Supernatural: Into Oblivion [Part 3/3]
Back to Masterpost ∅ Back to Part One ∅ Back to Part Two
PART THREE
NOW
It takes ten hours to break into Heaven. Ten hours of mixing herbs and saying words Dean doesn't know the meaning of and covering his bloody palms in bright grace that burns them even more than the cuts. Dean spends ten hours painting the grace onto the wall in the cold chamber, close enough to Sam's body to remember why he's doing this and ensure Sam will be the first thing he sees when he gets back, so he can remember where to put that soul if he manages to get that far.
It's cold and hot at the same time, the contrast between the freezing temperature in the room and the lava he's spreading against the wall unbearable. But on and on he goes, until Dean rubs the last of the grace into his skin and presses his palm to the wall, fervently whispering the words that should open the portal to Heaven.
Then he stands back, ready to see the result of his hard work. For a few seconds-the longest of Dean's life-nothing happens at all. Then the room starts to shake around him, though nothing falls or breaks except the wall in front of Dean, which begins to crumble until it opens up, a black hole like when they opened Lucifer's Cage sucking Dean in.
There's a heavy smell of something burning choking Dean, and he has just enough time to wonder why that is-isn't Hell where things burn?-before he's falling into light.
March 17, 2013
Dean takes a deep breath, feeling it stretch his chest. He smiles lazily, enjoying the heavy burnt scent of pot and the way he feels weighed down into Sam. Sam's arm around his shoulder is warm and intimate and Dean fits comfortably between Sam's legs.
He feels good. Happy, even. Between hunting Dick Roman and Bobby dying and Sam having Lucifer in his head, he doesn't remember the last time he relaxed. But now? Now Dean would swear there isn't a thing in the world but his little brother's body heat and the weed in the air.
Dean's always been pretty good at forgetting things when it's easier than remembering.
Above him, he feels Sam exhale, and he watches with a laugh as two little Os float by him in smoke.
"Still remember how to do that, huh?" Dean asks, taking the blunt when Sam hands it off to him.
He can hear a smug smile in his brother's response. "Yeah. 'm better at it than you now, too."
"That so?" Dean asks. He watches the smoke curling out of the orange glow at the end of the joint and smiles.
"Mmm hmm," Sam confirms.
Dean shakes his head, taking a puff and holding it, not letting anything escape as he says, "Watch and learn, Padawan."
Sam huffs a laugh. "And I'm the nerd."
Dean rounds his mouth, pushing out three perfect circles, right into Sam's face. Sam laughs and waves them away. "Got so many better things to do with your mouth than that."
"You're just jealous, little bro," Dean tells him, leaning in for a kiss.
Sam accepts it and grins when he pulls back. "I cannot believe we're smoking a dead guy's weed. In his living room. This is so wrong."
"Hey, we just ganked the ghost in his house and saved his vacationing wife and kid," Dean points out. "Not like he's gonna come back looking for it. Anyway, it was your idea."
"I was nearly killed by demented clowns last week," Sam says. "I deserve this."
"Damn right," Dean agrees. "Though I'm pretty sure you're going to have to stop using that excuse for everything at some point."
"Remember the first time we did this?" Sam asks, looking down at the joint. Dean isn't sure where the subject change came from, but right now he's not entirely sure where his feet end either. "God, I felt like such a badass."
Dean smiles to himself, thinking of Sam lying on his back, coughing for his first three drags until finally Dean's advice got across and Sam figured out how to hold it without choking himself.
He'd been so distracting, so infuriatingly hot as his shirt rode up on his stomach and he smiled wide, dimples to the sky for anyone to see. Dean's fingers had itched to touch, and usually he hated himself for it, but that day…with a thick cloud of smoke in his mind, he nearly went for it. And Sam, Sam had looked at him like a hero, had clung to his every word, like he'd been doing for months by then. Following Dean even more than usual, spending every moment he could at his side.
Dean had loved it, as much as he'd complained, but even then it made him a little uncomfortable. Sam had been acting like he was worried he was going to lose Dean. Of course, in retrospect, the thought of that still makes him bitter. The word Stanford had never left his brother's lips, not even when they were so high Dean could hardly stop his mouth from seeking out Sam's, but in a month, Sam was gone.
"Eighteen years old, couldn't stop giggling like a preteen girl at a One Direction concert. For shame."
"Did you just make a One Direction reference, Dean?" Sam snorts. "This must be some potent shit."
"Those little bastards are everywhere I look," Dean defends. "Besides. I'm under the influence. It doesn't count."
"Oh, it counts."
Dean shakes his head, taking the blunt from Sam. There's not an awful lot left in it, and Dean figures he can take the rest in one long pull, as long as he's willing to share.
He looks Sam in the eye and gives his brother a wicked grin. "That first time we smoked," Dean says. "I couldn't stop thinking of doing this. And now I'm allowed."
Once he's inhaled the last of the blunt and stomped it out on the coffee table Sam is leaning against, Dean straddles his brother, pressing in. Sam gets it, opens his mouth for Dean. They seal their lips together, Dean pushing and Sam sucking, accepting the smoke right out of Dean's lungs.
Then Dean pulls back and Sam makes four perfect smoke circles, cracking up once they're out. Dean watches the small cloud of air wafting by, a visible sign that they're both still breathing, still sharing the oxygen that's keeping them going. Maybe he's skewing toward the philosophical side of being stoned, but it makes him feel so damn easy he doesn't even care that Sam won.
NOW
Heaven is on fire. That explains the smell, but opens up more questions than it puts to rest. Dean has to turn in a complete circle just to get a full picture, because apparently even in Heaven, he is down one eyeball. It would be nice if he could remember when that happened, but he shakes his head. It's not important.
Dean is in the street of a beautiful city, all the walls made of gold and glass, but everything burning. This is what happens, Dean supposes, when there's no one here to keep the place afloat.
He walks down a street-two lane asphalt, just like the last time, though he laughs at that thought, wondering how there could have been a last time. His car is not here with him, so he just keeps walking, hoping he'll find a door, hear someone crying for help, anything to tell him where to go.
All there is is chaos-a chaos made all the more uncanny by how quiet and still it is. Nothing moves but the flames reaching high up ahead of him. There's no wind, no cries for help. Of course, this is his Heaven, his and someone else's (who was it again?), and the only person who could cry for help here is locked up somewhere, hidden away.
Out of the corner of his eye, he turns and sees something bizarre. There's a field across the street, and it's burning, too. But there's a little boy standing in front of the flames, laughing like he's about to lose it.
"That firework hit the tree," the boy is yelling and pointing off in the distance, and he sounds scared, but he still can't stop laughing. "Dude, shut up and put it out! Or you get to tell Dad."
Dean shakes his head and looks away. Strange place for a child, this. Not his kid, though. Not his problem.
"Find Sam," Dean tells himself. That's all that matters.
It feels like hours or weeks or years before he passes a building that isn't about to be ashes. It stands out in a place like this, where everything's in ruins. There's gotta be something protected inside, Dean figures, if someone went to the trouble of saving it from the otherwise unchecked spread of destruction.
He's searching for something important. He doesn't know what, but it seems a safe enough bet he'll find it here.
He opens the door and steps in, and there's a field inside, too, even though he is standing in a building with walls and doors and windows that display the burning world outside. He sees a long line of people dressed up in white and red costumes, wielding cardboard swords like they're about to go to a very low stakes war or they just got back from one.
"I'm glad we stayed for that," a guy says, and Dean turns his head so he can fix his right eye on the speaker. The man is tall, taller than Dean, his brown hair pulled back into a ponytail and his face squared off in red and white paint. "It was fun."
For some reason, those simple words fill Dean with a sense of relief and awe and he thinks you chose me, I can't believe you chose me. But it doesn't make any sense, Dean doesn't even get what he's thinking.
"I don't have time to talk to you," Dean tells the guy. "I'm looking for something. Sorry."
"Yeah," the guy says, like he agrees with Dean, but then he goes on like he's continuing a completely different conversation. "I guess we can come back next year. Can't abandon Moondor now that we're in the Queens Guard, right?"
Good smile under all that stupid face paint. If Dean weren't so busy, he'd smudge the paint with kisses, but he's kind of in the middle of something.
Something. Not sure what, but something.
His phone buzzes. It's a message to read some words off a page, and Dean considers ignoring that, too, but he decides to play it safe. "I've got to take this," he lies, just so he has an excuse to step away from the man.
The big guy just goes on smiling and talking to the empty space where Dean was, and Dean gets the weirdest feeling of déjà-vu. He ignores that like he's ignored everything else, reading off the slip of paper in his pocket and stepping through the nearest door, hoping to find some privacy there.
What he finds instead is a nightmare. There's a man strapped into a chair, blood dripping from his forehead, his arms cut in half and his chest wide open, his still-pumping heart spitting blood out into the guy's lap.
He looks familiar, and after a few seconds, Dean recognizes him as the same tall man who had been so happy in the last room. This version of him is the opposite, tears the only thing streaking through the blood on his cheeks, a gory mockery of the playful war paint Dean had seen him wearing only a minute ago.
Nothing makes Dean feel squeamish, but the realization that this isn't just some guy, this is someone's soul nearly sends him howling to the mad house.
"How'd you get here?" he asks, taking a few hurried steps to the chair. He reaches up, about to touch the guy's face to reassure him, but the soul pulls away quickly, like a dog that thinks Dean is going to strike.
"No, please," he says. "Please don't touch me. You don't understand how it hurts to be touched. The needles, the knife, anything, just don't put your hands on me."
"I'm not going to hurt you," Dean promises. "But I can't get you out of here unless I take off these straps."
The man swallows, and he stays still this time when Dean touches him.
As soon as they make contact, Dean feels flush with an almost too good sense of rightness. The guy's eyes open wide with shock, and then he licks his lips. He lets out a long breath, leans into Dean's fingers, and there's a look on his face of intense pleasure and relief. "Dean? Is it you?"
"Do I know you?" Dean asks.
He would swear the guy looks hurt. "You don't know who I am?"
Dean shakes his head. "It's okay, though. I'm going to get you out."
"I'm your brother," the soul says. "I'm Sam."
Dean doesn't have a brother, never did. For some reason, the very suggestion infuriates him. He wishes for one with a violent kind of desperation, wonders if his life has always been as empty as he now feels it is.
He thinks the guy is making fun of him, and he kind of wants to punch the stranger for rubbing it in. But this is a victim, this is a soul in terrible pain, and Dean can't just leave him here. His Dad taught him better than that.
"It's okay," Dean promises the man. Sam, apparently. "Sam, can you hear me? I'm going to get you out of here."
August 13, 2000
This is not Dean Winchester's finest hour. Come to think of it, it's not John Winchester's finest hour, either. They're hunting a possessed baobab and they rushed in with axes and machetes, thinking they could cut the thing to death, or at least reduce it to being harmless.
So now they're trapped under snake-like tree limbs, and the vines are growing fast around Dean's middle, squeezing his lungs, constricting until he starts worrying he'll pass out and die over something this stupid.
Sam, on the other hand, well. Dean will grudgingly admit this might be Sam Winchester's finest hour. Just this one time, obsessive research was apparently the right idea, and as soon as Sam saw Dean and John go under, he rushes the family he was protecting inside the house out onto the sidewalk and ran to the trunk, carving in some symbols that look like hieroglyphics as far as Dean is concerned.
It works, though. Just in time, the tree doesn't quite wither up like Dean is hoping, but it begins to loosen its hold, weakening, slowly retreating onto itself.
"Help!" one of the girls on the sidewalk screams, and Sam turns his head immediately. "I think my sister stayed inside to save the hamster. We thought she was following, please save her."
Sam does exactly what he should do, kicks the machete the tree had knocked out of his hands toward Dean so it's close enough for him to reach. Dean begins to cut himself loose, then Dad, as Sam runs for the house, not hesitating despite the fact that it's clearly about to collapse on itself thanks to the branches that had, until seconds ago, been threatening to squeeze the house into matchwood.
By the time Dean has Dad free and is pulling him to his feet, Sam is carrying the little girl out to her mom. The woman is crying, the sister thanking Sam profusely, the dad staring at his house in perplexed horror. Sam smiles reassuringly and pats the mother on the shoulder as he hands her baby girl over, and the girl grins like it's all a game, holds up her hamster and cheerfully announces that it's okay, too.
John stands at Dean's right, watching the whole thing with much more aloofness than Dean can muster up right now.
"Your brother is a real pain in the ass," John says. He turns to give Dean a private smile, and Dean just wishes he would ever let Sam see that pride. Maybe then they could stop fighting. Maybe then Dean could stop worrying they were going to push Sam away. "But he's a Winchester through and through."
"Yeah," Dean agrees, turning his attention back to Sam. Sam is looking at him and when he notices Dean's eyes on him, he smiles just for Dean. Dean feels a low, dirty pull in his belly, a sudden uncontrollable want.
His brother. His own geeky little Sammy, and Dean is standing here, next to their father, unable to stem the flood of filth in his mind. He pushes it aside when Sam rejoins them, putting an arm around his brother's shoulders and teasing him as he ruffles Sam's hair, and he hopes that maybe he can kill every bad idea he just had and never look at his brother like that again.
But deep down, in the part of Dean he won't acknowledge, he knows better than to believe he'll ever think of Sam and be clean again.
NOW
"I need you to come with me," Dean explains once he has Sam free of the straps that had been holding him down. "Do you understand me?"
The soul shakes its head. "I can't walk," he says, pointing down at his stringed guts and, okay. Maybe that's a fair point.
Dean grins, though. He's lucky this is happening now, now when he's been through so much (but why do his memories of it all feel so vacant?) and learned how to deal with things he couldn't have imagined ten years ago. Benny taught him how to carry a soul across the borders of dimensions. Dean can do that much for this Sam guy.
"That's okay," Dean tells him, picking up one of the knives on the table by Sam's chair. "I've got an idea."
Sam makes a terrified sound and tries to pull back farther into his seat. "Please, no. Please no more. God, I can't stand it. I can't, please-"
"Shhh," Dean says soothingly, and to his surprise, the soul trusts him enough to relax a little. "It's not gonna hurt much," Dean promises, lifting his own forearm, "Look, I'll go first."
He cuts a nick right through the wrist, confused when he sees there are cuts there already, and they spell out Sam's name. Maybe he came here specifically to do this, sent by some desperate relatives or something. He's fuzzy on the details, but it seems as good an explanation as any.
"See?" he says, holding the knife out to Sam. "You can do your own. This is all I need, just a little cut like this."
Sam looks hesitant, but he takes the knife when Dean hands it to him, then places the blade against his skin, looking up at Dean as if for approval.
"Yeah, that's real good," he encourages. "Go on, you trust me, don't you?"
"Of course," Sam says, licking his lips. "Of course I trust you, Dean."
When Sam's done, Dean grabs his wrist and says the spell Benny taught him. He's ready for the red light to spill out as Sam pours into him, and he's expecting the same searing pain that he had felt every second Benny's soul was inside of him.
But what he feels is a near-orgasmic shot of bliss, a feeling of completion as if this soul was always supposed to be here and Dean didn't even know how wrong he was without it until he'd gotten it back.
"Bravo, bravo," says a voice behind him.
He turns and there's a man standing there, middle-aged and insignificant looking. He's clapping his hands sarcastically, and Dean realizes this was a trap.
"Did you really think I was just going to let you walk out of Heaven, though?"
"I was planning to take the train, actually," Dean says.
The man-no, angel-steps forward. Metatron, Dean recognizes him now. "You got farther than I thought you would, I'll give you that. Of course, you've also blown twenty of your hours on this trip through Heaven."
Dean eyebrows draw together in confusion. It's only been one hour, maybe one and a half.
Metatron tries to make a sympathetic face, but he can't conceal the gleeful twinkle in his eyes. "Oh, I know. Inter-dimensional travel times are so hard to adjust for. I guess I should have mentioned that before you started the ritual, but it slipped my mind. You know all about being forgetful, right Dean?"
Dean is so confused for a second. He doesn't know what Metatron is talking about or how he got here or why is arm is tingling so much. "Please, just let me go back to Earth. I've got no interest in Heaven. I won't bother you again."
Metatron smiles. "Sure! Just hand over that soul."
"Soul?" Dean asks, looking down at the glow in his arm. Oh, that might explain it, but where did it come from. Is it not his? "Why is there a soul in me?"
"Beats me why you're trying to steal souls from Heaven," Metatron says, but Dean doesn't like the sly expression on his face. "That one is mine and I'd like it back. Then you can go."
Dean knows just enough about this angel to be pretty sure he has no interest in giving him what he wants. "You know, on second thought? I think I'll take it with me."
"Is that right?" Metatron says, and now he's actually laughing. "You're going to do that how? I'm an angel, boy. You can't fight me."
"No," Dean agrees. "I can't. You're way too powerful."
"Great." Metatron holds out his hand and makes a 'pony up' gesture. "So why don't you give me that soul and we can do this the peaceful way."
"Thing is," Dean says with a grin, glancing down with his one good eye at the black mark on his hand. "Thing is, you can't fight me, either."
Metatron follows Dean's line of sight and makes a constipated face as soon as he sees the sigil.
"Very powerful angel warding," Dean says, holding up his hand and feeling exceedingly smug. "Doesn't cover much physical space, but it'll more than do to keep a human warded from angels, right?"
"You little ape," Metatron says, stepping forward like he wants to attack Dean, but he hits an invisible wall once he gets too close, like a demon stuck in a trap. "I taught you that!"
"And I thank you for it," Dean says. "I'm sure you'll think of some way to get to me if I hang around here too long, so I'll be peacing out now."
"I'll kill you," Metatron says. "And if I can't kill you, I've got a better plan. I'll just kill Sam again when you get him back. Watch your pathetic ass drag around without him and I won’t do you the kindness of offering you a way to forget this time. I'll make you suffer in ways…"
Dean rolls his eyes, not understanding half of Metatron's threats and not particularly caring about the rest of them.
"That's all really nice," Dean says. He reaches into his shirt pocket for the worn slip of paper he's been reading from and says the words one last time.
A big portal made of silver light opens up, and Dean jumps through.
November 1, 2011
"So souls," says Dean, sending one uncomfortable glance to his brother's tied up body. "What's the big deal?"
"The big deal," Castiel repeats like Dean just asked the stupidest question imaginable. "They are only the most powerful entities in all of creation. No big deal."
Dean laughs, kind of amused that Cas is so pissy nowadays. He's a little like Sam used to be as a teenager, and it makes Dean feel fond and angry at the same time. He wants his brother back so much it's maddening, especially considering that what should be the bulk of Sam is sitting right there, listening to their conversation with a hateful look on his face.
"Alright, alright," Dean says. "I get it. But what makes them so powerful?"
Castiel raises an eyebrow. "I can only answer that question through the application of advanced string theory, non-linear algebra, and with the aide of a thirty-seven foot model of a soul's physical make-up constructed from toothpicks and Styrofoam balls."
Dean sighs. "The abridged version."
"Souls are God's finest work. According to God, of course. Many angels disagree with this assessment, most notably Lucifer, who argued that an angel's grace, although less complicated, was more valuable because of its greater kinetic ability to-"
"Angels," Dean mutters.
Cas gives him a half smile, the only sign he'd intentionally been messing with Dean. "To put it simply, souls are what make you, well, you."
"Yeah," Dean agrees. "I got that from riding around with soulless over there."
"So do you think it's easy to just make a creature as base as a human capable of reaching true sentience? A lot of work goes into raising your species above the beasts of this world."
"And the soul does that work?"
"Yes," says Cas. "The soul is entirely responsible for your human curiosity, your ability to dream and imagine, your art and poetry and science. For your capacity to love."
"So Sam doesn't…?" Dean breaks off and passes a hand over his face, laughing lightly. "Of course he doesn't. I knew that."
"Your brother's soul still loves you very much," Castiel tells him.
"Right, great. Fat lot of good that does me while it's stuck in Hell."
"Well," Castiel says, drawing the word out. "It is not technically stuck, but it is nearly impossible to save something that refuses to be saved."
"You think Sam's soul wants to be in Hell?" Dean asks, giving Cas a sharp look.
Cas turns his face away quickly, almost guiltily. "Souls are finicky things, Dean. They are very…intimate parts of you."
"Okay," Dean replies. "I guess that makes sense."
"They don't follow just anyone. When human souls are touched by someone else, it is a terrible violation. Even if someone could get into the cage to free your brother, he would not go with them. It would take a creature of far greater power-God or Death-to get your brother out of the cage." Cas gives Dean a long, assessing look, then adds, "Maybe you."
"Me?" Dean asks with a laugh. "I'm flattered."
"Don't be. You are not nearly powerful enough to get there and out. The thought is, frankly, ludicrous."
"Thanks, Cas," says Dean. "Glad to know it's so amusing to you."
"But because of your bond with your brother, you are probably the only human soul he would follow out. Even…" Cas licks his lips and stares at his hands, and again, Dean can't help thinking his facial expression is a little off. "Even an angel could not convince your brother's soul to escape that cage."
"So you're saying me and Sam are-"
"You knew already. Didn't you? After Heaven?"
Dean thinks it over for a few seconds, then finally nods. Soulmates. The reminder just makes him angry.
"So everything I like about Sam is still suffering," Dean says. "And all I get is that empty shell over there?"
"You know I can hear you, right?" Sam asks from across the room. "Are you planning to untie me?"
Dean and Castiel both ignore him.
"I'm sorry," Cas says, and Dean doesn't think he's ever heard so much emotion in the angel's voice. Cas lifts his eyes up to meet Dean's, and Dean thinks he sees regret there, but he's not sure what for. "Dean, I am so, so sorry."
NOW
He lands in a frozen room, not really sure how he got there. It felt a little like a meteorite-falling, falling too fast, burning up, and suddenly the sharp stop, and he's coming to in what looks like a giant meat locker. He doesn't realize he's home until he sees the Men of Letters' logo painted on the door to the room. Those old stiffs sure liked branding things. Why they had a giant freezer or how Dean ended up in it are still mysteries to be solved.
His feet move him across the room, and he's walking blind-or half-blind, as it were-not sure where he's going but feeling compelled. Being led by a pull in his gut and a bright orange light glowing under the sliced skin on his forearm, like a homing beacon.
There's something tucked into the corner that Dean feels drawn to, a table on wheels, something big sitting on it. Dean can't see what it is because it's covered with a tarp. The feeling that led him here only gets stronger then, telling him this is what he came for. Like a giftwrapped present and Dean can't wait to find out what it's trying to show him.
He cradles his arm around his body, a little cool, but with a warmth swimming under his skin that almost keeps him from feeling the air around him. Still, Dean is underdressed for the freezing temperature, his thin Henley not nearly enough to fight the frost, and he doesn't want to stand in it too long. So he wheels the table out into the main hall and braces himself for what he might find lumped under the sheet.
What he finds is not really a surprise. There's a body there, male, exactly what Dean would have expected to find tucked away in his freezer if he'd had time to guess. It still opens up a host of questions: who or what is it? How did it get here? How long has it been there? Since the Men of Letters last lived here, or was this something Dean brought in and forgot about?
He circles around inspecting it, and something flares up in his chest. It doesn't give him many answers, but it rules out one thing. Dean didn't bring this corpse in. Dean wouldn't have forgotten something this spellbinding. As soon as he looks at the body in front of him, Dean never wants to look away.
It's not that the man's hot, though he is, no doubt about it. Dean would have been happy to fuck this guy if he'd stumbled in on him alive, but that's not it, either. It's that he's beautiful on some deeper level. Not radiant with grace like an angel or dripping with a dark, seductive allure like so many of the demons Dean's met. There's nothing he can point to that will pin down whatever makes the boy so beautiful it's breaking Dean's heart just looking at him. Not because he's dead, he would be just as devastating if he were alive.
Dean wants to chain himself to this body, wants to cut his pumping heart out and put it into this boy's chest, bring him to life for the purely selfish pleasure of knowing some part of him could contribute to someone like this.
He presses his hand to the dead face and wishes there was a flush of warmth under the skin, but there isn't-he's frozen over. Dean has to do something, needs to save him somehow. It's too late. He's dead already.
For some reason, Dean can't stop touching the face, even as the chilled flesh is making his fingers numb. He strokes the stubbled cheeks obsessively, trying to warm or wake him up, or maybe just wanting to get his hands on whatever the corpse still has to offer him.
"Who are you?" he asks the body, as if the boy will wake up just to answer his question.
Boy, Dean keeps coming back to that. This isn't a boy he's cradling between his palms. It's a grown ass man; taller than Dean, probably, if he were standing, or if Dean were lying next to him. Which is a tempting thought. Still, it's boy in his mind, it's someone that needs Dean to protect him, and Dean feels a fierce, tender desperation to guard him.
To guard him from what? The guy is already dead. Dean already failed him.
No. He can't be dead. Dean won't accept it, his mind refusing to settle on the very obvious fact. It's stupid, he knows, the boy was dead before Dean even met him. Dead is all he's ever been. There was never a chance and he's-
He's wasting time. He was doing something important, wasn't he?
Dean pulls back from the body, realizing this might be a trap. The body was put here to distract him, and dammit, it's working. He's wasting precious time he doesn't have, staring at a stranger's corpse, and now he can't even remember what he was in the middle of.
His eyes catch on the carcass again, and he can't stop himself from taking another step in. He leans over, looks closely at the face under him. What could be more important that this?
"Who are you?" he asks again, beating his hand against his head as if he can just knock all the answers back into place. "What am I supposed to be doing? I'm running out of time, I…"
Unsurprisingly, the corpse doesn't really have anything to add to the conversation. Dean feels something surge through his blood, and he stumbles forward, almost convinced he felt a physical tug toward the body. He looks down at his arms where he thinks he can still feel something gripping him, and he sees orange light beneath his flesh. A thousand slices in his skin that all say the same thing:
Sam. Sammy. Save Sam. Who the fuck is Sam and why should Dean save him? Why can't Dean just stay here, stay with his beautiful corpse, die and rot curled on the floor just so he can do it next to something this perfect?
He feels the pull again, yanking him to the boy's side until he's either going to stop or topple them both over. And instead of pausing to think about which one it's gonna be, Dean lets himself fall, tangles his fingers in the long brown hair on the back of the boy's head, wet and chilly, but Dean ignores the cold. He presses his mouth against the dead lips and imagines a warmth exploding through them, the skin coming to life as he licks in and kisses and wonders why what he's doing doesn't disgust him.
Very suddenly, it turns into a nightmare. Dean tries to pull back, but the dead boy's arms have come up to surround him, are pulling him in and keeping Dean's mouth sealed to his own. Dean feels something precious being sucked right out of him, some part of him Dean didn't know he had. Something so damn beloved he doesn't really believe it was ever a part of him to begin with, but he doesn't want to let it go. He can feel himself crying, and if the corpse would just give him his mouth back, he wouldn't be too proud to beg so that he could keep it.
That doesn't happen. Dean feels the last slivers of whatever he'd had inside of him slip right past his lips before finally the dead boy eases up and Dean pulls back immediately, terrified by what he's done, what he'll see when he looks at the body again. He doesn't want it to be a monster. Dean doesn't care if he dies now, not after what it just took from him, but he can't bear the thought that his last act will be ruining that gorgeous corpse. Better it stay dead than wake up just to be pumped full of Dean's poison.
He braces himself for something: life-ending pain or a burning light, but everything is quiet until he feels cold fingers brushing gently along his cheek. Dean opens his eyes, half wanting to shy away from the touch, half wanting to burrow closer, and nearly lets out a sob when he sees-the boy is there, his eyebrows drawn together as he looks at Dean, and he's even better like this. Somehow, he's even better.
"Dean," the corpse says, though it's not a corpse anymore. He says Dean's name sternly, worried, pissed, it doesn't matter. Dean can't believe someone like this knows his name. Then he brushes his thumb lightly over the patch on Dean's eye and his expression goes stormy, his voice threatening. "What did you do?"
That's a good question, Dean wishes he could remember. But for now, there are more important things to ask about. "Who are you?"
The man looks so hurt for a moment. Dean wishes that he'd killed Dean instead of looking at him like that. "You still don't know me?"
He-no. Sam. This is Sam. He'd know Sam anywhere.
"What do you mean?" Dean asks, and then Sam looks down and Dean hears his brother suck in air. Yes, brother. Didn't he have a brother? And wasn't that brother named Sam?
He seizes Dean's forearms, holds them up, inspects the damage on both sides, and puts his hands on Dean's shoulders, shaking him. "Dean, what did you do?"
"What I had to," he says, looking at the clean cuts up and down his wrists, and it all hits him in a rush. He remembers the fear and desperation he'd felt when he'd carved those words. It makes him laugh.
Because he was worried about failing for nothing. He did it. He really did it.
"Sammy," he says, looking up into his brother's still horrified face. "I did what I had to do to save you."
Punch. Dean thinks it's Sam at first, and, okay, fair enough. Dean did promise not to bring him back, but he wishes Sam would rest a bit, get healthy before beating the crap out of him. Then he realizes it's not Sam at all.
He lurches forward, feeling his body convulse as a million powerful memories rush in on him at once. If it weren't for Sam's arm catching him, he would have fallen right onto his brother. Sam was dead half a minute ago, Dean shouldn't be depending on him to stay vertical.
He tries to let go, staggers back, and Sam doesn't relax like he's supposed to. He only sits up more, supportinging Dean's weight.
Sam isn't the only thing he's starting to remember, and Metatron's little spell is weighing down on him. He hasn't slept in three days. Hasn't eaten-unless whiskey counts. He's lost a lot of blood. He was running on fumes and the burst of power he got from the soul he just poured into Sam.
"Dean, please," Sam begs. "Tell me what you did."
Dean shakes his head, pushing Sam away and collapsing, his own legs too weak to hold him.
He's going to die, he thinks. He's going to die to the sound of his brother saying his name, Sam's worried hands grasping him as he follows Dean to the floor. He's going to die, and Sam is going to live, a perfect balance in the universe as far as Dean is concerned.
The expression on Sam's face isn't just worried. It's the kind of horrified panic you can only feel for someone you truly love. Good last thing to see, Dean just wishes he had two eyes to see it with.
"You son of a bitch," Sam says. "You son of a bitch, I swear to god, if you leave me here-"
Dean laughs as blood starts dripping from his lips, and he can't stop smiling. "I did it," he says through the pain, his own laughter, his brother's curses. "I remember you."
The room starts swimming in his view, and Dean closes his one working eye, trying to calm how his stomach is beginning to turn.
Dying. Yeah, definitely. But it doesn't bother Dean. It's more than fair, as long as he dies remembering that he's got a little brother with stupid hair and shitty taste in music and the prettiest damn mouth Dean's ever kissed. He feels himself grinning even as the pain shoots through him and takes one big hand in his own, squeezing Sam's wrist. It won't be long now, so he chooses his last word carefully.
"Sammy."
May 12, 2010
Tomorrow, the world ends. This isn't the first time, exactly. It felt like the world was going to end when Sam died in Cold Oak, when Dean had 24 hours before his deal was due, when Sam busted out of the panic room and Lilith broke the last seal. But this one could really be it. The actual, literal end of the world.
Strangely enough, Dean feels a sense of peace and contentment. If the Apocalypse has to happen, this is exactly how he would have chosen to spend his last night on Earth. Sam's arm is draped around him, his thumb playing idly with the top of Dean's shoulder. Dean's head is pressed to Sam's chest, and he smells Sam everywhere, feels Sam's come in his ass, can taste salty sweat from every kiss he presses to Sam's body.
The problem isn't that the world might end. It's that no matter what happens, whether they win or lose tomorrow, Dean is never going to have his brother here with him again.
"What’s it like?" Sam asks out of nowhere.
Dean understands the question, even if they haven't mentioned where Sam might be at this time tomorrow, and he figures he owes it to Sam right now not to try and dodge the subject. "It's terrible, Sam. It's…too terrible to put words to. And if I had them, I wouldn't say them."
"I'm scared," Sam admits, just like that, like it doesn't embarrass him or make him feel weaker. That's something Sam's always been able to do, admit when he's scared, and Dean admires him for it.
"I'll get you out," Dean promises.
"No," Sam replies. "You won't. I don't want you telling me you will."
"You said it all the time when I was-"
"Yeah, and look what I turned into when I couldn’t." Sam tightens his grip on Dean's shoulder. "I don't want you to feel like you failed me. If I actually pull this off tomorrow, it's because you never once failed me. I don't expect you to get me out. I don't want you to try. Trust me, Dean. You go crazy wandering down that road."
Dean remembers all too well, but he understands better now. Sam alone and desperate, no easy crossroad fix, no escape except with his mouth on Ruby's pulse. He thinks of how ashamed Sam was on his first night back on Earth, which they spent just like this, only it was Sam's face pressed to Dean's chest then. Sam had apologized so many times that night, and Dean had been so ignorant of just how much he'd broken his brother with that deal, had assumed Sam was apologizing for not getting him out, which Dean never blamed him for, not for what happened after.
Sam had waited an hour after they'd fucked, until he thought Dean was asleep, and then he'd cried against Dean, deep wracking sounds that reminded Dean of the cries of tortured souls in Hell.
"You know I forgive you for everything, right?"
Sam laughs. "I know. Just wish I could forgive myself."
"If we win tomorrow," Dean says, and he feels Sam nodding above him.
"If we win tomorrow. At least I'll know I fixed my mess."
No one talks about what will happen if they don't win. This is already depressing enough.
"Dean, I'm serious," Sam says after a while. "Don't try to save me."
He doesn't start a fight by insisting he's going to, but he doesn't kid himself for a moment that he's going to respect Sam's wishes, either. He will always bring Sam back.
NOW
Dean's first thought when he comes to and tries to open his eyes is that one of them is missing. Not a particularly deep observation, but it's good to start with the basics.
"I'm not down any limbs, 'm I?" Dean asks.
He hears something clatter as it's dropped to the desk and in seconds, Sam is at his side, big hands on his face. "You're awake," he says. "Good. Now I can kill you."
Dean laughs. "I don't recommend it. Bringing me back would be a huge pain in the ass for you. Take it from me."
Sam is not in a joking mood, apparently. "Dammit, Dean. I told you not to."
"Dammit, Sam. I didn't listen."
He turns his head so he can see Sam and smiles at the mix of worry and relief, the dark circles under Sam's eyes. He looks like shit, but he looks exactly the way he did the last time Dean saw him alive.
Dean can't help it if he's smiling. "We gotta stop meeting like this, Sammy."
"I was dead," Sam says in a muted voice.
"Except your hair and your nails," Dean replies, shaking his head in mock dismay. "Of course your stubborn hair would be the thing to-"
"Just tell me how," Sam interrupts, not even remotely amused. "What's the price tag this time?"
Dean lets his head droop, points up at the hole where his left eye used to be. "This, I guess."
Sam grabs his arm and shows Dean the mutilations all over his wrists, and Dean remembers scratching Sam's name all over his body. He doesn't mind the scars, doesn't mind if people can see who he belongs to. Wasn't ever much good at hiding it anyway, was he?
"Dig the new look?" Dean jokes. "I think it's an improvement."
"Dean, I swear to god-"
"I made a bet," Dean says. "If I could get you out of Heaven without forgetting you, you live. If not, I forget you completely. It was a rigged game, but I won. You can't really be mad. You're alive and all it cost was an eyeball, this is getting off easy for us."
"You didn't know me." Sam's eyes get all wet, and Dean wants to call him a baby just because he can't stand knowing he's responsible for the tears. "Dean, I can't believe you took that risk. Do you know how horrible-? I can't imagine anything worse than if you'd fucked this up. You didn't know me."
"You were being tortured," says Dean, and Sam flinches as the reminder. "What was I supposed to do, Sam? You were being tortured."
"Nothing he did to me was worse than if I'd died and you didn't remember me."
"I know," Dean says softly, no point in lying about it now. "I know because I did forget you. I remember what it felt like not to have a brother. I think for a few minutes there I understood what it was like for you, not having a soul. I remember not remembering you, and it's never going to stop haunting me, but you were dead and I had a chance to fix that. You would have done it, too."
Sam shakes his head, purses his lips, but maybe he finally knows Dean well enough to just accept that this will always be his response, because he doesn't say anything contrary.
"Easiest fix to this is if you stop dying," Dean points out. "Then I can stop doing stupid things to bring you back."
Sam lets out a mix of a sigh and an amused huff, finally says, "Cas is on his way."
"Cas is alive?" Dean asks. "How do you know?"
"He called a few hours ago."
"Son of a bitch couldn't manage to pick up the phone any sooner? I've been going crazy looking for him."
"Actually he couldn't," Sam says with a slightly amused lilt in his voice. "He was in a coma until, from what I can tell, right about the time you broke out of Heaven."
"Jesus," Dean mutters. "Angel comas."
"No, actually," Sam replies. "He's human again."
"Ah," Dean says, slightly disappointed. He'd kind of been hoping Cas would heal him, but oh well. Still a small price to pay.
Apparently Sam was thinking the same thing. "I know, Dean. Your eye. But he could still get his grace back some day. Stranger things have happened."
"You're here, aren't you?" Dean points out.
Sam laughs. "For example that."
"I'll have to burn off the new tat if Cas is gonna heal me. Which is too bad, 'cause it sure could come in handy."
"What happened to your eye?" Sam interrupts, reaching out to adjust bandages, and Dean only then realizes that all his wounds are dressed up and carefully tended to.
"We'll talk about it another time," Dean says. "I'm pretty beat, Sammy."
"Yeah, I bet," Sam replies. "Look, I'll get you something to eat and you sleep a little more, and we can talk about it then."
"You're not mad at me?"
Sam bites his bottom lip, a concentrated look on his face, until finally he seems to come to a decision. "I don’t know. What do you want me to say? That I'm thrilled about what you did? That I'm not going to forgive you? Neither of those things are true."
"Fair enough." Dean looks down at his hands. "Metatron gave me the way out."
Sam's lips tighten when he hears the angel's name. "Dean, the things he-"
"No, I know he's not the good guy. Hell, hunting his ass down is number one on my to-do list. But it was kind of funny. Thought you should know."
Sam adjusts Dean's pillow and strokes Dean's face carefully. "I want to kill him, too. But let's make number one on your to-do list getting healthy again, yeah?"
"Yeah, fine," Dean says, putting on a grudging tone. "But don't think I'm gonna forget."
"I wouldn't," Sam replies. "Though you got pretty close."
Dean reaches out and takes his brother's hand, shaking his head. That's not what he meant, not really, and he needs Sam to understand. "Sam, listen to me. I was never really going to forget. I beat the house, and I'm gonna beat it every time. No one is ever going to take you from me."
Sam must feel the weight behind Dean's words, but he doesn't acknowledge them with anything more than a kiss, a big hand through Dean's hair, and a promise of warm chicken soup.
PART THREE
NOW
It takes ten hours to break into Heaven. Ten hours of mixing herbs and saying words Dean doesn't know the meaning of and covering his bloody palms in bright grace that burns them even more than the cuts. Dean spends ten hours painting the grace onto the wall in the cold chamber, close enough to Sam's body to remember why he's doing this and ensure Sam will be the first thing he sees when he gets back, so he can remember where to put that soul if he manages to get that far.
It's cold and hot at the same time, the contrast between the freezing temperature in the room and the lava he's spreading against the wall unbearable. But on and on he goes, until Dean rubs the last of the grace into his skin and presses his palm to the wall, fervently whispering the words that should open the portal to Heaven.
Then he stands back, ready to see the result of his hard work. For a few seconds-the longest of Dean's life-nothing happens at all. Then the room starts to shake around him, though nothing falls or breaks except the wall in front of Dean, which begins to crumble until it opens up, a black hole like when they opened Lucifer's Cage sucking Dean in.
There's a heavy smell of something burning choking Dean, and he has just enough time to wonder why that is-isn't Hell where things burn?-before he's falling into light.
March 17, 2013
Dean takes a deep breath, feeling it stretch his chest. He smiles lazily, enjoying the heavy burnt scent of pot and the way he feels weighed down into Sam. Sam's arm around his shoulder is warm and intimate and Dean fits comfortably between Sam's legs.
He feels good. Happy, even. Between hunting Dick Roman and Bobby dying and Sam having Lucifer in his head, he doesn't remember the last time he relaxed. But now? Now Dean would swear there isn't a thing in the world but his little brother's body heat and the weed in the air.
Dean's always been pretty good at forgetting things when it's easier than remembering.
Above him, he feels Sam exhale, and he watches with a laugh as two little Os float by him in smoke.
"Still remember how to do that, huh?" Dean asks, taking the blunt when Sam hands it off to him.
He can hear a smug smile in his brother's response. "Yeah. 'm better at it than you now, too."
"That so?" Dean asks. He watches the smoke curling out of the orange glow at the end of the joint and smiles.
"Mmm hmm," Sam confirms.
Dean shakes his head, taking a puff and holding it, not letting anything escape as he says, "Watch and learn, Padawan."
Sam huffs a laugh. "And I'm the nerd."
Dean rounds his mouth, pushing out three perfect circles, right into Sam's face. Sam laughs and waves them away. "Got so many better things to do with your mouth than that."
"You're just jealous, little bro," Dean tells him, leaning in for a kiss.
Sam accepts it and grins when he pulls back. "I cannot believe we're smoking a dead guy's weed. In his living room. This is so wrong."
"Hey, we just ganked the ghost in his house and saved his vacationing wife and kid," Dean points out. "Not like he's gonna come back looking for it. Anyway, it was your idea."
"I was nearly killed by demented clowns last week," Sam says. "I deserve this."
"Damn right," Dean agrees. "Though I'm pretty sure you're going to have to stop using that excuse for everything at some point."
"Remember the first time we did this?" Sam asks, looking down at the joint. Dean isn't sure where the subject change came from, but right now he's not entirely sure where his feet end either. "God, I felt like such a badass."
Dean smiles to himself, thinking of Sam lying on his back, coughing for his first three drags until finally Dean's advice got across and Sam figured out how to hold it without choking himself.
He'd been so distracting, so infuriatingly hot as his shirt rode up on his stomach and he smiled wide, dimples to the sky for anyone to see. Dean's fingers had itched to touch, and usually he hated himself for it, but that day…with a thick cloud of smoke in his mind, he nearly went for it. And Sam, Sam had looked at him like a hero, had clung to his every word, like he'd been doing for months by then. Following Dean even more than usual, spending every moment he could at his side.
Dean had loved it, as much as he'd complained, but even then it made him a little uncomfortable. Sam had been acting like he was worried he was going to lose Dean. Of course, in retrospect, the thought of that still makes him bitter. The word Stanford had never left his brother's lips, not even when they were so high Dean could hardly stop his mouth from seeking out Sam's, but in a month, Sam was gone.
"Eighteen years old, couldn't stop giggling like a preteen girl at a One Direction concert. For shame."
"Did you just make a One Direction reference, Dean?" Sam snorts. "This must be some potent shit."
"Those little bastards are everywhere I look," Dean defends. "Besides. I'm under the influence. It doesn't count."
"Oh, it counts."
Dean shakes his head, taking the blunt from Sam. There's not an awful lot left in it, and Dean figures he can take the rest in one long pull, as long as he's willing to share.
He looks Sam in the eye and gives his brother a wicked grin. "That first time we smoked," Dean says. "I couldn't stop thinking of doing this. And now I'm allowed."
Once he's inhaled the last of the blunt and stomped it out on the coffee table Sam is leaning against, Dean straddles his brother, pressing in. Sam gets it, opens his mouth for Dean. They seal their lips together, Dean pushing and Sam sucking, accepting the smoke right out of Dean's lungs.
Then Dean pulls back and Sam makes four perfect smoke circles, cracking up once they're out. Dean watches the small cloud of air wafting by, a visible sign that they're both still breathing, still sharing the oxygen that's keeping them going. Maybe he's skewing toward the philosophical side of being stoned, but it makes him feel so damn easy he doesn't even care that Sam won.
NOW
Heaven is on fire. That explains the smell, but opens up more questions than it puts to rest. Dean has to turn in a complete circle just to get a full picture, because apparently even in Heaven, he is down one eyeball. It would be nice if he could remember when that happened, but he shakes his head. It's not important.
Dean is in the street of a beautiful city, all the walls made of gold and glass, but everything burning. This is what happens, Dean supposes, when there's no one here to keep the place afloat.
He walks down a street-two lane asphalt, just like the last time, though he laughs at that thought, wondering how there could have been a last time. His car is not here with him, so he just keeps walking, hoping he'll find a door, hear someone crying for help, anything to tell him where to go.
All there is is chaos-a chaos made all the more uncanny by how quiet and still it is. Nothing moves but the flames reaching high up ahead of him. There's no wind, no cries for help. Of course, this is his Heaven, his and someone else's (who was it again?), and the only person who could cry for help here is locked up somewhere, hidden away.
Out of the corner of his eye, he turns and sees something bizarre. There's a field across the street, and it's burning, too. But there's a little boy standing in front of the flames, laughing like he's about to lose it.
"That firework hit the tree," the boy is yelling and pointing off in the distance, and he sounds scared, but he still can't stop laughing. "Dude, shut up and put it out! Or you get to tell Dad."
Dean shakes his head and looks away. Strange place for a child, this. Not his kid, though. Not his problem.
"Find Sam," Dean tells himself. That's all that matters.
It feels like hours or weeks or years before he passes a building that isn't about to be ashes. It stands out in a place like this, where everything's in ruins. There's gotta be something protected inside, Dean figures, if someone went to the trouble of saving it from the otherwise unchecked spread of destruction.
He's searching for something important. He doesn't know what, but it seems a safe enough bet he'll find it here.
He opens the door and steps in, and there's a field inside, too, even though he is standing in a building with walls and doors and windows that display the burning world outside. He sees a long line of people dressed up in white and red costumes, wielding cardboard swords like they're about to go to a very low stakes war or they just got back from one.
"I'm glad we stayed for that," a guy says, and Dean turns his head so he can fix his right eye on the speaker. The man is tall, taller than Dean, his brown hair pulled back into a ponytail and his face squared off in red and white paint. "It was fun."
For some reason, those simple words fill Dean with a sense of relief and awe and he thinks you chose me, I can't believe you chose me. But it doesn't make any sense, Dean doesn't even get what he's thinking.
"I don't have time to talk to you," Dean tells the guy. "I'm looking for something. Sorry."
"Yeah," the guy says, like he agrees with Dean, but then he goes on like he's continuing a completely different conversation. "I guess we can come back next year. Can't abandon Moondor now that we're in the Queens Guard, right?"
Good smile under all that stupid face paint. If Dean weren't so busy, he'd smudge the paint with kisses, but he's kind of in the middle of something.
Something. Not sure what, but something.
His phone buzzes. It's a message to read some words off a page, and Dean considers ignoring that, too, but he decides to play it safe. "I've got to take this," he lies, just so he has an excuse to step away from the man.
The big guy just goes on smiling and talking to the empty space where Dean was, and Dean gets the weirdest feeling of déjà-vu. He ignores that like he's ignored everything else, reading off the slip of paper in his pocket and stepping through the nearest door, hoping to find some privacy there.
What he finds instead is a nightmare. There's a man strapped into a chair, blood dripping from his forehead, his arms cut in half and his chest wide open, his still-pumping heart spitting blood out into the guy's lap.
He looks familiar, and after a few seconds, Dean recognizes him as the same tall man who had been so happy in the last room. This version of him is the opposite, tears the only thing streaking through the blood on his cheeks, a gory mockery of the playful war paint Dean had seen him wearing only a minute ago.
Nothing makes Dean feel squeamish, but the realization that this isn't just some guy, this is someone's soul nearly sends him howling to the mad house.
"How'd you get here?" he asks, taking a few hurried steps to the chair. He reaches up, about to touch the guy's face to reassure him, but the soul pulls away quickly, like a dog that thinks Dean is going to strike.
"No, please," he says. "Please don't touch me. You don't understand how it hurts to be touched. The needles, the knife, anything, just don't put your hands on me."
"I'm not going to hurt you," Dean promises. "But I can't get you out of here unless I take off these straps."
The man swallows, and he stays still this time when Dean touches him.
As soon as they make contact, Dean feels flush with an almost too good sense of rightness. The guy's eyes open wide with shock, and then he licks his lips. He lets out a long breath, leans into Dean's fingers, and there's a look on his face of intense pleasure and relief. "Dean? Is it you?"
"Do I know you?" Dean asks.
He would swear the guy looks hurt. "You don't know who I am?"
Dean shakes his head. "It's okay, though. I'm going to get you out."
"I'm your brother," the soul says. "I'm Sam."
Dean doesn't have a brother, never did. For some reason, the very suggestion infuriates him. He wishes for one with a violent kind of desperation, wonders if his life has always been as empty as he now feels it is.
He thinks the guy is making fun of him, and he kind of wants to punch the stranger for rubbing it in. But this is a victim, this is a soul in terrible pain, and Dean can't just leave him here. His Dad taught him better than that.
"It's okay," Dean promises the man. Sam, apparently. "Sam, can you hear me? I'm going to get you out of here."
August 13, 2000
This is not Dean Winchester's finest hour. Come to think of it, it's not John Winchester's finest hour, either. They're hunting a possessed baobab and they rushed in with axes and machetes, thinking they could cut the thing to death, or at least reduce it to being harmless.
So now they're trapped under snake-like tree limbs, and the vines are growing fast around Dean's middle, squeezing his lungs, constricting until he starts worrying he'll pass out and die over something this stupid.
Sam, on the other hand, well. Dean will grudgingly admit this might be Sam Winchester's finest hour. Just this one time, obsessive research was apparently the right idea, and as soon as Sam saw Dean and John go under, he rushes the family he was protecting inside the house out onto the sidewalk and ran to the trunk, carving in some symbols that look like hieroglyphics as far as Dean is concerned.
It works, though. Just in time, the tree doesn't quite wither up like Dean is hoping, but it begins to loosen its hold, weakening, slowly retreating onto itself.
"Help!" one of the girls on the sidewalk screams, and Sam turns his head immediately. "I think my sister stayed inside to save the hamster. We thought she was following, please save her."
Sam does exactly what he should do, kicks the machete the tree had knocked out of his hands toward Dean so it's close enough for him to reach. Dean begins to cut himself loose, then Dad, as Sam runs for the house, not hesitating despite the fact that it's clearly about to collapse on itself thanks to the branches that had, until seconds ago, been threatening to squeeze the house into matchwood.
By the time Dean has Dad free and is pulling him to his feet, Sam is carrying the little girl out to her mom. The woman is crying, the sister thanking Sam profusely, the dad staring at his house in perplexed horror. Sam smiles reassuringly and pats the mother on the shoulder as he hands her baby girl over, and the girl grins like it's all a game, holds up her hamster and cheerfully announces that it's okay, too.
John stands at Dean's right, watching the whole thing with much more aloofness than Dean can muster up right now.
"Your brother is a real pain in the ass," John says. He turns to give Dean a private smile, and Dean just wishes he would ever let Sam see that pride. Maybe then they could stop fighting. Maybe then Dean could stop worrying they were going to push Sam away. "But he's a Winchester through and through."
"Yeah," Dean agrees, turning his attention back to Sam. Sam is looking at him and when he notices Dean's eyes on him, he smiles just for Dean. Dean feels a low, dirty pull in his belly, a sudden uncontrollable want.
His brother. His own geeky little Sammy, and Dean is standing here, next to their father, unable to stem the flood of filth in his mind. He pushes it aside when Sam rejoins them, putting an arm around his brother's shoulders and teasing him as he ruffles Sam's hair, and he hopes that maybe he can kill every bad idea he just had and never look at his brother like that again.
But deep down, in the part of Dean he won't acknowledge, he knows better than to believe he'll ever think of Sam and be clean again.
NOW
"I need you to come with me," Dean explains once he has Sam free of the straps that had been holding him down. "Do you understand me?"
The soul shakes its head. "I can't walk," he says, pointing down at his stringed guts and, okay. Maybe that's a fair point.
Dean grins, though. He's lucky this is happening now, now when he's been through so much (but why do his memories of it all feel so vacant?) and learned how to deal with things he couldn't have imagined ten years ago. Benny taught him how to carry a soul across the borders of dimensions. Dean can do that much for this Sam guy.
"That's okay," Dean tells him, picking up one of the knives on the table by Sam's chair. "I've got an idea."
Sam makes a terrified sound and tries to pull back farther into his seat. "Please, no. Please no more. God, I can't stand it. I can't, please-"
"Shhh," Dean says soothingly, and to his surprise, the soul trusts him enough to relax a little. "It's not gonna hurt much," Dean promises, lifting his own forearm, "Look, I'll go first."
He cuts a nick right through the wrist, confused when he sees there are cuts there already, and they spell out Sam's name. Maybe he came here specifically to do this, sent by some desperate relatives or something. He's fuzzy on the details, but it seems as good an explanation as any.
"See?" he says, holding the knife out to Sam. "You can do your own. This is all I need, just a little cut like this."
Sam looks hesitant, but he takes the knife when Dean hands it to him, then places the blade against his skin, looking up at Dean as if for approval.
"Yeah, that's real good," he encourages. "Go on, you trust me, don't you?"
"Of course," Sam says, licking his lips. "Of course I trust you, Dean."
When Sam's done, Dean grabs his wrist and says the spell Benny taught him. He's ready for the red light to spill out as Sam pours into him, and he's expecting the same searing pain that he had felt every second Benny's soul was inside of him.
But what he feels is a near-orgasmic shot of bliss, a feeling of completion as if this soul was always supposed to be here and Dean didn't even know how wrong he was without it until he'd gotten it back.
"Bravo, bravo," says a voice behind him.
He turns and there's a man standing there, middle-aged and insignificant looking. He's clapping his hands sarcastically, and Dean realizes this was a trap.
"Did you really think I was just going to let you walk out of Heaven, though?"
"I was planning to take the train, actually," Dean says.
The man-no, angel-steps forward. Metatron, Dean recognizes him now. "You got farther than I thought you would, I'll give you that. Of course, you've also blown twenty of your hours on this trip through Heaven."
Dean eyebrows draw together in confusion. It's only been one hour, maybe one and a half.
Metatron tries to make a sympathetic face, but he can't conceal the gleeful twinkle in his eyes. "Oh, I know. Inter-dimensional travel times are so hard to adjust for. I guess I should have mentioned that before you started the ritual, but it slipped my mind. You know all about being forgetful, right Dean?"
Dean is so confused for a second. He doesn't know what Metatron is talking about or how he got here or why is arm is tingling so much. "Please, just let me go back to Earth. I've got no interest in Heaven. I won't bother you again."
Metatron smiles. "Sure! Just hand over that soul."
"Soul?" Dean asks, looking down at the glow in his arm. Oh, that might explain it, but where did it come from. Is it not his? "Why is there a soul in me?"
"Beats me why you're trying to steal souls from Heaven," Metatron says, but Dean doesn't like the sly expression on his face. "That one is mine and I'd like it back. Then you can go."
Dean knows just enough about this angel to be pretty sure he has no interest in giving him what he wants. "You know, on second thought? I think I'll take it with me."
"Is that right?" Metatron says, and now he's actually laughing. "You're going to do that how? I'm an angel, boy. You can't fight me."
"No," Dean agrees. "I can't. You're way too powerful."
"Great." Metatron holds out his hand and makes a 'pony up' gesture. "So why don't you give me that soul and we can do this the peaceful way."
"Thing is," Dean says with a grin, glancing down with his one good eye at the black mark on his hand. "Thing is, you can't fight me, either."
Metatron follows Dean's line of sight and makes a constipated face as soon as he sees the sigil.
"Very powerful angel warding," Dean says, holding up his hand and feeling exceedingly smug. "Doesn't cover much physical space, but it'll more than do to keep a human warded from angels, right?"
"You little ape," Metatron says, stepping forward like he wants to attack Dean, but he hits an invisible wall once he gets too close, like a demon stuck in a trap. "I taught you that!"
"And I thank you for it," Dean says. "I'm sure you'll think of some way to get to me if I hang around here too long, so I'll be peacing out now."
"I'll kill you," Metatron says. "And if I can't kill you, I've got a better plan. I'll just kill Sam again when you get him back. Watch your pathetic ass drag around without him and I won’t do you the kindness of offering you a way to forget this time. I'll make you suffer in ways…"
Dean rolls his eyes, not understanding half of Metatron's threats and not particularly caring about the rest of them.
"That's all really nice," Dean says. He reaches into his shirt pocket for the worn slip of paper he's been reading from and says the words one last time.
A big portal made of silver light opens up, and Dean jumps through.
November 1, 2011
"So souls," says Dean, sending one uncomfortable glance to his brother's tied up body. "What's the big deal?"
"The big deal," Castiel repeats like Dean just asked the stupidest question imaginable. "They are only the most powerful entities in all of creation. No big deal."
Dean laughs, kind of amused that Cas is so pissy nowadays. He's a little like Sam used to be as a teenager, and it makes Dean feel fond and angry at the same time. He wants his brother back so much it's maddening, especially considering that what should be the bulk of Sam is sitting right there, listening to their conversation with a hateful look on his face.
"Alright, alright," Dean says. "I get it. But what makes them so powerful?"
Castiel raises an eyebrow. "I can only answer that question through the application of advanced string theory, non-linear algebra, and with the aide of a thirty-seven foot model of a soul's physical make-up constructed from toothpicks and Styrofoam balls."
Dean sighs. "The abridged version."
"Souls are God's finest work. According to God, of course. Many angels disagree with this assessment, most notably Lucifer, who argued that an angel's grace, although less complicated, was more valuable because of its greater kinetic ability to-"
"Angels," Dean mutters.
Cas gives him a half smile, the only sign he'd intentionally been messing with Dean. "To put it simply, souls are what make you, well, you."
"Yeah," Dean agrees. "I got that from riding around with soulless over there."
"So do you think it's easy to just make a creature as base as a human capable of reaching true sentience? A lot of work goes into raising your species above the beasts of this world."
"And the soul does that work?"
"Yes," says Cas. "The soul is entirely responsible for your human curiosity, your ability to dream and imagine, your art and poetry and science. For your capacity to love."
"So Sam doesn't…?" Dean breaks off and passes a hand over his face, laughing lightly. "Of course he doesn't. I knew that."
"Your brother's soul still loves you very much," Castiel tells him.
"Right, great. Fat lot of good that does me while it's stuck in Hell."
"Well," Castiel says, drawing the word out. "It is not technically stuck, but it is nearly impossible to save something that refuses to be saved."
"You think Sam's soul wants to be in Hell?" Dean asks, giving Cas a sharp look.
Cas turns his face away quickly, almost guiltily. "Souls are finicky things, Dean. They are very…intimate parts of you."
"Okay," Dean replies. "I guess that makes sense."
"They don't follow just anyone. When human souls are touched by someone else, it is a terrible violation. Even if someone could get into the cage to free your brother, he would not go with them. It would take a creature of far greater power-God or Death-to get your brother out of the cage." Cas gives Dean a long, assessing look, then adds, "Maybe you."
"Me?" Dean asks with a laugh. "I'm flattered."
"Don't be. You are not nearly powerful enough to get there and out. The thought is, frankly, ludicrous."
"Thanks, Cas," says Dean. "Glad to know it's so amusing to you."
"But because of your bond with your brother, you are probably the only human soul he would follow out. Even…" Cas licks his lips and stares at his hands, and again, Dean can't help thinking his facial expression is a little off. "Even an angel could not convince your brother's soul to escape that cage."
"So you're saying me and Sam are-"
"You knew already. Didn't you? After Heaven?"
Dean thinks it over for a few seconds, then finally nods. Soulmates. The reminder just makes him angry.
"So everything I like about Sam is still suffering," Dean says. "And all I get is that empty shell over there?"
"You know I can hear you, right?" Sam asks from across the room. "Are you planning to untie me?"
Dean and Castiel both ignore him.
"I'm sorry," Cas says, and Dean doesn't think he's ever heard so much emotion in the angel's voice. Cas lifts his eyes up to meet Dean's, and Dean thinks he sees regret there, but he's not sure what for. "Dean, I am so, so sorry."
NOW
He lands in a frozen room, not really sure how he got there. It felt a little like a meteorite-falling, falling too fast, burning up, and suddenly the sharp stop, and he's coming to in what looks like a giant meat locker. He doesn't realize he's home until he sees the Men of Letters' logo painted on the door to the room. Those old stiffs sure liked branding things. Why they had a giant freezer or how Dean ended up in it are still mysteries to be solved.
His feet move him across the room, and he's walking blind-or half-blind, as it were-not sure where he's going but feeling compelled. Being led by a pull in his gut and a bright orange light glowing under the sliced skin on his forearm, like a homing beacon.
There's something tucked into the corner that Dean feels drawn to, a table on wheels, something big sitting on it. Dean can't see what it is because it's covered with a tarp. The feeling that led him here only gets stronger then, telling him this is what he came for. Like a giftwrapped present and Dean can't wait to find out what it's trying to show him.
He cradles his arm around his body, a little cool, but with a warmth swimming under his skin that almost keeps him from feeling the air around him. Still, Dean is underdressed for the freezing temperature, his thin Henley not nearly enough to fight the frost, and he doesn't want to stand in it too long. So he wheels the table out into the main hall and braces himself for what he might find lumped under the sheet.
What he finds is not really a surprise. There's a body there, male, exactly what Dean would have expected to find tucked away in his freezer if he'd had time to guess. It still opens up a host of questions: who or what is it? How did it get here? How long has it been there? Since the Men of Letters last lived here, or was this something Dean brought in and forgot about?
He circles around inspecting it, and something flares up in his chest. It doesn't give him many answers, but it rules out one thing. Dean didn't bring this corpse in. Dean wouldn't have forgotten something this spellbinding. As soon as he looks at the body in front of him, Dean never wants to look away.
It's not that the man's hot, though he is, no doubt about it. Dean would have been happy to fuck this guy if he'd stumbled in on him alive, but that's not it, either. It's that he's beautiful on some deeper level. Not radiant with grace like an angel or dripping with a dark, seductive allure like so many of the demons Dean's met. There's nothing he can point to that will pin down whatever makes the boy so beautiful it's breaking Dean's heart just looking at him. Not because he's dead, he would be just as devastating if he were alive.
Dean wants to chain himself to this body, wants to cut his pumping heart out and put it into this boy's chest, bring him to life for the purely selfish pleasure of knowing some part of him could contribute to someone like this.
He presses his hand to the dead face and wishes there was a flush of warmth under the skin, but there isn't-he's frozen over. Dean has to do something, needs to save him somehow. It's too late. He's dead already.
For some reason, Dean can't stop touching the face, even as the chilled flesh is making his fingers numb. He strokes the stubbled cheeks obsessively, trying to warm or wake him up, or maybe just wanting to get his hands on whatever the corpse still has to offer him.
"Who are you?" he asks the body, as if the boy will wake up just to answer his question.
Boy, Dean keeps coming back to that. This isn't a boy he's cradling between his palms. It's a grown ass man; taller than Dean, probably, if he were standing, or if Dean were lying next to him. Which is a tempting thought. Still, it's boy in his mind, it's someone that needs Dean to protect him, and Dean feels a fierce, tender desperation to guard him.
To guard him from what? The guy is already dead. Dean already failed him.
No. He can't be dead. Dean won't accept it, his mind refusing to settle on the very obvious fact. It's stupid, he knows, the boy was dead before Dean even met him. Dead is all he's ever been. There was never a chance and he's-
He's wasting time. He was doing something important, wasn't he?
Dean pulls back from the body, realizing this might be a trap. The body was put here to distract him, and dammit, it's working. He's wasting precious time he doesn't have, staring at a stranger's corpse, and now he can't even remember what he was in the middle of.
His eyes catch on the carcass again, and he can't stop himself from taking another step in. He leans over, looks closely at the face under him. What could be more important that this?
"Who are you?" he asks again, beating his hand against his head as if he can just knock all the answers back into place. "What am I supposed to be doing? I'm running out of time, I…"
Unsurprisingly, the corpse doesn't really have anything to add to the conversation. Dean feels something surge through his blood, and he stumbles forward, almost convinced he felt a physical tug toward the body. He looks down at his arms where he thinks he can still feel something gripping him, and he sees orange light beneath his flesh. A thousand slices in his skin that all say the same thing:
Sam. Sammy. Save Sam. Who the fuck is Sam and why should Dean save him? Why can't Dean just stay here, stay with his beautiful corpse, die and rot curled on the floor just so he can do it next to something this perfect?
He feels the pull again, yanking him to the boy's side until he's either going to stop or topple them both over. And instead of pausing to think about which one it's gonna be, Dean lets himself fall, tangles his fingers in the long brown hair on the back of the boy's head, wet and chilly, but Dean ignores the cold. He presses his mouth against the dead lips and imagines a warmth exploding through them, the skin coming to life as he licks in and kisses and wonders why what he's doing doesn't disgust him.
Very suddenly, it turns into a nightmare. Dean tries to pull back, but the dead boy's arms have come up to surround him, are pulling him in and keeping Dean's mouth sealed to his own. Dean feels something precious being sucked right out of him, some part of him Dean didn't know he had. Something so damn beloved he doesn't really believe it was ever a part of him to begin with, but he doesn't want to let it go. He can feel himself crying, and if the corpse would just give him his mouth back, he wouldn't be too proud to beg so that he could keep it.
That doesn't happen. Dean feels the last slivers of whatever he'd had inside of him slip right past his lips before finally the dead boy eases up and Dean pulls back immediately, terrified by what he's done, what he'll see when he looks at the body again. He doesn't want it to be a monster. Dean doesn't care if he dies now, not after what it just took from him, but he can't bear the thought that his last act will be ruining that gorgeous corpse. Better it stay dead than wake up just to be pumped full of Dean's poison.
He braces himself for something: life-ending pain or a burning light, but everything is quiet until he feels cold fingers brushing gently along his cheek. Dean opens his eyes, half wanting to shy away from the touch, half wanting to burrow closer, and nearly lets out a sob when he sees-the boy is there, his eyebrows drawn together as he looks at Dean, and he's even better like this. Somehow, he's even better.
"Dean," the corpse says, though it's not a corpse anymore. He says Dean's name sternly, worried, pissed, it doesn't matter. Dean can't believe someone like this knows his name. Then he brushes his thumb lightly over the patch on Dean's eye and his expression goes stormy, his voice threatening. "What did you do?"
That's a good question, Dean wishes he could remember. But for now, there are more important things to ask about. "Who are you?"
The man looks so hurt for a moment. Dean wishes that he'd killed Dean instead of looking at him like that. "You still don't know me?"
He-no. Sam. This is Sam. He'd know Sam anywhere.
"What do you mean?" Dean asks, and then Sam looks down and Dean hears his brother suck in air. Yes, brother. Didn't he have a brother? And wasn't that brother named Sam?
He seizes Dean's forearms, holds them up, inspects the damage on both sides, and puts his hands on Dean's shoulders, shaking him. "Dean, what did you do?"
"What I had to," he says, looking at the clean cuts up and down his wrists, and it all hits him in a rush. He remembers the fear and desperation he'd felt when he'd carved those words. It makes him laugh.
Because he was worried about failing for nothing. He did it. He really did it.
"Sammy," he says, looking up into his brother's still horrified face. "I did what I had to do to save you."
Punch. Dean thinks it's Sam at first, and, okay, fair enough. Dean did promise not to bring him back, but he wishes Sam would rest a bit, get healthy before beating the crap out of him. Then he realizes it's not Sam at all.
He lurches forward, feeling his body convulse as a million powerful memories rush in on him at once. If it weren't for Sam's arm catching him, he would have fallen right onto his brother. Sam was dead half a minute ago, Dean shouldn't be depending on him to stay vertical.
He tries to let go, staggers back, and Sam doesn't relax like he's supposed to. He only sits up more, supportinging Dean's weight.
Sam isn't the only thing he's starting to remember, and Metatron's little spell is weighing down on him. He hasn't slept in three days. Hasn't eaten-unless whiskey counts. He's lost a lot of blood. He was running on fumes and the burst of power he got from the soul he just poured into Sam.
"Dean, please," Sam begs. "Tell me what you did."
Dean shakes his head, pushing Sam away and collapsing, his own legs too weak to hold him.
He's going to die, he thinks. He's going to die to the sound of his brother saying his name, Sam's worried hands grasping him as he follows Dean to the floor. He's going to die, and Sam is going to live, a perfect balance in the universe as far as Dean is concerned.
The expression on Sam's face isn't just worried. It's the kind of horrified panic you can only feel for someone you truly love. Good last thing to see, Dean just wishes he had two eyes to see it with.
"You son of a bitch," Sam says. "You son of a bitch, I swear to god, if you leave me here-"
Dean laughs as blood starts dripping from his lips, and he can't stop smiling. "I did it," he says through the pain, his own laughter, his brother's curses. "I remember you."
The room starts swimming in his view, and Dean closes his one working eye, trying to calm how his stomach is beginning to turn.
Dying. Yeah, definitely. But it doesn't bother Dean. It's more than fair, as long as he dies remembering that he's got a little brother with stupid hair and shitty taste in music and the prettiest damn mouth Dean's ever kissed. He feels himself grinning even as the pain shoots through him and takes one big hand in his own, squeezing Sam's wrist. It won't be long now, so he chooses his last word carefully.
"Sammy."
May 12, 2010
Tomorrow, the world ends. This isn't the first time, exactly. It felt like the world was going to end when Sam died in Cold Oak, when Dean had 24 hours before his deal was due, when Sam busted out of the panic room and Lilith broke the last seal. But this one could really be it. The actual, literal end of the world.
Strangely enough, Dean feels a sense of peace and contentment. If the Apocalypse has to happen, this is exactly how he would have chosen to spend his last night on Earth. Sam's arm is draped around him, his thumb playing idly with the top of Dean's shoulder. Dean's head is pressed to Sam's chest, and he smells Sam everywhere, feels Sam's come in his ass, can taste salty sweat from every kiss he presses to Sam's body.
The problem isn't that the world might end. It's that no matter what happens, whether they win or lose tomorrow, Dean is never going to have his brother here with him again.
"What’s it like?" Sam asks out of nowhere.
Dean understands the question, even if they haven't mentioned where Sam might be at this time tomorrow, and he figures he owes it to Sam right now not to try and dodge the subject. "It's terrible, Sam. It's…too terrible to put words to. And if I had them, I wouldn't say them."
"I'm scared," Sam admits, just like that, like it doesn't embarrass him or make him feel weaker. That's something Sam's always been able to do, admit when he's scared, and Dean admires him for it.
"I'll get you out," Dean promises.
"No," Sam replies. "You won't. I don't want you telling me you will."
"You said it all the time when I was-"
"Yeah, and look what I turned into when I couldn’t." Sam tightens his grip on Dean's shoulder. "I don't want you to feel like you failed me. If I actually pull this off tomorrow, it's because you never once failed me. I don't expect you to get me out. I don't want you to try. Trust me, Dean. You go crazy wandering down that road."
Dean remembers all too well, but he understands better now. Sam alone and desperate, no easy crossroad fix, no escape except with his mouth on Ruby's pulse. He thinks of how ashamed Sam was on his first night back on Earth, which they spent just like this, only it was Sam's face pressed to Dean's chest then. Sam had apologized so many times that night, and Dean had been so ignorant of just how much he'd broken his brother with that deal, had assumed Sam was apologizing for not getting him out, which Dean never blamed him for, not for what happened after.
Sam had waited an hour after they'd fucked, until he thought Dean was asleep, and then he'd cried against Dean, deep wracking sounds that reminded Dean of the cries of tortured souls in Hell.
"You know I forgive you for everything, right?"
Sam laughs. "I know. Just wish I could forgive myself."
"If we win tomorrow," Dean says, and he feels Sam nodding above him.
"If we win tomorrow. At least I'll know I fixed my mess."
No one talks about what will happen if they don't win. This is already depressing enough.
"Dean, I'm serious," Sam says after a while. "Don't try to save me."
He doesn't start a fight by insisting he's going to, but he doesn't kid himself for a moment that he's going to respect Sam's wishes, either. He will always bring Sam back.
NOW
Dean's first thought when he comes to and tries to open his eyes is that one of them is missing. Not a particularly deep observation, but it's good to start with the basics.
"I'm not down any limbs, 'm I?" Dean asks.
He hears something clatter as it's dropped to the desk and in seconds, Sam is at his side, big hands on his face. "You're awake," he says. "Good. Now I can kill you."
Dean laughs. "I don't recommend it. Bringing me back would be a huge pain in the ass for you. Take it from me."
Sam is not in a joking mood, apparently. "Dammit, Dean. I told you not to."
"Dammit, Sam. I didn't listen."
He turns his head so he can see Sam and smiles at the mix of worry and relief, the dark circles under Sam's eyes. He looks like shit, but he looks exactly the way he did the last time Dean saw him alive.
Dean can't help it if he's smiling. "We gotta stop meeting like this, Sammy."
"I was dead," Sam says in a muted voice.
"Except your hair and your nails," Dean replies, shaking his head in mock dismay. "Of course your stubborn hair would be the thing to-"
"Just tell me how," Sam interrupts, not even remotely amused. "What's the price tag this time?"
Dean lets his head droop, points up at the hole where his left eye used to be. "This, I guess."
Sam grabs his arm and shows Dean the mutilations all over his wrists, and Dean remembers scratching Sam's name all over his body. He doesn't mind the scars, doesn't mind if people can see who he belongs to. Wasn't ever much good at hiding it anyway, was he?
"Dig the new look?" Dean jokes. "I think it's an improvement."
"Dean, I swear to god-"
"I made a bet," Dean says. "If I could get you out of Heaven without forgetting you, you live. If not, I forget you completely. It was a rigged game, but I won. You can't really be mad. You're alive and all it cost was an eyeball, this is getting off easy for us."
"You didn't know me." Sam's eyes get all wet, and Dean wants to call him a baby just because he can't stand knowing he's responsible for the tears. "Dean, I can't believe you took that risk. Do you know how horrible-? I can't imagine anything worse than if you'd fucked this up. You didn't know me."
"You were being tortured," says Dean, and Sam flinches as the reminder. "What was I supposed to do, Sam? You were being tortured."
"Nothing he did to me was worse than if I'd died and you didn't remember me."
"I know," Dean says softly, no point in lying about it now. "I know because I did forget you. I remember what it felt like not to have a brother. I think for a few minutes there I understood what it was like for you, not having a soul. I remember not remembering you, and it's never going to stop haunting me, but you were dead and I had a chance to fix that. You would have done it, too."
Sam shakes his head, purses his lips, but maybe he finally knows Dean well enough to just accept that this will always be his response, because he doesn't say anything contrary.
"Easiest fix to this is if you stop dying," Dean points out. "Then I can stop doing stupid things to bring you back."
Sam lets out a mix of a sigh and an amused huff, finally says, "Cas is on his way."
"Cas is alive?" Dean asks. "How do you know?"
"He called a few hours ago."
"Son of a bitch couldn't manage to pick up the phone any sooner? I've been going crazy looking for him."
"Actually he couldn't," Sam says with a slightly amused lilt in his voice. "He was in a coma until, from what I can tell, right about the time you broke out of Heaven."
"Jesus," Dean mutters. "Angel comas."
"No, actually," Sam replies. "He's human again."
"Ah," Dean says, slightly disappointed. He'd kind of been hoping Cas would heal him, but oh well. Still a small price to pay.
Apparently Sam was thinking the same thing. "I know, Dean. Your eye. But he could still get his grace back some day. Stranger things have happened."
"You're here, aren't you?" Dean points out.
Sam laughs. "For example that."
"I'll have to burn off the new tat if Cas is gonna heal me. Which is too bad, 'cause it sure could come in handy."
"What happened to your eye?" Sam interrupts, reaching out to adjust bandages, and Dean only then realizes that all his wounds are dressed up and carefully tended to.
"We'll talk about it another time," Dean says. "I'm pretty beat, Sammy."
"Yeah, I bet," Sam replies. "Look, I'll get you something to eat and you sleep a little more, and we can talk about it then."
"You're not mad at me?"
Sam bites his bottom lip, a concentrated look on his face, until finally he seems to come to a decision. "I don’t know. What do you want me to say? That I'm thrilled about what you did? That I'm not going to forgive you? Neither of those things are true."
"Fair enough." Dean looks down at his hands. "Metatron gave me the way out."
Sam's lips tighten when he hears the angel's name. "Dean, the things he-"
"No, I know he's not the good guy. Hell, hunting his ass down is number one on my to-do list. But it was kind of funny. Thought you should know."
Sam adjusts Dean's pillow and strokes Dean's face carefully. "I want to kill him, too. But let's make number one on your to-do list getting healthy again, yeah?"
"Yeah, fine," Dean says, putting on a grudging tone. "But don't think I'm gonna forget."
"I wouldn't," Sam replies. "Though you got pretty close."
Dean reaches out and takes his brother's hand, shaking his head. That's not what he meant, not really, and he needs Sam to understand. "Sam, listen to me. I was never really going to forget. I beat the house, and I'm gonna beat it every time. No one is ever going to take you from me."
Sam must feel the weight behind Dean's words, but he doesn't acknowledge them with anything more than a kiss, a big hand through Dean's hair, and a promise of warm chicken soup.