Supernatural: Into Oblivion [Part 1/3]

[cherie_morte]

PART ONE

NOW

It's biblical, the rain outside. Dean steps through puddles, only dimly aware of the gross, soggy slosh of his soaked socks and shoes. It isn't even three in the afternoon, but you could never tell from the sky. It looks like night with this many clouds.

He's drunk. There's one step down into the Men of Letters' bunker that's twice as long as the others, and if he wasn't so used to entering by now, he'd probably slip and break his neck.

Not that lucky. He makes it to the bottom with only a slight stumble, and it sends him into the concrete wall by the door, laughing as the rain beats down on him. Drunk doesn't even begin to cover it.

There's no telling how long Dean stands there just staring at the keyhole before he remembers that he's got the key now, no one else is gonna let him in. Sam used to carry it. Sam and his nerdy enthusiasm for all things Men of Letters-related. Sam wore that key like it was an Olympic gold medal. Like being a legacy was so great, and it isn't, it's worthless. Dean hasn’t found a single book in their entire overgrown collection that tells him how to bring Sam back, so as far as he's concerned, being a legacy holds about as much distinction as passing out in a gutter.

Once he finally gets the door open, he pours in with the rain. The bunker is quiet and still, no one clattering in the kitchen, no flipping of old, musty pages.

"Sam," he calls out anyway. "Sam, I'm home."

Sam doesn't respond, but that's nothing new. He's been awfully quiet for weeks. Finally shut up, like Dean's been telling him to do since he learned to talk.

Of course, he's dead, so there's that, but Dean's not letting himself get hung up on the details.

He doesn't waste time drying off. There's a good chance he'll regret it, considering where he's headed, but Sam's been alone for nearly three days while he was on the job, and Dean doesn't want him to get lonely. Besides, he'd be lying if he said he wasn't a little excited to see his brother again.

His coat is hung outside the cold chamber, where Dean leaves it for easy access. The blast of air that hits him when he opens the door is worse than usual, chilling the rainwater still dripping from his hair.

"Hey, sleeping beauty," he teases.

Dean walks to the center of the room and pulls the tarp off Sam, smiling down at his brother. Sam looks peaceful, and he'd been so stressed with the trials, tossing and turning all night instead of getting real rest. That's all this is. This is some good, much-needed sleep, and once Dean wakes him up, Sam will be better off for having gotten it.

"The job was a bust," he tells Sam, pulling his chair up and plopping down next to his brother. "That witch doctor in Oregon didn't know shit about resurrection. Great chili, though. You would've liked his chili."

Dean laughs like Sam made a joke. "Kind of glad you weren't there to eat it, though. Last thing I needed was your gassy ass in the car for the drive from there to here."

Sam doesn't reply, but Dean knows what the bitch face would look like, so he smiles and tilts back in his chair.

"How's it been here? Anything interesting happen?"

He listens for a while to the half-imagined answer his brother gives (doesn't give) and wonders when he’ll finally lose those last strands of sanity, the ones that tell him he's making himself hear voices on purpose, the ones that know Sam is-

"Dude, I'm telling you, shit is pretty boring lately. Cas is still missing, Charlie and Kevin are both on research duty." He drums his fingers on the metal table under Sam and tries to look encouraging. "But don't worry. They've found some good stuff. We have really solid leads. Thinking I'll have you up and about in a week or two, easy."

It's a lie, a big one. Every possible solution to their problem that anyone has dug up in the last month has been a bust, sending Dean on a series of wild goose chases with nothing to show for them. But he won't tell Sam that, not just yet. He isn't losing hope, and it's always been his job to put a brave face on things, make them seem better than they are so Sam can relax.

Sam always stresses himself out, and Dean doesn't want to say anything that will wipe that serene smile off his brother's face. There's no point getting worried over a little thing like this. Stints in Hell, even Purgatory, those are things to worry about, causes to give up on. No getting out, no point trying. And still, they've both made it through mostly unscathed. A little thing like death is a joke. They've come back from it so many times. It's not a big deal. His brother isn't gonna be stopped by something as simple as dying.

They talk (Dean talks, Sam listens) for a few more hours before Dean can feel the day wearing down on him: driving, disappointment at the witch doctor being another dead end, and the general strain of living without oxygen chipping away at him. His head is drooping, resting against Sam's chest when he gets too tired to hold it up. Sam is a frozen block under him, and there's no way Dean is falling asleep in here.

"You said you didn't want to let me down. You promised to live, so. You're letting me down," he reminds Sam as he gets up to leave, because Sam internalizes this shit, and Dean isn't above guilting him back into being alive. "I'd like it if you'd get up soon. I'm doing my part, but you gotta help me out, okay Sammy?"

No point waiting for a response. Sam's a stubborn guy, always has been. Either he'll listen or he won't, nothing more Dean can do than ask and hope. He kisses his brother's forehead, tells Sam goodnight, and walks his drunk ass out to Sam's room.

This is where he spends his nights now. Sam didn't use his bed much when he was alive, choosing to sleep in Dean's more often than not. The pillow doesn't smell like Sam did when he was alive and the imprint on the mattress is sculpted to Dean more than Sam.

Sam died right here. The sheets haven't been washed, they're still stale with the sweat that had seeped out of his brother as he'd shaken through his fever. It's maybe not sanitary, but Dean isn't here for sanitary. It doesn't bring him comfort, but he's not looking for that, either.

Dean sleeps here to remember. Not his brother-god knows he won't forget his brother, not even in his ugliest moments, when the whiskey doesn't do enough to numb him and he wishes he could forget he ever had a Sam to lose. He sleeps in Sam's bed, face smashed into the pillow, to remember that he failed. He sleeps here so he doesn't have a chance at a good rest while his brother is still dead.

It's torment, and Dean deserves it. He let Sam die. He's let Sam stay that way for weeks now. If this was a just universe, Dean would be dead, too. He should be burning in Hell again, like he knows he will be if he dies before he can save Sam. But he can't make it happen; if Dean is dead, no one will bring Sam back. He already fucked up enough, so he won't let himself have the easy out, a quick bullet in his brain and no more missing his brother. He hasn't earned it.

He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and waits for the fitful sleep that comes with remembering.



May 30, 2015

The worst of it should be over. Sam's skin stopped glowing hours ago, and his fever broke, though he's still sweating buckets. He says the pain isn't as bad as it was at first, and Dean has to believe him, because he's liable to lose his damn mind pretty soon if he doesn't get a little good news.

"Alright," he says, wiping the sweat off Sam's forehead with a cloth that's already pretty much soaked. He's going to need another one soon, but the thought of leaving Sam's side to get it isn't really synching up with his instincts right now. "You're alright, Sammy. Go on, just close your eyes and let it go. You're gonna be fine."

"Yeah," Sam agrees absently, nodding like he has a thousand times today. Dean thinks he doesn't even know what he's going along with, at least until Sam turns his head just enough to catch Dean's eyes. "No, you know what? I'm not."

Dean only misses a beat, pausing for a second before deciding to ignore that and go right on wiping Sam down.

Sam reaches up, wrapping his fingers around Dean's wrist to stop him, and it's embarrassing how weak his grasp is, how easy to slip out it would be. Sam's hands are shaking, even his wrists too thin thanks to these stupid trials.

"Dean, look at me."

"I am looking at-"

"No," Sam says firmly, and his voice comes out so strong that Dean does stop. Sam hasn't put that much force behind his words for months, since right around the time he did the second trial, when he started getting really sick. "I need you to actually look at me."

Dean gives him a quick perfunctory glance, shrugs, and tries to get back to his work. Sam shakes his head.

"I'm in tatters, man. I'm going to die. I know it. You know it. That's why you won't let yourself-" He breaks off to cough, and Dean takes advantage of the distraction.

"I'll get some more cough drops if you want. You think that'll help your throat? Or I could warm up some of the soup from-"

"You're making it worse."

Dean actually flinches at that. "I-I'll, I'm sorry. Sammy. Just tell me what you need, I'm trying here. Painkillers maybe? I don't know what to do, there isn't exactly a manual."

"Just stop mother-henning. Stop pretending you don't know what's coming. You're stressing yourself out, and you're stressing me out…" Sam passes his hand over his face. "I want this to be as peaceful as possible. That's all I want. I want you to let me go. Now and when it's over." He takes a deep breath. "Let me go quietly, okay?"

Dean grips the towel in his hand so tight it begins to drip perspiration around his fingers. "Shut up, Sam."

To his surprise, Sam does, but it looks more resigned and miserable than obedient, and Dean can't help thinking of the last time Sam thought he was gonna die, back when Lucifer wasn't letting him sleep, when he was too tired to eat, let alone argue. But he hadn't died then. Cas had saved him. Where the hell was Cas?

"What happened to the light at the end of the tunnel, Sam? Huh? What happened to wanting to live and finish the trials and get old and pruny? What was the point of that spiel if all you really want is to stop kicking?"

"I don't want to die," Sam replies, infuriatingly calm. "I am going to die. And if I am going to die, then I want it to be without driving you into a panic over something neither of us can change. I want it to be as painless as possible, and Dean," he looks up into Dean's eyes, "I want you to burn my bones and let it rest. Go be normal or help Kevin with the tablet, I don't care. Burn me, mourn me, move on."

"Like a regular Joe," Dean says, laughing.

"Yeah," Sam replies, smiling tentatively. "Just like that."

"Normally I'm all about respecting a dying man's wishes," says Dean. "But fuck you for even suggesting it, Sam."

"That's gonna be your attitude?" Sam asks, and Dean wants to say 'yes' and go right on trying to find a way to help him, but Sam suddenly sounds so sad. Christ, he sounds like he's about to cry. "Those are gonna be your last words to me? After everything, that's all I get?"

"No last words, nobody's saying-"

"Dean," says Sam, putting a hand over Dean's and squeezing it. "Please."

Dean gives in, really looks at his brother like he's been refusing to do for days now. Sam is emaciated, a shadow of his usual self, and if this was anyone else, Dean would say death was a mercy. But it's Sam. It's Sam, and Sam can't just die.

"C'mere," Sam says, scooting back and patting the mattress next to him. He gives Dean a lopsided attempt at a smile. "I know I'm gross right now, but just-that's all I want. I want you to be here with me when I-" His voice breaks and he swallows hard, the only sign he's more scared than he's letting on. "When it happens."

Here's Dean's weakest moment. He gives in. He knows he should keep fighting, keep trying, not just lie down and let Sam die. But his little brother asked for something, something he really wants, and Dean doesn't know how not to give it to him.

So he climbs into bed and listens to his brother's labored breathing for as long as it goes on. Sam whispers to him once Dean is in his arms: good things mostly, some apologies for bad ones Dean forgave a long time ago. He makes Dean promise to burn his bones the next day, and Dean even means it when he says he will.

Of course, it's different when he wakes up, alone, in bed with a corpse, and he either has to accept that Sam is really gone or start fighting. It's fitting that it's a Monday morning. Time to get to work.



NOW

The door slams shut behind him, and Dean hears the whole room, paper-thin motel walls, rattling on its frame. Maybe he'll knock the whole building down, bring the roof and sky falling on him, and finally get a goddamn out.

He hasn't seen Sam in twelve hours, and it'll probably be at least another twelve between sleep and driving before he gets to correct that. Being away from Sam makes his palms itch these days, like if he's gone too long Sam will just vanish and Dean won't even have a body left to cling to.

Another day, another dead end. Dean's not giving up, not about to give up, but losing hope? Definitely. He's starting to think he's the one that died, went to Hell and doesn't even know it this time. He's staring down eternity with every day spent just like this. No Sam. Chasing his tail trying to correct that.

"Someone's in an awfully sour mood," says a voice behind him. It's somewhat familiar, but not enough to take Dean off guard. He stops in the middle of the room, pulls his gun from the back of his jeans, and turns quickly to find out who's talking.

Leaning against the window frame is Metatron, same deceptively goofy vessel as the last time Dean saw him. He's got one of those smug smiles they must teach angels how to do in Heaven, and Dean grips his gun harder, even though he knows it's useless.

"How'd you get in here?" he asks.

Metatron crosses his arms over his chest. "You do know your way around angel warding, I'll grant you that."

"Learned it from you, ironically enough," Dean says, angling his head at the symbol he'd hung on the door, the same one that had been carved into the box with the angel tablet hidden inside all those months ago.

"That's a strong sigil, a good thing for you to have in your repertoire. Very good choice," Metatron nods in approval. "But I do think you should know, its power is heavily concentrated. It covers small things like lockboxes but it's not gonna keep an angel out of your room. All it does is ensure they don't come in through the door."

"I'll keep that in mind for next time," Dean says. "Why are you here?"

"I'm here 'cause you're here," the angel tells him. "Couldn't track you down, so I planted a lead I knew you'd catch wind of."

Dean swallows and looks away. How could he walk into a trap this stupid? "The wish-granting Kapre," he says. "You made it up."

Metatron nods again. "I'm afraid so. I've wanted to speak with you for weeks now."

"You tricked my brother into getting himself killed, misled my friend-I don't even know where Cas is-and now you're toying with me. What the hell makes you think I have anything to say to you?"

Metatron laughs like they're old buddies and Dean is just playing out some old joke. "Oh, come on, Dean. Grudges are for people who can afford to be stubborn. I just want to make a deal."

"I'm not making a deal with you," Dean snaps. "If you came here to kill me, kill me. But if you wanna talk? Find a shrink."

"And I guess you aren't curious where exactly your brother's soul went when he died." Dean feels his expression betray his curiosity, and Metatron snorts. "There's the response I was hoping for."

"I'm listening," says Dean. "I won't be for long."

"Sam is in Heaven now. And guess who has exclusive rights on which souls get in or out of Heaven?"

"Give him back to me," Dean says. "I'll do anything. Whatever the deal is, I'll make it."

"Well, my sources sure were right about you." Metatron snickers. "Most people find out their dead brother's in Heaven, they let it go at that."

"I've been to your shitty excuse for an afterlife. Your party sucks." Dean licks his lips. "Just tell me what you want from me."

"I'm a simple guy. All I want are some good stories." Metatron gives him a friendly smile, and it frankly creeps Dean out. "That's all."

Dean raises an eyebrow. "Once upon a time, give me my brother back or I will tear you apart and that's a goddamn promise."

"Don't be cute with me. Or I'll change my mind." Metatron reaches into his coat and pulls out a scroll of parchment that looks about a million years old. "I'm here to offer you a good shot at getting your brother back. Better than anything else you'll find, and I can guarantee that. I supervise your brother's soul myself, so there's no way he's getting out unless I say he's getting out."

Dean reaches for the scroll, but Metatron pulls his arm back. "Not so fast, Dean. I'm not some crossroad demon. I want you to understand what you're signing up for before you read this. Because once you've read it, there's no turning back."

"Turning back from what?" Dean asks.

"You know what the best thing about being God's scribe was?"

"The dental plan?"

Metatron narrows his eyes. "I got to write the stories. The tablets? That was grunt work. That was just to pay the bills. My proudest contributions are written on different pages. I got to learn everything that would happen before anyone else. I was there when God got all his best plot ideas, even helped him brainstorm a few times. Babel? That was all me."

"This is really fascinating stuff," Dean says. "Is there a point coming soon?"

Metatron's face goes cold, and Dean hears a crash of thunder outside. "If saving your brother is boring to you," he says, and Dean sees his wings begin to stretch out, black shadows bigger than the room they're in. "I'll just go."

Dean seizes forward, grabbing Metatron's wrist, then releases him immediately when he realizes what a suicidal move that is. Still, it's enough to calm the angel, and Metatron pulls his wings in, is back to looking like someone's creepy-but-harmless uncle in no time.

"I wrote destiny," he says angrily. "I knew everything that was going to happen. I was proud of that. Do you know what it felt like to finally get back to Heaven only to learn my most precious work has been thrown out because a couple of insignificant humans decided they don't want to play by the rules?"

Dean laughs. "Oh, so that's what this is about. Look, buddy, you're not the first angel to get a stick up their ass about the whole averted Apocalypse thing. Don't know what you want me to do about it now."

"I don't care about the Apocalypse," Metatron says, holding his hands out like he's imploring Dean to understand. "I care about the story. There's a new story now. And that's great. That's fascinating." His face gets dark and greedy. "I want it."

The angel looks down at the scroll in his hand again. "I tried to look it up, like your brother so helpfully suggested, remember that? Problem is, you and your brother, by changing Heaven's histories, have written the only story I can't access. It's not anywhere. I can't find the start, the middle. How am I supposed to enjoy the end without the narrative?"

"Bring Sam back and there won't be an end," Dean suggests.

Metatron shakes his head, holds his arm out, and Dean snatches the scroll from him before he can get a chance to change his mind again.

"Or I go to the source. Now, your brother has been a disappointment. I've tried asking him nicely. I've tried asking him not so nicely." He smiles and Dean nearly shoots him just on principle. "He has one hell of a spine, your brother. Me? I would have cracked under half as much pain. But I guess after Sam's tour in Hell, nothing I can think of is gonna do the job. I'm not all that creative when it comes to torture, you see. Not my kind of story."

Sam being in Heaven alone-that was bad enough. The whole foundation of that place was supposed to be them, Sam and Dean together, and if Sam had to be in Heaven at all, Dean should be with him. But the thought of him up there: passing on, like he was supposed to, doing everything right, only to find more suffering? That's more than Dean can bear.

"Please," Dean says, hating how soft he sounds. "Please, just let him go. He never did anything to you. He's already been through so much. Just let him go."

Metatron points to the scroll in Dean's hand. "That's where you come in. See, I want exclusive rights to your story. Now, I can do a lot. I have done a lot. But I can't take memories from a soul without its consent, and he's clinging to you up there as hard as you're apparently clinging to him down here. I'm not getting anywhere with him, and frankly I'm exhausted from trying. So. I give up on him. Let's see if you're wiser than he is."

"That's the trade, then?" Dean asks, looking down at the scroll. "My memories for Sam?"

"Eh," Metatron says, making a wishy-washy gesture with his hands. "Not quite. That's boring, if you ask me. This way's more fun."

"What way?" Dean sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. "Just tell me the bottom line already."

"I wanna make a bet. Think Devil Went Down to Georgia meets Memento." Metatron stuffs his hands into his pockets. "You do everything on that scroll within three days: you carry Sam's soul out of Heaven yourself. I won't stop you, and I'll even let you keep your memories. A win is a win."

"If I can't do it?"

Metatron shrugs. "Then you forget Sam, I get to hold onto your memories of him, and I get my story. Maybe Sam'll even be willing to let go of his once he finds out you've cracked. I'd love a matched set of points of view."

Just like that, like everything he and Sam have been through is just a nice piece of china for his collection.

"You must not know my brother very well if you think his stubborn ass is that easy to crack," Dean says. He shakes his head. "If I don't finish it, I lose Sam even more than I already have."

"Yep," Metatron answers cheerfully. "But hey, you won't even miss him!"

Dean wants to laugh at that. He raises the scroll, about to tear the seal, but Metatron stops him again.

"Look, I want to be very fair about this. You be sure you're willing to do this before you open that scroll."

"Why? I’d rather see what the test is before I decide if I wanna risk Sammy on it."

Metatron tsks. "You break that seal, read the words on the page? That's as good as agreeing. You start losing your memories immediately."

"Wait," Dean says. "You never told me I would be losing my memory while I was doing it. You said if I don't finish I lose them."

"Right, well. I'm telling you now."

"How the hell am I supposed to save Sam if I've already forgotten him?"

Metatron grins then. "My favorite thing about gambling, Dean. House always wins."

There's a flap of wings, and before Dean can argue, the angel is gone. Dean laughs at the injustice of it, carries the scroll over to the nearest bed and sets it on the nightstand. He drinks his way through a bottle of whiskey, thinking it over.

There's nothing Dean can imagine worse than failing this. Losing Sam altogether. At least now he knows his brother, remembers that he had something to get him through his sorry life. He could die today, go on to Heaven, maybe they'll be together again. If he fucks this up and forgets…

Dean shivers. He can't even imagine what that life would be like. How much Sam would hate him if at the end of everything Dean gets to Heaven and doesn't even recognize him. Sam would hate him for even taking the chance, and that should settle it.

But then he thinks of his brother, sitting up there with needles in his brain, the kind of torture Castiel went through, or worse. After Hell. After going there to save the world, and Dean most of all. After everything he's struggled through and fought against since then. If there's anyone who deserves a damn break when he dies, it's Sam, and this just isn't fair. And what if Metatron really has him where no one can reach him, if even in their Heaven, Dean never gets to see Sam again.

It's a shit deal, but there's no real question whether he'll do it or not. He sets the scroll aside for tomorrow and lets the whiskey pull him down into a long sleep.



"For a guy who likes stories so much, Metatron sure is a shitty writer." Dean cradles his hangover and reads over the words on the page in front of him for the sixth time.

There's muffled screaming from the rattling trunk Dean has dragged out of storage and into the Men of Letters' study, the one he shoved Crowley's still demonic ass into when Sam couldn't cure him, was suddenly dying, and Dean had more important things to worry about. Dean decides to take the shouting for agreement and turns his attention back to the words in front of him.

Saving Sam is going to be a simple matter of figuring out how to break into Heaven. And then the really fun part starts, the part where Dean has to find Sam's soul, convince it to hitch a ride with him, get it past Metatron and whatever other obstacles there are in place for keeping dead souls in Heaven, and put it back into Sam's body. All in three days. All before he forgets what he's even doing or why he's doing it.

Oh, and here's the kicker. There's another catch, one Metatron didn't mention yesterday, not that that surprises Dean. But it’s a pain in his ass nonetheless, and he has to figure out a way to deal with it. Apparently, the first bright idea Dean had, to leave himself clues so that he could get the job done even if he forgot it, is seriously flawed. Because the more times he reads this scroll to remind himself of the steps, the more clues he leaves himself, the faster the memory magic will work. He has to find a balance somehow, which is damn hard to do when nothing has clarified just how fast he can expect to start forgetting things.

It's gonna be a piece of cake, really.

"About time you open this damn trunk," Crowley whines. "You know, just because I don't need to breathe doesn't mean I don't want to."

"Shut up," Dean snaps.

Surprisingly, Crowley obeys. Maybe Sam's attempt to cure him hasn't completely worn off just yet. Or maybe a month trapped in a trunk under a devil's trap has given him some perspective on who exactly is in charge here.

"There's a ritual to break into Heaven. Do you know it?"

"Know it? All I know is you need an angel's grace to do it, and the only way to get that is to carve it out of their chest. Do I look suicidal to you?" Crowley laughs. "Mate, if I was that reckless and knew how to break into Heaven, do you think I would have tried making a fair deal with your trench coat obsessed angel pal to get more souls?"

Dean shrugs. "Fine," he says, reaching back to close the trunk.

"Stop, please. I can't take this anymore. Let me out of here, I can try to help you find someone who knows what to do."

"That's not good enough, Crowley. I need to find it. I need it in the next twelve hours or less."

The demon sighs. "Oh, don't tell me someone introduced you to that blasted amnesia resurrection spell."

Dean must look guilty, because Crowley takes his answer for granted. "You know none of the poor bastards who have tried that have ever come out on the right side of it? Heaven doesn't deal fair like Hell does. That spell is rigged."

"I know that," Dean growls. "But-"

"Yes, I know. But Sam, wah wah wah, as usual. Don't you think Sam being in Heaven is good enough? Why don't you just leave it alone?" He laughs. "You and your brother have been frustrating my plans for how many years now, four? Five? I almost think of you two as friends. So let me just say: seriously, even I am starting to worry about you two."

"How about you stow the friendly advice and shut the hell up if you're not gonna be any use to me?"

"Look, I really don't know the spell. But I know of a demon that does. He was pals with Uriel back in the day. They used to arrange meetings, Uriel would provide grace from the angels he'd killed so this guy could get into Heaven, help him talk converts over to the darkside."

"What’s his name?"

"His name?" Crowley yells. "His name is get me the hell out of this trunk and then we can talk!"

"How do I know you're not lying?"

Crowley glares. "You got time to be suspicious, Clementine?"

He's right. Dean hates that he's right, but he's right. He pulls out Ruby's knife, holds it up clear for Crowley to see. "I'm going to pull you out of there slowly. You are not going to try anything, or I am going to watch you choke on your own blood. Are we clear?"

"King of Hell and you want me to, what, cry over that butter knife?"

"You're not half as hot as Abaddon, and I know you can't take this blade like she can. And you're not the King of Hell anymore, you're a guy locked in a box. So stow the ego. If you had any power or friends left, someone would have busted your ass out of there weeks ago."

Crowley's eyes narrow, but he nods when Dean asks, "Are we clear?"

"The demon you want is named Antros," Crowley tells him as he climbs out and dusts off his suit. "We can summon him, but I'll warn you now, he's never been sweet on me."

"I'll summon him," Dean says. "You just…go."

Crowley stares at him for a long minute. "Is this a trick?"

"You and Abaddon are gonna be too busy trying to kill each other to bother going after people, and I don't have time to worry about what to do with you. Now get out of here before I change my-"

Crowley has vanished before he even finishes his sentence, and Dean turns his attention immediately to gathering the supplies he'll need to summon Antros.

An hour later, Dean has rolled out the rug he and Sam keep in the car, devil's trap side down, and he's working the spell from memory, throwing in some of the magic Enochian words the scroll said he would need to chant every four hours and mentally walking himself through all the next steps so he's sure they're clear in his mind.

A tall, skinny man with dirty orange hair and freckles appears in the middle of the room, just over the trap. Dean grins.

"Gotcha," he says.

Antros rolls his eyes. "Dean Winchester. And I was doing such a good job avoiding meeting you."

"That hurts my feelings," Dean replies. Then he cuts to the point, "I need a ritual, I know you know it, so let's skip the crap. Tell me how to get into Heaven, and I might not spill your guts all over this fine motel room."

"Who told you I know how to do that?" the demon asks, giving him a probing look. "How do you even know who I am?"

"Don't get too inflated. An old friend ratted you out."

"Crowley," says Antros, his hands curling into fists. "Oh, I cannot wait to see the day Abaddon tears that smug little bastard apart."

"Sadly, you're not gonna live long enough to see it if you don't hurry up and give me what I need."

"Need?" Antros asks, giving Dean a curious look. "What do you want with that spell, anyway? I know you're not working for the angels, trying to help them get home. From what I hear, you hate them almost as much as you hate us. So what then?"

"None of your business," says Dean.

The demon smiles. "Oh, right, gotta save baby brother. Everyone in Heaven and Hell knows you can't get off without him." His eyes slide to black. "Sorry, did I say off? I meant on. But who am I kidding? You and Sam aren't exactly a well-kept secret. How long has that been happening, Dean? How long have you been shacking up with your own brother?" He shakes his head as his eyes go back to green. "And you think demons are filthy?"

It's trying to get a rise out of him, Dean knows that. Normally, it might even work. Now, it just sends panic clawing up through Dean.

Him and Sam-he remembers a million times and he remembers before it started. But as he reaches back, tries to pin down the when and how, it eludes him. There's empty space there. He hadn't even noticed until he went looking for it.

Imagining losing Sam at the start of this…Dean assumed it would hit hard. Of course he would be able to feel Sam slipping away. But here's something that must have been important, a memory worth hanging on to. Dean hadn't felt any pain when it vanished. He knows there's something missing, logically, there must be. But he doesn't feel the loss. That's more terrifying than the black hole he expected. When Sam's gone, Dean won't even suspect he ever had anything to lose.

He swallows hard, trying not to wonder what else he's already forgotten without realizing it. How many gapped-tooth smiles has he dropped in the last two hours? How many school projects, near death experiences, quiet kisses under the stars?

Dean feels like he has everything, like he could never let a single moment of Sam's life go. But there's a ghost hovering over him, like Sam is there, pulling him in, kissing him. Dean reaches out to catch the memory, but it's gone. The harder he tries, he can almost remember it, but not really. Like a thought on the tip of his tongue, Dean knows he knows it, but he can't answer the demon's question, and every moment he stands here silently freaking out about it, maybe that's one more moment he spent with his brother that he'll never get back.



June 24, 2006

He thinks it's a fight at first.

Sam had all the luck tonight; one girl worth taking home walked into the bar they picked, and she was batting her eyes at him faster than Dean could even try offering her a drink.

Dean sat off to the side for an hour and a half, watching Sam's throat work around his beer, trying not to imagine those lips wrapped around his cock instead, Adam's apple bobbing as he struggles to swallow everything Dean pours into him.

Truth is, Dean needed a distraction tonight. A pretty girl with a nice smile, willing to laugh at his jokes, willing to keep him busy for a few hours, so he can blow off some pent up frustration, and, god, stop thinking about his brother every time he gets hard. He needed that, and instead he gets to watch Sam flirt up a storm. He knows this is good for him. He hadn't expected Sam to be up to this just months after losing Jess, and Dean knows Sam's been lonely.

But fuck if he isn't a little bitter, a little jealous, a little wishing things were different, that they lived in a time and place where he could be enough to keep Sam far from lonely, where they could both get off on each other without someone going home aching.

He tries to be cool, tries to sound proud of Sam instead of pissed when he claps his brother on the back and says he's going to the motel. Maybe it doesn't come out so convincing, but that doesn't mean Sam had to drop what he was doing, close off his tab, and follow Dean back.

Sam is sour for the rest of the night, and normally Dean would ignore it, but tonight he snaps instead. When Sam makes a huffy comment, Dean yells back about Sam being a big boy and it not being Dean's problem that he still feels like he needs permission if he wants to get laid.

The way Sam moves, Dean is sure a fist is coming. That fast flash of anger in Sam's face, the way he's across the room in seconds-Dean knows how Sam fights. Hell, he taught the kid most of what he knows.

"Is that what you think happened?" Sam growls, grabbing Dean's shoulders and pushing him back against the thin wall. "You think I'm a coward or something? That I can't go after what I want?"

Dean shrugs. He wasn't trying to start an argument, and he knows Sam's probably got his own reasons not to want to take a chance letting another girl in after what happened to the last one. He can tell that Sam's expecting some witty retort, but Dean is fresh out. "I don't know, Sammy. All I'm saying is, don't act like I ruined your night when you-"

"I'm not a coward," Sam insists, and Dean nearly laughs, not sure who Sam is trying to convince until Sam shoves him back again, and before Dean can defend himself, Sam's mouth is pressed against his. He pulls away quickly, keeps his eyes on Dean's like he's daring Dean to react badly, and Dean is too stunned to even breathe, let alone take the challenge.

Then he blinks, and it's like Sam is waking up from a dream. From a nightmare. "I'm sorry," he says, holding a hand out between him and Dean. "I'm sorry-fuck! I'm so sorry."

"Don't you dare," Dean growls, pushing Sam's arm out of the way and fisting his hands in Sam's shirt. "Don't you dare take it back. You can't just do that and then take it back."

Sam meets his eyes but doesn't move. Doesn't say anything, except one hushed syllable. "Dean?"

Whenever he allowed himself to imagine this, it was out of his control: alcohol induced or some sick witch's idea of a joke. But Dean is sober as he steps forward, and he knows exactly what he's doing when he puts a hand over each of Sam's ears and tugs his brother's face back into his. The truth is, Dean has been wishing for this since before Sam went to school. Missing him for four years only made it worse, and living an inch apart for the last nine months it's become impossible to ignore.

Dean swore to himself he would never act on it, but that was when he didn't have a way to know if Sam wanted it, too. Now Sam's started it-Sam kissed him, and pushing him away would be one denial too many. Dean can't make himself do it. Sure, it's not witchcraft, but it's not entirely willful, either. There's just no stopping this now that it's started. Dean doesn't need a spell to need Sam.

He kisses Sam deep and deeper, their tongues sliding together, Sam so eager it's like he's trying to crawl inside of Dean. Dean wants to let him in, wants to give Sam somewhere warm and safe to stay forever. That’s all he ever wanted. Somewhere along the road it got twisted around, became ugly, but it doesn't seem so ugly when Sam pulls away, presses his forehead to Dean's, and smiles like he hasn't, not since Jessica died.

They kiss for a long time before Dean can't stop himself from moving things along. And that-that's something he knows he'll never let himself forget. Because sure, Sam kissed him first, but Dean's the one that started stripping. He's the one that steered Sam toward the nearest bed, sent them both tumbling back, slowly and deliberately took his brother apart, watched Sam fall to pieces under his hands and mouth, shaking and trying to scream but too damn full of Dean's dick to manage anything more than whimpers.

He wakes up in the middle of the night, and he's alone, and that's okay. That feels right. Makes his chest ache like a ghost sinking their nails in-but it's for the best. Sam must have realized, sometime after Dean fell asleep, just how fucked up what they did was and fled to his bed. Maybe they can just go on, pretend it never happened.

But when he looks, the other bed is empty, too, still made with Dean's duffel sitting on it, clothes tossed everywhere from when he went digging through it for lube and condoms, too desperate to care about years of Dad training them to stay tidy. He hears the toilet flush, the click of the door turning, and watches the light from the bathroom flicker off.

Dean closes his eyes, pretending to be asleep, curious what Sam will do. He peeks, though, eyes only mostly lidded, so he can see his brother, slivers of pale moonlight through the motel blinds making him visible for seconds at a time. He's all shadow and cut muscle, and Dean watches his thick thighs, Sam's soft cock between his legs. If he were halfway decent, he'd shut this out, but he can't, not when Sam is so naked, unhurried and unashamed, and Dean may never get to see him like this again.

"Dean," he whispers. "Dean, are you awake?"

Sam doesn't wait for an answer, and Dean keeps right on playing like he's out cold, closing his eyes completely. So he doesn’t see that Sam chose to come back to his bed.

The mattress dips, and Sam just sits there on the other end for a long minute. Dean doesn't know what he's doing, but eventually Sam shifts and Dean feels his body heat hovering by his side. The sheets loosely puddled around Dean's hips get pushed down, and Sam touches him, just the barest trace of his fingertips along the length of Dean's cock.

It's not enough to make him hard, and Dean is torn between demanding that Sam give him more and suppressing the shiver that wants to work its way through him. In the end, he decides to play it safe, keeps still as a stone, making sure his breath is even.

Sam must believe that he's still asleep, because he draws closer then, wrapping his body around Dean's, pushing his fingers softly through the hair above Dean's ear, and tucking his face into the nook of Dean's neck, taking a deep breath.

When Dean wakes up the next morning, Sam is still there. Still gloriously naked, and Dean's still too damn weak to push him away. He watches his brother until Sam blinks his eyes open, making a soft, content noise and stretching.

He looks at Dean, and it's not really a surprise that the first thing he says is, "We should talk."

Dean tells him to shut up. Makes him shut up with his mouth on Sam's. He rolls over on top of his brother and pounds him so fucking hard Sam can't talk about anything, let alone the broader implications of Dean's dick up his ass.

It's a violent start. It'll probably have a violent end. You don't do things like this and not bump up against some pretty shitty consequences. Not that that's gonna make Dean back out. Hell, he jumps in faster.



NOW

"Hey, Dean," Antros says cheerfully. "What's your favorite dating website, ancestry.com?"

Dean doesn't even think, a hot rage taking hold of him. He's more pissed at the fact that he can't remember the first time he and Sam fucked than the inane jokes, but the demon is the only thing he has here to lash out on.

Ruby's knife is at Antros's throat before the demon is even done laughing, but it stops pretty fast.

"You need me," it reminds Dean.

"Yeah," Dean says. "And I know all kinds of places I can cut that won't kill you. But you'll wish they did. Should we test this?"

The demon is taking very shallow breaths, trying not to let the skin of his throat brush up against the sharp blade of the knife. "Is it true?" Antros asks. "That you studied under Alastair?"

Dean nods, keeping his eyes locked on the demon's.

It swallows hard. "You can trap an angel's grace in a vial blessed by holy water and oil if it has the right markings on it. But you have to carve it out of their chest, and it's a slow process, from what I hear. You gotta get every drop and make sure they don't die before you've drained them."

"From what you hear?"

"I never collected the grace myself. Are you crazy? Hold one of those things down and wait to see if it decides to let me cut into it? I would have burnt my eyes out just trying to look to see if I'd trapped it all." It shakes its head. "No way. Uriel supplied the grace. I was putting my ass on the line enough just by going into Heaven."

"Fine," Dean snaps. "I'll worry about the grace, tell me how to do the ritual."

"This is a suicide mission," the demon says. "Your brother must have had one sweet ass."

Dean doesn't reply, just presses the knife closer to Antros's throat, drawing enough blood to scare the bastard.

"Your funeral," says Antros. "Alright, here's what you need to do…"

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