FIC: Swear By All Flowers (SPN, Sam/Dean) (5/6)
PART FIVE: are reaching for the sun that shines
Dean was so fucking glad to see him.
Sam was looking pasty and kind of shocked - not really a good look for his kid brother - but Dean didn't care, because Sam was here. Dean just had to stop and stare for a second, gathering his breath. The horse had dumped Dean off a few yards back from the edge, then disappeared back into the woods, leaving Dean to exhaustedly stagger toward the lights of the Impala.
His time with the Baba Yagas seemed like a weird dream, full of weird twists and bizarre commands, and Dean still wasn't sure how long he'd actually been gone.
"Dean," said Sam, striding toward him quickly. "You got out? You're -" Then, when Dean didn't respond in the next two seconds like Sam apparently wanted him to: "Dean!"
"Hey," said Dean, annoyed now - couldn't Sam let him have his overjoyed reunion in peace? Dean was jumping on the inside - but still so goddamned thankful, "You don't have to shout, I'm right -"
Sam reached out and grabbed Dean, hauling him into a tight, fierce hug. His hands scrabbled and clung to Dean's shirt, knotting it between his fingers. "Shit," he breathed in Dean's ear. "Dean."
Dean patted Sam awkwardly on the back, but Sam didn't let go of him, and Dean took a long-suffering sigh and let himself relax into Sam's arms. Sam was warm, and the feel of him was so comforting and familiar that Dean never wanted to move again.
"Yeah, that's my name," said Dean. "Don't say it so much or everyone'll want one."
Sam snorted and pulled away, keeping a grip on Dean's shoulders, like he didn't trust Dean not to disappear. Abruptly, he bent his head and kissed Dean on the mouth.
The kiss lasted a split second, then Sam drew away. "Listen," Sam said. "I found the cure."
Dean blinked, not quite tracking. His mouth tingled. "The cure?"
"To the curse, man. I already got all of the ingredients, and it won't be hard to put together. You'll be okay."
Dean just stared at him. A cure? Now? But he and Bobby had looked everywhere -
Dean was so busy trying to make sense of the sudden swelling of hope in his chest that he didn't notice at first when the ground abruptly started to tip sideways.
"You'll be okay," Sam repeated, his voice thick, and then: "Jesus, Dean -" and Sam caught him as Dean's legs gave out.
Sam was talking to him, but so faintly that Dean couldn't hear. Patterns of black and fuschia crawled across Dean's vision, eating up Sam's face, and then there was nothing but nothing.
*
Sam slid down to the ground with Dean and cradled Dean into his lap like a child. Dean was limp, and his eyes weren't focusing. As Sam watched, Dean gave a shudder and his eyes rolled back into bloodshot white slits.
"Oh, God, oh, Jesus, no," and Sam shook Dean by the shoulder for a moment, trying to bring him round, before he realized Dean wasn't breathing. "Shit, shit, goddamnit, motherfuck --"
Sam knew CPR, but he'd rarely had the chance to put it into practice. He tried then, pinching Dean's nostrils together and breathing into his mouth. He felt Dean's chest expand under his palm, Dean's heart still beating weakly. After doing it a few times, Sam was panting for his own air, but finally Dean was breathing on his own again.
But despite the small victory, Sam felt strangled with dread. His head was pounding. It was happening. Dean was dying.
The ritual couldn't wait until they got back to the motel.
Sam squeezed his eyes shut a second, then stood up, hooked his arms under Dean's armpits, and dragged him off the grass and onto the concrete. He had chalk in the trunk of the car along with the book and other supplies, and he drew a rough outline of the ceremonial circle.
Once everything was set up, Sam grit his teeth, picked Dean up and laid him down carefully inside the symbols, careful not to disturb the chalk. Dean lay still as death.
"Okay," Sam said to himself. "Okay."
He stripped off Dean's shirt. Sam winced when he peeled it over Dean's shoulders; there had been a few bruises before, but now they covered Dean's entire torso. They spelled out obscene, brutal things in shapes of yellowed skin and burst blood vessels.
Sam pulled out a kid's paintbrush, a brightly colored plastic brush with cheap bristles. It had been the only thing the local Walgreens had. He got out a cheap paper Dixie cup and pricked one of the smaller veins in his arm with a Swiss Army knife. It hurt like hell, but Sam'd had worse; he rubbed at the cut, urging the flow of blood into the Dixie cup until it was a third of the way full and Sam's arm was starting to tingle.
Dipping his yellow Crayola brush into the blood, Sam kept an eye on the appropriate page of the book and started the first symbol - a stylized grain of wheat, placed directly over a nasty blackened bruise on Dean's ribs. Sam's blood looked thin and watery on Dean's skin, beading up like drops of rainwater. It steamed a little as Sam completed the symbol. Sam wasn't sure that the symbols were supposed to do that, but he kept going.
A curled slash of a lion, right over the bruise on Dean's shoulder. A jackrabbit over Dean's heart. At the base of Dean's throat, the shape of a bird for breath and freedom.
Baba Yaga hadn't quite provided Sam with the cure; she'd given Sam a loophole. The curse on Dean was unbreakable, he and Bobby had gotten that right. But there was a way to confuse the curse, make it so that the curse didn't have anything to grip onto anymore.
The only problem was that the curse had latched onto Dean's life -- his soul, spirit, the energy that kept everything in his body ticking. It had Dean's essence in a stranglehold, and the only way to alleviate the curse was to share the weight. Give Dean someone else's life.
It was a price that Sam was more than willing to pay.
Sam painted the last symbol, a spiral over Dean's sternum. The spell was ready. All it needed was Sam to complete the circuit.
There was no going back from this. They'd be bound, Dean's life linked to Sam's forever. And more than that, Dean's continued existence would be based on Sam remaining alive himself. That was what Bobby had railed at Sam about - if Sam died, so would Dean. Within seconds. If you get yourself killed, you both go down.
Part of Sam thought that Dean might not be too averse to that outcome, anyway. Dean had told him, years before, that he didn't want to outlive Sam. He'd been drunk, of course, and Sam had hoped at the time that Dean didn't mean it, but he'd always suspected that Dean had.
Sam would never know for sure, of course, but it made it easier to think that Dean would be okay with his plan.
You're playing God, Bobby had said.
I'm saving his life, Sam replied.
Both statements were true, perhaps, but only one of them was important.
Sam pressed his knife into his palm, sharp-side down, and squeezed until blood welled up thick and black. Then he grabbed Dean's hand and made a similar slice across the palm.
"I call on those that sleep," Sam said, and seized Dean's sliced hand with his own, squeezing tightly, feeling the ebbing flow of Dean's blood against his skin. The words felt strange in his mouth, too casual. Sam was used to Latin, to chanting, crosses and holy water. But this was self-magic, blood magic; the words had to be Sam's own.
"Those who wait for morning, I call them. Those who wait for dusk, I call them. Those who have never left, I call them. Three times for three faces: Wake. Wake. Wake. Grandmother, mother, sister. You hold the threads, now tie them."
Sam took a piece of cord from his pocket and wrapped it around his and Dean's clenched hands. "Make one new line from two. I spread the words, I make them rhyme. I tie them tight, I give them time. Some of mine is his… some of his is mine."
Sam closed his eyes. "Please." God, Sam added silently, reluctant to name his own god out loud amidst the call for more ancient forces. Please let this work.
Suddenly, Sam felt a tugging sensation in his chest, a sudden flutter of his heart. Sam's throat closed up and his heart felt like it was about to pound out of his chest. He folded up over Dean, all of Sam's muscles giving a sudden spasm, like something was being tugged from every inch of his body and then forced back in.
As suddenly as the strange feeling seized him, it passed, leaving Sam with shivers and a mouthful of blood from where he'd bit his tongue. He swallowed hard, even though the taste almost made him gag.
Sam pressed his head to Dean's chest, listening to his heart. Strong and rhythmic, exactly in tune with Sam's. Shared.
"It worked," Sam said quietly. "Hey, Dean, it worked, you can wake up now."
Dean remained still.
Sam twisted away from Dean and spit on the ground, trying to clear the taste of blood from his mouth. Once his head was bowed, he just left it there, breathing deeply through the new feeling that seized his chest.
It wasn't anything to do with the spell this time; it was just the sudden realization that this was it -- Dean was safe, Dean would be fine, but if Sam screwed up, or if Sam got himself killed somehow, Dean would die -Dean's life was in Sam's fucking hands now.
Sam panted a few panicky breaths before pulling himself together, adding the sense of responsibility to the list of stuff to think about later, when his brother wasn't lying unconscious in front of him. Fuck. He wondered if he was only now feeling what Dean must have felt for years.
He turned back to Dean and shook his shoulder. Dean needed to be awake. Dean needed to be awake, alive and healthy, and then he needed to tell Sam what the hell they were going to do with the rest of their lives.
Sam spared a second to wonder what Dean's reaction would be if he found out what Sam had done. He pressed his mouth into a thin line, then swiped his hand across the symbols on Dean's chest, smearing them into one big sticky, bloody smudge.
Sam didn't have to wonder; Dean just wasn't going to find out.
*
Dean came drifting back to consciousness slowly. Sensations took a while to register, but eventually Dean figured out that he was lying on the floor, covered in a blanket. There was something sticky and cool on his forehead. Sam was kneeling beside him, blurry and washed-out, and he was holding Dean's hand. He could feel the pressure of Sam's grip more than he could actually feel Sam's hand; everything seemed very tingly and far away, like he was on heavy-duty painkillers.
"What," Dean said, and it echoed. "Sam?"
Sam squeezed his hand, causing it to ache dully. "Hey."
There was a smell of smoke in the air, wood and sage. He could taste blood in the back of his throat.
Dean closed his eyes, and opened them again some time later - it could have been a few seconds, it could have been an hour. Sam was gripping Dean's shoulders, trying to lift him, but he stilled when he saw Dean was awake.
"Dean?" said Sam. "I have to move you, okay?"
Dean tried to nod. Sam helped him sit up, braced one shoulder under his arm and hoisted Dean upright. Dean took a couple of panting breaths, leaning against Sam while he adjusted to standing.
They were still on the very edge of the forest; Sam had dragged him out a little further towards the road and laid him down on the blacktop overlook. There were smeared chalk symbols all around where Dean had been laying, along with a few piles of burnt sage, some melted candles and some splashes of what looked like blood.
"So," said Dean weakly, "Ritual, huh?"
"Yeah, man," said Sam. "You missed all the fun."
Sam helped Dean over to the Impala, leaning him against the side of the car as he got the passenger side door open. As soon as Dean had slumped down into the seat, Sam was there, pressing a hand against Dean's forehead as if he expected Dean to have a little kid fever.
"I'm going to get some towels from the trunk, okay?"
Dean looked at Sam closely and tried to figure out how much the ritual might have taken out of him. Sam looked okay, if a bit exhausted, but Dean knew that the curse hadn't been a light one. Any ritual to break it would have required a lot more than a visit to a local friendly pagan shop for some smudge sticks.
"Towels?" echoed Dean. "Why do..."
It was then that Dean realized he was covered in blood.
"Jesus," said Dean, squinting down at his chest. "What the hell is all this?"
"Don't worry," said Sam wanly. "Most of it's mine."
Dean sent Sam a withering look, checking out Sam's color as he was at it. Sam's blood? He looked a little bit pale, but not bad. There was a bandage wrapped around one of Sam's hands, and, once Dean noticed that, he noticed a matching bandage on his left hand. He flexed it a little, but it made his palm sting like a bitch.
"What, are we blood brothers now?"
"Something like that," said Sam. He squeezed Dean's wrist, then got up to get the towels.
The towels were ratty, threadbare things that they'd stolen from a motel ages ago. They'd lost any trace of the pristine white they used to be, but no matter how many times Dean and Sam had washed them, they still kept the same sandpaper texture. Sam pulled out a couple more, still white, that Dean figured Sam must have lifted sometime in the past couple days.
The towels turned a terrifying shade of pink-brown as Sam sponged the blood off Dean's skin.
"What'd you do, Sammy?" Dean tried to reach out and squeeze Sam's shoulder, but a sudden wave of exhaustion hit him and he slumped back against the seat. "What the hell did you do?"
"I'll tell you later," said Sam. "Just sleep for now, okay? I'm getting you out of here."
*
Dean woke up again in a warm tangle of blankets. The room was dark, but the heavy drapes in the window showed a bright rectangle of light around the edges, bright with afternoon sun.
"Hey," Sam said softly. Dean felt a gentle touch on his forehead. Sam was lying on top of the blankets, tucked close to Dean's side. "How're you feeling?"
"Like an elephant sat on me," Dean said scratchily. "Oh, wait, that's you. What are you doing in bed with me, dude?"
Sam made some motion that looked like a sideways shrug. "Waiting for you to wake up. You've been out for a while. Are you okay? Any headaches? Pain?"
Dean stretched experimentally. He still felt exhausted, his shoulder was still fucked up, and his hand was aching where Sam had sliced it, but the bone-deep tiredness he'd become used to over the past few months was gone. His exhaustion felt good. Natural.
"I'm fine," Dean said wonderingly. "Everything's a little fuzzy, but I'm good."
Sam smiled at him. "Good."
"How long have I been sleeping?"
"Oh," said Sam, "A couple days. But that's got nothing on some of the naps you take, dude."
"Smartass." Dean gave Sam a lazy poke in the shoulder. "So, man, what the hell happened?"
Dean was especially curious as to what kind of ritual Sam had found that required him to use his blood like barbeque sauce. If Sam really had managed to break the curse, he must have used some really fucking dark magic, and Dean might possibly have to take Sam out back and kick his ass for being such an idiot.
Sam grinned wider. "Well, I was at the library, looking for a way to find out where Baba Yaga took you, when I heard the librarians talking about this kid who'd just moved back from New York City recently."
"Oh yeah?" Dean tried to sound interested.
"Yeah. Turns out this Timothy knew about Baba Yaga. He was the one telling kids where to find her. And..." Sam trailed off for a moment, then continued. "Baba Yaga gave Timothy a book to give to me. I'd never even heard of the book before. But it had a spell that would work on your curse. It, uh, acted to confuse the curse, make it think it wasn't cast on the right person anymore."
Dean kept listening, even though his brain was screeching, Yeah, right.
"That's what the blood was for," Sam continued. "Part of the ceremony involved changing your, like, aura just a little - not enough that you'll even notice it, but the demon's curse was so tied into you, specifically, that it..." Sam waved a hand in the air. "Y'know."
Dean blinked. "Bullshit."
Sam went still. "What?"
Dean pushed himself up on his elbows, swatting Sam away when Sam tried to help. "I said bullshit, Sam. I want to know what the hell you did. Bring me the book."
"I can't," Sam said, all wounded expression and Dean, how could you doubt me? eyes. "I left it by the woods when I took you back here."
"Oh, that's convenient," Dean snarled. "You're nuts about keeping track of books, Sam, always have been. It's like a fucking reflex for you. Bring me the book."
"I don't have it. Dean, sit down!"
Dean ignored him and stood, shuffling over to the door. When he was halfway there, dizziness swept over him, knocking him off-balance, and Sam caught his elbow angrily.
"Dean, I don't have the book. I left it. I'm sorry. But if you're thinking - I swear, it was nothing bad, it wasn't dark magic. I made sure. You're cured, and that's it, no strings."
"Sam -"
"I swear to you, Dean."
Dean stared at Sam's face, trying to figure out if Sam was telling the truth or had just become an even better liar sometime in the past two years.
"I don't believe you," Dean said. "I'm going to call Bobby."
Sam's face fell, like he'd actually expected Dean to just take his word for it. "Go ahead," he said angrily. "He'll tell you. I checked it with Bobby as soon as I found the damn spell."
"Fine. Whatever. Uh. Where's my phone?"
Sam handed his cell over without a word, and Dean shuffled back to sit on the end of the bed, hitting "SEND" on Bobby's number.
"Yeah?" Bobby answered.
"Bobby," said Dean. "It's Dean."
"Good to hear your voice, boy," Bobby replied. "How are you holding up?"
"Um." Dean tried to ignore Sam's death-glare. "I wanted to ask you about this, this thing that Sam found."
Bobby was silent for a long moment, then said, "Yeah. It was pretty incredible that he found something that would break the curse."
"That's what I thought," Dean said. "So, uh, what was it?"
"It's not so much what it was, Dean," said Bobby, "It's that he found a loophole in the original curse. For such a heavy son of a bitch, that curse sure fell hard."
"This aura crap, you mean?" Dean swallowed. "So that's really it? I'm all curse-free and dandy?"
"I wouldn't say dandy," said Bobby, his voice cracking a smile. "But yeah, Dean. You're gonna be just fine."
The relief was so unexpected that it made Dean's head swim. He leaned forward and braced his elbows on his knees. "Bobby, what aren't you telling me? And don't you fucking lie to me."
There was another long pause. "Nothing you need to know," Bobby said finally. "Sam was careful." Pause. "He's a good man, your brother. He loves you."
"I know," said Dean. "I know. Okay."
"Let me talk to Sam," said Bobby, and Dean obligingly handed the phone over before flopping back on the bed with a sigh.
Sam listened to whatever Bobby was saying, then said only, "Yeah, Bobby, I know," before he flipped the phone shut.
"He's glad you're okay," said Sam. He set the phone on the desk and stared at it. "And so am I."
"Yeah." Dean started to chuckle. "Shit, Sam. I'm going to live."
Sam looked at him like he was crazy, then he started to laugh, too. "You're going to live," he agreed.
Dean, overcome with the moment, raised his arms in the universal symbol of rock on.
"You dork," said Sam, still laughing.
"Whatever," said Dean. "You're dork-er. Dorkier." He sat up on the bed. "Now c'mere already."
Sam approached him cautiously. "What?"
Dean spread his arms. "I know you're over there with a major hankering for some girly hugging. So hug away. I'll just lay back and think of England while you're pawing all over me."
Sam gave him a look that was equal parts offended and yearning, but he was close enough that Dean could just grab Sam's arms and yank him off-balance. Sam landed on the bed almost on top of Dean, bouncing on the hard bedsprings with an undignified squawk.
Dean pulled Sam into his arms, ending up with Sam's face pressed against his neck and one of Sam's arms draped awkwardly over his side. Sam laughed uncomfortably.
"Uh, Dean?"
"Just so you know, this is going to meet our hug quota for the entire rest of our lives," said Dean.
Sam hesitated, then nodded, starting to relax a little more into Dean's embrace. And maybe Dean had caught Sam a little off guard. Dean ignored the tickle of Sam's eyelashes against his neck and rested his hand on the back of Sam's head, carding his fingers through the crazy tangle of hair.
He blinked up at the textured ceiling, remembering the last time he'd held Sam like this. Sam might not even remember it, it'd been so long ago. Third grade, and Sam'd been upset over some girl that had called him a freak. Jeez. What had they known? They'd just been kids. They'd never lost anything except a mother back then.
Sam tried to get up, but Dean kept a firm grip on the back of Sam's neck and didn't ease up until Sam gave in and sank back onto the bed.
"This is so weird, dude," said Sam, but Dean wasn't fooled. Sam was eating this up.
"You're weird," said Dean.
Sam chuckled. "I feel like I'm too old for this, but it's. Nice."
Dean cuffed the side of Sam's head. "Happy birthday, by the way."
"Thanks," said Sam. "Jeez, you know, I forgot all about it."
"Yeah." Dean rested his chin on the top of Sam's head. "Sorry I missed it."
Sam made a weird, choked noise and pressed closer, winding his other arm under Dean's waist and squeezing Dean tight.
"Easy," Dean said quietly. "Easy. I'm not going anywhere."
"I thought you were - I thought you were really going to die, Dean." Sam breathed wetly into Dean's shoulder. "I thought I was really going to lose you and I couldn't do anything. I couldn't do anything. I thought I wasn't gonna be able to save you."
"But you did," said Dean. "You did. You did."
"I should've, I, don't," said Sam, not finishing the sentence, and Dean didn't even know what Sam thought he should've done, but it didn't matter. Dean just shook his head and pressed a kiss to Sam's temple. Sam's face was hot with stubborn, faint tears, and Dean just drew Sam closer, because there was girly crying and then there was this, and Sam needed it. Maybe Dean needed it, too.
It was a few minutes later when Sam tried to pull away again, and Dean let him. He blinked down at Dean, his face red and splotchy. There was something odd in his eyes, and Dean's breath caught as their gazes met. Something sparked there, something old and vital.
Sam blinked and looked away. "Sorry," he said quietly.
Dean snorted, drawing Sam's gaze back to him. "Dude," Dean said, and made a face as he plucked the sopping wet material of his T-shirt away from his shoulder. "Don't be sorry, man, just do the laundry. I feel like I've been attacked by a snot-monster."
"Couldn't have happened to a better brother," Sam said. He sniffed loudly and rubbed his eyes with the sleeve of his own shirt. He didn't seem to realize that he was still sitting next to Dean on the bed, one leg pressed against Dean's side.
"Dude," said Dean, just to get Sam thinking about something else: "I'm starving. I'd kill for a cheeseburger."
Sam nodded jerkily. "Yeah, I'll go pick something up." He hesitated, then leaned down and kissed Dean on the cheek. Dean froze, and Sam drew away slowly.
"Sam?" Dean said, but Sam shook his head, cutting off the rest of Dean's words.
"We don't have to talk about it," Sam said, but it was less a statement than an order.
"Okay," said Dean.
Sam snorted. "That was way too easy."
Dean shrugged. "Talking's for pussies."
Sam's face relaxed, and Dean touched Sam's cheek. He rested his thumb at the corner of Sam's lips, and ignored the shivery feeling in his stomach when Sam's eyes turned warm and the edge of his mouth creased into a smile.
"I'll be back in a little bit, okay?" Sam said, and he took Dean's hand from his cheek and moved it back to Dean's side. "Just, I don't know. Sleep some more. Check out the motel's selection of porn. I'll be back soon."
"Jeez, Sam, you're going to get food, you're not going off to war."
Dean made grabby hands for the remote, and Sam handed it to him with a sigh.
Once Sam had left, Dean turned the TV on to the Home Shopping Network and stared through the screen, not seeing it, as he thought about Sam's smile, the feel of his mouth.
*
When Sam got back, Dean was asleep again, the light from the TV flickering over the inside of the room. Sam left the cheeseburger on the desk, still in its Styrofoam container piled high with greasy fries, and pulled the blankets over Dean, careful not to wake him.
Sam closed the door carefully as he left. It was still daylight, but the sun was already starting to go down. Perfect.
It was a bit disturbing that the long drive to the edge of the forest was becoming so familiar, but Sam comforted himself with the thought that he and Dean would be leaving tomorrow, and they'd never have to see this place again, ever.
But there was something that Sam had to do first.
Night was coming on quickly, and Sam could already see the moon hanging low and early in the light-blue sky, like it was too impatient for the sun to set before it showed up on the scene. He walked into the forest on the same meandering path he and Dean had taken on that first day, and it wasn't long before the branches around him started to stir.
"I know you're here," said Sam.
"Of course you do, boy," said Baba Yaga.
He turned, and Baba Yaga smiled at him. She was young, with long scraggly hair and a smile full of crooked brown teeth. She had a blue rose petal tucked behind one ear. At Sam's obvious surprise, she let out a mad laugh and gave a twirl, as if to show off her new youth.
"And you know why I'm here," Sam added, ignoring her antics. She halted mid-twirl and gave a nod.
"They'll be here any moment," Baba Yaga said, and as soon as she had spoken Sam could hear the sound of horses.
The first rider whipped by, just a flash of white. Baba Yaga reached out and drew Sam away from the path.
"Day," said Sam. "'My bright Dawn.' That's what the books said."
Baba Yaga smiled, and the second rider came by at a gallop, a splash of red across Sam's vision.
"And the Sun," whispered Sam. "And next is Night. But I don't get it. What are they?"
"You will never understand," said Baba Yaga. "But you can understand this much: there is no point in life if there are no answers. If you believe, then the knowledge will come, child, and that is why I am here. The tests, the punishments, it is because all the human folk need to know something. I can provide."
"And eating people? Putting their heads on stakes?"
"You have already guessed this. Because there are some things we want to know," Baba Yaga chuckled. "We wanted to know what the flesh tasted like, the ways that the bodies fit together, the ways that minds can stretch. There is no crime there."
Sam shook his head. "You're sick. You're sick and you're evil."
"You have no idea what evil is, child. I am not evil. I am just old." Baba Yaga curled her bare toes into the dirt and nodded at something over Sam's shoulder. "And there, there is what you seek."
Sam turned, and the black stallion was standing at the edges of the trees, sniffing at the tufts of grass under its hooves. Sam's father sat astride the huge beast, peering down at Sam with a smile on his face.
"It is not him," said Baba Yaga.
"I know," Sam whispered. The illusion was almost perfect, but there was a blur to John's face as he moved, like a streak of motion on a video recording. Anything that was actually John Winchester was only in Sam's mind.
"But it is close enough," said Baba Yaga. "He is a reflection, that is all, but who is anything else? Reflections in others eyes and hearts, that is all anybody is, it is how they are formed. This is your father, fresh from your memory, real."
Sam took a step forward. "Hey, Dad."
John smiled. "Hey, kiddo."
"I," Sam shook his head. "I don't know what to say."
"You wanted to ask him a question, yes?" Baba Yaga prompted.
"And I suppose you already know what I'm going to ask, huh?" said Sam. "Mind enlightening me?"
Baba Yaga made a clucking sound. "Of course I do not know. Why do you think I am letting you stand here? Ask quickly, boy, before I grow tired of this."
"Shut up, you old hag," snapped the reflection of John Winchester, his voice authoritative and pissed. "And leave us alone. I'm talking to my son, here."
She gave an offended growl but backed off, glaring, and Sam smiled.
"You know, Dad, I've really missed you."
"Yeah, I know," said John. "And I've missed you, too. Well," he gave a shrug, "If you can miss anyone when you're dead. I'm not really sure on that one."
Sam crossed his arms. "Um. So, a question. I don't know how the hell you would even answer this, but - I do have a question."
"Kind of ironic, you asking me for advice now," John laughed. "Go ahead, Sammy." He leaned forward on his horse, craning his neck to see Sam's face.
"Is it over?" Sam curled his fingers into his arms, gripping hard. "Is it - because, the demon is gone, Dad, we got rid of him. And now Dean is safe, too, but I don't know if it's over, or if something else is going to pop up and try to make our lives hell, and I just - I don't think I can do this again."
"Sam," said John, his voice low. "You came a hell of a long way for a happy ending."
Sam let out a snort of disbelief. "What does that even mean, Dad?"
"It means you're right, no one can answer that." John looked at Sam intently, blurry-dark eyes in a serious face. "But you're asking the wrong thing."
He shifted in his saddle and looked up at the darkening sky. "You see, it's not a matter of being over. It's not over until you've wound up where I am. But you can be happy now, son. You can be happy where you are."
Sam followed his father's gaze, watching the moon appear over the trees. "I lied to Dean."
"So did I," John said. "And I think you did the right thing, if that makes you feel any better. You saved his life. When it's family, the cost doesn't matter."
"God," said Sam, "Sometimes I think I'm turning into you."
John chuckled. "Should I be apologizing?"
"Dad, if you're just... what's in my head, then you know what I'm thinking. About Dean."
John's face darkened. "I know that you've finally realized that you can have a fresh start. If Dean takes off again, you know that you can give him up. Stop waiting, go back to California and make a real life for yourself."
Sam's realization was too new for him to feel comfortable hearing it from someone else, even if the someone else was in his mind. He shifted on his heels. "But that's not my first choice."
His father sighed. "What do you want me to say, Sam? You want my blessing? You don't have it. I'm your father - both of you - and I can't condone it. In fact, I wish I didn't have to even think about it."
"Right," said Sam. "Of course." He wished for a moment that his mental image of his father were a little less like the real thing. Sam felt distinctly like he'd just been slapped down.
"Oh, hell, don't get like that. How did you expect me to react? You're my sons."
"But I love him." Sam clenched his jaw. "And I want him, Dad."
"You burned me, so I can't exactly turn over in my grave," John said sharply. "I don't want that for you, Sam. You don't understand the consequences. If you're with him, you think either of you'd let go after that? What happens if you want to settle down, raise a family? What if Dean does?"
Sam shook his head. "It doesn't matter. We'll figure it out. I just, Dad, I - I want him to be my first choice. He deserves that."
"I'll agree with that much," said John. He sighed heavily. "And you've never had a problem telling me to go to hell before, so don't start justifying yourself now. I'll start thinking you've lost your touch."
The outline of John's body started to waver. Whatever time they'd had was running out.
"Go to hell, Dad." Sam tried to smile and blinked back tears. He'd done enough crying today. "Dad, are you happy?"
John smiled. "I'm not happy, Sam, I'm just dead. But there's not that much of a difference. Tell Dean I love him, okay? And I'm proud of him."
"I will," said Sam.
"And Sam, I trust you to do the right thing. Always have."
"Dad," said Sam, "Dad, I -"
"Enough of this," said Baba Yaga.
John Winchester wobbled, fizzed, and melted away to nothing. The stallion, riderless, trotted off into the forest shadows.
"I love you," Sam finished.
It didn't matter that the rider was gone. Whatever had been John Winchester was still in Sam's memory, just the same as he'd always been. The thought was oddly comforting, like the sound of a startled, gruff laugh and the feel of a heavy hand on Sam's shoulder.
Sam turned and left the forest, ignoring Baba Yaga's annoyed ranting. He was done here.