Fic: Capture the Flag 24/24 + Epilogue
Title: Capture the Flag
Author: triquetralmoon
Rating: R
Genre: H/C (respiratory illness, PTSD)
Warnings: Swearing, violence, flashbacks of graphic torture
Spoilers: Season 4, this is set in between Criss Angel Is a Douchebag and Sex and Violence.
Summary: A soldier in the war to stop the apocalypse, Dean is running himself into the ground as he runs away from his time in Hell. What he pegs as a simple sickness soon becomes something much more deadly. The Winchesters can never catch a break. For some soldiers, the war is never over.
Author's Note: Final chapters and epilogue. It's been an amazing ride, guys. Thank you so much! (Master post up with prettyful banner later on)
Chapter 1 / Chapter 2 / Chapter 3 / Chapter 4 / Chapter 5 / Chapter 6 / Chapter 7 / Chapter 8 / Chapter 9 / Chapter 10 / Chapter 11 / Chapter 12 / Chapter 13 / Chapter 14 / Chapter 15 / Chapter 16 / Chapter 17 / Chapter 18 / Chapter 19 / Chapter 20 / Chapter 21 / Chapter 22 / Chapter 23
Chapter 24
All That Remains
They pulled the Impala into a barely lit parking lot on the outpatient side off the Meadville hospital campus, the clinic obviously not open. Ross was standing out there with a gurney ready, twirling a large key ring around his finger nervously. The young doctor's mouth tightened as he looked from Bobby to Sam to Dean, cataloguing their injuries.
"I've already decided I'm on a need to know basis, guys," Dr. Aiken said, helping Bobby and Sam get Dean out of the car and onto the rolling cot. "So, just tell me what I need to know."
Sam was immediately at a loss of how to explain how Dean got internal injuries from ectoplasm, nevermind the whole conversation about ghosts existing. "Um, so...did you see the second X-Men movie...?"
:::
:::
Apart from unexplainable blood loss, Dean's injuries weren't nearly as severe as they looked, a chest X-ray giving a nearly clean bill of health apart from some minor damage that Doogie swore up and down looked more like scar tissue than fresh damage - like a wound had been cauterized, even though the current livid bruising across Dean's chest told a story of recent injury.
Ross didn't bother to ask how an extremely ill man with no injuries turned into what looked like a trauma patient with no illness.
They waited out several hours together in the clinic waiting room - the only room with a TV, giving Dean blood, fluids and oxygen while watching him for more signs of a lung bleed. In the meantime, Ross stitched up the many still-oozing lacerations Sam had, while Bobby napped in a chair with an icepack draped across the eye that was now completely swollen shut.
"Ugh, CSI or Law & Order - time to shut this bitch up!" Dean cried, getting up on his elbows with the remote he'd confiscated as soon as he was awake enough to realize what was happening.
Sam just rolled his eyes and contented himself to read Newsweek as Dean flicked through the channels.
"...and in local early morning news, a small suburb of Meadville has been vandalized by a group of homeless men squatting in a foreclosed house. More on this on the four o'clock news..."
Sam's head snapped up and he caught Dean's gaze, the question hanging in the air between them: Are you ready to go?
Dean pulled out his IVs and swung his legs over the side of the gurney, raring to go. Nobody missed it when he had to lean heavily on the metal side-rail to keep upright once he stood up.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa.." Doogie says, "Where do you think you're going?"
Dean dabbed at the wound left from the IV with a bit of gauze. "Look, you're a bright guy - have already put two and two together. Let's just say me and my compatriots need to get the hell out of dodge."
Sam frowned deeply, not bothering to hide that something was bugging him.
"What?" Dean asked, a hint of exasperation in his tone.
"You sure you're up to heading out? You're not done your IV." Sam nodded toward the half-full bag of saline.
"I'm sure. We left blood on the floor there, Sam." Dean threw both Bobby and Sam a meaningful look. The next stop for the police was going to be looking at the local hospitals. If they were lucky, they could leave before the onsite security started combing the place. If they were extremely lucky, what was being pegged as vandalism wouldn't cause the police to run DNA across federal databases, because he didn't know what the FBI had on them - but it would not bode well for stopping the apocalypse if the government found out he and Sam weren't deceased.
"You're sure?" Sam raised a disbelieving eyebrow at the slouched form of his brother still leaning on the gurney.
Dean immediately straightened up, eyes darkening at the implication that he wasn't okay. Maybe he was still a little shaky, but he'd driven under a lot worse conditions.
"Yeah, I'm sure," he challenged.
Sam turned to Doogie. "What do you think?"
Really, Sam? Really? Dean thought, not hiding his frustration at all. It seemed like Sam was willing to trust anybody's opinion but his lately. Least the doc was human, though.
The kid moved toward him, asking silent permission to take his vitals as he outstretched his hands.
"Whatever. Make it quick." Dean muttered, sitting himself back down on the edge of the bed to submit to the exam.
Ross made quick work of taking his pulse and blood pressure. Dean couldn't help but chuckle when Sam reminded the doc to listen to his lungs and Doogie threw him a look, clearly not thrilled with being second-guessed.
"Well?" Dean asked.
Doogie scrunched up his face. "I'm on the fence."
"What does that mean?" Sam asked.
"Your blood pressure is still low, you're still dehydrated, and you're still wheezing a little, but that is probably from the scarring. Your lungs sound clearer every time you manage to cough and your temperature is fine."
"Is there something you can do for that? The scarring?" Sam asked. "We can stay if he needs treatment."
Dean shot a look at his younger brother. A younger brother who seemed to be enjoying pulling rank. Still, he kept his mouth shut and waited for the doc's diagnosis, because if he was honest, maybe it wasn't all Sam here - maybe it was that he'd been out of the driver's seat too long, laid up like he was, and was itching to be the boss again. Maybe if he was even more honest, he'd been feeling like that elder brother seat didn't fit nearly as well since he got back from Hell and had been less understanding about a lot of things when it came to Sam.
"There's nothing to do. You can do respiratory therapy - basically taking deep breaths, challenging your lungs. It's fairly mild damage, they'll compensate for the scarring sooner than you'd think." Dr. Aiken said.
"Right, so…breathe in and out, fluids. Good to know, dude, I'll make sure to do that for sure." Dean smirked as he stood up again, more slowly this time to avoid the head rush. He snagged the clean flannel shirt Sam had gotten him from the car and begin shrugging his arms into it, because the less you walk around covered in blood the less often people assumed you had heavy artillery stashed in your car. Plus, it was just gross.
Sam just stood there, stock still except for a hand nervously patting down his pocket as if looking for something. Now that the blood was more off his brother's face than on, Dean could see how unwell he looked.
Throwing a careless look at a half-full duffel bag, Sam grabbed it and made for the exit. "Just gonna toss this in the car," he mumbled, swallowing hard gulps of air.
"Dude, you okay?"
Rather than respond, the younger brother blew out a shaky breath and sat himself heavily on the closest waiting room chair, cold beads of sweat prickling up at his bloodied hairline as all color leeched from his face.
Dr. Aiken got to him before Dean did. "Alright, Sam, head between your knees, there you go."
Bobby jumped up and filled a paper cone at the water cooler, handing it over for Dean to administer, his brow furrowed in concern. "Doc, I thought you said maybe a mild concussion only."
The hunched Winchester began raising himself upward and almost as soon as he did, Dean's hand was weighing down on his shoulder heavily. "Down, boy."
"I'm not a dog, Dean."
"I dunno, dude, this shaggy hair? I'm pretty sure Disney made a flick about you."
Sam made a move upward again.
"Alright, I'm sorry, no hair jokes. Just chill, okay?" Dean crouched down and when Sam lifted his chin he saw his brother's worried eyes gazing at him.
"To answer your question - yes, only a mild concussion," the doctor said in response to Bobby. "He did lose a good deal of blood, though. Not enough to warrant a transfusion, but certainly enough that I wanted to put in an IV."
"…but Sam doesn't have an IV." Bobby said, posing as Captain Obvious, giving voice to the words Dean was clearly searching for.
"Sam?" Dean asked sternly, his arms supplicating for an explanation.
Sam sat up wearily, wiping a hand across his brow, giving the exit a look of yearning. His response came with no heat behind it, just a sigh. "I just didn't see any sense in him putting it in. Just gimme the duffel and I'll start packing the car. I'm okay, really."
"Yeah, 'cause nearly passing out is just buckets of health," Dean snapped. "Y'know, I don't get you man…"
"What don't you get?" Sam asked, a bit of ire slipping into his own tone.
Dean looked up, his face walling off once he remembered it wasn't just him and Sam in the room - the path of least resistance, because if there was one thing he was used to it was closing off.
"Nothing. Look, doc, can we get a to-go bag of one of these things for him?"
Doogie blinked as Dean nodded his head toward his younger brother. "You mean put a line in him? Sure, I can do that."
"Dean, you're the one who wanted to g-"
"-I know, Sam," Dean said, his eyes flashing warning even as his voice remained cool. "We're going to take Bobby back to his truck, we're going to get to the nearest motel outside the radius of the search zone, and you'll be in the passenger seat soaking up saline like the good little SpongeBob SquarePants you are."
"Glad that's settled then." Bobby said, effectively curtailing whatever protest the younger brother may have wanted to put up. A plan that got them all closer to health and away from a jail cell sounded just peachy to him.
Sam slid his butt backward in the curve of the plastic chair, rolling up his sleeve to submit to Dr. Aiken's ministrations with clenched teeth.
Now that he had a good deal of his energy back, Dean was realizing how often his own jaw was set in stone as well. Or maybe he'd just been on edge since Hell so much it was all part of the package. Maybe it was just now he was pulling his own head out of his ass long enough to look at his brother and realize how angry Sam looked. Even underneath the paleness of his normally vibrantly tan complexion, the dark circles under his eyes, lay an aura of lingering resentment.
Well, excuse me for breathing, his mind immediately smart-assed back.
And Dean faltered, because what if that was what Sam resented.
The thought seemed ridiculous and self-pitying, but he was the first to admit these days that he didn't know what the hell was going through Sam's mind. He began packing some of their things, turning his back toward the other men as he worked this out in his own head.
It was still Sam. Still his Sammy. The kid who was delighted when Dean had stolen chalk from school so his younger brother would have his very own hopscotch. The man who just last week got in an argument with him about who the best Enterprise captain was (to be fair, Dean started that one - James Tiberius Kirk was clearly the best choice).
Maybe Sam wasn't his Sammy anymore, though. Maybe it was Ruby's Sam. The hurt and indignation flared up brightly in his chest for moment, accentuating the dull ache left by burning ectoplasm. And then he felt Bobby's eyes directed his way, like common sense being drilled directly into his skull.
Him worrying about Ruby and Sam, how different is it than every other time? Since his dad first told Dean he had to save or kill his brother. Since they dealt with psychic visions and weirdo immunities. Since Yellow-Eyes insinuated that the Sam Dean brokered back with his soul wasn't truly Sam. Since they were informed that his brother had been lined up to lead the armies of Hell. And every other goddamn time scheming demonic assholes had lined up to tear the Winchesters down.
It only worked if they let them. It only worked if Dean let them. And maybe it only worked if Dean let him; if he let Alastair succeed in completely carving out every shred of humanity he might have had left and replace it with fear, anger, and suspicion.
He heard Bobby's steady voice clear as day in his head, "If you want out of the shadows, boy, 'bout time you're willing to step into the light."
Dean turned around with a deep breath - ignoring the ache. He gave the young doctor a friendly slug to the arm as way of a good-bye, picking up the extra bag of saline to rig up in the car.
Worn-out boots took their first true steps away from Hell on freshly waxed linoleum in the dusky pre-dawn hours of a western Pennsylvania town. The first steps of a long ass journey. It wasn't the giant leap of faith you'd have thought it, not when he knew exactly who he was walking towards.
And if Dean had to have faith in something, he'd sure as hell rather it be Sam than anything else. An unknowable God he couldn't punch in the face for lying. A set of beliefs he couldn't offer a solid hour of National Public Radio to three days later by way of a non-verbal apology for said punch. And neither offered him nearly so much in the way of hope.
He offered back in return the same hope he'd always had, that so long as it was him, Sam and the open road, things would be okay.
Epilogue
Dean coughed noisily in the driver's seat, the first cough in a month that elicited an eye roll rather than a glance of concern. Sam ignored his brother's oh-so-subtle efforts to get his attention, his eyes focused on the text Ruby had just sent him, wondering if he should get together with her. It scared him that losing blood from the gashes in his head had made him so shaky, scared him more that drinking demon blood later on had cured him instantly.
"Well, I hope those are sexy texts that are keeping you so enraptured."
Sam raised an eyebrow at Dean. "And if they are?"
"Then I'd accuse you of stealing my phone," he chuckled.
Sam twisted his head as they zoomed past the interstate ramp.
"We're not going to Bobby's?"
"Naw, think Bobby could use a break from us. Whaddya say, Sam, just us for a bit?"
Sam looked at his older brother as if he's completely taken by surprise. Lately, it had all been rough terrain between them, uneasy footing with no bridges. Peace treaties that minor skirmishes could crumble.
But he saw the beginnings of resolve and a lightness in Dean's eyes he hasn't seen in awhile, saw his brother.
Sam glanced at his phone for a moment as if considering what was on the screen and then put it away. For a bit.
"Yeah, man," a genuine smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "You and me."
Dean nodded in appreciation before giving the old girl a little gas, the engine humming soothingly, enjoying the warmth of the sun beaming into the car, chasing away the late autumn chill.
:::
This? This was what Cole didn't understand. Some soldiers fight for god, country, honor or respect.
Some fight so they keep home safe, even if it was just to keep idea of home intact.
Even if they never had a hope of actually making it back someday themselves.
Dean stretched an arm backward over the bench seat, the resistance of the pull and the vibration from the car doing just enough to ease the tension from his shoulder. Glancing at his brother again, he turned up the music a little and drove into the sun. Found himself driving right into the image Hell had purposefully stolen from him in order to break off a piece of his soul.
It fit right back into place.
For the first time in forever, he breathed easier.
:::
The End
Author: triquetralmoon
Rating: R
Genre: H/C (respiratory illness, PTSD)
Warnings: Swearing, violence, flashbacks of graphic torture
Spoilers: Season 4, this is set in between Criss Angel Is a Douchebag and Sex and Violence.
Summary: A soldier in the war to stop the apocalypse, Dean is running himself into the ground as he runs away from his time in Hell. What he pegs as a simple sickness soon becomes something much more deadly. The Winchesters can never catch a break. For some soldiers, the war is never over.
Author's Note: Final chapters and epilogue. It's been an amazing ride, guys. Thank you so much! (Master post up with prettyful banner later on)
Chapter 1 / Chapter 2 / Chapter 3 / Chapter 4 / Chapter 5 / Chapter 6 / Chapter 7 / Chapter 8 / Chapter 9 / Chapter 10 / Chapter 11 / Chapter 12 / Chapter 13 / Chapter 14 / Chapter 15 / Chapter 16 / Chapter 17 / Chapter 18 / Chapter 19 / Chapter 20 / Chapter 21 / Chapter 22 / Chapter 23
Chapter 24
All That Remains
They pulled the Impala into a barely lit parking lot on the outpatient side off the Meadville hospital campus, the clinic obviously not open. Ross was standing out there with a gurney ready, twirling a large key ring around his finger nervously. The young doctor's mouth tightened as he looked from Bobby to Sam to Dean, cataloguing their injuries.
"I've already decided I'm on a need to know basis, guys," Dr. Aiken said, helping Bobby and Sam get Dean out of the car and onto the rolling cot. "So, just tell me what I need to know."
Sam was immediately at a loss of how to explain how Dean got internal injuries from ectoplasm, nevermind the whole conversation about ghosts existing. "Um, so...did you see the second X-Men movie...?"
:::
:::
Apart from unexplainable blood loss, Dean's injuries weren't nearly as severe as they looked, a chest X-ray giving a nearly clean bill of health apart from some minor damage that Doogie swore up and down looked more like scar tissue than fresh damage - like a wound had been cauterized, even though the current livid bruising across Dean's chest told a story of recent injury.
Ross didn't bother to ask how an extremely ill man with no injuries turned into what looked like a trauma patient with no illness.
They waited out several hours together in the clinic waiting room - the only room with a TV, giving Dean blood, fluids and oxygen while watching him for more signs of a lung bleed. In the meantime, Ross stitched up the many still-oozing lacerations Sam had, while Bobby napped in a chair with an icepack draped across the eye that was now completely swollen shut.
"Ugh, CSI or Law & Order - time to shut this bitch up!" Dean cried, getting up on his elbows with the remote he'd confiscated as soon as he was awake enough to realize what was happening.
Sam just rolled his eyes and contented himself to read Newsweek as Dean flicked through the channels.
"...and in local early morning news, a small suburb of Meadville has been vandalized by a group of homeless men squatting in a foreclosed house. More on this on the four o'clock news..."
Sam's head snapped up and he caught Dean's gaze, the question hanging in the air between them: Are you ready to go?
Dean pulled out his IVs and swung his legs over the side of the gurney, raring to go. Nobody missed it when he had to lean heavily on the metal side-rail to keep upright once he stood up.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa.." Doogie says, "Where do you think you're going?"
Dean dabbed at the wound left from the IV with a bit of gauze. "Look, you're a bright guy - have already put two and two together. Let's just say me and my compatriots need to get the hell out of dodge."
Sam frowned deeply, not bothering to hide that something was bugging him.
"What?" Dean asked, a hint of exasperation in his tone.
"You sure you're up to heading out? You're not done your IV." Sam nodded toward the half-full bag of saline.
"I'm sure. We left blood on the floor there, Sam." Dean threw both Bobby and Sam a meaningful look. The next stop for the police was going to be looking at the local hospitals. If they were lucky, they could leave before the onsite security started combing the place. If they were extremely lucky, what was being pegged as vandalism wouldn't cause the police to run DNA across federal databases, because he didn't know what the FBI had on them - but it would not bode well for stopping the apocalypse if the government found out he and Sam weren't deceased.
"You're sure?" Sam raised a disbelieving eyebrow at the slouched form of his brother still leaning on the gurney.
Dean immediately straightened up, eyes darkening at the implication that he wasn't okay. Maybe he was still a little shaky, but he'd driven under a lot worse conditions.
"Yeah, I'm sure," he challenged.
Sam turned to Doogie. "What do you think?"
Really, Sam? Really? Dean thought, not hiding his frustration at all. It seemed like Sam was willing to trust anybody's opinion but his lately. Least the doc was human, though.
The kid moved toward him, asking silent permission to take his vitals as he outstretched his hands.
"Whatever. Make it quick." Dean muttered, sitting himself back down on the edge of the bed to submit to the exam.
Ross made quick work of taking his pulse and blood pressure. Dean couldn't help but chuckle when Sam reminded the doc to listen to his lungs and Doogie threw him a look, clearly not thrilled with being second-guessed.
"Well?" Dean asked.
Doogie scrunched up his face. "I'm on the fence."
"What does that mean?" Sam asked.
"Your blood pressure is still low, you're still dehydrated, and you're still wheezing a little, but that is probably from the scarring. Your lungs sound clearer every time you manage to cough and your temperature is fine."
"Is there something you can do for that? The scarring?" Sam asked. "We can stay if he needs treatment."
Dean shot a look at his younger brother. A younger brother who seemed to be enjoying pulling rank. Still, he kept his mouth shut and waited for the doc's diagnosis, because if he was honest, maybe it wasn't all Sam here - maybe it was that he'd been out of the driver's seat too long, laid up like he was, and was itching to be the boss again. Maybe if he was even more honest, he'd been feeling like that elder brother seat didn't fit nearly as well since he got back from Hell and had been less understanding about a lot of things when it came to Sam.
"There's nothing to do. You can do respiratory therapy - basically taking deep breaths, challenging your lungs. It's fairly mild damage, they'll compensate for the scarring sooner than you'd think." Dr. Aiken said.
"Right, so…breathe in and out, fluids. Good to know, dude, I'll make sure to do that for sure." Dean smirked as he stood up again, more slowly this time to avoid the head rush. He snagged the clean flannel shirt Sam had gotten him from the car and begin shrugging his arms into it, because the less you walk around covered in blood the less often people assumed you had heavy artillery stashed in your car. Plus, it was just gross.
Sam just stood there, stock still except for a hand nervously patting down his pocket as if looking for something. Now that the blood was more off his brother's face than on, Dean could see how unwell he looked.
Throwing a careless look at a half-full duffel bag, Sam grabbed it and made for the exit. "Just gonna toss this in the car," he mumbled, swallowing hard gulps of air.
"Dude, you okay?"
Rather than respond, the younger brother blew out a shaky breath and sat himself heavily on the closest waiting room chair, cold beads of sweat prickling up at his bloodied hairline as all color leeched from his face.
Dr. Aiken got to him before Dean did. "Alright, Sam, head between your knees, there you go."
Bobby jumped up and filled a paper cone at the water cooler, handing it over for Dean to administer, his brow furrowed in concern. "Doc, I thought you said maybe a mild concussion only."
The hunched Winchester began raising himself upward and almost as soon as he did, Dean's hand was weighing down on his shoulder heavily. "Down, boy."
"I'm not a dog, Dean."
"I dunno, dude, this shaggy hair? I'm pretty sure Disney made a flick about you."
Sam made a move upward again.
"Alright, I'm sorry, no hair jokes. Just chill, okay?" Dean crouched down and when Sam lifted his chin he saw his brother's worried eyes gazing at him.
"To answer your question - yes, only a mild concussion," the doctor said in response to Bobby. "He did lose a good deal of blood, though. Not enough to warrant a transfusion, but certainly enough that I wanted to put in an IV."
"…but Sam doesn't have an IV." Bobby said, posing as Captain Obvious, giving voice to the words Dean was clearly searching for.
"Sam?" Dean asked sternly, his arms supplicating for an explanation.
Sam sat up wearily, wiping a hand across his brow, giving the exit a look of yearning. His response came with no heat behind it, just a sigh. "I just didn't see any sense in him putting it in. Just gimme the duffel and I'll start packing the car. I'm okay, really."
"Yeah, 'cause nearly passing out is just buckets of health," Dean snapped. "Y'know, I don't get you man…"
"What don't you get?" Sam asked, a bit of ire slipping into his own tone.
Dean looked up, his face walling off once he remembered it wasn't just him and Sam in the room - the path of least resistance, because if there was one thing he was used to it was closing off.
"Nothing. Look, doc, can we get a to-go bag of one of these things for him?"
Doogie blinked as Dean nodded his head toward his younger brother. "You mean put a line in him? Sure, I can do that."
"Dean, you're the one who wanted to g-"
"-I know, Sam," Dean said, his eyes flashing warning even as his voice remained cool. "We're going to take Bobby back to his truck, we're going to get to the nearest motel outside the radius of the search zone, and you'll be in the passenger seat soaking up saline like the good little SpongeBob SquarePants you are."
"Glad that's settled then." Bobby said, effectively curtailing whatever protest the younger brother may have wanted to put up. A plan that got them all closer to health and away from a jail cell sounded just peachy to him.
Sam slid his butt backward in the curve of the plastic chair, rolling up his sleeve to submit to Dr. Aiken's ministrations with clenched teeth.
Now that he had a good deal of his energy back, Dean was realizing how often his own jaw was set in stone as well. Or maybe he'd just been on edge since Hell so much it was all part of the package. Maybe it was just now he was pulling his own head out of his ass long enough to look at his brother and realize how angry Sam looked. Even underneath the paleness of his normally vibrantly tan complexion, the dark circles under his eyes, lay an aura of lingering resentment.
Well, excuse me for breathing, his mind immediately smart-assed back.
And Dean faltered, because what if that was what Sam resented.
The thought seemed ridiculous and self-pitying, but he was the first to admit these days that he didn't know what the hell was going through Sam's mind. He began packing some of their things, turning his back toward the other men as he worked this out in his own head.
It was still Sam. Still his Sammy. The kid who was delighted when Dean had stolen chalk from school so his younger brother would have his very own hopscotch. The man who just last week got in an argument with him about who the best Enterprise captain was (to be fair, Dean started that one - James Tiberius Kirk was clearly the best choice).
Maybe Sam wasn't his Sammy anymore, though. Maybe it was Ruby's Sam. The hurt and indignation flared up brightly in his chest for moment, accentuating the dull ache left by burning ectoplasm. And then he felt Bobby's eyes directed his way, like common sense being drilled directly into his skull.
Him worrying about Ruby and Sam, how different is it than every other time? Since his dad first told Dean he had to save or kill his brother. Since they dealt with psychic visions and weirdo immunities. Since Yellow-Eyes insinuated that the Sam Dean brokered back with his soul wasn't truly Sam. Since they were informed that his brother had been lined up to lead the armies of Hell. And every other goddamn time scheming demonic assholes had lined up to tear the Winchesters down.
It only worked if they let them. It only worked if Dean let them. And maybe it only worked if Dean let him; if he let Alastair succeed in completely carving out every shred of humanity he might have had left and replace it with fear, anger, and suspicion.
He heard Bobby's steady voice clear as day in his head, "If you want out of the shadows, boy, 'bout time you're willing to step into the light."
Dean turned around with a deep breath - ignoring the ache. He gave the young doctor a friendly slug to the arm as way of a good-bye, picking up the extra bag of saline to rig up in the car.
Worn-out boots took their first true steps away from Hell on freshly waxed linoleum in the dusky pre-dawn hours of a western Pennsylvania town. The first steps of a long ass journey. It wasn't the giant leap of faith you'd have thought it, not when he knew exactly who he was walking towards.
And if Dean had to have faith in something, he'd sure as hell rather it be Sam than anything else. An unknowable God he couldn't punch in the face for lying. A set of beliefs he couldn't offer a solid hour of National Public Radio to three days later by way of a non-verbal apology for said punch. And neither offered him nearly so much in the way of hope.
He offered back in return the same hope he'd always had, that so long as it was him, Sam and the open road, things would be okay.
Epilogue
Dean coughed noisily in the driver's seat, the first cough in a month that elicited an eye roll rather than a glance of concern. Sam ignored his brother's oh-so-subtle efforts to get his attention, his eyes focused on the text Ruby had just sent him, wondering if he should get together with her. It scared him that losing blood from the gashes in his head had made him so shaky, scared him more that drinking demon blood later on had cured him instantly.
"Well, I hope those are sexy texts that are keeping you so enraptured."
Sam raised an eyebrow at Dean. "And if they are?"
"Then I'd accuse you of stealing my phone," he chuckled.
Sam twisted his head as they zoomed past the interstate ramp.
"We're not going to Bobby's?"
"Naw, think Bobby could use a break from us. Whaddya say, Sam, just us for a bit?"
Sam looked at his older brother as if he's completely taken by surprise. Lately, it had all been rough terrain between them, uneasy footing with no bridges. Peace treaties that minor skirmishes could crumble.
But he saw the beginnings of resolve and a lightness in Dean's eyes he hasn't seen in awhile, saw his brother.
Sam glanced at his phone for a moment as if considering what was on the screen and then put it away. For a bit.
"Yeah, man," a genuine smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "You and me."
Dean nodded in appreciation before giving the old girl a little gas, the engine humming soothingly, enjoying the warmth of the sun beaming into the car, chasing away the late autumn chill.
:::
This? This was what Cole didn't understand. Some soldiers fight for god, country, honor or respect.
Some fight so they keep home safe, even if it was just to keep idea of home intact.
Even if they never had a hope of actually making it back someday themselves.
Dean stretched an arm backward over the bench seat, the resistance of the pull and the vibration from the car doing just enough to ease the tension from his shoulder. Glancing at his brother again, he turned up the music a little and drove into the sun. Found himself driving right into the image Hell had purposefully stolen from him in order to break off a piece of his soul.
It fit right back into place.
For the first time in forever, he breathed easier.
:::
The End