SPN fic: bright the vision that delighted 2/2 (Sam/Dean, PG-13)

[electricalgwen]

Part One

They stop eventually, pulling into a rest stop area overlooking a river. Dean shoves at the door and inelegantly falls out. His head is spinning and his stomach is still unsettled.

“You look like shit,” Sam says. His tone is not particularly sympathetic.

Dean flips him off and staggers around to sprawl on the hood of the car.

“You should have let me come,” Sam says, and Dean knows that tone, worry and sulk interwoven.

“You heard Cas,” Dean says. He isn’t up for this argument now.

Sam shoves his hands in his pockets. He’s looking out over the water but his hunched shoulders speak volumes.

“You nearly got killed, Dean. Or taken. You should have let me come.”

Dean stares at Sam’s shoulders, and at the sky, and sits up, cold fear sluicing through his veins.

“You did,” he says. “You came. How did you know?”

Sam freezes.

“Sam,” Dean says urgently. “How did you know?”

Sam curls into himself further.

“I saw you,” he says finally. “Okay? I saw you, Dean.”

Dean nods, leans over, and throws up beside the Impala’s front wheel.

He’s wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve, trying to think through the blanket of static fogging his mind, and Sam’s hand is on the back of his neck.

“It’s not - it’s me, Dean, I swear. It’s - I’d know. I’ve been there. Azazel, Ruby, the blood… I had Lucifer inside me, Dean. I know what evil feels like, tastes like. It’s not like that now. I don’t know what’s going on with my whatever, aura, I don’t know why I can do that, but I know I’m not - I’m not him.”

He feels like he’s the one who’s falling into blackness and earth. He can’t do this again.

“Please,” Sam says. “Please, Dean. Look at me.”

He looks up and Sam is right there, too close, filling his vision and his world. Sam’s bangs are almost brushing Dean’s forehead; Sam’s breath is warm against Dean’s cheek. He looks frantic, and scared, and, in a way he hasn’t for a long time, very young.

“I get that you can’t trust me,” Sam says, regret and guilt fairly oozing from the words, “but I - Dean. It’s me. Give me time. I’ll prove it to you. Don’t… don’t leave.” He swallows. “Please?”

Dean was wrong. When it comes to Sam, apparently he can do anything.

“’M not going anywhere,” he rasps. “You’ve got the keys, remember?”

Sam’s smile is like the sun. Dean is going to melt, he’s going to burn up in that look, covering flesh stripped away until there’s nothing left but bones and desire.

Sam is so close, his mouth is inches from Dean’s, and his eyes are hot. It would be easy, so simple to lean forward and… trade years of repression for a moment of insanity and a lifetime of regret.

“Good,” Sam murmurs, and leans his forehead against Dean’s. Their noses touch.

Dean’s heart hammers against his ribs. He can’t. Sam can’t be.

Do you know what he does, in the dark?

He turns his head away, and claps Sam on the shoulder.

“Best get going, figure out our next move before one of them shows up. Kind of surprised they haven’t already.”

“Yeah,” Sam says huskily, taking a step back and scrubbing a hand over his mouth. “Yeah, we should. Regroup. And, uh, about that,” he hesitates, “I should probably get in the car.”

“Right,” Dean says. “Because you angel-proofed my car. My car.”

“I thought it was a good idea,” Sam says. “It’s not like I installed a CD player or fuzzy dice. You can’t even see it.”

“Not the point.” Dean opens the passenger side door. “My car. I just let you drive it sometimes because I’m an awesome big brother.”

“You let me drive it because you’re concussed and about to pass out.”

“Am not.”

Sam guns the car into a quick reverse turn. Dean’s stomach lurches again; he groans and closes his eyes.

“Are too,” Sam says, but he takes curves slowly after that and avoids potholes. Dean and his nonexistent concussion are grateful.

“So, did she tell you anything useful?”

“What?” Dean says, twitching. Heat prickles over his skin; he remembers all too vividly what Claire said to him.

“Did you get any information out of her?” Sam says. “What they’re planning, or why they wanted Claire’s body in particular?”

“No,” Dean says grumpily.

Nothing strikes you as a little - off - about him?

“She wasn’t in a talkative mood.”

Back at the motel, Dean protests that he doesn’t need a nap, but Sam makes such a fuss that Dean kicks off his boots and lies down for a few minutes just to make him shut up.

He wakes up six hours later. It’s getting dark outside.

“I could have died, you know,” he points out to Sam. “I could have been bleeding into my brain.”

“You have to have a brain for that,” Sam says. “Castiel said you were okay.”

He gestures with his chin.

“You were watching me sleep?” Dean looks askance at the angel standing beside the TV. “That’s kind of skeevy, man.”

“I felt responsible for your injuries.”

“You were responsible,” Sam says.

“Drop it.” Dean sits up. “What’ve you guys been up to, apart from being creepy sleep-watchers?”

“More of the same,” Sam says. “I still don’t have any leads on how to evict an angel. Cas hasn’t found anything. And that’s assuming we can trap her in the first place.”

“They are on their guard for us now,” Castiel says. “Suriel knows you want his vessel.”

Dean nods. “Can you find him?”

Castiel shakes his head. “He is powerful. I cannot pierce his wardings.”

“Okay,” Dean says. “Then we gotta make him find us.”

“There is no reason for him to seek you out, and every reason to hide.” Castiel looks puzzled. “Why would he find you?”

“Not me,” Dean says. “Sam.”

Sam’s on board immediately. Being Sam, he can’t possibly refrain from pointing out that he’d said he should be part of it all along.

Castiel takes a little more convincing.

“You said it yourself, they’re pissed that he got out.” Dean shrugs. “Plus he’s radiating juice, and he’s having visions again. Whatever plan Michael’s wingman has going on, I bet you he’s not gonna pass up a chance at getting his hands on Sam.”

“We use him as bait.”

“Yeah.”

Castiel frowns. “Visions?”

“I had a vision of Dean and Claire at the warehouse.” Sam glares at Castiel. “It’s how I rescued him. While you were hiding.”

“Was there sound involved?” Dean tries not to show how rattled he is. He hadn’t really thought about the content of Sam’s vision. You were so ready to walk right back out the door. Right into his arms. “I mean, how detailed are they?”

“I’ve only had the one,” Sam says. “It was mostly like you were underwater, kind of blurry. I couldn’t hear much. It got sharper in places; I could read the sign on the outside.”

“Have you manifested any other abilities?” Castiel peers at Sam. “I was not hiding.”

“No, I haven’t,” Sam say. “And yes, you were. You’re not getting away with that this time.”

“It is not wise - ” Castiel begins.

“What’s not wise is getting my brother nearly killed,” Sam interrupts. “They come for me, they’re gonna mean business. I want to help Claire just as much as you do, but we’re sticking our necks out for you. If Dean’s in trouble, you better be there to help.”

“Me?” Dean splutters. “I’m more worried about your psychic ass.”

Sam ignores him. “Cas, you gotta have our backs on this one. Stand up for your principles.”

Castiel regards him for a long moment, then nods. “I will be there.”

“And find me a ritual I can use!” Sam calls as the angel blinks out.

Despite Sam’s apparent enthusiasm to be the worm on their hook, he’s uptight that night. He’s still reading, making notes, googling shit, and after he snaps at Dean for the fifth time because the TV’s annoying or Dean’s breathing too loud, Dean heads out to find a bottle of whisky with his name on it.

He’s leaning on the bar with both elbows, contemplating the dregs of his third glass, when Castiel appears. Possibly literally, although the lack of response from other bar patrons suggests he used the door for once like normal people.

“I think we have something,” Castiel says, sliding onto the stool next to Dean’s. “It may not work, but I believe it is worth trying.”

“Hey, it’s important to have a positive attitude.” Dean signals the bartender for another.

“You don’t seem to.” Cas frowns. “You are drinking a lot again.”

Dean sighs. Why is it always him who’s gotta explain things to Cas? Half the time it’s shit he can hardly explain to himself. Human emotions are complicated things.

“We were fine, you know?” He looks sideways at the angel. “Sam was doing fine. We were back to your basic salt-and-burn jobs. I coulda kept him out of harm’s way. Then you come along, and it’s all angels this and evil powers that. I thought I was done with this shit. Now I gotta use my brother as bait for an archangel, oh, and by the way, he may be in bed with the devil again.”

He tosses back his drink. “It stinks.”

“I have been considering the question of what is happening to Sam,” Castiel says. “I do not have definite answers. There are no precedents. But I do not believe that Sam is currently evil.”

“He has a freaky aura,” Dean says. “And sigils. And visions.”

“I also have had visions.”

Dean snorts. “You’re not telling me Sam’s an angel.”

“No. I am saying that not all powers are evil.”

“Sam’s are,” Dean says harshly. “Azazel got him when he was six months old. Everything since then’s just been extra hellfire on the cake.”

“Why those children?”

“What?”

“Deals are made every day,” Castiel says. “Even assuming that Azazel wanted children born in a particular year… there were many more debts owed him. Why only those few children?”

Dean shrugs. “He happened to be in town at the time?”

“I wonder,” Castiel says. “Not all humans can be vessels. Bloodlines are important. There needs to be a certain… power already there.”

He makes a subtle hand gesture. The bartender who had been eyeing him suspiciously heads to the other end of the bar and starts wiping it down.

“You know that humans with psychic abilities exist. Some may be evil; most are not. It is not the power itself that is tainted. Azazel may have chosen children in whom the power was already present. Perhaps, he did not create these special, psychic children. He merely chose children with that potential, and perverted them to his ends.”

Dean blinks as he tries to process this.

“Your line has more power than most. You were bred to contain Michael, and Lucifer. I had not considered what other manifestations that might entail.”

“I was not bred,” Dean snaps, but his mind is spinning. “You think all this psychic shit, visions… you think that’s all Sam?”

“I wonder,” Castiel repeats.

“No way,” Dean says. “No way. There was never anything like that. We used to visit this psychic, sometimes; she would have known. It didn’t start up until old Yellow Eyes came back to town. And then, nothing for a year, until Ruby got him going again. It’s gotta be the blood.”

“Maybe the blood triggered it, or enhanced it,” Castiel says. “Now, I believe Sam may be unlocking it himself.”

“I believe you had your head exploded and may not be thinking straight,” Dean mutters.

Castiel hesitates. “There is something else I must discuss with you.”

“Am I gonna need another drink first?”

“I did not believe that Sam would be able to resist Lucifer. I was wrong. I am given to understand that he overcame Lucifer, at the end, because of you.”

Dean tries without success to get the bartender’s attention.

“We spoke a little, this evening, after you left. He knows that you fear what he is, or may become. This is hurtful to him. He still blames himself for past mistakes.”

“You braid his hair, too?” Dean slams a hand on the bar. “I need a fucking drink.”

“Right now, his primary motivation is his love for you, and his need for your approval,” Castiel says, heedless of Dean’s discomfort. “If you have no faith in him, I fear he will be more vulnerable. More easily seduced by external sources of power. You must show him that you believe in him.”

“Blind faith is stupid,” Dean says harshly. “Sam knows, he said it flat out. I can’t trust him.”

“Trust and belief are not the same thing.” Castiel stands in a swirl of beige.

“Are you ever going to change your fucking clothes?” Dean mutters.

Even if he could trust Sam, he doesn’t know why Sam would trust him. Dean’s job was to have Sam’s back, and what did he do? He fucking gave him over to Lucifer, let Sam walk right into hell, and left him there.

Screw maturity and responsibility and keeping his promises. Dean should have been there for Sam.

“I work for the cause of Heaven - Heaven as it was, as it should be - for a reason,” Castiel says. “Love. Grace. These things exist. There can be forgiveness.”

He is gone a moment later. The fluttering echo fades to silence.

Dean has that drink.

When he staggers back into the motel room, Sam’s asleep at the table. That’s no good. Sammy’s gotta be in good shape for the morning.

He slides an arm under Sam’s and starts hauling him to his feet. “C’mon, you freak. Bed.”

Sam blinks muzzily and stumbles into Dean. Dean pivots and drops Sam on the nearest bed. At least that was the plan. Sam doesn’t relinquish his hold, and Dean tumbles down on top of Sam.

Sam tightens his grip and nuzzles into the top of Dean’s head, murmuring something incoherent.

Dean’s body is trying to go into panic mode, can’t have this, got to get away, but it’s also drunk and Sam is so warm. He’s still figuring out the best way to disengage when he falls asleep.

In the morning, Sam’s already in the shower when Dean wakes up. When he comes out, Dean hands him coffee, and neither of them say anything.

It’s Dean’s plan. Of course it’s a good plan.

He’s still surprised when it actually works.

They’d come back to the warehouse, as the most believable place to set a trap, and picked out an open area at one end, just inside the doors. Sam laid out some herbs, a couple of candles, and is now painting symbols on the floor, trying to look like someone inconspicuously hunting an angel, while simultaneously trying to be visible as hell.

He’s certainly physically visible. Castiel had assured them he’s practically blinding in the astral plane or whatever, before vanishing.

Dean’s settled in behind a stack of pallets, where he has good cover and shadow, but still a reasonable sightline. He’s already triple-checked all his weapons. Nothing to do but wait.

And watch Sam.

For days after he’d first seen Sam, under that burned-out streetlight, it had felt like he was having an out-of-body experience. Moving, talking, driving, all in a fog, watching from the outside. It was too much to take in, after months of being numb. Lisa had been right; he felt like he was slowly coming back to life himself. Not explosively, opening his eyes and sucking a sudden heaving breath into lungs that had been airless for months - no, more like the part that had come next. The hours in which he dug his way out, bit by bit, moving layers of dirt and worms and praying that there would, somewhere up there, be sunlight. And Sam.

He’d thought, he’d said, that he wanted his brother back. And that was true, but not the whole truth. He’s had, and lost, and regained brothers before. He’s lost other people, far too many other people: Mom, Dad, Ellen, Jo, Ash. Hell, he’d even lost Bobby, if only for five minutes - and for those five minutes, the pain was massive and real - but none of it compared to losing Sam. In Cold Oak, he’d gone out of his head, and maybe he never quite got back. There in Stull Cemetery he’d been completely subsumed, nothing but grief and loss.

What Sam is to him - he doesn’t know the word. But ‘brother’ is inadequate and has been for a long time.

Maybe he’s as fucked-up as you. But I wouldn’t bet on it.

Sam had come for him.

Do you know what he does, in the dark?

When she comes for Sam, it is almost soundless. One moment Sam is kneeling alone inside a painted circle, muttering words over a silver bowl; the next, there is the tiniest sussuration of wings and Claire is standing outside the circle.

“Looking for me?” she says. “Since your brother failed? As usual.”

Sam stands, lavender in one hand and a book in the other.

“Stealing little girls?” he says. “I thought that was Lilith’s trick. Not something Heaven would stoop to.”

“Heaven will do whatever is necessary.”

She’s between him and Sam, maybe thirty feet away, back to Dean. He takes the opportunity and begins to move in as smoothly and slowly as he can, sliding in the shadows, never pausing.

“There have to be limits.” Sam is shaking, whether from fury or sadness or trying to contain the power, Dean can’t tell. “Her father sacrificed himself for her.”

“You think you understand sacrifice? It isn’t the result that matters. It is the act.”

She looks at his circle, the symbols, and laughs.

“Like you,” she says. “Look at you. Made the ultimate sacrifice and bounced right back out again, bringing all that lovely electricity with you. And yet, you’re still dumb as toast.”

She raises a foot and steps over the circle’s edge.

“You think to trap me? I walked this galaxy before your sun was born.”

Her head whips round and she throws up a hand. Dean hurtles backwards, slamming against the wall, and hangs there pinned three feet off the ground. The vial of holy oil shatters on the floor beneath him, its contents soaking into the cement.

“Jimmy Novak is a blessed soul,” she continues, looking back at Sam. She starts walking towards him on pink-sneakered feet. “Claire made her own sacrifice and she will be rewarded.”

“You lied to her!” Dean shouts, and then his voice cuts off abruptly. He continues to yell but no sound comes from his throat. His limbs ache, still forced unnaturally against the wall, and she is getting closer and closer to his brother.

“It is for the greater good,” she says serenely. “And so is this. I will use your power wisely.” She is almost close enough to touch Sam.

“Let him go.” Sam’s jaw is clenched. “Let him go and I will spare you.”

She waves a hand dismissively. “You can’t kill me. You’re still trying to save this vessel. And you don’t have a knife.”

Four other angels materialize at the compass points and move inward.

“Sam!” Dean screams silently.

Sam bows his head, clenches his fists, and then he raises his head and looks directly past Claire, at Dean.

“I don’t need one.”

Claire’s eyes begin to glow. The other angels are at arms length.

Sam winks at Dean. The angelic light is reflecting off his eyes. Dean thinks he sees a flash of yellow but then again, he’s never known what color to call Sam’s eyes anyway.

Sam throws his right hand out in front of him and plants it against Claire’s ribs. His left hand comes up against his own chest, fingers splayed wide like he’s trying to hold his heart in.

“Sryh!”

The room goes nova.

Bright white light streaks out in all directions. Dean sees it even through closed eyelids. The sound is beyond noise, perceived more in his bones than in ears full of wind and screams.

He is abruptly released. The floor rushes up at him and he crumples in a heap, limbs twitching painfully as blood returns.

He blinks a few times. He can’t see much but at least he’s pretty sure he still has eyeballs.

Sam, or something like him, is a dark shape towering over a much smaller one at his feet.

Dean pushes himself up onto hands and knees and scrambles to stand.

“Sam,” he says, “what the hell,” and then his knees are giving out again, but before he hits the floor he feels Sam’s arms under his shoulders, supporting him. Sam pulls him up and into a hug, patting him down, checking for damage.

Dean pushes weakly at him but his heart isn’t in it.

Sam is apparently done molesting him, but he’s not letting go. Dean holds onto his shirt, enjoying the proximity, until the embrace is long enough to be awkward. He coughs, and Sam hastily releases him.

There’s a weak moan from behind them.

“Shit, right,” says Dean, spinning around. Sam hugs are awesome, but not the point of this mission.

Claire pushes herself up on her hands and knees.

“I haven’t brushed my teeth in a week,” she says, and bursts into tears.

This is clearly Sam’s job. Dean glares and makes shooing motions until Sam folds himself down to sit beside her and pat her on the back. She buries her face in his shoulder and her sobs get louder. Sam looks helplessly at Dean over the top of her head.

Castiel is suddenly, soundlessly beside them.

“I felt him disappear - ” he says, and breaks off, staring at Sam with disbelief. “You’re still here.”

“Uh, yeah,” Sam says.

“I can’t see your aura. What are you doing?”

“And how the hell did you vaporize a bunch of angels?” Dean demands.

“I don’t know,” Sam says. “I feel like… there was this stuff, all around me. Sort of transparent. And then, it was like I found the edge of it. Like plastic wrap. I couldn’t tell it was there or how to use it until I found the free edge and then it all just… folded up and I could throw it.” He frowns. “It’s hard to describe. Right now, not being visible, it’s more like - standing? Something you can’t do and wouldn’t even know how to do, and then once you figure it out, it’s not something you have to think about?”

He flaps his free hand. “I’m not explaining very well, but… shit. I don’t understand it either.”

Claire mumbles something indistinct into his shirt.

“Sorry. What?” Sam says, pulling back. He stands, and helps her to her feet.

“It hurt a lot. When you did that.”

“I’m sorry,” Sam says again.

“It’s okay. It hurt him more, the lying jerk.” Her mouth twists. “He said I could have my dad back.”

Dean doesn’t even turn, just reaches out his right arm and braces as Castiel steps forward and runs into it.

“I dreamed. Every night for a week.” She swipes her sleeve across her face, cheeks pink with anger and disappointment. “He told me he needed to borrow my body. Just for a short time. He said that if I did this, he could set my dad free so he could…”

Her eyes well up again, and her voice wobbles. “So he could come home.”

Dean is ready and holds a hand over Castiel’s mouth, muffling the words that he knows will be unhelpful.

“Claire,” Sam says gently. “I’m sorry. He was lying.”

“I know,” she sniffs. “I think… I kind of knew all along. I just…”

She looks over, directly at the angel Dean is restraining.

“I wanted to believe.”

Castiel has the grace to look down, away from her gaze. Dean removes the hand from his mouth.

“Claire,” Castiel says. Dean sees her wince, and feels a stab of sympathy. He knows what that’s like, hearing your name from familiar lips with the wrong inflection. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” she says, politely, wiping away tears. She’s been taught manners, Dean thinks. She’ll hide her feelings and be tactful, and fail to speak her mind.

Tact is not an angelic virtue. “I remember your vessel. It was a good host. I am sorry to trouble you again. It must be hard for you to see this form.”

She hiccups out a small, hysterical noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “Um. Yeah.”

“Jimmy was a good host, too,” Castiel says, and Dean almost muzzles him again, only this time Sam’s holding Dean’s arm back.

“The bloodline alone is not enough. A vessel must have great capacity for love. Your father loved you very much, and my actions took him from you.” Castiel steps forward, away from Dean. “I was doing the will of Heaven. But we are in troubled times, and the will of Heaven is confused. I am not sure I did the right thing.”

He kneels before her, sudden and unexpected. “I ask your forgiveness.”

She stares wide-eyed at him.

Nobody moves for long moments. Dean finds he is holding his breath.

“Forgive us our sins,” she says finally, “as we forgive those who sin against us.”

She reaches out, hesitates, then touches his shoulder. “I forgive you. Castiel.”

The angel looks up at her. “Thank you,” he says gravely.

And then he is gone.

Dean curses him, a little, when he discovers Claire and her mom now live over half a day’s drive away.

“He could have at least taken her home,” he grumbles quietly. Because it’s not like it looks at all suspicious for him and Sam to be driving around with a fourteen-year-old girl in the back seat. Especially since she falls asleep pretty much as soon as they hit the highway, looking thoroughly drugged and with tear tracks staining her face.

“Nobody’s going to notice her,” Sam says.

“Tank’s low. We’re gonna have to stop for gas,” Dean points out.

“Yeah,” Sam says, “and, uh. No one’s going to notice her.”

Dean looks sharply at Sam. “You sound pretty sure.”

“Yeah,” Sam says. “She’s, um.” He fidgets. “She’s under my protection.”

The hairs on the back of Dean’s neck prickle. He consciously relaxes his grip on the wheel.

“Right,” he says cautiously.

“I don’t know,” Sam says. “I still don’t know how I’m doing most of it.”

“Did I ask?”

Sam shrugs.

“I wouldn’t understand it anyway,” Dean says. “That’s your territory, geek boy. Just don’t have so much fun with your fancy new tricks that you forget how to aim a rifle.”

Sam’s wide, startled smile, the relief spreading across his face, make Dean so stupidly happy that he doesn’t say a word when Sam tunes the radio to a crappy pop station.

A few hours later, Sam too falls asleep. On a clear stretch of road, Dean reaches across and rummages through the glove compartment for the package of fake wormbait.

Sam, long accustomed to the Impala’s rhythms, opens his eyes as they pull into Claire’s driveway. His yell wakes up Claire; Dean tries to apologize to her but he’s laughing so hard it hurts. Sam throws a worm at him.

The door opens and Claire’s mother is running down the walk. Claire scrambles out of the back and the next few minutes are a confused mess of hugs and tears and anger and recognition.

“It’s okay,” Claire keeps saying. “It was my fault, Mom. But I’m here, I’m okay, it’s all okay. Please don’t cry.”

Eventually, the bare bones of the story are laid out. Sam seems reluctant to go into full details, and Amelia still eyes him mistrustfully. Dean remembers the last time she saw him, blood all around his mouth and wielding a knife, and can’t really blame her.

Claire, however, untangles herself from her mom and comes over to hug them both.

“I was drowning,” she says. “You rescued me. Thank you.”

“He asked us to,” Sam says simply.

She closes her eyes briefly and gives a tiny nod.

“You’ll be safe,” Sam says. “They won’t come after you any more.”

“Thank you,” she whispers again, and wraps her arms around herself as she watches them drive away.

“She’ll be all right,” Sam says. He’s leaning against Bobby’s kitchen counter. Dean gets the answering machine again and hangs up without leaving a message.

‘”Pretty resilient kid,” Dean agrees. “Grab me a beer.”

They sit on the porch steps, knees occasionally knocking, watching the sun set over the familiar silhouettes of rusted cars.

“When’s Bobby coming back?” Sam asks.

“Tomorrow. He called earlier. Said he was staying overnight at Rufus’s place. I think they got some drinking and catching up to do.”

Dean tilts up his beer and takes a long swallow. He feels Sam’s eyes on him.

“What?”

“I was thinking about what Cas said.”

Sam’s finished his own beer. He half-rises and reaches up to stand the bottle on the porch railing. When he sits back down, he’s pressed all up against Dean’s side, warmth bleeding through his shirt and jeans.

Dean clears his throat. “He said a lot of shit. Can you be more specific?”

“A great capacity for love,” Sam says, thoughtfully.

Sam’s eyes are wide, dark, clear as the sky. Dean wonders, wildly, if he’s become psychic as well, the intent radiating off Sam is so clear.

Do you know what he does, in the dark?

The dying light is all around them. The wind is like the rushing of wings.

There can be forgiveness, Dean thinks, and leans in and kisses Sam on the mouth.

Epilogue

Castiel stands outside yet another motel room, looking in.

This vantage point is not new. The scene is.

The Winchesters are…carnally joined now. One more layer of binding - as if blood, hearts, minds, even souls had not been enough, more than enough.

These two between them broke the world, and mended it. They were a force to be reckoned with: angels, Horsemen, Lucifer himself fell before them. Back when they themselves were still broken.

Now? They are themselves mended. And they have no love for Heaven.

There is always a plan, a pattern.

This is going to be interesting.

end