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2008
March
The first flurries of snow started coming down around twilight, fluttering between the trees to the frozen earth. Sam stood out on the porch and watched them fall until the intermittent flakes became a steady blanket of white. When the sun disappeared past the horizon, taking the warm golden glow with it, the temperature dipped below Sam's comfort level. He picked up two armloads of the wood he'd just cut and pushed the cabin door open with his toe. Dean was inside, sitting at the table and fiddling with the radio. "Any luck?" Sam asked. He stacked the wood next to the fireplace, dropping one of the smaller sticks on the fire for good measure.
"No. Damn it, I hate not knowing what's going on out there." The steady whine of the dead air rose and fell as Dean turned the knob, and then he clicked it off with a frustrated twist. "If anything is going on at all," he added, with a pointed look at Sam. Just one more stone thrown in an argument that had been going on for days.
"I don't know what you want me to say." Sam shrugged and peeled off his coat. The room was warm enough now to do without, though there was a draft cutting across the center of the room. He'd have to look for cracks in the walls, come morning.
Dean stood up from the table and kicked the chair back. "It doesn't sit right with me, Sammy. Coming up here now. There's not...there's not much time left." He glanced up at Sam, doubt written all over his face. "Are you sure about this?"
Sam sat down in the other chair and took a deep breath. Everything in his body was singing yes, yes, this is where we need to be. More than that, he was certain they'd made it just in time. He wasn't sure how he knew, but he did. Even so, he didn't feel safe, or relieved. His skin was still prickling. So he only nodded, because to say anything more would just invite questions he wasn't prepared to answer.
The back of Sam's neck still itched with that feeling, the urgent sensation that they had to get away from San Diego as fast as they could. He didn't even remember waking Dean, didn't remember half-dragging him to the car, but he remembered fragments of the nightmare that set him into motion. Darkness and demons and death, and his father's frantic shout, now now now Sammy, get moving! You know where to go! His father's voice, clear as a bell, and as real as if John was standing there in front of him now. Cold fear still pooled in his belly, churning inside him.
"So if you knew we had to come here, shouldn't you know how long we have to stay here?" Dean was giving him that sharp glare, the one that asked all the questions without asking: What have you seen? What do you know? What are we running from now? And the one question he wanted to ask most of all, the one Sam couldn't answer. He hadn't had a vision since Dean had killed the yellow-eyed demon. They'd both thought the visions were gone forever.
"Dean, I don't know what's happening," Sam said truthfully, aware of the effect it would have on his brother, and shook his head when Dean grabbed the chair and shoved it back under the table. "I just know we have to stay here now."
"I'm not getting trapped up here," Dean said. "I'm going down before the next big snowfall."
Sam knew they weren't going to be going down, not so soon, but he was not willing to argue. Not about this. He was acutely aware of time ticking by, the seconds left on Dean's life clock slipping away like snow flurries in the air. "It's snowing, but not hard," he said instead.
"Too warm for it." Dean went to the window and looked out, though there was no moon, and it was too dark to tell. "It'll melt off by morning."
"Probably." Sam looked at the assorted stuff on the table: most of their guns, their remaining ammo, and various weapons that weren't so easily categorized.
When he met Dean's eyes, he saw a shadow there for the first time. Not fear, but determination; they were in it together, no matter what it turned out to be.
For the weeks Dean had left, anyway. A shiver of fear and desperation crawled up Sam's spine.
The fire Dean built in the main fireplace was big enough to heat the main room, though smoke billowed back occasionally. "Got to clean out that flue," Dean said, choking on a foul gray cloud, and Sam waved the smoke away, nodding.
"God only knows what's crawled in there and died over the years," Sam said.
Dean grinned at him. "Free dinner."
Sam rolled his eyes. "You want to help me with this?" He laid out stolen motel sheets, which would no doubt be charged to the fake card belonging to Mr. Ginger Baker, along with four blankets, a couple pillows and a pile of towels Sam had scooped up on the way out the door.
"You seem to be doing fine without me," Dean answered, and with a couple of minutes of concerted effort, he got the front window open a crack. The night air crept in as the smoke drifted out, taking all their heat with it. "Hey, choke or freeze, take your pick," Dean said, as Sam pursed his lips and looked at him.
"Some choice," Sam said. He tossed all the stolen blankets over the bed, motel beige and yellow, and sat down, staring at the fire. Neither of them wanted to sleep in the small bedroom that had belonged to their father. Too cold without a working stove, Dean had said, but Sam knew it had nothing to do with how cold it was. They would both still fit on the full-sized mattress in the main room, if they actively worked not to kick each other while settling in.
"You bring in the games from the car?" Dean asked, rubbing a hand through his hair.
"Hello," Sam said, pointing to the neatly made bed. "Arms full of life-saving supplies."
Dean picked up the keys from the table and lifted his collar. "I'm going to get the rest of the crap out of the trunk so I can kick your ass at bones. Don't have too much fun without me."
When the door slammed shut behind Dean, Sam closed his eyes. Fire, crackling in the hearth; the low moan of wind, caught under the eaves. And nothing else. Only silence. He'd become used to the sounds of the road, traffic just outside the door. Its absence was...creepy.
He glanced at the door, with its rotting baseboards, and at the window, still cracked open. He was amazed the glass was still there after so many years of neglect. The salt canister was where he'd left it, just inside the door, so he picked it up and tossed down thin lines around the door and on the sills. He had no idea what kind of demon would come out into the wilderness, but better safe than sorry. So many things were chasing them now - demons, humans, hunters. Even time.
Dean didn't miss the salt on the floor. "Expecting company?" he asked, stepping over the line and dropping all four duffel bags on the table.
"Hope not."
Together they rooted through the supplies and unpacked, efficient as always, stowing everything where they had been taught to place it. For Sam it was like muscle memory; everything was coming back to him, a little at a time.
"Let's get to it," Dean said, spilling the dominoes across the table. Sam rolled up his sleeves, and settled in his chair across the table from Dean, who was already mixing the bones.
They played for a half an hour, waving their hands once in a while to disperse the smoke still collecting in the chill, until Dean started to understand that he couldn't win, which Sam could have told him from the beginning. Sam got up and opened a can of peaches, and they took turns stabbing peach halves out of syrup, nibbling them off their forks until the fruit was gone.
"Dude, I so own you," he told Dean, grinning as he stuck his fork down, fishing for the last piece. He had one domino left to play, and he knew he had Dean.
The pain stabbed through his left eye without warning, and the fork clattered to the table.
"Sam?"
"It's just...gah..." Sam pressed one hand to his forehead and tried to let it happen; the visions hurt less if he didn't fight them, but this one...He gasped and flailed back, searching for something to grab onto.
"Sam!" Dean was there beside him, hands on him to brace him, but Sam could barely feel it, couldn't hear or see --
The atmosphere is a suffocating mass of sulfur and screaming; there is no ground below, no sky above.
There's no way to be sure it's Dean, no way for Sam to identify him, but he would know his brother anywhere. Dean crouches on a pile of bones, the charred, bloodied skin of his back to Sam. The sinuous cloud of black smoke at Dean's side shifts suddenly, curling around his ankle. Dean's head comes up, and he turns black eyes to Sam. There's a beating heart in his hand, and in his mouth, and when Dean smiles, blood trickles from between his teeth.
"The Boy King," he says, his voice a hoarse parody of what Dean used to sound like, used to be. "Come at last."
The air around Sam flutters like the beating of wings. There is a shine of silver in the darkness, and a low voice at Sam's shoulder, saying, "We don't have much time."
The curl of smoke slips away from Dean and writhes at Sam's feet. Dean's gruesome smile widens as he crouches low. "We are yours to command," Dean rasps, and Sam shakes his head, spreads his arms wide.
"No," Sam gasped. Dean's hands were holding him up, but it wasn't enough; the darkness splintered through him, and he unraveled, falling into it.
1992
November
Sam and Dean clambered out of the Impala and stood staring at the cabin in disbelief. It was tiny, barely more than a shack, with a rickety fireplace on both ends and a door that looked like it could be caved in if they exhaled too hard against it. "You gotta be kidding me," Dean said, giving their dad a horrified look. "We're staying here the whole winter?"
"Five months, give or take," Dad said. He popped the trunk and began tossing out their gear. "These provisions need to be stowed inside. Get a move on, boys."
"But we didn't buy enough food for five months," Sam said. He was not comforted in the least when Dean turned and stared at him with perfect agreement. The last town they had passed had been hours ago - they hadn't seen any cars or people, or roads, in all that time.
Dad dropped a bag on the ground and fixed Sam with a pointed look. "Now is not the time for questions, Sam. Do what I told you." He turned that look on Dean. "Both of you."
"Yes, sir," they said, almost in unison, and began lugging in boxes and bags full of stuff their father had crammed into the Impala's trunk, stashed amidst the ever-growing collection of guns and ammo.
Sam put his foot through the rotted wood on the steps on his way up, and Dean started to snicker. "Shut up, asswipe," Sam hissed, and kicked Dean in the ankle.
"Ow, you little-"
"Boys," thundered their father from behind them, his arms full of supplies. Dean turned a vicious look on Sam that said later for you, and Sam returned the scowl.
The inside of the cabin was not quite as bad as it looked from the outside, but close. The windows were half out of the frames, and the fireplace chimney had clearly been a happy home for all kinds of critters. There was a bedroom to the left, and some kind of weird-looking bedframe to the right, next to the fireplace. The only other furniture was a dusty couch, plus a table and two chairs. There was a pump sink in the corner, set into a counter that was clearly meant to be a kitchen.
"No bathroom?" Sam asked with dismay.
They turned their faces to their father in unison, but he only sighed and began checking the cupboards that lined two walls.
"This is going to suck," Dean said.
**
2008
Sam crawled up from the darkness and forced his eyes open; the broken glass feeling was in his eyes, in his brain, everywhere. He closed his eyes again, a moment's relief from the pain. Copper-taste on the back of his tongue, like an old penny. He wondered if he'd bitten his tongue.
"Sammy." He felt the ground bend beside him as Dean sat down - no, not the ground. He could smell the mustiness of the mattress now, feel its lumpy softness beneath his back. Dean's hand touched his shoulder gently.
"Dean," he answered, the word slurred beyond recognition. He tried to raise his hand to touch his face, to be sure he was still in one piece, but Dean caught his fingers and lowered them back to his chest.
"It was a bad one," Dean told him quietly, as if Sam couldn't tell. But he understood - bad for Sam, scary for Dean. He swallowed, bringing his voice back online.
"I blacked out?" he asked. This time the words sounded normal.
"Yeah," Dean said, and something about his voice, the tone, made Sam try to open his eyes again. This time he managed, and Dean's face swam into focus, his worried expression framed by daylight.
Sam frowned. It had barely been dark when he felt that vision coming on. "I was out all night?"
"Sam," Dean said. His fingers tightened on Sam's shoulder, then eased. "It's been two days."
"That's..." Sam's voice failed him. He'd never been out so long - never felt this wrecked by any vision, either, not even the first few.
"Want to tell me what you saw?" Dean wasn't really asking; it was a command, disguised as a request.
"Death for you," Sam said, and watched Dean's face transform, concern easing into fear, and then a resignation, and Sam hated it. "And...I think...for me, too." That did it; the hell, no came back into Dean's eyes.
"Sammy, I swear, if this is your way of trying to get me to-"
"Dean." Sam struggled up on his elbows, batting Dean's hand away. "You asked me what I saw. I told you."
"Do you want to maybe elaborate?"
He didn't, but he tried to pull images from the vision to the forefront. It was worse than usual; only one clear snapshot he could pull from the darkness, Dean's black eyes, his blooded teeth. The rest were just impressions, and most of those emotional, based in darkness. "You were...I think it was...you. In hell. I was there, too. I don't know, it was like a nightmare."
"A nightmare," Dean said, in that tone of voice that clearly conveyed how much he wanted to shake the snot out of Sam. "Hell is like a nightmare. Duh, Sam. That's the best you can do?"
"Dean, if I had more than that, I'd tell you."
"Would you." It wasn't a question, it was an accusation.
Sam pressed his fingers against his forehead and willed the aching pain to go the fuck away, because dealing with that and Dean's pissy cabin fever at the same time was going to take every ounce of energy he had. "I'm not keeping anything from you. You know I'd do anything I could, to..." He stopped, because the words could only be said so often before they began to lose their power, their utter truth.
Dean stood up and went to the window. Light filtered in across his face, showing Sam just how pale he was. "Sam, I gotta tell you, I don't get this. If it was a vision, why were you in hell with me?"
Very carefully, Sam swung his legs down out of the bed, testing the waters. He hadn't had a vision this violent since the very early days. "I don't get it, either."
"Is it that yellow-eyed son of a bitch? Is he still alive somehow?"
Sam sighed. "I don't think so. This feels...different." Like the end of the world, he wanted to say, but Dean wouldn't appreciate the exaggeration, no matter how true it felt to Sam.
Dean was watching him, though, and he'd never been any good at hiding from Dean's watchful perception. "So you're seeing visions of my deal. And we're both in hell."
"Yeah. Yes." Sam stood up, wobbling a little. "And no. It was confusing."
Dean was eyeing him like he was some kind of suspect to be interrogated and taken down, and Sam's legs must not have liked the implication, because they gave out. He crashed back down on the rickety bed, which drew Dean to him in an instant. "Jesus, Sammy. Get back in the damned bed."
"I'm sorry," Sam said, not even sure what he was apologizing for. "Dean, there's more to this than a simple deal. You were changed. I was...not like you. I think Lilith wants your soul, but...however it happens, she gets me, too."
"Like hell," Dean breathed. He tried to pull the covers up over Sam, but Sam pushed his hands away. A thousand icepicks jabbed at his head, and he closed his eyes. Dean waited until Sam dropped his head back on the pillow, and then he pulled the covers up over Sam. "Get some sleep," he said, his hand resting on Sam's chest. Sam wanted to argue, to try to pick apart the vision, but they had time. He could afford to sleep.
He sank down into the warm dark, weighted by Dean's touch.
**
1992
They were busy until after sunset. Dean was given the task of neatly storing supplies and cleaning up the furniture, while Sam kept busy sweeping dead leaves and dirt out of the small rooms. Dad cleaned out the chimneys and poked around on the roof, stamping his feet so hard that dust showered down on Sam's freshly-swept floors. "Dad!" he hollered, but of course his father ignored him.
Dinner was cans of beef stew cooked over the fire Dad built in the fireplace, and nothing had ever tasted so good to Sam. It wasn't that he was hungry, exactly, it was just that he felt weird and out of place and really confused. Why were they here? What in the world could they possibly do for five months? It was strange to think of Dad sticking around that long, not taking off on a hunt and leaving them alone. Things would be different with him there every day. Better, maybe, and the idea of them all being together fluttered warm and hopeful in Sam's chest.
They sat on the floor by the fire; Sam and Dean threw a small rubber ball back and forth at each other, harder and harder until Dean tipped over laughing in an attempt to catch it and nearly pitched into the fire.
"Be more careful," Dad said, looking up from his journal, and Dean sobered up right away. It didn't stop him from flinging the ball right at Sam's head, though, and when it bounced off Sam's forehead, they both collapsed into laughter.
"Boys," Dad said. He closed his journal and set the pen down on the table, and they immediately gave him their full attention. "I guess you're wondering why we're here, aren't you?"
"Yes sir," Dean said. Sam could hear the ball rolling toward the corner behind him, and he tried to ignore it.
"I think you're both old enough now...old enough to learn, and to understand." He said it so thoughtfully, but he was looking at Sam, not Dean, and Sam knew it was because he was growing up, not a kid anymore. "We own this place now. It's ours."
"This place?" The look on Dean's face was priceless. "Dad, what the hell?"
"Watch your mouth," Dad said, and Dean turned pink, but his frown was back. "Yes, this place. We own the land it's on, too. This place is a safe place, boys. If anything ever happens - if something so bad comes that you need a place to get away - you come here. You remember how to get here?"
"No," Sam said, at the same time Dean said, "Yes."
Dad looked from Sam to Dean and back again, and he had that look like he wanted to laugh. Sam wondered sometimes why he never did, when he looked that way. "Sam, you pay attention when we leave here in the spring. That way you'll know, too."
"Yes sir."
Dad stood up and stretched, then sat down on the floor with the boys. "It's going to be a mild winter, looks like, but it'll be enough for you to learn. I'm going to teach you what you need to know to survive. How to hunt, how to make a fire. How to build things. We're going to repair this cabin from top to bottom, make it weatherproof, so we can be warm and comfortable."
"But, Dad," Sam started, and Dean gave him a shove, just enough to make him shove back.
"I know, son. You're wondering about food, am I right?"
Sam nodded. He'd just eaten, and already his stomach was growling.
"Everything you need is here in these woods. You'll learn that, too. Maybe you won't like it all the time - there's no sugar here, no packaged food - but you'll eat, and you'll live. I don't want to hear any complaining, and I don't want any backtalk. You need to pay attention to everything I'm going to teach you, and remember it. All right?"
They nodded. Sam couldn't remember their father ever being so serious.
"Where're we going to sleep?" Dean asked.
Dad jerked his head toward the weird bed frame in the corner, and Dean rolled his eyes. "Dad. I'm not a kid anymore. I don't want to sleep with Sammy!"
"I don't want to sleep with you, either!" Sam shot back, hurt but determined not to show it. Dean was way taller now, and he'd always been a bed hog, but that wasn't the point.
"Too bad," Dad said. "Lesson number one: it's warmer when you share body heat. You'll figure that out soon enough, but I'm going to save you the time."
"Where are you going to sleep?" Dean said, suspicious, and Sam choked back a snicker.
"In the bedroom."
"You get the good bed?" Dean said, eyeing the wire frame of the thing they'd be sleeping on.
"Yes," Dad said, and that ended the discussion. They'd never had trouble telling when they could ask questions, and when not to.
They made the bed with a thin mattress and a ton of blankets, tossed across the frame haphazardly. The cabin wasn't freezing, but there was a definite chill in the air, and though they weren't far from the dying fire, Sam's toes were cold. He glanced at the door, and then back at the bed, weighing his options.
"What?" Dean said, stopping mid-motion as he tugged on his pajamas.
"I have to pee," Sam said, and Dean started laughing.
"Hey, good luck with that," he said, and jumped into the bed.
"Dean!" Sam said, startled. He'd thought maybe Dean would go with him. Their father was already closed up in the tiny bedroom, and besides, Sam would never ask him. Dean continued snickering. "Fine," Sam said, and turned his back on his brother. He flung open the front door and sucked in a breath.
There was nothing outside but darkness. No lights, nothing to help him find his way. He stood there staring, until a hand landed on his shoulder. "Come on," Dean said, and switched on the flashlight. "But just this once."
**
2008
Sam counted the stack of books on the ground beside him: thirty-two. All shapes and sizes, full of the most arcane histories and magic, apocalyptic prophecies, stuff Sam had never studied because he'd never had time. Bobby had given them most of what Sam asked for, stuffed hurriedly into a heavy trash bag at Sam's urging, but this tiny library was a finite resource. He pored over each word and symbol, determined to see things that weren't there, to create text in between the lines where none existed.
Each book carried its particular wisdom on the backs of brittle pages and yellowed art, testament to the hundreds of fingers that had traced their strange lines and pry open their secrets. He found lyrical verse recounting the visions of oracles, lies and truths foretold. There were interpretations of prophecy, lists of the names of demons, and where they nest; there were descriptions of blood-filled skies and sirens' voices filling the air, drawing seekers to their doom. Each was woven into the mythology of their world, the hunter's paradise, one treasure trove of death after another, if only each could be deciphered in time. None of it was what Sam needed, but he felt himself falling into the seductive grasp of knowledge. Now there was time, and yet there was no time; he had work to do.
He had planned to spend his time researching references to things seen only in his visions, on top of ways to break deals with demons. His portable library was only meant for one purpose, and it made Dean twitchy. Sam's relentless focus, even without constant verbal reminders, only seemed to make Dean more determined to pretend there was no answer. It was one way to avoid believing in the future.
Sometimes Sam closed one book and opened another, and in the moments between he'd notice Dean, feel the weight of Dean's stare settle on him. Dean's presence eased the ache Sam's bones, the restless pain in the back of his skull. Whatever was out there waiting, Dean was still here. Sam could feel Dean testing the tethers, but they hadn't broken. For now, that was enough.
Other days, Dean settled at the table opposite him, reading through the books Sam had set aside, his eyebrows drawn together as he frowned at the precious texts. Together they squeezed meaning from every phrase and definition, and stored the knowledge up to be drawn upon at the moment it was most needed. Sam interpreted the movements of Dean's fingers over the yellowed pages as renewed hope - for the future, for a solution. They read and breathed, talked and were still together, and Sam watched his brother, memorizing every nuance of his expression. The urge to touch him was a constant surprise, but he pressed his hands flat to the pages, anchoring him to his purpose.
Once, Dean looked up and met his eyes, his own hands curled around the edges of the table. Sam was a scholar of many things, his brother most of all, but Dean wasn't an easy read anymore, and Sam was afraid to see too much. The moment stretched as the wind caught under the eaves and rattled against the cabin door, like a visitor in the dark demanding entry.
Sam was the one to turn his eyes away, a slow hot flush rising on his cheeks. They had work to do.
Dean kept setting fresh mugs of hot coffee at Sam's elbow, but Sam was often lost in the research, and the coffee grew cold, forgotten. Eventually, Dean nudged him, not gently, and Sam looked up from a page of arcane prophecy. Dean's eyes seemed too vivid, shocking green in the firelight. "Sammy, either you drink something, or I swear to god I'll hold your nose and pour it down your throat," he said quietly, not a hint of humor anywhere in his expression.
Sam nodded, wrapped his hands around the mug, and sniffed. Cinnamon on top, and spiked with whiskey - and not even a joke from Dean about girly coffee. He smiled into the lip of the cup as he took a sip. If Dean was parting with his precious stash of booze, he was serious. He drank it all and let the warmth seep through him, filtering out into his cold hands to ease the stiffness. He was so cold; he thought he might never be warm again.
"Find anything?" Dean asked. His chair scraped across the floor as he pulled it out and turned it around, straddling it.
"Not what I need," Sam said, as Dean took a long swig of whiskey and set the bottle on the table, not so subtly nudging one of the massive books out of the way.
"No libraries down the street. No internet."
That was a challenge, or an invitation; Sam couldn't tell which. He shook his head. "We'll make do with what we have."
"Will we?" Dean's thumb scratched at the label on the bottle, taking shavings of paper with it. "While we hide out here, Sammy? Come on, man. This isn't what we do. Let's get the fuck out of here and get back to work."
Sam was primed for the argument. He'd been working on his answers for hours now, fitting them into the spaces between the bits of information they had picked up, shaping his responses to the things he knew about Dean, all the things that made Dean susceptible to persuasion. But he never managed to get any of them said because nausea welled up within him, riding the back of another vision, and he toppled off the chair, groping for something to pull him back upright.
Dean's hand closed around the back of his neck, resting there while Sam puked his guts out on the floor, and the vision hammered him, relentless, the same image as before: Dean, lord of a pile of bones; Sam, brimming with power at the edges of hell. There was something else, this time - a darkness circling and swirling in his blood, and a need. No. Not need. Want. Seductive darkness, warm--
The same smells, the same oppressive hatred and fear as before, so palpable Sam can taste it, feel it welling over him like a stinking tide. Dean is there, naked, pieces of his flesh torn off, the white of his ribs and the pink of muscle shifting under the skin.
Take it, Dean, the creature beside him says, less words than impressions, evil and temptation all at once. Take it, and ease your burden. Haven't you earned a little rest? I think my terms are quite reasonable.
Dean never speaks, but his hand - half bone, half flesh - closes around the hilt of the knife.
Everything shifts sideways, and Sam is on his knees in a strange house, Dean heavy in his arms, torn to shreds. Sam struggles to tame his grief, but the rage consumes him, hot tears only fueling the anger. There's fresh power welling in him, newly awakened.
He lifts his head, looks at Sam - the Sam of now - with eyes as dark as midnight, and surrenders to the rage.
"Oh god," Sam said, the back of one hand pressed to his mouth. Dean pushed the hair out of his face, silently urging his explanation. "It's because you die," he rasped. "It's...when you die, I...it breaks loose in me."
"It...what?" Dean leaned forward, but Sam shook his head.
"If you die, Dean, it's over. It's over for me. Don't you get that? This is what triggers it. You...you're gone, and without you, without a purpose, I...I turn."
"Sam." He heard Dean's reassurance even before Dean spoke, had heard it a thousand times. "That's not going to happen."
"Yes," Sam whispered. "It is."
**
1992
"Come on, boys. Up and at 'em." The big, insistent hand shaking Sam's arm was warm, like the bed and Dean's back, and Sam grumbled a little under his breath, but Dean was already moving, stretching, pushing back the covers. Sam opened his eyes and saw that it was still dark. No wonder he was so tired. He never had to get up this early for school.
That's when it struck him, and he whipped around to where his father was unwrapping something from some foil. "Dad," he said. "What about school?"
Dean stopped at the edge of the bed, perched there in the act of reaching for his shoes, and stared at him. "This is better than school, dork!"
"You won't be going back this year," Dad said, without looking at Sam. "This is a different kind of school, Sammy. It's just as important. You remember what I said last night?"
"Yeah," Sam said, frowning as he thought of all the cool things his teacher had promised him about next year's classes if he got A's on his math tests. Now he wouldn't even be able to take the tests. His father fixed him with a stare, and he hastily corrected himself. "Yes, sir."
"Good. We'll keep up with your math and reading, don't worry."
Dean was finished dressing, bouncing around like he was still Sam's age. "What're we gonna do first, Dad?"
"Eat breakfast," Dad said, smiling. He poured three glasses of water from a pitcher and pointed to Dean. "Your first job, from now on, is to bring in wood in the morning and evening. Once the snowfall starts, it'll be harder. You think you're up to it?"
"Yes, sir," Dean said, in a tone that told Sam he thought Dad was crazy for even asking him. Dean could do anything. Sam knew it already, and not just because Dean told him ten times a day.
"Your job, Sam, is to prime the pump and get the water moving." Dad pointed to the chair in the corner. "I'll show you how to do that, later."
"Okay," Sam said, hopping off the bed and pulling on his jeans and sneakers.
He had a quick shoving match with Dean for who got to wash their face first, which Dean won, and then he hopped up into one of the chairs, water dripping off the hair over his face. His father reached out and pushed the hair out of Sam's face, smiling a little. Sam saw then that breakfast was cinnamon rolls; that's what his father had brought in the foil.
"Hey!" he said, surprised.
Dad's smile widened.
After breakfast, Dad gave them a lesson in sharpening knives and axe blades. Dean was bored; he was fidgeting around everywhere until Sam kicked him in the shin, and then there was payback in his eyes, but Sam didn't care. This was the most time he'd spent with Dad in forever, and besides, Dad never showed him cool stuff like knives and guns. He saved all that for Dean, and it wasn't fair. He stuck his tongue out at Dean when their father wasn't looking, and then Dean tackled him in the dirt, wrestling around with him until their father pulled them apart.
"What did I tell you boys about paying attention?" he demanded. Dean grinned at Sam, who made a face at Dean, and together they went back to listening to their father's demonstration of how to chop wood.
Turned out that was another thing Sam wasn't allowed to do, but he didn't mind. Dean was really, really bad at it. So bad, in fact, that Sam could tell he was going to spend hours and hours at it until he could do it as well as Dad. He watched Dean bang away at the wood over and over, until the whole pile Dad had brought was gone, and then he looked at his hands like he hated them.
Dad didn't say anything. He just poured water over Dean's hands and wrapped them up with cloth, and then he told Dean, "Keep those blisters clean."
"Yes, sir," Dean said, not looking at Dad. He didn't look at Sam, either, and Sam wanted to see his blisters, but he figured he'd better not ask. Not after the way Dad had bandaged them.
They had bread and peanut butter for lunch. Dean struggled with the knife, and winced when he picked up the bread. "Let me do it," Sam whispered, and he spread Dean's bread with a thick layer of crunchy, like Dean liked it, so Dean wouldn't get peanut butter on his bandages.
Dean got a strange look on his face, but he let Sam do it, and when he whispered, "Thanks, Sammy," Sam smiled up at him.
While they ate, Dad sat them down on the porch and lectured them. Sam thought it was a lot like school, and he didn't mind that at all.
"The first thing to remember, boys, is that you always need a plan. You boys know what to do in the city, when there are phones and buses and places to stay, but it's different when you don't have those things. You never know what might happen. You could get lost or separated, and you have to think ahead."
Sam thought about that for a minute, while he licked peanut butter off his fingers. He'd never stayed in a place without a phone. Not even the cheap places Dean hated so much. That was weird to think about.
"Every operation has an objective. You need to know what you want to do before you begin, and you make your three-part plan: entry, objective, and recovery. That applies to everything - hunting, survival, even daily tasks. Never go anywhere or do anything without a plan. Think it all through before you start, and know what you'll do for every contingency."
Contingency. Sam really wanted to ask what that meant, but the look on his dad's face stopped him cold.
"Always leave yourself plenty of time to do what you need to do. Don't get caught off guard because you didn't plan things out right. If you're scared or hurt, or tired, you won't be thinking straight. Plan for that, too. And always share your plan with each other. Be on the same page. You understand?"
"Yes sir," they answered, but Dean lagged just a second behind Sam.
Dad lifted his chin. "You have something to say, Dean?"
"Good soldiers don't get scared or tired," Dean said, curling his hands up over his stomach. Sam looked at them and saw blood on the white wrap.
Dad looked away, out toward the forest, then at Sam, and finally at Dean. "No, son. Everybody gets scared and tired sometimes. Good soldiers just don't show it."
Sam waited for Dean to say something, because they'd seen their father scared and tired lots of times and he was a good soldier, but Dean just nodded and put his head down.
Dad went on as though he hadn't been interrupted. "One more thing. Equipment and weapons. You take care of them, they'll take care of you. Always pack what you need, and always keep your equipment in top condition. You won't have time to get it up to speed when you need it. A gun is no good to you if it's unloaded. A knife has to be sharp. You get me?"
"Dad," Sam said, watching Dean's face. "When do I get a knife?"
Sure enough, Dean whipped around and stared at him, snorting. "Dad lets you shoot a .45 and you want a knife?" he asked, and reached out to knock Sam in the head, but Sam scrambled away, pointing at his hands.
"Don't touch me with those, you freak!"
"Oh, I'll-" Dean started to get up, but Dad snatched him by the collar and sat him back down.
"If you boys don't pay attention, you will both be very sorry. I can promise you that."
Dean settled down right away, and Sam scooted over to sit beside him. They jostled elbows for a minute, then looked up at their dad, waiting.
**
2008
You know what to do, son. There isn't much time.
John's voice still lingered in the back of Sam's mind when he woke to a dark, cold room. He twisted to the side and found Dean still asleep, curled in on himself, a furnace against Sam's body. The fire had dwindled down to nothing, and moonlight slipped across the slatted floorboards, giving contrast to the dark.
Even asleep, Dean was wearing a version of the troubled frown that had been deepening ever since they hauled ass out of San Diego. Sam reached over, struck by a momentary urge to smooth Dean's forehead, but caught his hand before he actually touched his brother. Dean would wake up the moment he did, and for no good reason. Not like there was anything Dean could do about the goddamned visions.
Sam leaned sideways to keep the bed frame from creaking and set one foot on the floor to bear his weight, then slid out of bed and pulled the covers up in one smooth move. Dean turned his face toward the pillow and sighed, but he slept on, body twisted down into the covers in the absence of Sam's warmth.
Sam's jacket felt like a nylon ice cube, but he slipped it on and crouched down to toss a couple logs on the fire. Their shoes were tumbled across the hearth, warmest place for them; Dean's socks strewn across the tops, Sam's neatly balled inside. He pulled on his shoes and thought about the dream, about John's voice, soft and sure, telling him he knew what to do. It wasn't any more true now than it had been the five thousand other times his father had said it to him; it was always Dad's way of implying Sam should have figured it out, should bluff his way through if he hadn't. Sam wasn't good at trusting his gut when it came to the life or death stuff. That was Dean's specialty.
Outside, moonlight caught on patches of snow, the light sharp and crystalline-clear. The air crackled as it entered his lungs, breathed out in slow clouds of frost.
It had been months since Sam came back from the dead. Only a few weeks left until Dean made the trade final; they'd long since passed the literal mid-point, the place between past and future, life and death. For Sam, it all boiled down to the simple fact that he was running out of time.
Sam had tried, in those first few weeks after Dean killed the demon, to imagine those days when Sam wasn't in the world, what it had been like for Dean. The moment his heart touched those ideas, they skittered away, leaving faint images of Dean bound up in Sam's blood, covered in it, visible signs of grief written on his skin. He'd tried to ask Dean, once, but Dean only turned pale and shut him out, and left him to imagine it as best he could on his own.
Sometimes he looked at Dean and saw the ghost of those days in his eyes, felt it in his touch; the need to confirm, to believe, to know it was worth what he'd paid. Sam was beginning to understand that, too - some things were worth the price exacted for them.
He still had no idea what to make of the visions. Seeing Dean turned into something out of a horror movie was bad enough, but Sam could still remember the sensation of pure power coursing through him, the knowledge he had only to extend his hand, and he could erase everything he saw before him, remake it into something new. Something pure.
Even the remembered knowledge from a fragmented vision was enough to frighten him to the core, and he shivered, thinking of all that power without form.
You know what to do.
The tiny nagging voice urging him on wasn't really his father's, anymore. It would never give him that advice. Not about embracing his powers. If Dean knew what he was thinking, he'd remind him of that fact ten different ways to Sunday. But they were out of options.
If he lingered on the thought long enough, Sam could almost feel the weight of Dean's body in his arms, and the knives of grief ripping at him.
He shivered and squinted over at the pile of stones Dean had dropped next to the steps, most of them the right size to shore up the crumbling fireplace. They were no different than that old spoon Dean had held up before him with skeptical worry in Saginaw, Michigan, when he'd told Sam to bend it, give him proof of what Sam claimed he could do - had done, when Dean's life was in danger because he was in Max's way. Sam probably had as much chance of moving a single rock now as he did the moon.
He turned the shape of the stones over in his mind, touching them with his thoughts. It wasn't like he hadn't read a thousand articles about how psychics trained their powers, but most of that was Uri Gellar crap. No one had real advice about stuff like this, unless it was Ruby, and he couldn't trust her. He thought about calling Missouri, but no way was he taking a chance on her. No telling who she might tell - Bobby, or even Dean - if she thought he was wrong. Missouri's world contained very few shades of grey, and even if she had a clue how to go about this, there was no guarantee it wouldn't bring danger on her, or anyone else he went to for help.
It was almost possible to predict the argument she'd make against it - using his powers might take him exactly to the dark places he wanted to keep Dean from; it might bring on exactly what Dean most feared. Catch-22. Endgame, poorly played.
But maybe not. Maybe the key was to learn to use it before he needed it. Before Dean was lost to him. If he could get himself grounded, get it under control, maybe that was all it would take.
Sam looked at the rocks, and thought about Dean's broken body, about hell, and darkness pressing in on them. He looked at them until he didn't see individual stones anymore, until all he could think of was what Dean's body would feel like in his arms when the life left it. Panic boiled up in him; tears welled in his eyes, and he tossed his head back, mouth open, gasping.
The power burned up, out through him, into the cold night air, lifting all the oxygen from his lungs like a soundless shout, and then the crack, crack, crack as rocks flew off the ground and bounced off the edge of the porch. Sam dropped to one knee and put his bare hands in the frosty patch of grass, melting imprints of his fingers into the frozen ground. Blood dripped from his nose, splotching dark over his fingers.
"Dean," he whispered, not calling his brother to him, but warding all the dark things away.
After a moment, Sam pitched over on the grass, cold ground beneath his ass and the frost melting, seeping into his jeans. The rock pile looked like someone had put their foot in it and knocked it around; there were a few small rocks scattered across the ground, like an uneven breadcrumb trail. "Guess that answers that question," Sam whispered, leaning forward to reach for the one nearest his foot. It was clammy in his hands, just a rock. Nothing mysterious.
He wiped the back of his jacket sleeve across his nose and then followed it with his fingers, but the nosebleed was only a trickle. With the rock tucked into his pocket, he got to his feet and made his way back inside as quietly as he could. Every step, every board seemed determined to creak and whine, to give him away, but he managed. He'd had a lot of practice; Dean used to make chalk marks on the super-squeaky ones, daring Sam to tell Dad. He never did.
Sparks burst up from the hard wood twigs in the fireplace, and Sam stood with his back to the door, watching Dean sleep. One arm thrown out over the space where Sam should be, head back on the pillow, face turned to the side; he looked poised to wake, to fight. Dean was contradictory that way. He could sleep so deeply a bomb wouldn't wake him, if he felt safe, or so lightly that the smallest noise would make him instantly alert.
Sam wondered what he was dreaming, if he'd fallen asleep planning to pack the car and drive down the mountain, ignoring Sam's visions and his fears and everything else, all chance of survival shot to hell. If Sam could just get a handle on all these things he could do, and do them at will instead of when he was overwhelmed by fear or love, he could break the deal and control demons. He could do anything. He could destroy hellhounds with a simple thought, tell any crossroads minion to shove it.
He could walk into hell, if he had to. He still had the Colt. He could put the key in the lock and open the door. All he'd need was someone to close it behind him, and he could cross into that realm. His breath quickened, and he reached into his pocket.
The rock was cool and smooth under Sam's touch.
Dean had been the one to walk Sam home after school, the one who wiped his runny nose when he was sick, the one who beat up anyone who even looked at Sam funny until he was big enough to do it himself. Dean had cooked his meals, paid for his pencils, taught him to shoot.
No matter what, he wasn't going to let Dean throw his life, his soul, away. Even if it meant Dean hated him in the end.
He sighed and shrugged off his jacket, setting the stone on the sagging mantelpiece before tossing a few more pieces of wood on the fire. It'd be enough to keep them warm until morning. When he crawled into bed, Dean shifted, restless, and turned toward Sam, pressing his cold nose into Sam's back, right between his shoulder blades, just like when they were kids snuggled together.
The bittersweet ache in Sam's heart made it impossible for him to sleep.
1992
Sam woke up cold, and with too many clothes on. He thrashed around for a second until his father's voice, next to his ear, calmed him instantly: "Quiet, Sammy, you'll wake your brother." His dad was putting socks on his feet, dressing him like he had when Sam was just a little kid, and Sam was about to protest when he realized Dean was still in bed, but Dad was dressed. Whatever was going on, Dean didn't get to be part of it. A pang of fear went through Sam, but also a tiny thrill of pride. Dean didn't get to be the only one who did stuff with Dad anymore.
He took his shoes from Dad and yanked them on, then pulled on his coat and hat and followed Dad out onto the creaky porch, down onto the faint path to the woods. He glanced back at the cabin, thinking about Dean. "Dad," he whispered. "Are you just going to leave Dean?"
"He'll be fine, Sam. You just keep your mind on what we're doing."
"Okay," Sam said, still looking back over his shoulder. Dad grabbed his hand and pulled him along. Sam resisted, tugging his hand back until Dad let him go. He wasn't a baby anymore. He could follow Dad on his own.
They walked for what seemed like forever, until the dark sky had turned bright blue and the sun was up. Everything was frosty, and it was so cold even in the sunshine that Sam's breath made cloudy white puffs when he ran to catch up with Dad every few feet. Once he stopped and said, "Dad!"
"What, Sam?" Dad didn't stop.
"We're off the path!"
"I know," Dad said. "Hurry up."
"But..." Sam stared at his father's back, then ran to catch up again. "But where are we?"
"Don't worry about that. I know exactly where we are. You'll be okay, Sammy."
"But what if Dean needs to find us?"
Dad didn't answer. Sam frowned and looked up at him, but his father was silent.
Finally they emerged into a little clearing. Sam stopped, out of breath, and looked around. Dad dropped down to one knee and laid a hand on his shoulder. "It's time for you to show me what you've learned, Sam. I want you to build a shelter and lay the foundation of a fire. But don't light the fire. Do you understand me?"
"Yes, sir." Sam could practically feel the excitement splitting his skin. Dad was finally treating him like a grown-up. He was going to get to prove he could do stuff.
"One other thing, Sam. I'm going to go out into the woods for a while. A long while. You'll be alone."
All the excitement bled out of Sam in the space of two heartbeats, and he stared at Dad. "Alone?" he said faintly. In an instant, his father's words came back to him: Everybody gets scared and tired sometimes. Good soldiers just don't show it. He nodded, stood up a little taller. "Okay."
"Good man." Dad patted his shoulder. "Remember, Sammy, we don't want to advertise that we're up here. The cardinal rule is, no shouting out. You never want to tell potential predators where you are. Okay?"
"Okay."
"I'll be back before sundown. Hard to say when." Dad smiled at him, and Sam grinned back. Dad pressed a heavy canteen into his hand. "Do your best."
"I will!" Sam watched until Dad had disappeared into the thick growth of trees, and then he looked around the small clearing. All alone.
It was then he realized his father hadn't left him any tools or food. He shivered.
For the first couple of hours, he was more than busy dragging branches and leaves back from the woods to the clearing. When he had a pile almost as tall and long as he was, he sorted out his loot. There was a fallen tree trunk near the edge of the clearing, and he looked it over carefully. No snakes, no skunks, no possums; a few ants, but not a colony. Nothing he'd have to chase out. It would be perfect. On hands and knees, he started burrowing down beneath, scooping out a hollow with broad branch. His stomach was growling, but he wasn't hungry enough to look for plants to eat. Yet.
The sun was almost overhead when he stopped to drink some water. He was hot, but he didn't want to take off his coat. Too much risk of getting chilled when his sweaty skin hit the cool air. He sat in the dip he'd created, which was still too shallow, and thought about how hard it was to dig all that dirt alone, and how much easier it would be if Dean was there, too. He wondered if Dean was mad that Dad took him out alone. The thought of it made him feel bad. Maybe he could offer to do Dean's chores. Dean would like that.
Finally he got up, tired as he was, and went back to scooping. By early afternoon, he had a nice Sam-sized hole, and he started laying heavy branches over it, leaned against the log so water would run off. He weaved smaller branches and leaves through it for a little roof. When he had it looking as good as it probably ever would, strong enough maybe even to keep out snow, he grabbed a few handfuls of bark and twigs and piled them a few feet from the shelter, then looked at them. Some of them had been on the ground and were soft. He kicked them away and went back into the woods, grabbing branches from trees and snapping them, to make a better pile.
When he'd finished stacking finger-sized sticks around his tinder like a wigwam, he flopped over on the ground and looked up at the sky. It had taken all day, but it was done. When Dad got back, he'd be shocked. Sam grinned.
He rolled over on his belly and dragged the canteen toward him. It was more than half full. He sipped some water, ignoring his growly stomach, and thought about dinner. Dad would probably cook something he'd trapped. He'd been promising to teach them how to-
"Sam!"
Sam scrambled to his feet, staring out into the woods. He knew he'd heard his name. He wasn't imagining it, but Dad would never -
"Sam!"
Sam's breath hitched. It was Dean, and he sounded scared. Really scared. Sam opened his mouth to call out, but stopped himself at the last second. Dad had told him - he had said, don't call out - and Dean knew it, too. He hopped forward, dropping the canteen. What if Dean needed help? What if...where was Dad?
"Sammy!!"
Without thinking, Sam ran to the edge of the clearing, listening. Dean was closer now. If he called out again, Sam was going to go find him. He could hear something - the rustling of someone coming closer. Maybe it wasn't Dean. Maybe -
He turned back toward the shelter, wondering if he should hide there, but there wasn't much point. Anyone who came into the clearing would look there first. Maybe he should hide in the woods, but Dad had said...He bit his lip.
Just then Dean came crashing out of the woods, staring at Sam. He ran straight for Sam, dropped down to his knees and dragged Sam into a hug. Sam squirmed in his arms, his heart pounding almost as hard as Dean's was against his body, and he said, "Dean! Dean!"
"Jesus Christ, Sammy." Dean's entire body was shaking, and now Sam was terrified. He bit his lip harder, trying not to cry, because he was too old to cry. Dean pulled back, his arms on Sam's arms, and looked at him. "Are you all right?"
"Yeah," Sam said. "What's wrong, Dean?"
"Why the hell did you come out here alone?" Dean shook him just a little, and now he looked furious. "Why, Sammy?"
"What?" Sam blinked at him. "But I didn't, Dean. I swear. Dad brought me. He said - Dad said I should..." He faltered, brought to a dead halt by the expression on Dean's face.
Dean released him and stood up. He turned around and saw the shelter, and the neatly made campfire, and his hands clenched into fists. "Dad brought you?" he said, so quietly Sam ran around him to hear him better.
"Yeah. Dean, why were you yelling? Are you okay?"
Dean looked down at him, and the look on his face made Sam press into his side. "I'm fine," he said. "Come on. We're going back."
"But Dad said -"
"Fuck that," Dean said, and though his tone was soft, even gentle, Sam was scared all over again. "We're going." He reached out his hand and took Sam's, and Sam squeezed it hard. Dean looked down at him. "It's all right, Sam."
"But I don't know where -"
"I do."
Dean led them back, and the walk through the woods seemed to take twice as long as it had going in. Dean didn't talk, and Sam didn't dare. He could feel how mad Dean was, but he didn't understand. Dean stopped every so often to look around, to check things, to pick up markers he had dropped on his way in, and Sam noticed that he always seemed to know where he was.
They made it back to the cabin just before dark, and Dad was there on the porch, sitting on the steps with his head down, his hands clasped. "Dad!" Sam slipped his hand from Dean's, and with a glance at Dean, he ran up to his father, who stood up, smiling at him. "I got it all done before Dean got there, Dad!"
"I know you did, Sammy. Tomorrow we'll go look at it and see if it held up overnight." He tousled Sam's hair. "You did good."
Sam grinned, but the moment Dad looked at Dean, he didn't feel like smiling anymore. Dean was still standing at the edge of the path, staring at Dad. "Sammy, go inside and get cleaned up. You know how to prime the pump?"
"Yeah," Sam breathed, not really wanting to move.
"Go," Dad said, glancing down at him, and Sam made himself go, up the steps, into the cabin. He closed the door and leaned against it, listening, though he knew it was wrong, but Dean's face, Dad's voice, it was all wrong.
It took a minute, and then Dean said, his voice low, "You told me he ran off. You told me-"
"And you didn't know any different. I came in there and took him out of the bed you were sleeping in, Dean, and you couldn't be bothered to wake up. How long were we gone before you noticed? What if it hadn't been me?"
"That's not fair," Dean hissed. "You made me think something had happened to him."
"Maybe next time you'll pay better attention to your responsibilities."
"You asshole," Dean said, and Sam stepped back from the door, tears in his eyes. He could hear the scuffling, knew what was happening, and he turned and pressed his back to the door.
"You watch your mouth, boy. You're not nearly old enough to take me on," Dad said. He was breathing hard, and Sam heard a sound, Dean, like he was in pain. "You couldn't even stay quiet in the woods. Sam stayed quiet. He followed the rules. But you just couldn't follow the rules, could you?"
Dean was quiet. Sam wiped his face, wiped off the tears. Dad didn't say anything, either, and then, finally: "Sit down, Dean." Sam heard the porch boards creaking, and he touched the door. "I made it hard for you to find him; I covered the tracks. But you found him anyway. You did good."
No answer from Dean; just something that sounded like Dean crying. Sam dug his nails into the door. He turned and went to the pump, pulled a chair closer to reach it. Once he'd primed it, he filled a pitcher and began scrubbing his hands and face until the water ran black. He tried not to listen to anything else.
Just as he was pushing the chair back under the table, Dean came in and squatted down by the fire, very still, not looking at Sam. Sam went to him and sat down beside him, snuggled up against his side. Dean looped an arm around his neck.
"It was a good shelter, Sammy," he said softly.
2008
Seven days of being cooped up had Dean prowling the cabin and every part of the mountain within a day's walking distance. He stayed away longer every day, until finally he was coming back well after dark with whatever he'd shot for dinner, mostly rabbits. Sam thought maybe he was holding off on killing bigger game for Sam's sake, because Sam had never been much for skinning and cleaning, but he wasn't eating much anyway. Dean noticed, but he didn't say anything. He just watched Sam's plate, and watched Sam, and that knowing look weighed on Sam more than any words could have.
"You remember how Dad used to pour whiskey over everything as it cooked?" Dean asked one night, as something small and tough blackened over the fire. "For flavor, he said."
Sam wrinkled his face at the memory of it. "The rabbit tasted like mouthwash."
"Yeah." Dean there watching the fire, his back to Sam. Half of his body was in shadow, the other half golden.
Slowly, Sam pushed his chair back and went to Dean, who turned his face slightly in Sam's direction, as if to be sure he was really there. Sam put his hand on Dean's shoulder and leaned in to him, sighing in unison with Dean's exhaled breath. Dean put both hands on the mantel, bracing himself.
"Sam," he said, in a voice as rough and raw as the unfinished wood beneath his hands.
There were unasked questions in the silence behind Sam's name; Dean's breath hitched when Sam stepped closer, when Sam whispered, "Dean," in response.
There was nowhere to go. Nowhere else Sam wanted to go, anyway.
Sam could feel the flash point approaching, a slow crackle of heat and electricity like a distant storm. Soon enough, Dean was going to ask him again why they were staying, what made Sam trust his gut as he did, and Sam was going to have to offer him something to hold onto. First, Sam would have to unravel the mass of complicated feelings thrumming through him; Dean deserved unvarnished truth, but Sam's motives were complicated, and he was still unsure.
Dean pulled away, turning toward the table in one fluid motion and grabbing his coat. "I'm...going to check the traps," he said, not once meeting Sam's eyes, and then he was out the door, flashlight in hand.
Sam's entire body felt too hot, like he'd developed a fever under his skin.
In those hours when Dean went out into the woods, Sam seized the chance to focus all his efforts on forcing his mind into its dark places, embracing the power lurking there. He could feel its pull, the soft seduction of it, and every time he reached for it, it was easier to find. He was cautious with it, and envisioned steel bars around it, caged back there in his mind until he knew how to properly control it. He wondered how he'd be able to tell if he crossed the line, became like Ava or Jake - if Dean could tell what he was up to because Sam was changing in ways he couldn't hide. If that was what had Dean staring at him by firelight each evening.
He fell asleep alone, wrapped up in his doubts and confusion.
The next morning, Dean was gone before Sam even woke, his side of the bed stone cold. Sam rubbed his eyes and went to the window; sunlight sparkled on patchy snow, but no sign of Dean, just tracks leading away into the woods. There was coffee in the pot over the fire, and a leftover biscuit. Sam smiled. It took a lot to get Dean to cook now that they were grown and Sam didn't need taking care of. And the biscuits were not bad.
He reached for it and froze in mid-motion, aware of the pain coming just before it hit, like a last-minute warning, a rattle inside his head that couldn't be mistaken for anything else.
"Forgive me, Sam."
This time, it's the cool woods in spring, gentle sunshine all around him, and there are no demons, no one dying, no fear or pain. The voice is familiar - it's the voice at Sam's shoulder, the voice he heard in Hell.
When he turns to look, Dad is standing there. Sam frowns. "You're not my father."
The man smiles, but only a tiny amount - as if smiling is not his customary expression - and says, "No. I assumed a form you might find comforting. The demon blood makes it very difficult for me to access your dreams. I had no choice but to send you the visions."
Sam backs up, fear flooding his body. "How do you know about the demon blood?" He stares at the stranger wearing his father's visage. "The last thing to impersonate my father is the same thing that did that to me."
"I'm not Azazel, Sam. Dean killed him. He is truly dead."
"How can I be sure?"
"I don't have time to try and persuade you. Perhaps it will help if I don't resemble John Winchester." The thing shifts, until it's more an indistinct blur, like a watercolor splashed and running down the canvas. When it's done, it's not his father anymore. It's an ordinary man, someone Sam could have passed on the street. Sam is silent, though doubt runs cold through him. The man sighs. "There's not much time, Sam. Listen to me very carefully. Certain events are in motion. Dean is fated to die. You may not be able to stop it from happening."
"No," Sam says. He starts to turn away, but the man is suddenly there, too close, and there's the sensation again, the air beating against him, deep pressure in his ears, like falling too quickly from the sky.
"The demon called Lilith wants something particular from you, Sam, and she knows she can hold your brother hostage in hell until you agree to play your part."
"Play my part in what?"
"War is coming. Seals will be broken, and a series of foretold events will come to pass in a very disappointing fashion." The man's shape shifts again. He seems close, and far away, and his eyes are very blue. "What you need to understand right now is that to change the outcome, you have to learn to control your powers, and you must not allow any demon to offer you assistance."
"Ruby," Sam says, and the man inclines his head.
"Yes. The demon calling herself Ruby. If you believe nothing else, Sam, this one thing you already understand somewhere inside yourself. To turn to her for aid is to lose who you are. You only need someone to remind you of it."
The sick feeling in Sam's gut is familiar, a mass of twisted guilt and desperation, and there's shame, too - shame that this thing, whatever it is, knows he's thought about asking Ruby to help him learn. He bows his head, unable to look even a stranger in the eye.
"Sam," the man says, and the way he speaks Sam's name is the way a friend might. "The use of your powers is forbidden, but I've come to believe...this is the only way. You must act, and you must do so quickly. You remember what I've shown you?"
The vision comes to Sam then, as strong as the first time: Dean, a bloody burnt wreck of himself, and the beating of wings at Sam's shoulder. "You," Sam says, as a thrill of awe flashes through him. "You are with me, there."
"Yes." The man tilts his head and stares at Sam. "It may be that you can become powerful enough to avert Dean's fate, as you plan. Or it may be that you cannot, and so you must follow him into Hell."
"I don't know if I'm strong enough. If I can ever be strong enough."
The man's expression becomes intense, determined. "You may indeed be the Boy King and an abomination, Sam, but that doesn't mean you're destined to be King of Hell, or that all who follow you must be demons. But for your brother's sake, you must learn to lay waste to evil. You have free will to choose, and the power to defeat Lilith. Stay true to the path."
"How can I?" Sam asks, a world of questions contained in three words. "Who are you?"
"Someone who knows you, Sam. Your prayers don't go into the darkness." The man touches him then, and it's brilliance and beauty and hope, sun without words flowing into Sam's bones and filling all his hollow, fearful places with light. "I know you can find the way, Sam. Dean needs you to find the way."
He's beginning to fade, now, out of Sam's sight, and darkness falls across Sam like thunder, the summer gone and snow smothering him in a blanket of cold. "No," he shouts, but it's too late; he's drowning in a cold pool, and there's no warmth, and Dean - Dean is gone - Dean is packing the car, and he's so angry, he's driving away, he's leaving Sam there, and it's too late -
Sam was vaguely aware of a crashing noise, and Dean's voice - "Sam, what-" before he shouted Dean's name, meant only to keep him, not let him go, alive alive alive, and the need slammed out of him on a fist of desperation, seeking its intended target.
The pain reached for him, pulled him under, into darkness.
When he woke, his face was half-buried in the pillow, and he was shivering. A blanket was tucked in around him, but he was still dressed. He twisted over and sat up, and found Dean sitting in a chair beside the bed, feet up on the edge, watching him.
"What's going on, Sam?" He spoke so softly that all the hair on Sam's neck rose. Sam pushed the blanket away, momentary confusion giving way to a deeper sense of wrong. He couldn't remember what he'd been doing earlier. Dean had gone out, like he always did, and he'd...he'd...
Slowly, he met Dean's eyes, saw nothing but cool assessment there. "Did I pass out?" he asked.
Dean sat forward in the chair and deliberately put one foot on the floor, then the other. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped, and said, "What do you remember?"
"I..." Sam pulled his shirt away from his body; the shivering had passed and now he was burning up again. "You left, and I..."
"You what?"
Sam looked blankly at the expression Dean was trying to bury under all that smooth calm, and in an instant he put a name to it: fear. He pushed the pillow aside and lurched up from the bed, and Dean was there to steady him, but he got a hand around Dean's arm and shoved him away. "What did I do?" he asked, stumbling back against the wall.
Dean's hands fell to his sides, and he stood there a long moment where irrational fear gripped Sam - that he was leaving, that something had happened he couldn't control - and then Dean reached down to the hem of his shirt, pulled it up over his head. He turned his back to Sam and there, on his shoulders and the right side of his ribs, were fresh bruises. Not hands, but something larger. Irregular patterns, like stones, like hard objects. Like he'd been slammed into the ground.
The floodgate opened and all the missing moments poured back into Sam's head: the meadow, the darkness, and...the bizarre, lucid vision. And Dean was gone, Dean was leaving. Sam had understood then, knew Dean had reached a breaking point, was going to leave, and Sam had to stop him. "It was a vision," he said, unable to look away from the marks on Dean's skin. Marks he had caused, by throwing his brother to the ground, even though he hadn't known he was causing harm. He'd only wanted him to stay.
I'm sorry, he thought, and wasn't sure which thing he was sorry for, what apology Dean should accept. "Dean, I...I didn't..."
"Cut the crap," Dean said, shoving the shirt back over his head with quick, jerky motions. He turned to Sam and said, "I knew you were up to something, but I never thought you'd fucking lie about it." Not after everything we've been through, Sam heard, as clearly as if Dean had said it out loud, and it startled him that he couldn't tell if he was really reading Dean, or if he was just filling in the spaces like always. A tiny kernel of panic clenched hold inside him. "Please, please tell me you did not do that on purpose."
"No," Sam said quickly, but something in his expression, or his eyes, made Dean's frown deepen. "No, Dean - I wanted you to stay. I wouldn't. I...the vision...something forced it out of me. "
Oh wouldn't you, Dean's expression said, but he adjusted his shirt without a word. He just looked at Sam with a disappointment and hurt Sam hadn't seen since they were kids, and then he nodded. "Whatever, man."
"Dean," Sam said, and stopped. He took a deep, shaky breath. "I've been trying to figure out how to do stuff. You know. With my mind."
"Sam," Dean started, but Sam cut him off.
"No, listen. I think that's the key. The whole reason I'm having these visions. So I can take control of my own destiny. So I can save..." He swallowed hard. "There has to be a way."
"This isn't it," Dean said. He backed up and picked the big book up from the table, the one full of apocalyptic prophecies that made Sam's eyes water. "Every vision you have is related to that yellow-eyed bastard, Sam. What makes you think he's not tricking you now? Come on. You're smarter than this."
"You always do this," Sam said. "You try not to hear me so you don't have to do it my way."
"Yeah, well, there's a reason for that," Dean said. He tossed the book at Sam, hard enough to catch him in the chest, forcing a grunt of air out of him as he caught it. "Your way is dangerous. And stupid. Not to mention wrong."
"What makes you so fucking sure?" Sam threw the book on the floor. "God, Dean, you think I didn't tell you because I wanted to lie to you? This is a conversation we can't have. Aren't having. This is what I'm going to do. There is no discussion."
"Really," Dean said, his jaw working. Then the sea change happened, and his face was smooth, all the betrayal and hurt locked away behind calm eyes like it had never been there at all. "Good. You do that. You stay here and you fucking kill yourself trying to be exactly what he wanted you to be." He stepped closer, cupped Sam's jaw with his fingers, hard enough to bruise. "You think I haven't seen the blood? All over your sleeve, the ground, the goddamned pillow in the morning? You really do think I'm stupid, don't you." He pushed Sam's face away with disgust.
"I don't, Dean." Sam stepped closer just as Dean moved away. It took him a moment to realize Dean was already reaching for his pack, was stuffing random shit into it, knives and cans of food, haphazard crap that wouldn't help him at all. "Dean, please. You have to trust me." Dean stilled in mid-motion, one hand around a can of Spam, another around the dead-as-a-doornail police radio laying on the table. Sam pressed his advantage and moved closer, until their shoulders were touching. He reached out a tentative hand to touch Dean, to anchor him, fingertips brushing against the pulse point at Dean's wrist.
The tension in Dean's body ratcheted up a notch, until Sam could feel the decision vibrating through him: stay, or go. "I don't know what's in your head, man," Dean said, in a low voice. "You're making decisions that don't include me, and that's not how this works."
"And you've always been so great at thinking things over and consulting me, instead of giving away your soul," Sam said, a desperate little smile making its way onto his face. But it had the opposite effect on Dean, who stepped back, out of Sam's reach.
"You drag my ass up here for no reason you can tell me, and then you tell me you're going to go darkside if I die. And then you do start the process without any input from me." He squared his shoulders, looked Sam in the eye. "Either we're in this together or we aren't."
"I'm not trying to push you out of it," Sam answered.
"Then tell me. Tell me why you think you can make one bit of difference. Tell me what you're bleeding over this for, if you don't want to go down this mountain. Tell me all of it, or so help me Sam, I will leave your ass standing here and I'll drive down this goddamned mountain by myself."
"You think it's wrong, to use the powers at all, don't you?" Sam sat down on the edge of the bed. After a moment, Dean sat down beside him. "Like letting myself be part of whatever the demon had planned."
"You can't help the visions," Dean said. "That's different."
"Is it?" Sam ran the palms of his hands over his knees, over and over the frayed denim, thinking of the people he'd helped, the lives he'd saved already. "If what I can do can save someone, then it's worth it." Dean beside him was like the fever beneath his skin gone supernova; he couldn't even breathe. Softly, he added, "If it saves you."
"It's not worth the price, Sammy." Dean looked away from him. "This might be what the demon wanted all along. Play us against each other. You die, I bring you back, I can't break the deal or you die, so you use your powers to save me and it's all for nothing. You die, or go darkside, end of story. Don't you get that?"
"You don't know that. Dean, I can control it. I have so far. Until today. And you don't get to decide, anyway. It's my choice." Sam watched Dean, the profile of his face, where a muscle twitched in his clenched jaw.
"So we're back to where we started."
"No. Where we started was with me dead. Now I'm alive, and you're alive." Sam put his hand out, smoothed it over Dean's back, the soft flannel beneath his touch and the hot fresh bruises underneath, hiding from him. Dean's whole body twitched, but he didn't pull away. "But you can't save yourself. It's up to me."
"I can still save you," Dean said, turning his head to meet Sam's eyes, all his decisions laid out in what he didn't say. In answer, Sam slid his hand down Dean's back, slipped it beneath Dean's shirt and slowly pressed his fingers to Dean's skin, just the lightest touch.
"I don't need saving," Sam said softly. "Not this time."
Dean shivered suddenly, a full-body shiver, and goosebumps rose under Sam's touch. He stood up, stumbled a little when he stepped away.
Sam let his hand fall back down to the bed and made no move to follow. "Maybe I can't stop you from dying, or from going to Hell. Or maybe I can." He waited for Dean to process it, watched the tension flooding his body, tightening his shoulders, then said, "Or maybe...maybe I can come and get you, once you're there. Dean, the key is for me to be ready before you...before. If it happens after, without you to ground me..." He shook his head, helpless to find the right words.
Dean drew in a long, shaky breath and shook his head. Then he looked away from Sam again, up at the ceiling, as if he would find the answer there. "No more bullshit," he said, glancing back at Sam. "You do this, you let me help you. Train you. What the fuck ever."
"I'm not really sure...how. Or what I'm doing."
"We'll figure it out." Dean went quiet again. Sam met his gaze and held on, no flinching away from whatever he might see there. The silence between them was heavy, until Dean said, "So can you do anything cool?"
"What?" Sam tilted his head.
Dean smiled, just a little. "Can you levitate the firewood in here so we don't have to carry it? Or make it split itself?"
Sam made a noise of disbelief. "Uh, no."
Dean's grin widened briefly, then dimmed. "Any other freaky shit you should warn me about?"
"I don't know yet," Sam answered truthfully. "You know I get vibes about stuff. There's the visions, and the moving things around." He stopped, wondering if he should tell Dean the rest; he just wasn't sure. But Dean was looking at him like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop, so he shrugged and said, "Maybe I can tell what you're thinking, sometimes."
"Jesus," Dean said. One hand moved up to his forehead like a shield, which made Sam burst out laughing.
"I said maybe," Sam said quickly. "Or maybe it's just because I know your stupid ass so well."
"Yeah, well," Dean said, frowning. "No fair doing that unless you warn me. Or that other thing, that thing where you make people do stuff."
Sam flashed on the moment Ellen had turned her own gun to her head, courtesy of Jake's simple command. "I can't do that," he said. "I wouldn't."
"Uh-huh," Dean said. "We'll see."
1992
Sam stood at the window and stared with wonder at the foot of fresh snow on the ground. Everything from the icicles on the trees to the snow sparkled as the sun hit it, like something out of a movie. "Dean!" he cried, hopping down from the chair he was standing on and colliding with his brother, who was trying to eat a bowl of dry cereal. "Dean, Dean, look!"
"I saw, Sammy." Dean handed a bowl down to Sam, but Sam didn't want it. He wanted to go outside and make snow angels and snowballs, and Dad was busy doing something in the woods and so it was perfect.
He turned his face up toward Dean and said, "Come on, Dean!"
At that, Dean grinned at him and messed up his hair. "Get your coat on. And the boots. And a scarf, too, or Dad'll kill me."
"Yeah!" Sam shouted, just barely handing the bowl back to Dean before its contents were upended over the bare floor. He whipped on his coat and hat and scarf in record time, and let Dean shove mittens over his hands, and then he burst out the door, tumbling off the porch to land face-first in the loose-pack snow. It smelled fresh and clean and it was crunchy and tasted like ice, and he laughed, because Dean landed on top of him a second later.
Sam squealed and tried to wriggle out from under Dean, but Dean had him pinned, one hand on the back of his head shoving him deeper into the snow, crowing "Say uncle! Say it, Sammy!"
Dean's giggle made Sam fight harder. They rolled over and over in the cold snow, Dean's arms wrapped securely around Sam's chest, until finally Sam landed a good smack to Dean's eye and toppled over forwards, laughing so hard his legs were jelly.
"Snow angels," Dean announced, mashing a handful of snow into Sam's face, then scrambling up to his feet. "Come on!"
Sam got up, covered head to toe in snow, and ran to the edge of the treeline, where there was lots of fresh snow to fall in. He stretched his arms out and fell back, landing in the snow with a poof, and began flailing, flailing, arms and legs going wide, wider, the wingspan of tiny angels. When he stopped, he sat up and said, "Help me, Dean, so I don't mess it up!"
"Just step out," Dean said, but he was already walking over to Sam, one hand outstretched. He hauled Sam to his feet and then lifted him out into the snow, and they stood together looking at Sam's angel.
Sam could almost see the halo at the top, where the sun sparkled on the snow. "Do you think it looks like Mom?" he said, holding on to Dean's hand tight, so Dean wouldn't pull away like he did sometimes when Sam asked about her.
Dean's fingers tightened around his, then relaxed. "Yeah, Sammy. Sure."
Dean sat down in the snow with Sam and made snowballs with him, packing the snow up tight in his mittens. They spent the next hour pelting each other with snow, squeaking and laughing and shouting "OW!" every so often, until Sam's skin was stinging with wind and cold and his throat hurt, because his scarf had fallen off somewhere, a green trail in the churned up white.
"You boys having fun?"
Sam stopped dead in the middle of throwing a really big snowball right at Dean's face, and looked up at his father, standing still at the edge of the clearing with his hands in his pockets. He was smiling.
And then a snowball hit Dad square in the face.
Sam turned to Dean, mouth open heart pounding. Dean was standing there, another snowball all ready to go, grinning at his dad. Sam turned back to Dad, who was wiping ice from his face.
"Like that, is it?" he asked, and then he dove aside, hands thrust deep in the snow. Moments later, a hail of snowballs went whizzing through the air at Sam and Dean, and Sam ran to Dean's side, his heart bursting because Dad was laughing, he was really laughing, and Dean was grinning, and it was perfect.
By the time the fight was over, Sam was so tired he could barely lift his arms and he was shivering, though he wasn't going to admit it, no way. Dean looped an arm around his neck and pulled him in tight to his side. "Cold, Sammy?" he asked, and Sam shook his head.
"No."
"Well, I am," Dean said. He was still grinning, so big his face looked all stretchy and weird, and it made Sam grin up at him. "Let's go in and warm up."
"Not so fast," John said, brushing ice from his coat. He put one hand on Dean's head, ruffled his hair; his hat was lost somewhere in the snow. "Get your hat and then pull down one of the rabbits. We'll need something for dinner."
"Okay, Dad."
"And take Sam with you."
The smile vanished from Dean's face. "Dad, what-"
"It's time, Dean. Take him with you, and let him help."
"Yes sir," Dean said. His face looked all pinched. Sam looked from Dean to Dad, not sure what had happened, but they weren't having fun anymore, and it was his fault somehow. "Wait here," he told Sam, and followed Dad inside.
Sam looked around and found Dean's cap buried in the snow. He shook it out and held it, waiting.
When Dean came back, he took the cap from Sam and started into the woods. "Keep up, okay Sammy?" he said, and Sam nodded.
They didn't go far. When they rounded a corner and Dean stopped, Sam opened his mouth to ask why, and then he saw them: seven rabbits, hanging upside down on long strings, far above the ground. He cried out and jumped back, and Dean sighed. "What did you think we were eating, Sam? You know how to set the traps as well as I do. Now come on."
"No," Sam said. He stared up at them, at the way they were swinging, and his throat went dry.
"Sam," Dean said. "Don't be such a little baby. They're already dead."
"I know," Sam said. He swallowed hard.
Dean shimmied up the tree trunk and grabbed one of the ropes wound around the lowest branch, then let it go. The rabbit plummeted out of the treetops and hit the ground with a smack. Sam shrank back against the tree. Dean hopped down and produced two knives from his coat, one of them the one Sam had been using the last month. "We've got to skin it, and Dad says you have to help. Take off your mittens."
The knife hilt against his hand wasn't cold; it was almost warm, because it had been in Dean's coat. Dean sat down on a fallen tree trunk and waited for Sam to sit beside him. Sam's feet felt like they were too heavy for his legs, and he dragged them all the way over.
Dean's blade was poised at the edge of the rabbit's neck, biting into the wet fur, and Sam burst into tears.
"Oh, come on," Dean said, rolling his eyes, but Sam couldn't help it. He turned his head away from Dean and tried to pull the tears back into himself, because it was stupid and Dean would think he was a crybaby, and he knew Dean wasn't hurting it, that they had to eat. He gasped, breath hitching, and dropped the knife on the ground; his hands balled into fists.
"You know what," Dean said, "go wait over there." He pointed to the trail they'd followed. "Seriously, Sammy. Go."
"No," Sam said. He swallowed again, and again, until he'd stopped the flood of tears. "No."
"Sammy." Dean's hand was on his knee. "I mean it. Go over there."
"I can help you," Sam said. "I want to."
"Tomorrow, okay? When you're ready."
Sam nodded and didn't look at Dean's eyes. He just got up on shaky legs and practically ran for the sheltering trees. He put his back to one and closed his eyes, like he expected to hear a little rabbit-scream, but he didn't hear anything but the sound of his own breathing.
It didn't take long, and Sam didn't look when Dean walked up with two canvas bags. They walked back in silence, Sam with his head down, watching Dean's feet. Dad was going to be so mad. Dean thought he was a baby. They wouldn't understand.
When Dean pushed the front door open, Dad looked up from the table and smiled. "That was fast," he said. He nodded at Sam. "How'd it go?"
"Fine," Dean said. He set both bags down at the hearth. "Sam's a pro."
"Good for you, little man," John said, smiling full-on at Sam, and Sam felt the tears welling up again. He didn't say anything, just looked at Dean, who looked back at him, no expression on his face.
He wasn't able to eat a bite of the rabbit, later, or any of the canned vegetables Dad set on his plate. "You spend too much time out there in the cold, buddy?" Dad asked him, feeling his face for fever. "You're red as a beet."
"I'm fine," Sam mumbled.
"Good, then you can do the dishes." John put on his coat and went outside into the night, and Sam finally looked up at Dean.
"I'll do it," he said softly.
"Don't-" Dean began, but Sam shook his head.
"Next time, I'll do it." He lifted his chin. "I'm not a baby."
"I know," Dean said. He pushed Sam's plate toward him. "Now eat."
"I'm sorry," Sam said. "You didn't have to lie to Dad."
Dean put his fork down and pushed his plate away, and was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "Yeah, I did."
**
2008
Sam was sick of the cold and snow. Since he had reached his limit, and was actually daydreaming about hunts, he could only imagine what Dean was feeling. Not that he had to guess; Dean bitched constantly about the weather, the smoky fireplace, the food, the boredom, and everything else.
He didn't mention leaving, though, and Sam counted that as a small victory.
Visions were coming like clockwork every day, small changes to the form but never to the outcome. The pain was intense every time, but Sam was expecting it, and so it wasn't as debilitating as it had been in the beginning. That's what Sam told Dean, anyway. Secretly, he was starting to suspect that the more confident he became with his powers and the better able to use them, the easier the visions got, and the less energy they'd drain from him.
You know what to do, Sam.
Trouble was, Sam had no idea what to do. He only knew what he wanted. The two were tied together, each a part of the other: what he wanted, and what he had to do.
"Tell me what I'm thinking," Dean said every morning, a little smirk on his face as he made the coffee, and every morning Sam would roll his eyes and spout off some random girl's name, which made Dean chuckle like the joke was new.
But every so often, Sam picked up flashes of the real deal - not actual thoughts, just...vibes. Impressions, like pictures gone blurry in his mind's eye, almost like visions but without the pain: a flash of Sam as a little kid, wearing a crazy-looking green scarf; the way Sam looked in the morning before coffee, with his hair sticking up. Sometimes it was more, something deeper - a sense of Dean's isolation, or the nature of his worry, which was sometimes save those people, but mostly it was Sam help Sam.
Dean's idea of help materialized without prompting. "I made a list," Dean told him, when Sam managed to crawl out of bed a few days after they'd settled the issue of leaving. "Everything we know the special kids can do. I guess we can just go down the list and try them out." He handed Sam the pad of paper, and Sam blinked until it came into focus.
1. Telekinesis
2. Control demons
3. Control other people
4. Future visions
5. Kill by touch
6. Read minds
7. Super strength
"I think I'll skip number five," Sam said, handing it back. "On account of how I'm not murdering anything that isn't already dead."
"Lots of little furry things out there in the woods," Dean said, but he stopped when he saw the look on Sam's face. "Or not," he said, and just like that, the subject was closed.
"Hard to test out number two right now without actually summoning a demon, which we're not doing again, ever," Sam added, giving Dean a look. "And we know for sure I can do one, four and seven. Even if I can't control it yet. Technically."
"So you just need to learn to control people - I'm guessing it's a short step to bossing demons around after that - and read minds."
"And eat my spinach," Sam said, pointing at the paper.
"Right." Dean ran a hand through his hair, like he was working through a plan. "Maybe we concentrate on one of these at a time."
"You really have the patience for this?" Sam asked. "Like you said, Dean. Concentration. Not really your strong point."
"Hey!" Dean tossed the list on the table. "I can. When I have to. And clearly I have to."
"Whatever you say," Sam said. He poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down at the table. With one hand, he pulled the lantern to the middle of the table and eased back in the chair, staring at it. He focused all his effort on the lantern, willing it to the other end of the table.
It always took time, and it was like a battery draining, or so Sam liked to think of it; he could feel the seepage of energy, bits and pieces of him falling away in increments, until finally enough of him was sacrificed to the task and the object gave way against his will. The lantern scraped a millimeter, then two, and stopped. Sam kept staring, focused entirely on the next millimeter. It was easier when he was angry, but the whole point was to learn to do it when he was entirely calm.
Dean cleared his throat. Sam tilted his head to look at Dean, who was watching him with a peculiar look on his face. "What?"
"What the hell are you doing?"
"Training?" Sam said, raising his eyebrows. "How else did you think I'd do it?"
"I don't know. Wave your hands around or something," Dean said, and Sam grinned.
"Dude, these aren't Jedi mind tricks."
"Ha ha, very funny." Dean stood there, looking lost, and it dawned on Sam that he had no idea how to help.
"Maybe you should, um, go find something heavy for me to lift."
"Okay," Dean said. He turned to go, then turned back and said, "Did you just mind whammy me?"
"No," Sam said. "Um, no."
"Are you going to make me walk like a chicken or something?"
"No!"
"Okay." Dean stopped, turned again. "Did you just make me believe you?"
"Dean!"
Ten minutes later, Dean had rearranged part of the woodpile and thrown the Impala's spare tire on top like a cherry. Sam went outside with him and stared at it. "I'm seriously getting the Yoda vibe now," he said, and was rewarded with a grin and a laugh from Dean.
"You want to stand on your head, go for it. I'll get my phone and take pictures."
"No thanks." Sam frowned. "I can't actually lift that in my arms, Dean. It's too unstable. I don't think that'll help me figure out if I can use my strength."
"Oh, right." Dean stood there scratching his head, the world's handiest two-hundred pound weight, so Sam just reached out and-
"WHAT THE FUCK," Dean squawked, Sam's arms around his waist and his feet a good eight inches off the ground.
"Huh," Sam said, not even breathing hard. He tossed Dean maybe a foot into the air and caught him, more or less, though Dean's chin knocked into the top of his head and made him see stars.
"Put me down right now, Sam, so help me, or I will kick your fu--"
"Well, you wanted me to lift something," Sam said mildly. He set Dean down gently; Dean yanked down his shirts and tried to recoup a little dignity, while Sam grinned in his face.
"Dude, you could have warned me," Dean said.
"Yeah, but that wouldn't have been any fun." Sam scrunched his shoulders up experimentally, then released. "It wasn't any effort at all to pick you up. I might as well have been lifting air."
"Uh-huh," Dean said, eyeing Sam dubiously.
On the day Sam moved the table without so much as a squint or a grunt of effort, Dean looked up, startled, and met his eyes. That was the first time Sam actually picked up a true thought from Dean's mind, clear and true - stronger than me, he could take me now -- and it made him blush because it was without context. It would be easier for them both if there was some kind of barrier Dean could put up, for his sake. There probably was, but they didn't have time to figure it out. Better if he didn't say anything about those stray thoughts.
But he caught himself, sometimes, noticing Dean in quiet ways. He'd been watching Dean all his life, every nuance of his body language, every predictable and exasperating habit. As the weeks went by, they all began to seem new again, or maybe just subtle differences -- the way Dean stretched out on his stomach when he slept, or the way he kicked his feet up on the table when he drank his coffee in the morning.
The way he watched Sam as he was training, eyes traveling the length of Sam's body, interested, aware in ways that made Sam's breath catch.
Those moments hung suspended between them, planks on a bridge they were building from two sides of a river, and when they met in the middle, Sam had no idea what would come next.
Time seemed to fly as Sam's powers grew stronger, and the days left before Dean's deal came due began to dwindle. There were only a few weeks, now. Dean started recoiling at odd times, staring at Sam for long seconds before he answered questions.
Then came the day Dean hurled a pan across the room, narrowly missing Sam as he came in the door, and stood there pale and still when Sam said, "Dude, what the hell?"
"Nothing," Dean said, the muscle in his jaw clenched so tightly the whole right side of his face twitched, before he turned back to the remaining pan over the fire.
"Like hell," Sam said. He closed the door and stripped off his jacket, and then he was beside the fire, beside Dean, who shoved him hard enough to send a clear message. Sam gripped his left arm and hauled him to his feet, ignoring the angry flare in Dean's eyes. "What's goin' on with you?"
"Leave it alone, Sam," Dean said, shaking off Sam's hand.
"So, this deal we're in, it only goes one way? I tell you everything, and you tell me exactly nothing? I call bullshit, Dean."
Dean tugged his overshirt down and brushed it into place, looking at the floor, the fire, everywhere but at Sam. Fear radiated from him in waves so strong, Sam was surprised he didn't topple from the force of it. Finally, Dean met his eyes. "I'm...hallucinating, all right? I'm...I thought there was a demon standing there. Ugly fuckin' thing. I...threw the skillet."
"Because it's iron," Sam said, a half-hysterical laugh threatening to burst out of him at Dean's embarrassed head-scratch.
Amusement died down in an instant when Dean turned away and sat down at the table, elbows on his knees, hands clasped in front of him. "Bobby warned me about this. He said when the time came to pay up on the deal, I'd start seeing things. He was right. Sam, I see insane shit everywhere. A couple of times, I've looked at you, and...you're not you." He raised haunted eyes. "There's not much time left. I can feel it."
"I'm almost ready," Sam said. He dropped to one knee in front of Dean, and without thinking, rested his hands over Dean's. "Dean. I'm almost ready."
Dean nodded, a half-hearted thing, and it sent a chill straight through Sam. If Dean didn't believe he could be saved, Sam would have to find enough faith for both of them.
**
1992
The tip of Sam's nose was so cold, he thought it might break right off. He lifted a hand out from under the covers, blinking sleep away, and cupped his palm over the end of his nose. It was his own fault for sleeping with his stupid face out -- that's what Dean would say.
He could hear scuffling around on the porch, and that was probably where Dean and Dad were, and that meant Dad would probably come haul him out of bed any second, no matter how cold it was in there. Sam poked one foot out of the blankets, then threw them back fast and ran for the pile of clothes Dean had laid out next to the stove the night before. He was pretty fast, but he was still shivering by the time he had on all his layers.
With one hand, he snagged a cold hard biscuit for breakfast and then hit the door running, only to stop short on the porch. Dean was sprawled in the snow at the foot of the stairs, and Dad was standing a few feet away, looking pretty impatient.
"Get up," Dad was saying. "Come at me again."
Dean didn't seem to notice Sam as he bounced up from the ground and slowly circled their dad. Sam sat down on the top stair, watching. He stuck the biscuit in his mouth and held it between his teeth while he fished down into his coat pocket for his missing gloves. Dad liked to do training early in the morning. He said it kept Dean sharp, but Sam wasn't so sure; Dean didn't seem to be all that sharp in the morning.
Dean lunged, then backed up and lunged again, landing a pretty good hit to Dad's stomach. Dad made an ooof noise, but he straightened up fast, dodging Dean's follow-up strike. He reached out lightning-quick and snatched Dean's arm, and a second later Dean was on his back again, staring up in surprise at Sam, who snorted with laughter.
"Shut up," Dean said viciously, no smile for Sam, and the laugh choked off in Sam's throat. Dean got his feet under him and scrambled up, launched like a missile toward their dad. There was sickening crack, and then Dean hit the ground again, blood flowing down his face from his nose.
"Dean," Sam said, dropping his breakfast in the snow, but Dad stopped Sam with a look.
"You stay there, son," he said, and then he looked down at Dean. "Get up. Work through it."
Dean coughed, spit blood into the snow, and on his first try, he fell back in the snow. Sam swallowed hard. "Get up, Dean," Dad said, no question it was an order.
For a second, Dean looked like he was going to throw up, but then he rolled over and got to his knees, bright red drops falling into the stirred-up, dirty snow beneath him. He wiped his face.
"Stop pulling your punches," Dad said. "You can't learn unless you go for it." Dean mumbled something in response as he stood and turned, and whatever it was, Dad didn't like it much. "That's an excuse, Dean," Dad said. "You can't hurt me. Now come at me."
Sam balled his fists up and crammed them under his thighs, knuckles pressed against the hard wood, just as Dean crashed to the ground in front of him. His eyes were squeezed shut, and his face was red.
"Damn it, Dean. You're not trying," Dad said, stepping closer.
"Yes he is," Sam said hotly. "He always tries."
"Sam," Dad said, a clear warning, at the same time Dean said, "Sammy, shut up."
Sam pressed his lips together. Dean tried harder than anybody-he was good at everything, he was a total show-off, and that meant Dad was wrong. Sam tried to make how mad he was show all over his face when he stared at Dad, but if his father noticed, he didn't say anything; he only looked at Dean, and waited for him to get up.
This time, Dean barely raised his arms; Dad knocked him easily into the snow.
Sam saw red. He flew off the stairs and toward his father, who stopped him easily with one hand on each shoulder. Sam pushed at him once, twice, and twisted away from him to go to Dean, who hadn't bothered to get up this time. "Dean," Sam said, dropping to his knees beside his brother, but his brother turned his face away and shoved Sam.
"Get away," he said.
"Dean." Dad crouched down in the snow, not close enough for either Dean or Sam to reach. "You have to learn to fight full-out, no pulling punches. It doesn't matter who you're fighting."
"Dad." Dean's voice sounded funny. "You...I can't."
"You hurt Dean," Sam shouted at his father, not even caring that he was going to make Dad mad.
But it didn't; it only made those funny lines show up around Dad's face, and he looked sad. "I didn't mean to, Sammy, but you both have to learn...you have to know, just because it's family, you don't...." Abruptly he stood up, ran a hand over his face, and turned away, walking steadily away until he rounded the corner of the cabin and was out of sight.
Sam focused his full attention on Dean, who wouldn't look at him. He threw his arms around his brother's shoulders, but Dean shoved him away again, with half the effort of before. Sam shoved him back this time, then he threw his arms around Dean once more and held on tight.
Dean didn't hug him back, but he didn't push him away.
2008
A late-season snowstorm descended in the middle of a long night, but Sam was already up, huddled down in blankets and a sleeping bag in front of the fire to keep it from dying in the middle of the night. The book open in front of him went unread. Instead, he watched Dean sleeping. It had become his frequent pastime, observing the way Dean's face relaxed in sleep. He didn't kid himself that it meant Dean had accepted anything, or was going to give in to the inevitable. But he craved those moments of peace for Dean.
Just then, Dean opened his eyes, pulled out of sleep as though he could feel Sam watching him. "Sam?" he said, voice rough with sleep. He rose up on one elbow. "Get some sleep."
"Can't," Sam said. "Too cold. Got to keep the fire up." He closed his book and shoved down the blankets, extricating himself from his cocoon. Dean watched him as he padded across the cool floor barefoot, made his way to the bed. "Scoot," he said, and Dean did, lifting the blankets for him. Sam crawled into the space Dean had just vacated, the warmth of his body to one side and the warm place he'd created beneath, and turned on his side to face Dean, the fire at his back. Sam moved closer, until there was barely an inch separating their bodies, and slung his arm over Dean's side.
He'd been watching Dean fight what was between them, struggle with it, every day they'd spent in this place; the clock would run out, and Dean wouldn't have to make the choice - or maybe he'd choose, and the clock would run out, and it would be too much to bear. But now, Dean's nose bumped against Sam's when Sam closed that gap, pressing them together, and then he tilted his head and touched his lips to Dean's.
Dean's lips parted for him, though Dean's body was coiled tight against him, fight or flee in full operation. "Dean," Sam breathed into his mouth, invoking Dean's name as his protection, offering it back in kind. Dean had been Sam's world, the whole of his heart, from almost the moment he'd been born. Dean was his to have, to save, and there was nothing else in the world that mattered. Only this. The fight went out of Dean, and he made a soft, strangled noise, one last tiny objection Sam took in and kissed away.
"Why didn't you, before?" Sam asked, breathing the question into Dean's ear.
Dean stilled in his arms, and said, "Selfish," like it was some kind of indictment against everything he was, everything Sam meant to him.
"No." Sam ran his hand under Dean's shirt, eager for any part of Dean he could touch. "You don't even know what that word means." Dean tilted his head, touched his lips to Sam's again, but gently, like he wasn't sure of Sam, like this might all slide right away from him. "No," Sam said again, and curled his fingers around Dean's neck, holding him still.
Dean sought skin under Sam's sweatshirt, his breath hitching when his fingertips traced the scar across Sam's spine, defining the path, and the message of his hands was we're almost out of time.
Sam pushed back into Dean's touch, pulled Dean close, and kissed him until Dean's lips parted for him and they were inside each other, slow, wet kisses, as if they still had all the time in the world and could cheat death and cold for as long as they were here, like this.
He tugged at Dean's shirt until Dean lifted up, let Sam have it and toss it away. Dean's skin was warm under Sam's hands, and he covered as much of it with his touch as he could, slid his hands down the hard muscles of Dean's back until he reached the edge of Dean's boxers. He reveled in the full-body shiver Dean surrendered to him, and the way Dean smiled into the kiss when Sam's breath caught. He was helpless against the force of Dean's love, and when Dean skimmed off his briefs and pushed Sam onto his back, straddling him, Sam settled his hands on Dean's hips and held on tight.
"Sam," Dean said softly, nothing more than his name, and it sounded like an answer to all Sam's questions. Dean pulled Sam's sweatshirt over his head and drew his fingertips across Sam's shoulder blades, his teasing smile dancing just out of reach until Sam's hand cupped the back of his head and pulled him in, irrevocable, right.
He wanted to see Dean, all of him, the strong lines of his body, but Dean was sliding down next to him now, shoving at Sam's briefs and sweats until Sam grabbed them and tugged them off himself. Dean's hand closed on his cock then, so sure, like he'd known all his life what Sam needed, and had only been waiting to be asked to make him whole.
Sam reached for words and found nothing, so instead he kissed Dean, breathed his urgency into Dean's parted lips, where words formed and were whispered back against Sam's mouth. Dean's hand moved, and Sam's hands traced the arch of Dean's back, coming to rest on Dean's ass, urging him to move against Sam.
They moved in unison, Dean's hips rolling forward, his hand stroking fast, and Sam cried out, head thrown back as he stopped trying to fight against the white-hot desire coiled at the base of his spine. Dean moved his mouth to Sam's throat, pressed a kiss there at his beating pulse as Sam came with a blinding rush of love and release.
Sam took a breath, two, and wrapped an arm around Dean, flipping him to his back. The ancient bed frame gave a creak of protest, then went silent when Sam pushed the covers away, exposing Dean's body, as familiar to Sam as his own. Dean was quiet, watching Sam, his fingers curling and flexing around the iron bed frame, waiting.
Hands under Dean's ass, Sam lifted Dean's body, and slid down in the bed, and closed his mouth around Dean's hard cock, pushing Dean's hips back flat to the bed when his hips bucked up, uncontrollable. Barely the touch of Sam's lips, and Dean was coming, small noises of disbelief in deep in his throat. Sam held Dean in his mouth until the last pulse, swallowed it all, then licked his spent cock while Dean watched through heavy-lidded eyes. Sam looked back at him, let him see everything.
When Sam crawled back up beside Dean, he yanked the covers up, and they lay facing one another, not even an inch of space between them. Sam put his arm gently over Dean's side, and Dean threw his over Sam, so much like when they were younger, and nothing like it at all.
Now Sam had all the words, everything he wanted to say hovering at the tip of his tongue, and none of it was necessary any longer. Dean's mouth covered his, sensuous, slow, and he let this touch speak for him, the soft exchange of breath shared like a treaty written in blood.
Dean was his, and he was Dean's, and whatever might come, this was theirs, now.
**
1992
Sam had been digging for what seemed like hours, straight down a line his father mashed in the snow with a trowel. "Six inches deep and three inches wide, son, and stick to the line," Dad said, and then took Dean off to the other side of the cabin. Probably he didn't want them talking to each other, or Dean telling Sam stories.
Bitter cold made Sam's cheeks feel frozen. He couldn't smile, and that was okay because he was still mad at Dad, anyway. He stabbed away at the frozen ground, hands clumsy in Dean's old gloves, which were a couple sizes too big for him.
"Progress requires strategy, Sammy." Dad dropped down in the snow beside him and set a wooden crate down in the snow with a grunt. "You can't keep on doing something you know isn't working. You have to try something new."
"The ground is frozen, okay?" Sam said, glaring at him.
Dad gave him a sharp look. "You watch that tone, boy."
Sam kept glaring for as long as he dared, and then he went back to banging at the dirt.
Dad sighed, and reached into the box to pull out a grey metal box, maybe eight inches long. He pushed it down into the tiny trench Sam had cleared for it, poking at the dirt to fit it secure inside, and then grabbed another box, nesting it up against the first one. Sam watched him out of the corner of his eye until Dad caught up to him.
"I'll give you a hand," Dad said.
For a little while, they dug side by side in silence. Sam wanted to know what the boxes were, and why Dad was planting them, but he was still too mad. So he just dug, and pretended he didn't mind when Dad was able to dig deeper and go faster.
After a while, Dad sat back on his heels and wiped his sweaty face. "Take a breather, son."
Sam didn't stop. He just kept poking at the dirt, even though his arms were so tired, and his face wasn't tingling anymore.
"Sam." Dad took the trowel out of his hand, but Sam didn't look at him. He wiped the back of his runny nose with Dean's glove, then felt bad about it and cleaned it off with some snow.
"Sammy. I know you're angry with me." Dad hesitated, then added, "I know you think I was mean to your brother."
"You hurt him." All it took to make Sam mad all over again was to say it out loud.
Dad looked sharp at Sam, who did his best not to let tears well up in his eyes. All he'd ever wanted was for Dad to stay home, to be there, but not like this.
"Sammy, I know you're still a little too young to understand, but - I'm building instinct in you and Dean. Teaching you how to think on your feet. If I do it right, you'll always know what to do. You'll never have to stop to think about it. It could save your life one day."
Sam didn't answer. He thought about Dean on the other side of the cabin, exiled to dig by himself, and clenched his jaw.
"Do you know what we're burying here?" Dad took another grey box out of the crate and handed it to Sam. It was heavy in Sam's hands, and whatever was inside shifted around, making shhhh sounds against the sides. "Iron boxes, full of salt. It's a full circle - a perimeter around the cabin. It'll make sure this place is secure for a long time to come. Decades, maybe."
Sam stared at the churned up snow mixed with dirt, and said, "So?"
"You-" Dad stopped, and cleared his throat. When he reached out for Sam, he did so gently, pulling Sam around so he could see Sam's face. "Listen to me, Sammy. Listen carefully. I know you don't get it, but you remember this. Everybody needs a fallback position. This cabin is yours and Dean's. You don't come back here until you have to, until you don't have anywhere else to go. And then you come here. You come here, and you remember what I taught you."
Sam stared at his father, at the deep lines at the corners of his eyes, and said, "Okay, Dad."
"Remember, Sam. And when the time comes, you know what to do." Dad let him go, and Sam pulled his scarf up, hiding most of his face from his father.
They went back to digging in silence, Dad planning for a future Sam couldn't even imagine, and Sam thinking about lunch, and whether Dean would let him have the last of the dried apples.
**
2008
Sam woke from a sound sleep, the first he'd had in weeks without a dream of chasing Dean down a long tunnel with the sensation of bones crunching beneath his feet. The cabin was silent, the fire dwindled much too far, but there was a chill in the air which had nothing to do with weather.
Silently, he slid from bed, pausing to slide his hand across Dean's arm as he moved. He pulled his clothes on quickly, shoes and socks, parka, and then stepped out into the storm. The wind battered at his ears, snow pelting him sideways.
He could feel her out there, a malevolent cat stalking the edges of a line in the dirt, a protection he had helped create.
For a moment, he was still, searching for her with that new, strange part of his mind that understood how to find her. She might as well have been glowing in the dark, for the stink of sulfur and corruption on her. He smiled and stepped off the porch.
The snow moved around him, and he was isolated in clear weather, enough to see her clearly. Enough to feel her fear. She hovered there at the edge of the circle, no coat, no need, pacing the trace of salt and iron in the earth, as if testing the boundary. Her full focus was on Sam, an intense stare, and beneath, a calculating smile.
"How did you find us?" Sam asked.
Ruby tsked. "What kind of a demon would I be if I wasn't resourceful enough to find a Winchester? There are ways, Sam. Many ways."
"Good point." He stood watching her, and finally she stopped, facing him, arms folded across her chest. "Of course, no one invited you, so. Why are you here?"
"You flipped the switch," she said, her black eyes gleaming with satisfaction. "You've turned on the power."
"That I did," he said.
Ruby exhaled, a long, slow hiss. "You should have waited for me," she said. "Should have asked me. Do you know how much I could teach you? How many things I know?"
"Yeah, well, it doesn't matter now." Sam shoved his hands in his pockets and shrugged.
"You're finally ready," she breathed.
"What is it you think I'm ready for, again?"
"To stop Lilith. To lead the army you were born to lead."
"I'm not leading any army," he said, thinking back to his visions. "At least, no army you're a part of." He moved closer to the line. "Maybe you should tell me what this is all about, Ruby. Everything, this time -- no holding back."
With startling grace, she sank down to her knees before him and bowed her head, hiding the gloating smile on her face. "My king."
Sam laughed out loud. "Are you serious with that?"
She watched him, eyes still darker than the night around them. "Deadly serious. I swore my allegiance to you, Sam, and I meant it. I can feel the power in you now. It's stronger than most demons. Stronger than me."
"I know." He regarded her for a moment, listening to her silence in the face of his demand for truth, then said, "I don't need your help, Ruby. I don't trust you, because I don't know what your agenda is, but I guarantee, it isn't mine."
"Agenda?" She stood again, her posture wary. "I thought your agenda was saving Dean."
"Oh, it is. Just, not the way you thought."
"Sam. I can still help you. I can stand beside you, lead the way."
"I don't think I want to go where you'd lead me."
"Or maybe you're not strong enough to lead at all." She grinned, and it was more like a baring of teeth. "You know, you haven't really tried those powers out on anything besides a pile of wood. And we all know your brother is just a spineless, powerless human, don't we? Not like there's anything he can do to help you. Or stop me." Her eyes narrowed. "How do I know you're really ready?"
Sam's jaw tightened. Of course, she'd been spying on them. He should have expected it. When he shifted focus from her, tendrils of malevolence brushed against his mind, the signature of other demons, waiting out of human earshot. She wasn't alone.
The snow made a cocoon for him, soft and cool. He closed his eyes, tipped his head back and let the flakes fall gently against his face. Slow breaths, deep and even.
Inside, Dean slept, but he was dreaming. Sam could see fragments of it, bright lights, silver swords, and a language he couldn't understand. Around them, the woods were alive with predators large and small, things sleeping, things hunting. He could sense them all, every tiny beating heart, each of them unique. Each of them his for the taking.
Only one of them posed a threat.
It was a simple thing to cloak Ruby in this strange new power, and to realize the heart of her host was no longer beating, was colder than the snow around them. Without moving, he reached into the bone cage which held her and took hold of her essence, pulling it toward him. Eyes closed, he listened as she choked, as she rasped a strangled version of his name, and slowly, he began to pull her apart. Pain ricocheted around his brain, but he held his hand steady, imagining whatever demons were made of was inside his fist, and he squeezed until the last of it dissipated into the night air.
"Turn back," he whispered to the night, and the echo of it shivered through the forest, slid across the black form of each demon. They stopped, their fear and confusion a palpable bitterness Sam could taste in the frigid air, and then they began to retreat, dark streaks in a moonless sky.
He didn't realize he'd fallen into the snow until he tasted it on his lips - metallic wetness, blood and snow mixed together. He sat up, unable to see Ruby's body now that the snow was falling full and fast, but he knew she was gone. Eradicated.
"Now you know I'm ready," he said softly.
**
1992
The cabin was cold, so very cold, and there was so much snow Dad had sent them inside and finished burying the salt himself. Dean was quiet, not asking many questions, and he gave Sam all the dried apples before Sam could even ask. For some reason, that scared Sam, and he gave them back. "I'm full," he said, and Dean only nodded, putting one of the apples in his mouth while he cleared the table of plates and spoons, not a trace of their bean soup left.
They changed into pajamas without being told, and when their father came inside, covered in snow and face red from the cold, he nodded approvingly. He pulled his gloves off and stamped snow from his feet, and Sam watched him, thinking of how big John was, how he and Dean were never going to be that big, or as strong.
Dean poked Sam in the back, and Sam sighed. He clambered into the bed, Dean right behind him, and they huddled together in the middle of the bed, a small pool of warmth against the storm outside. Over Dean's head, Sam could see John puttering around the room, adding wood to the fire, checking the door and windows, inspecting the salt lines.
"Dean," Sam whispered. Sam put his cold nose against Dean's shoulder, and didn't move it when Dean tried to jostle him off.
"Quit it!" Dean said, swatting at him, but Sam didn't budge. Dean was warm. Safe.
"Dean," Sam said again, and this time, Dean burrowed around in the bed until he was facing Sam. He glanced up at Dad, then whispered,
"What, pain in my ass?"
"What's a fallback position?"
For a second, Dean's face went puzzled, and then he said, "Why?"
"Dad said," Sam started, and then shook his head. "I didn't understand."
"It means...a place to go when there's nowhere else. Like, a last resort." Dean yanked at the covers, pulling them up to his ears.
"Does it mean having your back?"
"Sort of. Yeah." Dean smiled just a little. "Wherever I am, that's your fallback position."
"And wherever I am is yours?"
"Sure, Sammy." Dean squeezed his head, shoving it into the pillow. "Now shut up and go to sleep, I'm tired." He rolled back over, and Sam immediately put his nose right back where it was, even as Dean wriggled and tried to move it. Eventually, he gave up. Sam closed his eyes, and as he was drifting off, he felt his father's hand on his head, and the covers pulled up to his neck, past Dean's bony shoulders, shielding them from the cold, together.
**
2008
Just after dawn, Sam put on a hoodie and went outside to dig a grave for Ruby's host. The ground was partially frozen, but soil and grass parted easily enough when Sam applied some of his surprising strength. It had been weeks since he'd had a hard workout, and he enjoyed the hard burn of physical labor, the trickle of sweat between his shoulder blades.
Dean emerged from the cabin just as Sam lowered Ruby's host into the ground. She seemed tiny against the darkened earth, anonymous and beautiful, her name forever lost along with her life. Sam could remember when she'd first burst into the room, stabbing Pride and saving him. It was the first time any demon had ever helped him; it was the first time any demon had ever called him Boy King. It seemed too convenient, now; the puzzle pieces fitting together in ways he couldn't see, before.
"Here." Dean handed him a cup of hot coffee, and Sam wrapped his ungloved hands around the plain white mug. Dean's expression was hard when he glanced down into the grave, seeing not the body, but what used to inhabit it. "Good riddance."
Sam nodded, staring down at her. Dean watched him with eyes so shuttered, Sam had no idea what he was thinking. But he knew what Dean was feeling - fear, and wonder, and most of all, a love so immense Sam didn't have any vocabulary for it. It didn't matter. What Dean was to him wasn't contained in words. If there was any language between them, it was what Sam had drawn on Dean's body through the night, with Ruby's invisible blood on his hands, and the way Dean's fingertips bruised Sam's skin in return, strong and possessive.
"It won't be enough to kill one of them," Dean said. "We don't know how many demons Lilith has, but you'll have to be able to kill hundreds. Thousands. To be ready."
"I'll need practice, then." Sam took a deep breath, and said, "We should head down the mountain. Find some demons. We need to hunt."
"Sam...you're sure about this?"
Sam took a deep breath. Dean would always ask him the essential question. It was as necessary to Sam as air. "I say we go down, do a little quick-and-dirty hunting, get supplied, and then...come back up," Sam said. "Dig in. Stay here, for a while."
A light snow was falling, coating Dean's hair and the shoulders of his jacket with a bare dusting of white. "I'm not sure there's time," he said.
Sam knew Dean could feel what was out there, invisible to those who had no reason to fear them; he had been sensing the hellhounds since sometime late the night before. They stalked the edges of the woods, impatient and scenting what they'd been dispatched to kill, and Sam knew where each of them was, could trace the vibration of each paw in the snow.
Sam stretched his mind out toward the forest and touched each of the hellhounds. One by one, like snuffing candles, he extinguished them, removed them from the earth so they couldn't come baying for Dean's blood. In his arms, Dean shuddered, Sam's power spilling over into him, against him. He kissed Dean again, deep, deeper, pushed out with his mind and snapped necks, pushed back against the flood of devils Lilith sent in Ruby's wake.
With each extermination, Sam felt his power growing.
When he was finished, only two hounds were left, and he touched what had once been their core nature. Even in hell, the hounds were meant to obey, and he gave them his command.
Come.
Eyes closed, he pushed gently at the air around them, heard Dean's gasp as the wind gave way to his will, and opened his eyes to see the snow falling everywhere, a thick soft curtain, except across the two of them. Now Dean's gaze was focused on Sam, a mixture of open admiration and a glimmer of fear.
He curled his hand behind Dean's neck and touched Dean's lips with his own and opened him, breathed warmth into him. "Let the bitch come," he murmured. "Let her try to take you."
"You are so that chick in X-Men," Dean said, grinning as Sam chuckled and pressed their mouths together for another kiss.
"I'm hotter," Sam said, earning a disbelieving snort from Dean.
Dean arched into him, hard and aching against Sam, his hand curved strong at the base of Sam's neck. They fused together, sharing warmth and breath, until finally Sam broke away to look into Dean's eyes.
"She can't have you," Sam said.
"Yeah, well. She can't have you, either. If I stay, you stay."
Sam ran his hand up through Dean's hair, wet with snow, and traced back down through the mass of freckles that had fascinated him when he was only a kid, and everything in the world was a source of wonder. "Yes," he said softly. "And if you go, I go."
Dean swallowed hard, but it was a contract between them, now, one that overwrote Dean's hardwiring on the subject of Sam. In it together, until the end. Sam was sure, now.
"C'mon, let's get packed." Dean turned back toward the cabin.
Sam picked up the shovel. "Once I'm finished, I'll be in."
Once the door closed behind him, Sam let the snow return to its random patterns, everything pristine and clean. The invisible lines his father drew around their refuge were as clear to him now as neon brands in the snow. The hellhounds skulked toward them, whining low in their throats, their massive bulk crouched down to the ground. They cowered there, and Sam let them grovel, bellies against the snow.
Sam crouched down in front of them. They reeked of a cringing, mindless fear, and he could tell they wanted to shuffle away. But they held their ground, and Sam held the moment, watching them.
"You belong to me, now," he said quietly. "You kill anything that comes to this place, except me, and my brother, Dean." At the mention of Dean's name, the hounds shuffled back, trembling under the force of conflicting orders. "You don't touch him."
They snuffled their understanding.
"And when the time comes," Sam said, looking off into the distance, "you will lead me back to the one who sent you."
Around them, the snow fell softly, and the world outside was lost in a sea of white.
end