worst of all, Sam-sick.
***
Contrary to how it felt, he hasn't been gone more than an hour from Bobby's panic room. Michael lands them in the backyard and Dean wants to puke, wants to wretch and writhe until Bobby and his brother find him and drag him into the guest-room. Longs for stupid, naggy Sammy to fuss and mother-hen and ignore all his attempts to whack his soothing hands away. Instead Michael walks his body up and into the kitchen, where Sam is dumping a hamburger onto a plate and has home-made French fries simmering in oil. Dean can still smell, and the scent makes him realize his complete absence of appetite. He thinks of Famine. He thinks of Cas and his stupid bag of burgers. He thinks of Cas and Jimmy Novak, exploding with a snap of Michael's--Dean's--fingers.
"Hey," Sam starts, rights himself. "I was bringing you dinner."
Michael--Dean--just stares. Dean realizes, Michael be damned, that he can still feel fear.
No, he rails. You sonofabitch, no, no! It's your brother we're after, not mine!
"Look--Dean," Sam takes a deep breath. "Bobby and Cas think it's the dumbest thing I've ever done. And I've done a lot of dumb things, huh?" he tries to smile but it fails. His big eyes are wide and wet with hope. "But...I want you to come with me. To find Adam. And face down Michael, if we have to. I know--when the moment comes, you'll do the right thing. Even if I couldn't."
He holds out the plate with burger. The oil pops on the stove. It's the lamest peace offering, so stupid, so Sammy, Dean's heart breaks all over again.
"I am not your brother," Michael says in Dean's voice. Sam's face falls. "You are tainted. An abomination. You are no blood with me."
No! Dean thinks, wildly. No, you tell him who you are, you tell him it's not me! Sam--Sammy, it's not me!
Sam's eyes fill. His bottom lip trembles. "No," he whispers. "No--"
Listen to me you bloodsucking freak...
Dean throws himself forward against the angel, clawing like a rabid cat. The last time heaven had fucked with them, Sam had thrown himself into killing Lilith, convinced it was the last bit of good he could ever do before his brother ended him. He didn't want Sam to decide he needed to accept Lucifer--and obliteration--now.
It's not me! Sammy! Dean screams behind the wall. You remember what I told you--you're my blood, my little brother. Sam!
"Let Lucifer in," Michael--Dean--says. "You're worthy of nothing else."
"You--sonofabitch." Sam sets the plate down. "You give him back. You give him back!"
He knows. Oh thank God, he knows!
"I'm offering you one chance to go quietly, Sammy."
"You don't call me that," Sam growls. "You're not him!"
"I'm all that's left of him," Michael takes a step forward. Sam's breathing hard.
"Dean--if you can hear me--it's okay. Don't worry. I'll find a way--Bobby and Cas and me, we'll find a way. We'll get him out of you."
"This is the last time I'll ask nicely, Sam," Michael says, stepping forward once more. "Let me call my brother here. Give yourself to him, as your brother has given himself to me."
"I'd rather die," Sam gasps, breath hitching. Michael smiles in Dean's face. Dean flung himself at the light, at the wall before him, screams and claws and curses, feeling the archangel's intent even before the sonofabitch seizes Sam's hand and forces it into the pan of boiling oil.
***
All the torture, twice the self-righteousness.
Michael digs deep into Dean's memories, pulls out details he himself didn't remember. He straps Sam to meathooks, flips open a blade, and recreates Dean's first day on the rack. Sam screams and sweats and cries and, unlike Dean, loses his bladder. Unlike Dean, Sammy still suffers from thirst, and hunger, and a working digestive system, so in addition to bleeding he can vomit and pee and starve under the archangel's relentless hands.
But, like Dean in hell, he can't seem to die.
***
Michael never fully heals Sam, the way Alistair fully healed the tortured. He brings him back enough so his breathing steadies and the tears stop, but not enough to fix the hand he'd cooked in the oil on Bobby's stove, or the patch of flesh where he'd cut away his tattoo, or the ribs he'd smashed in order to free him of the Enochian sigils for Lucifer to find them. Sammy breaths hard and harsh and fast and stares up at Dean--Michael--searching for any signs of his brother.
"No one will blame you, Sam," Michael soothes. "You can bring peace on Earth."
Sam says what he always does. "Dean," he gasps. "It's not you. It's not your fault."
Michael, like Alistair, likes to sever the vocal cords last.
***
Dean has beaten, scratched, screamed, crawled, cried, begged, pleaded, groveled and, finally, wildly, prayed. He's sure this is some twisted new version of hell, where he watches his own hands mangle his kid brother to bits, day after day. This is worse than Sam sobbing in the panic room, worse than him looking up in guilt and terror as the convent floor opens and Lucifer roars free, worse than their Dad dying on the table, their mother on the ceiling. This is worse than hell's rack and hellhounds.
This is what makes him cry for Lucifer.
***
Whether the devil hears him or not, Lucifer shows not long after Dean pleads with him to appear. He's thinner and covered in more sores than Dean remembers, but he stops Michael in the middle of cutting out Sammy's liver.
"Brother," the devil sighs, "our Father always told you to play nice."
***
Lucifer's touch heals Sam--fully and completely. He pets his head and gives him a friendly, encouraging nod before turning back to Michael--Dean.
"Lucifer," Michael says. It's the first time Dean feels any remote stirring of emotion from the Archangel, and it just makes him hate the sonofabitch all the more.
"Really, Michael," Lucifer sighs, hand smooth Sam's sweaty, overgrown hair. "I thought higher of you."
"I've brought you your vessel."
"You've attempted to damage my vessel. Moreover, you haven't changed."
"I haven't?" Dean burns twice as hot. Screams a silent scream as Michael's rage rattles through his veins.
"Before God had me thrown into hell, he had you thrown into prison. You refused to send me there, at first, didn't you?"
Michael wavers. For a brief, all too brief, second, Dean surges forward and nearly takes control, but then Michael has locked him back down again.
"You knew?" Michael roars--but there was a drop of hurt. A tiny one. Dean attempts to bolt through it. The archangel slams down on him once more.
"I fought to save you. But there? Breaking out of my cage was easier."
"Say what you mean, Lucifer."
The devil brushes a thumb over Sam's forehead. Dean's brother was breathing hard, eyes wandering out of focus, reminding Dean all too much of Cold Oak. "You broke under torture. Not because of the pain, or for love of our Father. You broke because it brought out your rage. You knew you didn't deserve what they were doing to you. Not when you submitted to them out of love for me. You wanted to hurt back. And you did. You have. It is no different for your vessel." Lucifer turns, cocks his head, and smiles sadly. "But me? Torture, pain, hell--it only strengthened my pride. My resolve. It's fueled my rage. It's fueled Sam's." He crosses his arms. "You'll never get your way like this, brother. There's only one person who could ever make my young friend here do anything, and you're riding around in his skin."
"What would you have me do?"
"Release Dean Winchester."
"And leave our Father's world to burn."
"No," Lucifer brushes his knuckles over Sam's cheek. Sam shudders on the rack: Dean, within Michael's light. "Give back to the world the only one who can convince my vessel to take me in. As for me? I'll leave him alone until they both agree. Give the world the only brother you'll go to the rack for." He looks deep into Michael--Dean's--eyes. "You, of all our Father's creatures, should know I never break my word. I leave that to the rest of you."
Dean hurts worse than ever. Worse than the initial possession. Worse than the rage. A thousand-times hell. He hurts and then, finally, mercifully, he feels and sees and knows nothing at all.
***
There's whimpering.
It's a nudge at first, annoying as a damn alarm clock set to one of Sammy's girly radio stations. The floor is cold at his back and shoulders. Dean's fingers feel numb. His legs hurt, his arms hurt, his back hurts, his head hurts, breathing hurts, hell being hurts. The light in the ceiling pierces his nerves and he groans, trying to get his body to work on his own wishes.
Sammy he thinks, but even this can't get him mobile for a good ten minutes. He finally gets on his stomach and drags himself toward the rack, where Sam still hangs, a hook in his shoulder, a slow, steady drip of blood streaming out over his temples and onto the floor in even drips. He fights against his tongue to get it to work once more.
"Sammy," he croaks. He pulls himself up, fingers tangled in his brother's shirt.
Sammy's eyes are nothing but bloody sockets.
"Dean?" Sam whispers.
Dean lays his cheek on his brother's chest and cries.
***
Sam spends eleven days in the hospital. Dean spends one, passed out from exhaustion, and ten more, against medical orders, sitting next to Sam. They've tied gauze around his brother's head, hidden where his eyes should be, to the point that Dean thinks they can still save his vision. Where he thinks he can still call Cas, and Cas will descend and tilt his head in that awkward way and frown and jam two unwanted fingers into his brother's forehead and low and behold, Sammy will look up and see Dean.
On day three, the doctor's unwrap the gauze, and Dean ends up sprawled all over his blind brother, crying and apologizing while Sam strokes his hair and tells the nurses and doctors not to worry, it doesn't hurt, it's his brother.
***
When Dean let Michael take him, he had the Horseman's rings in his pocket. All four, latched together, in their unholy-little-world-ending-trinity. They were an additional offering, a little wedding gift, so to speak.
Michael's taken the rings and Dean can't bring himself to care.
***
Bobby voices his concern that, without Cas, the angels know where the boys are at all times. Dean tells him to shutup because, even without his eyes, he knows Sammy's sleeping.
***
Sam has to learn how to do...everything.
Dean covers his hands and fingers and helps guide him to the forks and knives he and Bobby keep religiously in the same spots beside his plate. He leads Sammy through the house, over and over and over. He walks him through where they've placed his pajamas, and jeans, and sleep-shirts and day-shirts. He guides Sammy's hand to the washcloths and shampoo bottles and to make sure he turns the hot water off before the cold. All during this time, Sam says nothing. He obeys without protest or his usual pride. He doesn't tell Dean that he can do it himself, as he's been telling everyone since he learned the words.
Even worse, he doesn't protest when Dean guides him to bed, puts his hand on the bedside lamp, the edge of the covers, and tells him he'll be right next to him if he needs to him.
Worst of all? When Dean cries, hours after he's sure Sammy's asleep, a warm, Sasquatch-sized hand arrives to rub his back.
***
Neither of them sleep well. Dean sees their Dad and their Mom and Cassie and Sam. Sam sees Jessica and Madison and Dean and their Dad.
He doesn't know if the angels count on them being no more than an arm's reach away from each other. By the time his mother wakes him telling him he's damned billions, he doesn't care.
***
Despite it all, he's determined to be a good brother. He helps Sammy wash in the morning--that's the shampoo, here's the sponge, the soap, I'll wait right here while you finish--makes him food that's easy to spear and helps guide him until he can adeptly find the beef and fish and chicken he and Bobby put in front of him. Sam, ever the over-achiever, figures out how to get up, turn off the light and alarm, get himself to the bathroom, and be bathed with coffee brewing by the time Dean and Bobby rouse. There's a week or so where Dean thinks Sam's conquered torture better than he ever has, and it stirs his big brother pride and his own admiration.
Then he finds Sam deep in Bobby's junkyard, sobbing with his sightless eyes, rocking and wailing, and it's all he can do not to cry himself when he takes Sammy into his arms.
"I couldn't do a month," Sam sobs, his empty sockets incapable of tears, "how did you do thirty years?"
"Shh," Dean soothes, hand moving over his brother's shoulder- blades. "You didn't say yes. You haven't said yes."
"But I've wanted to."
"But I did," Dean murmurs, pulling his brother tighter. "I did, baby. I did."
***
He takes to brushing Sam's hair. Sam doesn't complain, though he can certainly do it himself--his hair's never been so girly that it needed extensive brushing, even Dean can admit that. But he likes to do it, and will often yank out the comb and busy himself while the TV plays or they sit out on the backporch or Dean's reading aloud from the paper. Sam makes no move when, when he's finally done with the hairbrushing, he leans forward and kisses the back of his brother's head, or his temple over the gauze the doctor's insist has to stay on for another month. Dean takes him to the doctor regularly, and changes the dressing twice a day, a task Sam also, uncharacteristically, allows. Dean fusses with his brother's hair afterwards, adjusts it over the bandages, brushes and straightens his bangs. Sammy just sits until he kisses the top of his head. Then he lets Dean lead him back downstairs.
***
Beyond the apocalypse, beyond the torture, beyond the fighting and the loss of his eyes, Dean knows something's broken inside his brother. The old Sammy would have been teaching himself Braille and having computer programs with voice recognition installed so he could still research and "read." The old Sammy would be convincing Dean that they could get back on the road, practicing on the weapons, getting Dean to take him running.
This Sammy is docile and quiet. He cleans and brews coffee and doesn't offer opinions and insight or challenge his brother or their adopted Uncle.
Sometimes Dean wonders if this is some other, newer, level of hell.
***
Dean wakes one morning to Bobby yelling.
"You can still walk and I can still see, and I don't tolerate this--self-pity shit you're throwing around, boy!"
If Sam answers, Dean can't hear. He's already yanking on his shirt and stumbling down the stairs before he's even fully awake.
"Sam, just--give us something. Get angry, get drunk, get suicidal and let us pull you back. But stop living like a Goddamn doll.'
It's tough love--mean to incite Sam to defiance. To get him mobile. Or even to break and wail his despair. But Sam doesn't appear moved.
"What is it in that damned fool head of yours?" Bobby pleaded.
There's quiet. Then there's Sam.
"Everything I've ever done...everything I've ever thought was right...has hurt and killed and destroyed. I've brought hell to Earth. I'll bring it to heaven."
Dean's gut reacts like it's been punched.
"For Christ's sake, kid. This is centuries in the making. You were a pawn. But it doesn't have to end the way they say."
"I'll be the one to bring down humanity," Sam's voice shakes. "I'll slaughter the souls at peace in heaven. I'll slaughter the loyal host."
"I'm sorry," Bobby spat, "I don't remember the Gospels mentioning that Sam Goddamned Winchester was so fuckin' important."
It's another play on tough love. One the old Sam would have swallowed and roared to life under. But New Sam just gives a broken laugh.
"Me neither."
***
If New Sam is going to play this way, Dean has no choice but to be New Dean.
He's not sure what that means, but he figures the hair brushings are a good start. He also drags Sam out into the junkyard on nice nights, pops beers for them, and quietly describes the stars, the way the moon sparkles off the windshields and the ancient rims, how Rumsfeld, for all his ferocity, is really a stupid, needy mutt. Sam's usually pliant and quiet, but occasionally he'll join in with something, and a few times he even laughs. Dean begins slipping him some stronger stuff, and it makes Sam sleepy and snuggly, and he takes to laying his head on his older brother's shoulder while Dean drones on.
One night, while Dean's been describing the sliver of the moon and paused to take a long pull from his beer, Sam grips his jacket and burrows into him a bit.
"I can see Lucifer," Sam murmurs.
Dean's stomach drops. "What?"
"He was beautiful, you know. I can't describe it. Even more than Michael. Though you could tell Michael was stronger."
"Sammy--"
"I know you see Michael, as Dad and Mom and stuff. I see him and Lucifer like that too. But...since I saw them leave their bodies, I can see angels. They're all I ever see."
Dean puts a tentative arm around his brother and draws him close. Sam nestles easily into his side. "There's more than just those two pricks?"
"There's dozens. All around us. I think they're Michael's watchdogs more than anything. Michael doesn't trust that Lucifer won't come back and take me while he's keeping his word. He's not used to it. You can't trust him, Dean."
"I don't." Dean smoothes his hand over Sam's hair. "I trust you, Sammy. You're doing real good."
"They're going to try to break us," Sam's voice cracks. "I don't want to lose you again."
"Shutup," Dean murmurs, and gives him one of his light kisses on the top of his head. "No more fighting apart. Promise. No more fighting at all."
***
Dean wakes in Bobby's guestroom to find Sam clawing around at the foot of his bed, trying to escape. He's crying in that tearless, wracking way he has, trying to keep it low as he scratches along the wall seeking out the doorway.
"Whoa, Sammy, easy, easy," he soothes, shooting out of bed to catch Sam's arms. "I gotcha. You need the bathroom?"
Sam shakes his head, whimpers, and pulls into himself, forehead against the wall, hiding his face behind his hands. "M'sorry," he sobs.
"S'all right," Dean drops his voice, pets Sam's hair. "S'all right, we're all right. You hurting? Want a drink?"
"He's--he's here."
"Lucifer?"
"He's--" Sam sobs again. "He's so beautiful. He's so...lonely, Dean. He's cut off from his family. He can never go back. He has nowhere to go but the pit. The brother he adored wants to kill him and his father abandoned him. He wants to go home. He just wants to go home."
Shit Dean thinks, trying hard not to tear up himself. Old Sam would know the devil's tricks for what they were. Old Dean would too. But New Dean's not so sure it is a trick--just the brutal, honest truth. The link between angel and vessel. Heaven on Earth.
No. No, heaven can fuck itself.
Dean coaxes Sam back to bed, puts his arms around him, guides his brother's head to his shoulder and brushes his fingers through his hair. "Shhhh," he whispers, rocking him softly. "I don't want to kill you, Sammy. I don't want to hurt you. I don't want you to die. I let Michael in to kill the devil. You," he snaps as Sam's breath hitches, "you are not the devil. You are not Lucifer. You are Sam Winchester. You are bull-headed and stubborn and defiant, but you are also good-hearted and well-intentioned and humble enough to realize when you're wrong and want to make amends. You never hurt anyone, even when me or others think they deserve it. And most importantly, you're home. You're home, Sammy. You're home with me, and I love you. More than Dad. More than the whole damn planet."
Sam presses his face to Dean's shoulder and wracks with sobs. Dean kisses the gauze over his eyes and lay them both down, holding Sam like he's a baby again, motherless and frightened and needing the warmth and protection of someone much stronger, and gives the angels a silent middle finger.
***
Sam's awake early, sitting up. Dean stretches and reaches over to rub his brother's broad back.
"The angels are gathering outside," Sam says. "Dozens. It'll be hundreds by noon."
"Bring it," Dean snaps, forcing his voice not to hitch. Sam just leans into him, shaking.
***
It's Castiel that appears first.
Dean doesn't believe it. He blinks, shakes his head. Cas smiles in that small, half-way he has and says "Hello, Dean."
"The hell?"
"I'm sorry I've been away."
"I--I killed you. I--felt Michael kill you."
Sam makes a strange noise in his throat. "He's not an angel," he gasps. "He's--Cas, you're so--" he sounds ready to cry, if he were capable.
"You are truly gifted to be able to see our true forms without your head exploding," Cas says seriously.
"Wait--what?" Dean snaps. "If you're not an angel than what are you?"
Cas sighs. "I have many names. I have many forms. I've been on Earth many times. I'm...a diplomat, so to speak."
"A diplomat that can survive an Archangel nuke?"
"My Father gave me rule over the host and humanity in his stead. I suppose he feels I am best equipped to judge the two, since I have lived the lives of both."
Sam's lip quivers. "Cas...are you...Christ?"
Cas tilted his head slightly. "In the beginning there was the Word. And the Word was with God, and the Word was God. I am the Word."
"In English," Dean snaps.
"I suppose the identity you would be most familiar with is that of Jesus of Nazareth."
"Jesus--Christ," Dean swears.
"Yes, as it were."
"Can you stop it?" Sam murmurs. "The apocalypse?"
"I'm here to."
"Can you kill us?"
Dean instantly pulled his brother closer, ready to up and fight if Cas makes a move.
"If I wanted to, which I don't. I believe you've set a fine enough example of why humanity should be spared, haven't you?"
"An example," Dean says bitterly. "That's all we are? Our lives are? What about all those lost and dead because of an angelic pissing match?"
"Dean!" Sam hisses, in his show some respect voice.
"You're angry," Cas says, and Dean nearly lunges at him.
"You're Goddamn right I'm angry! You--"
"Dean!"
"It's alright, Sam." The angel--diplomat--steps toward them. "I understand. My Father's will can be very difficult to accept. I've struggled with it myself."
"And now you get to hand out the sobriety tokens, is that it?"
"Cas--Lord--sorry--" Sam pleads. Cas just smiles and kneels before his sightless friend.
"Sam," he says softly. "You've been very strong. You've suffered a great deal. I'm very sorry for it."
"It's alright, Sir," he breaths. Dean wishes he had a Bible so he could thump it hard over both their stupid heads.
"I'd like to give you a gift. I think it will help Dean as well as you. I think it will help you both find some peace until I'm able to bring about a resolution."
"If you hurt him," Dean growls, "so help me--"
"Have some faith," Cas orders. He rests his hands on either side of Sam's head and strokes his temples with his thumbs. Then he pulls Sam close and presses a light kiss on the gauze over each empty eye socket.
Sam gasps and shudders, and the gauze swells slightly. Dean feels the breath leave him as his brother fumbles at the knots at the back of his meticulously brushed hair and rips the blind free to stare at them with round, damp, and goddamn gorgeous eyes.
Dean whirls to stare at Cas, who just smiles slightly. "I'm so sorry," he repeats. "Please understand...what it is like to have a Father who does not reveal his intentions. I had to keep quiet until He contacted me."
"You'll stop it?" Sam's voice shook. Hasn't even had his sight back for a minute and it's like it was never gone at all. Dean can't decide whether to punch him or hug him. It surprises him to realize he feels the same about Cas.
"I'll stop it," Castiel soothes. "I'm so very sorry it came to this. Please don't worry. I'll return when I can."
There's the rush of wings. Sam looks out over the yard and shivers.
"They're gone," he murmurs. "The angels followed him."
Dean puts his arm around his brother and thanks Cas that Sammy can finally release his tears.
***
Bobby is, to put it lightly, shocked. Then angry. Then quiet. Then drunk.
Dean is pretty much the same.
Sam is just quiet. Then asleep.
Dean runs his fingers over his brother's eyelids, over and over, marveling at their fullness until the lashes flutter and Sam tells him to get off and go to bed. He doesn't protest when Dean flops half on top of him and huffs drunkenly into his hair.
***
Castiel returns a week later, looking aged and weary.
"No one will bother you again," he says.
Sam is full of questions. He wants to know if Cas has appeared as other prophets--he has--in other religions--naturally--over time--since the beginning of your 'time'--and if any of them have got it right--humans never get anything right--and if that's a bad thing--the Father loves your questions--and why people go to hell--I wish they didn't--and where Michael and Lucifer are now--somewhere where they'll have no choice but to work out their differences and negotiate peace--and if Cas will stay for awhile.
"I will have a drink," he says solemnly. Bobby pours several shots, and the angel/diplomat drinks them all. "Are there any other questions?"
Dean glares at him. "Mary wasn't a Virgin, really, was she?"
Sam gasps. Bobby cocks an eyebrow. Castiel looks at him, unplussed.
"Tell me, Dean. When you met your Mother before she married your father, did you ask if she had carnal knowledge of anyone?" Dean nearly spits out his drink. Sam turns bright red. "Well then, you understand why I never questioned."
"You...bitch," Dean spits. Bobby's snorting in that obnoxious, know-it-all way he has.
"I have a gift for you," Castiel says, and produces the Horseman's rings. "Sam, you will carry Famine, who you triumphed over. Bobby, you will carry War, for you have fought as bravely as the most noble of Heaven. I will wear Pestilence, since even in human form, I was able to defeat it. And you, Dean," he turns it bold, blue eyes to his friend, "you are bequeathed the ring of Death, for you have conquered it all the ways it may be conquered."
Dean just glared at the ring before him. "I don't belong to Michael's club. I don't want anything to do with it."
"Perhaps," Cas said softly, "you would feel different if the ring appeared in its true form."
Before their eyes, glows warmly, lovingly, soft. Two horns sprout forth, and center caves in, and all too familiar face appears. He's looking at the amulet: Sam's amulet, the amulet he'd discarded, the amulet that he'd tossed aside in defiance of God and rage at his brother.
The God who sits drinking whiskey across the table.
The brother staring at him with round, miraculous eyes.
Dean looks from his brother to his surrogate father to his angel-friend. He taps his empty glass on the table and downs the shot Bobby pours. Then he thinks to hell with it all and kisses the chunk of still-warm gold, marveling that it tastes and smells of Sammy's hair.