bells pond | year one.
In the beginning, Sam considered Bells Pond to be Hell on Earth.
But Sam knew about Hell. A lifetime ago, he'd seen it in the fire-terror that ringed Dean's pupils. Hell has spoken in his own mind-finely shaped whispers that threaten on one beat and seduce on the next-but the Devil's voice has remained silent for nearly a year.
Bells Pond isn't Hell, nor is it Heaven. Neither here nor there, the little town sits. It feels like Limbo, where the world stops and ceases to turn. Sam knows differently. Beyond the bleached plains and empty fields, the world keeps going, spinning out of control on the tip of some great power's finger. The object of a strife waged since the stars were newly born, a war Sam is no longer a part of. His heart still beats for the battle, and for the one he hopes is still out there, leading the charge.
By now, Hell must be everywhere except Bells Pond. Sam wishes he could be anywhere else.
March 28th
The Wanderer stops outside of Sam's house at a quarter to eight on Monday morning. Sam doesn't bother going out to meet him. He scrambles three eggs, eats them without salt, and drinks his milk straight from the carton before he deigns to step onto his porch.
"Sam."
"You know, I was getting used to you leaving me alone."
"It was what you wanted," the angel says. Today, his blue eyes are as clear as the sky and the hem of his pants are dirt-tarnished. "Today is different."
Sam snorts. "Nothing's different. I woke up and I was still here." The only clouds Sam can see are gathered on the western horizon. Thick and low, they throw themselves against the boundary the way Sam has done so often. The rest of the sky is a glorious blue Sam takes little interest in. "Did you do something to the weather?"
The Wanderer continues to look at Sam as if he's an amusing pet to keep around and poke at. "I can't control the weather."
"Then why is today different?"
"You'll see. I assume you'll go back inside after this," he answers, eyebrow piqued. "Perhaps to attempt another escape?"
Sam repeats the familiar line. "I won't stop trying until I'm gone."
"Good." A grin splits the Wanderer's face; Sam scowls. "I'll know where you'll be. Have a good day, Sam."
That is different. "Where I'll be for what?"
But the Wanderer is already walking away and he won't turn around. Sam taps the flickering bulb in his hallway light when he goes back inside. Notes, theories and concepts scribbled over to the point they've become unintelligible, fan out across the kitchen table where they've gone untouched for... Sam doesn't bother remembering. Not long enough to forget the futility of new ideas.
Time and time again the Wanderer has taken pains to make sure Sam knew he wasn't leaving. Calm reason hadn't shaken Sam's drive so he switched to cutting remarks, slicing Sam with his ice-cold tone until he deduced the perfect blow.
"I told you that you were done fighting, Sam."
"But it's my-"
"Your job? Or, your destiny? There is no destiny. You must realize, not everyone wanted you out there fighting. You're here because it was easier and they wanted you out of the way."
"They who? If it's true, and I can't get out of here, then why are you still keeping it a secret?"
"It's not important."
"The hell it's not!"
"Think of this as one big time-out for you, Sam. A chance to get your priorities straight."
Those were the last words Sam had heard from the Wanderer before today. Five months of silence hadn't given Sam the relief he'd hoped for, the angel's sharp words haunting even without his physical presence.
Sam's priorities had never wavered; they'd been a clear, driving force since Lucifer was set free and they were not orders to be compromised or put straight. He needed to stop the Apocalypse. Sam might not be Heaven's Chosen One, but he'd been bent to his task. The chance to redeem himself lay at the end of Sam's road, a winding and unforgiving trail littered with pieces Sam had lost along the way. In his first dark months in Bells Pond, the Wanderer had known exactly how to dig at Sam. Now, he's back with a fresh game and Sam is out of practice.
Pacing uneasily, Sam keeps one eye on the road in case the infuriatingly obtuse angel comes back.
Sam hasn't lacked company over the last year, though he wouldn't classify his existence as anything other than lonely. He sees Riley more than Gus, but the old carpenter hasn't been a stranger. The other people unfortunate enough to be dropped in Bells Pond keep to themselves; petrified or lonely, they scarcely leave their homes. Sam catches a glimpse once in a while when he's out on his constant patrols of the boundaries, never approaching. He knows Gus does what he can for them, patching up their old places and leaving them be.
"Can't force 'em out," he'd confided in Sam one day a few months past, both picking at a lunch Sam had thrown together in exchange for Gus's handiwork on his roof. "Doesn't mean I'm not worried. It's no good for 'em to be spending so much time alone like that. I figure if I don't check, they might have-" He'd left it at that. Sam had understood.
Terrified or not, each person Sam met or heard about in Bells Pond was just that. A person, as regular as Gus or Riley, with no solid guess as to why they'd been plucked out of their lives and dropped here. Sam didn't doubt that his presence there was due to one of three archangels. Zachariah-douche bag of the heavens-might've kicked Sam to the curb to rein Dean in. Same went for Michael, though his motives were a bigger mystery. Lucifer though-he was the biggest conundrum. He had cause to want Sam away from Dean and Castiel, but to leave Sam here? The Devil had already bought his ticket-he was just waiting in line for the ride.
The others, though-Sam wonders what heaven or hell wants with them.
Sam's clothes are in the cramped mudroom, folded or hung over the old washer and dryer. He grabs a shirt from the closest hanger and a pair of jeans sitting on the dryer to replace his ratty t-shirt and flannel pants, then wanders back towards the kitchen to decide what to do with the rest of his day.
Day Three Hundred and Sixty Five begins the same way as all the rest.
The knock comes ten minutes later.
Gus never bothers to knock. When she comes over, Riley tends to use the back door; it's closer to the kitchen and she's usually carrying whatever she baked for Sam.
A large body stands in the path of the morning sunlight that normally filters through Sam's front door, throwing its bulky shadow across in Sam's front hall. Warped by the weight of time, the oak door creaks as it swings open-the last sound Sam hears before his world goes silent.
Dean is smiling at him, back-lit by the sun. His lips part, shaping around words in slow motion. A light breeze picks up; it must be playing the blades of grass against one another in a dry crackle, the cool wind sending leaves across his gutter with soft scratches. Sam hears nothing, lost in the dead roar. The wave of silence shatters.
"Hey, Sammy." There's a texture to his voice, a dimension it lacked in Sam's head. Dean blinks, focuses to prove Sam isn't a trick of the light. "Miss me?"
Sam's toe catches on the threshold; Dean hooks him before he trips. Solid arms are suddenly around Sam, digging into his shirt, testing his build like Sam could be an empty shell instead of the real thing. Sam curves over his brother, chin forced against Dean's shoulder and their edges match up. Dean is real.
"Dean-" Sam has to push the necessary breath out of his lungs. "I thought you might be dead."
Dean snorts dismissively, angling his face away to look at Sam. "You think anyone would let me rest in peace, huh?" He brings his palm down on Sam's shoulder before pushing back.
There are new creases in Dean's leather jacket, wear marks and scuffs he's never noticed before. Whatever he's done, Dean's life has been very different from Sam's over the last year. The marks speak to Sam of hunts he hasn't been around for, battles Dean's had to fight on his own. Sam is too happy to let them matter; the sight of his brother breathing and whole loosens every knot tied within him.
"How the hell did you find me?" Sam lets Dean pass through the front door. "Was it the angels? Did one of them finally tell you where I was?"
"Sam-" Dean pauses, eyes passing over everything that's made up Sam's life for the last year. "I like what you've done with the place. Very Little House on the Prairie."
"Come on," Sam laughs shakily. "Just for that, you're not getting the tour." Figures his brother would go straight for a joke. The house doesn't matter anymore-Sam just wants to go. "Has it really been a year? I mean, it could have-"
Dean shakes his head. "No tricks. Man, the last time I saw you was in Tennessee."
"Did you figure out who sent me here? I can't imagine what you must have thought. God, Dean." Sam hopes his brother can't see him shaking. "I was going out of my mind with no idea what the hell was going on."
"I'm glad you're okay. You're a sight, seriously. I thought, maybe..." Dean sighs. "I thought a lot of things, I guess."
"Me too." Sam's recycled the same horrible possibilities all year. "I can't believe they did this to us. I fucking tried everything to get out of here. Are you-I mean, is everything okay out there?"
"Out there? You're not in some bio-dome." Dean smiles.
"I might as well be!" The kitchen's cramped with two people; Dean fills Sam's atmosphere more completely than Gus or Riley ever could. "I don't know anything, and I had no way of finding out-"
"Hey, Sam. It's okay." Dean pins him, forehead tight. "I'm alright, and the rest of the world? It's surviving, I guess."
"You guess?"
Dean's eyes drift away over the nicked wooden paneling and the stack of dirty dishes piled haphazardly in the sink. Cleaning hasn't been one of Sam's priorities, but it's not his house and Sam tramples the urge to give the kitchen a quick cleaning to impress his brother. He's been alone for way too long.
"Yeah, I guess. I'm not sure what you want to know."
"The freakin' Apocalypse, Dean! Remember that?" It almost comes out as a joke but Sam feels the edge in his voice. He can read the discomfort in every line on Dean's face. He'd looked so perfect when Sam opened the door, surrounded by sunlight, but now the imperfections manifest in Sam's eyes. He sees a deeper ruggedness in Dean, a tool used too often that's starting to wear. "Are you still fighting?"
"Well, the war's not over yet."
Strangely, Sam breathes easier. "What are we still doing here? A year, Dean-I've been trying to escape and I just need to get out. Get me back in the fight." Sam needs to rally, get his chance to save the world he so blindly cast into shadow.
"It's not that simple."
Sam fixes Dean with a sharp stare. Strong emotions are clouding around Dean in a haze.
"Can't we just, I don't know, relax for a bit?"
Sam scowls. "You want to relax?"
"I just got here." Dean sinks into one of the kitchen chairs, sliding his jacket off and draping it over the back. "I haven't seen you in so fucking long. Can't we talk?"
He's missing something big; it crowds into the kitchen between Sam and Dean. Sam's perfectly willing to talk, but he wants to be well on his way out of this forsaken town while he's doing it.
"Sure." Sam takes the other chair, wood worn down to fit perfectly along the back of Sam's legs as he spent long hours pouring over his futile scribblings, filling his laptop with long lists of what he knows and even lengthier lists of what he doesn't. "Just tell me what's going on and then we can get out of here."
"You're ready to go, huh?" Dean tilts his chin up. "This doesn't seem so bad. You've got everything you need, some peace and quiet-"
"Dean," Sam stops him before it gets worse. "This isn't a vacation. Someone is keeping me out of the fight-so I wouldn't say yes, so you would say yes, I don't know-but we've got to get out of here." To Sam, the danger of having them both in Bells Pond is more than apparent.
"Sam-"
"No." Sam's palm strikes the table. The sharp sound sends Dean to his feet and Sam follows. "Either you don't get it or you're hiding something, so what the hell?"
"I said yes."
Once again the sound rushes out of Sam's ears to leave him gaping. "You-" He barely hears his own words. "You what?"
Shadows creep into Dean's eyes. "I said yes to Michael."
Every muscle in Sam's body tenses and he tears out with his fists. Slow motion, like striking under water, he sees Dean's eyes go wide-surprised but accepting-and his jaw squares for impact. The resignation, that Dean is prepared for violence, makes Sam shift his stance at the last possible second and his fist shatters the drywall inches from Dean's temple. Plaster flakes and dust bloom between them. Sam steps out of the cloud, into the hallway. Dean's face is a too tempting of a bull's eye.
Dean steps haltingly around the corner. Sam's gratified to see his guilt.
"Come on," Dean mutters through his clenched jaw. "I'll give you a free shot."
"You think that's what it's gonna take?"
Dean waits for Sam to lash out, but Sam's mind is busy flashing through the instances when Dean had refused the angels; each time Dean threw offers back in their faces.
"We were never supposed to say yes." Sam hisses. Together. United. It was all they'd had left before, even if the concept had lost luster every day. "Free will, remember?" He pleads.
Dean laughs with little humor. He's dry and deprecating, repulsed by his own reaction. "Did you really believe in free will, Sam?"
"I thought we did."
"Yeah, well. Whoever was trying to sell us free will was full of shit."
He doesn't know how Dean can say it, or what events turned him so completely from what he and Sam believed. The gap of time between them has never stood wider.
"You just gave up?"
"Sam-
"Did you even care that I disappeared? Or were you too busy being their sword to wonder what happened to me?"
Sam catches a spark of emotion cross Dean's face.
"You think I would have let this happen if there'd been another way?" Dean's shout hits Sam from every side. "What, did you have some grand plan you didn't tell me about? I don't know if you'd noticed, Sam, but we took two steps back every-damn-day with nothing to make up for it."
"What happened?" Sam begs. "What changed to make you think that it was okay to say yes?"
"It's not important-"
"Dean!"
"I struck a deal, okay?"
A deal. That word severs Sam's last sense.
"I thought we weren't making deals anymore!" He hits Dean where it'll hurt the most.
"There was no choice left! Fuck, Sam-" Dean's fists are clenched; Sam's front door won't withstand the battering if Dean lashes out. "We were spinning our wheels. I didn't know what else to do."
"So you sold me out to Michael, is that it? The angels wanted me out of the way and, once they had you, I was worth nothing."
"I can't make you understand." Sam picks up an echo from the past: Dean, just risen from Hell, questioning everything Sam said or did. All Sam had wanted was for Dean to understand, to trust Sam beyond anything he could explain in order for them both to move on. Now, Dean is playing with Sam's life with the same disregard.
"You're gonna have to try, Dean," Sam grates.
He thinks Dean's going to walk out of the house and, for a moment, Sam considers letting him. If Dean was allowed into Bells Pond, maybe he has his own way out and Sam can hitch a ride on whatever angel mojo Dean's got working.
Dean paces and Sam feels the pent up energy, wishing Dean would use it to talk instead. He steps through the patches of sunlight streaming through the windows and Sam glances out to the empty road where the Wanderer had stood barely an hour ago. The angel's earlier behavior makes sense. If he knew Dean was coming-
"You've got to be kidding," Sam huffs. "Your angels wouldn't leave me here without a babysitter? Some deal, Dean."
"They're not my angels," Dean protests with a new vehemence. "I've still got Cas hanging around. He wasn't too keen on this plan either. And Michael-"
"How's that work anyway?" Sam butts in. "Did he have to let you out for this little field trip? Visitation hours while you're back in your own body, or is he here, too?"
Dean stares hard for a moment, gauging what Sam really wants to know. "It's not-it doesn't work the way we thought it would. I'm not just some suit Michael's wearing to the prom. He needs me."
"We knew that."
"No, I mean he needs me to do things. Things only his vessel can do." Dean crosses his arms and leans, a poor attempt at nonchalance. "He hasn't taken me for a joyride yet." A tic in Dean's jaw, gone in an instant. He's lying, Sam's positive. "I'm not sure what to tell you. I asked for help and he answered."
"And just like that, you trusted him after everything we'd promised?" Sam thinks of the times he'd sworn Lucifer would never get the better of him. A Winchester promise has always meant more, at least to Sam. A bond, an ineffable part of their code. "People are going to die, Dean-"
"They're dying anyway!" Dean's arms whip up angrily. "This is about an end to the war, getting Lucifer back in the prison where he belongs. And you-you coming here was part of the deal."
Saw's jaw locks, teeth clenching against a tirade of emotion flooding between to his temples to throb beneath the skin. Everything he's known for the last year erupts.
"This-you did this?" His voice booms through the silence and Dean balks.
"It was the best way."
"I was-I had no idea, and you're saying that you planned this?"
"Think about it, Sam!" Dean defends. "You're safe. Michael told me it could take years before Lucifer's back in the slammer. Time's, like, nothing to the angels, so where would that leave you? The longer you were exposed, the greater the chance for-"
"I was never going to say yes," Sam spits. "I swore."
"I know." Dean's voice gentles, a pitiful attempt to stroke Sam down. "This way we're both protected."
"Here I was knowing jack shit and all this time you knew exactly-"
"I didn't know a damn thing, Sam!"
"How can you say that?" Sam asks, throwing his hands in Dean's face. "You made the deal. You sent me here. I can't believe I thought about how freaked you'd be."
"I was still worried! All I had was Michael's word." Dean blocks his angry gestures. "He could have lied. All those protections he promised could have been a joke and nothing would have stopped Lucifer from finding you and forcing you to say yes."
"Then why'd you do it?"
"Sam-"
"No." Sam flings it back in Dean's face. "Tell me."
"You heard me! We were out of options."
"To stop the Apocalypse, right. Got that," Sam snaps nastily. Now he's the one crossing his arms, telling Dean exactly what he thinks. "If this is the way it's supposed to go, I could have helped. You didn't need to hand me over."
The challenge drops unanswered, Dean stepping into Sam's messy living room, eyes drawn anywhere but Sam's face. He sits in the only empty square foot of space on the couch. Lingering, Sam watches Dean rub his hand down his face, throwing new lines into deeper relief.
Less than an hour ago Sam had been utterly relieved-a year's worth of pressure gone the instant he saw his brother on the stoop. The reality couldn't be more different, now that arguments outnumber answers.
"You've got to tell me." Sam lowers his voice to implore rather than demand. A little brother seeking reassurance. "Whatever it is."
"How many times did we hear that we're each other's weakness? Or how badly we've messed each other up, huh?"
"That's bullshit," comes Sam's knee-jerk response.
"Is it?" Dean asks. "So what we were doing before, that's what you wanted?"
No, Sam answers silently. Nothing about before was what he wanted.
Before. Meaning before Bells Pond. It will mark a permanent divide in Sam's life. Before his brother deemed him unworthy of the war they started and had him sent off the field deliberately.
"We were doing the best we could."
"You mean we were getting our asses kicked." Yeah, that's pretty much what Sam means. "We were killing ourselves and for what? For all those bastards to keep telling us what we were doing wrong? No thanks."
"Doesn't explain why you made the deal."
Dean sighs. "Michael said he could keep you safe, that this place was protected by another archangel. I was tired, Sam. So fucking tired. This way we both got what we wanted."
"You have no idea what I wanted!" Sam takes large steps into the living room.
"The same thing you've always wanted, Sam. You might have said differently once or twice, but I knew." Dean's voice is ragged. "I never blamed you for wanting out. We were becoming, I don't know, but we weren't brothers anymore. Nothing's been the same since I came back and I never figured out how to get us back."
"That's not true," Sam argues. "We've always been on the same side."
"Same side or not, we were losing and things were getting worse." Sam can't read any emotion in Dean's voice, words striking with a certain finality. "It's better this way. You don't have to worry about me, and you can live whatever life you want."
"Are you crazy?" Sam's gestures encompass the room. "This is no-where near any life I would choose. I belong out there."
"Just think about it, Sam," Dean cuts in. "The end of the world isn't Michael's thing. He doesn't want more people to die, or some angelic final solution. It might take a while, but we can get Lucifer back in his prison and keep him there. The seals had to be broken to get him out and they need to be replaced to lock him away. Same cage, same rules.
"With Michael's help, I can do that. It shouldn't be our fight-we didn't sign up for this. I didn't write my name down, you never volunteered for the yellow-eyed demon to make you a vessel, but this is how we finish it."
"And you couldn't talk to me?"
"I beat you to the punch. There was something in the way you looked at me... There's a reason you left over and over. Now, it's on me."
"You don't get to be a martyr."
"Technically-"
"No." Sam points as if the tip of his finger is the only thing keeping Dean on the other side of the room. Any closer and Sam would hit him, free-shot or no. "You don't get to pretend you're doing the right thing."
"You wanted a normal life."
Dean's fighting with bows and arrows. Useless against Sam's artillery. "Nothing about this is normal!"
Dean shrugs, playing off the hurt in Sam's voice. "Trust me, this is better than the real world."
"I wouldn't know." Sam wishes the house weren't so small; four walls have never felt so much like a prison. He has nowhere to hide, no motel room to storm out of and crawl back to. Another routine from their old life that his brother fucked up. "The Apocalypse is bigger than just you and me. However you thought this would help me, you're wrong. I need to be a part of this."
The line is so familiar. It's the second time Sam has begged Dean not to cut him out. Banished to the edge of every conflict through no choice of his own.
"I'm so sick of hearing that it's bigger than us," Dean says. "Like we never had a choice."
Sam has never been sure they had a choice. "You can keep your deal with Michael, and we'll work on the seals together." Sam hasn't begun to understand what will need to be done. "Just get me out of here and we'll finish it."
"Sorry, Sammy. It's a done deal."
The fight drains out of Sam. The anger he's tried to temper does not. If what Dean is saying is true-and God, how could it not?-locking horns won't get them anywhere. It's clear in Dean's expression that he's done trying to make Sam understand. There are a thousand questions left unanswered but Sam has no idea where to begin.
He's not sure how much time passes in their silent stand-off. Shadows slide gradually across the floor, reaching to Sam's feet.
"Why'd you come here?" Sam asks without thinking minutes or hours later. "If this is said and done, then why bother showing up at all? Why not get one of the angels to tell you, 'Hey, your brother's alive but slowly going crazy?'"
"It's part of the-"
"Don't say it's part of the deal," Sam cuts him off. "Just don't."
"I don't trust anyone," Dean says. "I had to check for myself that you were okay and that Michael kept his end of the bargain. He might play a fair hand, but Michael didn't give me much to go on about where you were. The things I pictured were-"
"Were what?" Sam crosses his arms. "Awful? It wasn't any easier for me! At least you knew what was supposed to happen, but I had nothing, not even a way to know if you were even still alive, or if you thought I had gone off and said yes to Lucifer."
"I never would have thought that."
"Right," Sam snaps. "Because saying yes is clearly not something you would have considered. Oh, wait."
"Sam-"
"I'm the one that got shafted in this deal."
"I've been having dreams all year," Dean says unexpectedly, his entire body shrinking back into the sofa cushions. "At first, I thought it was Lucifer or one of the other really douchey angels fucking with me, but Michael said that was impossible. He's the gatekeeper to my head, I guess. No one goes in without him knowing. But it was all me, dreaming about you and getting a front row seat as Lucifer tore into you. I had to watch as he hunted you down, protected or not, and I couldn't wake up."
"Even if he'd found me, I wouldn't say yes."
"Try telling that to my subconscious," Dean says. "I dreamed some fucked-up shit. I thought everything Michael told me was crap."
Sam says nothing. His own dreams come to mind, the way Lucifer exploits his only avenue of persuasion. Telling Dean about the dreams may give him the final piece he needs to justify his choice. A psychic connection to Public Enemy Number One would be more ammunition.
"I only get a day."
Sam looks over. "To do what?"
"To make sure you're alright," he answers. "That was the bargain."
Every year. Every year. Years.
The shock is enough to crowd Sam out of the room. Wisely, Dean stays put.
With enough distance, Sam regains control of himself. It's easier to pretend for a moment that Dean's not there, to return to the monotony he's used to away from his brother's revelations. Alone, Sam would fall back on his routine. That's tempting, but Dean's presence is tangible throughout the house, impossible to ignore.
Sam aches for a distraction. In the kitchen, he finds the can of soup he was planning to open for lunch. Close enough. He adds enough water to make two full portions and sets the soup to simmer on the stove. Water droplets hiss and crackle as they slide down the sides of the pot and hit the burner. Pouring half into a bowl, he leaves the rest on the cooling burner. The broth is too watered down and the chicken stringy. Sam has a feeling even prime rib would taste like mud.
After forty-five minutes of uneasy silence, Dean walks into the kitchen and sees the leftovers. Without asking, he takes the cooled pot and the spoon Sam left, propping himself against the counter.
"Mind if I look around?" Dean eventually asks. His voice is carefully casual.
"You bought it."
Dean's face twists unattractively then recovers. "How about the grand tour?"
Classic Dean. Ignore the big issues and harp on the little things. "Can't you give yourself the tour?"
"I might get lost."
Sam laughs before he can tell his mouth to hold it in. Not even Dean is talented enough to get lost in Sam's six-room prison, but his pathetic stare won't let up so Sam nods. And as he leads his brother around, Sam keeps his senses alert for any clue-anything Dean says or does-that could give him a way out of Bells Pond.
Dean may say it's written in stone, but Sam's no one if not a Winchester. Even stone has a weakness.
The lemonade Riley left in Sam's fridge a few days ago is too sour, puckering Sam's cheeks before he swallows. But it's cold and Dean doesn't comment on the tartness. They ended the tour on Sam's front steps, the late afternoon sun surprisingly warm. It's one of the nicest days Sam's had; he refuses to consider why.
Sam gained nothing from the tour beyond a greater understanding of how Michael planned to avert the Apocalypse. Dean had spoken haltingly, a lifeless repetition of facts.
Apparently, Michael wasn't keen on bringing about the end of humanity unlike Zachariah and his goons. By possessing Dean, Michael could kill Lucifer and end the war decisively but with casualties in the millions. If Lucifer managed to get his hands on Sam, it meant Sam's death as well and, for Dean, that option was off the table entirely.
Beyond what any human knew-or, for that matter, most angels-there was another way. Breaking sixty-six seals had been good enough to spring Lucifer out of the basement, but they could be replaced. New seals fashioned over the old to send the Devil back to Hell.
Michael's plan had one essential ingredient. His vessel.
On any other day, in any other town, Sam might approve. Michael's proposal had all the elegance of a plan they'd searched for since the Big Bad Voodoo Daddy got loose. Sam would give almost anything to bind Lucifer back to the Pit and keep him there.
He won't give his brother.
They may be two very different men, but the Winchester brothers only need one answer when the other is threatened.
"Are you seeing anybody?"
Sam turns. "Excuse me?"
Dean swishes the ice around in his glass. "You know, have you met anyone around here?"
"Tell me you're kidding," Sam groans. He expects a playful nudge or tease but they haven't been that comfortable in a long time.
"Nothing, huh?" Dean leans forward, elbows to knees. "That's gotta be rough," he jokes as if Sam's bantering right back instead of listening awkwardly. "Hope they at least gave you something to help with that."
"Yeah, Dean. Sure." What else can he say? Apparently his brotherly interest in Sam's sex life can't be stopped by insignificant things like the Apocalypse. Right. Dean's making a stab at normal; Sam can't quite get there.
Sensing he's been brushed off, Dean stares out at the road and the water tower punctuating the horizon. Sam wonders about Michael, examining Dean's blunt profile for... he's not too sure. A change, one tiny detail out of place that Sam can pick out instantly. Not for the first time today, Dean's eyes are distant, drawn far out into the world beyond Bells Pond.
"Is he with you all the time?"
"Hmm?" Dean angles towards Sam, bottom lip pulled between his teeth.
"Michael."
"You know I don't like living with strangers, Sam." Dean refocuses in the here-and-now and Sam's satisfied they don't have an angelic chaperon, at least.
"I'm sorry."
The soft apology comes after another long silence. Sam had started to think they were done with words. They'd moved inside as the air started to cool, sitting in the living room.
"Dean-"
"For the deal, everything." He doesn't look over. "That there wasn't another way, and I just want you to-"
Sam knows where he's leading. "There's nothing you can say-nothing I want you to say."
"I know that," Dean admits. "It's too soon, I get it. I'd be pissed at me."
"You didn't trust me enough to talk to me which, I guess, I understand. The way things were going..." Sam trails off. Trust had been a sparse commodity even before Bells Pond.
"I did trust you," Dean offers, but Sam shakes his head.
"We were too..." Sam searches for the right term and realizes it hasn't been coined yet.
Dean understands without it. "Yeah."
A thought occurs to Sam. "Did Bobby know what you were planning?"
"Nah, Michael and I did this on our own. But he knows now."
"What'd he say?"
"He called me something much worse than an idjit." Dean laughs. "We didn't talk for a while. He even tried to find a way to break my deal with Michael, but that's one thing about angels. Way fewer loopholes than dealing with demons. Then, when I told Bobby about you, he wanted to start searching. I'd leave and he'd try tracking you down, but angelic omens are harder to track than the demonic ones, and I think he gave up a few months ago."
"Nice to know someone wanted me around," Sam says.
There's a fissure in Dean's eyes. He thinks better of arguing. Harsh words have been their deadliest weapons over the years, but Sam-literally banished and forsaken-can't regret his jab.
As the day winds to dusk, Sam's drained. He's reluctant to fall asleep, afraid to let Dean out of his sight. Though it's tempting, he can't tie Dean to the furniture. The only way to sweep aside the silence is with small talk, meaningless back-and-forth that Sam has trouble remembering seconds after the words leave his mouth.
When the sun finally settles below the horizon, they're on opposite sides of the house. Sam lets Dean grab whatever he wants from the fridge and pantry while he stretches out on the sofa, feet propped on the coffee table where he's worn a groove in the wood top.
One day.
As much as the time's dragged, one day will never be enough.
March 29th
The next time Sam opens his eyes, he finds Dean standing quietly in the kitchen and the sun peeking over the horizon. Re-situating himself on the lumpy couch, Sam's bones creak and pop-he'd gotten used to the bed. Dean's expression hasn't changed, his morose gaze fixed on Sam. Whatever détente they'd found yesterday seems to have slipped away overnight, leaving the frigid distance between them.
"I tried to imagine where they sent you."
"Does the dreariness live up to your expectations?" Sam asks around a yawn.
"This doesn't seem dreary," Dean assesses, eyes drawn out past Sam's rotting fence. "Sleepy, though. Yeah, I like it."
Sam pictures what Dean is seeing. Beyond the fence lies the road, set down in the middle of the fields with dull grass grown up around it like maze walls. The water tower, rusted and leaning slightly to the left, is the highest structure for miles around. There's nothing else, just brown fields that have yet to find the new growth of spring, oceans of grass insulating Sam from the rest of the world.
He sits down at his small table and sighs. "There's nothing to like."
"Sam-"
"Don't." Idly, Sam's fingers trace the grain of the wood. He could tell Dean that he's spent three hundred and sixty five days questioning everything in Bells Pond. He's looked for the flaws in everyday patterns, scoured for something as small and insignificant as a blade of grass bending the wrong way-a hole he could use to pull the entire illusion apart. Inadequate words to make Dean understand what kind of prison the angels have built, their own little angelic safety deposit box. Dusty, lonely, and far too quiet. "This is punishment."
"That's ridiculous."
"Is it?" Sam asks softly. "The angels wanted me out of the picture and they used you to do it. Your deal-"
"I made the deal with Michael, no one else." Dean steps tentatively towards the table, easy like Sam might jump and up-end the furniture. "I trusted him to keep his word and, you know what? He did."
"I get it," Sam says, aware of his own petulance. "You trusted him over me. Part of you probably wanted me gone too."
The hard angles of Dean's face tighten, a reflection of how uncomfortable they are. Being open with each other has never been easy, damn near impossible since Dean was resurrected. One secret blanketing another until there were too many layers to muddle through.
Dean's fingers dig half-moons into the old wood of Sam's chair. "I thought it would be better-"
"Better?" Sam pushes back from the table, the chair's feet scraping angry lines on the battered floor. They're going in circles. "Fuck you. It was selfish."
"Do you even know-" Dean stops, a painful sound trapped in his chest. "It's the least selfish thing I've ever done. I could have told Michael to end it-I don't want to know any more. Send my soul on, I don't give a crap, and then he could ride my body until it was done. As long as you were safe, I didn't care. But I'm still here-still me-and I'm fighting every day."
"I could fight with you."
"No, I'm giving you what I'll never have."
"And what's that?"
"Peace, Sam." It sounds like Dean's voice has been torn out of his throat and thrown at Sam.
Against that, Sam has no argument. There can be no peace; no happy ending for the Winchesters. Just the idea of peace is colorful and absurd, like bright illustrations in childrens' books that are too pretty to be real.
"I chose to keep you safe, don't you blame me for that." Dean won't stop. "I could keep going, knowing you were okay. I spent so much time worrying about you, about how broken we were-"
"Don't." Sam turns away, getting as far from Dean's voice as possible. He shuts the bedroom door to put a physical barrier between them. Dean's footsteps get closer, stopping outside.
"I don't have much time left. Would you just-Sam, can you listen for a sec?"
Sam is leaning on the wall, unable to move and unwilling to answer.
"Fine, I get it. But listen. You can move on, make something of a life here. I want you to, Sammy." Through the wood, he hears Dean sigh. "It might not be perfect, but it's better than what's out there."
"It's not real."
"You can make it real," Dean insists.
Sam waits for the rest but those are the last words he hears. Checking his bedside clock, Sam gasps. It's already 8:15.
He opens the door, hurrying down the hallway and sliding into the empty living room.
Dean's already gone.
year two
master post