Hangman is Coming Down From the Gallows

by withdiamonds

Summary:

Today is the last day of Dean Winchester's life. Today is the last day of Dean Winchester's life. Today is the last day...

Notes:

Written for SPN_J2_Big Bang, 2008.

Today is the last day of Dean Winchester's life.

He blinks at the sun slanting into the motel room between the crack in the drapes. Sam never gets them closed all the way, and Dean hates the little sliver of blinding white that creeps in through the unprotected spaces in the early morning.

Dean won't see the sun again after today, but that thought barely registers. There are too many other things pushing and shoving their way around in his head, all clamoring to be the thing he's going to miss most. The damn sun is the least of them.

The thing he's going to miss most is actually sleeping right next to him, sheets tangled around his hips, one hand tucked under his pillow. Dean's had an entire year to figure out how to say goodbye, but how he's supposed to end a lifetime spent looking out for Sam is beyond him. Eternity's probably not going to be long enough to figure that one out. He's a goddamn fool and he knows it.

He watches Sam sleep and blinks rapidly as his eyes prickle with sudden tears. It seems he's got more time than he thought he was gonna have. The hellhounds didn't show up at midnight the way they'd expected. That means today will be both the shortest day of Dean's life and the longest. It's already stretching endlessly in front of him as he waits to leave his brother forever.

They're not giving up, but they're out of time. They left a trail of broken bodies and exorcised demons in their wake as they looked for answers, and Dean can almost regret that now. He wants to know exactly what to expect, and when, and there's no one left to tell him.

It confuses him that he can hear the hounds and yet they still haven't come for him. Dean handles things better when he knows what's going on. This is hard enough without having to watch Sam react to every unexpected noise or movement, waiting for the hellhounds or worse to show up.

That's one reason they'd left Bobby's. Dean doesn't need a bigger audience for this.

"Just stay here, kid. Maybe we could -"

"Could what, Bobby? You wanna hold my hand while the damn hellhounds rip me to shreds? There's only three hours left, man." Dean has to stop himself from getting up in Bobby's face. Bobby means well. He cares. Dean backs down, shaking his head.

"Don't be a smartass, boy. We can set up some protection, keep the hounds out, buy us some more time," Bobby says with exasperation.

"There has to be some way of finding Lilith, Bobby," Sam says, looking up from the pile of books covering the table.

"Other than some kind of fancy demon GPS, I don't know how, Sam," Bobby says. "And what're you gonna do, march in there with that pig-sticker? Without the Colt?"

"We're not gonna march in anywhere," Dean says. "We go in smart or we don't go in at all." He's gathering up his things, making sure his weapons are clean and Ruby's knife ready, although for what, he's not sure. There's nowhere to march in to.

"Dean, I could just summon Ruby -" Sam starts for the millionth time.

"No! We're not gonna keep making the same mistakes over and over again, Sam. It ends now!" Dean shoves a bag of goofa dust into his duffle angrily.

"What does that even mean?" Sam demands, getting up from the table and spreading his arms wide in exasperation.

"Dad's deal, my deal? Every time one of us is up the creek, the other one is begging to sell their soul. We gotta stop being martyrs, Sammy. It's what those evil sonsabitches want, don't you see? And Ruby's part of it." He shakes his head. "No."

"If we can't find Lilith, there's no one to sell my soul to, Dean," Sam reasons. "I don't think Ruby -"

"Which is why we're leaving." Dean cuts him off and turns to Bobby, holding out his hand. "Thanks for everything, Bobby. You take care of yourself now."

Bobby stares at Dean's hand, then yanks him into a hug. "Don't give me that handshake shit, son." He holds on a minute and Dean feels himself start to tremble. He grits his teeth. He fucking hates goodbyes.

"I don't want you to see it happen," he whispers, holding himself rigid, Bobby's arms tight around him.

"I know." Bobby lets go. He stands back, his eyes bright. "I'm sorry, Dean. I wish -"

"Me, too. Don't worry about it, Bobby." He gives Bobby a half-smile and walks out of the room. "You coming, Sam?" he throws over his shoulder as he hits the front door. He looks back at Bobby's face one more time, unable to stop himself.

Sam scrambles to grab his stuff, shoving a couple of dust-covered books into his bag and looking helplessly at Bobby. Dean makes himself turn away. "Sam!" he barks and his brother follows him out to the car.

 

Dean struggled against sleep last night. He tried to stay awake, waiting, his back tucked against Sam's chest, letting Sam keep him safe right up until the end. They'd found a motel about an hour from Bobby's place, and they spent a long time thoroughly covering the doorway and window with salt and goofa dust, Sam drawing patterns and sigils on the floor, Dean re-checking the guns.

Sam coaxed him into at least laying down for a while, arms strong around him. He held the palm of his hand flat over Dean's chest, keeping guard over his heartbeat, not willing to let it stutter to a stop just yet.

"I'm here," Sam murmured, lips against the soft skin behind Dean's ear.

No shit, Sherlock, Dean tried to say, going for the witty comeback, but he hadn't been able to get any words past the panic he had to keep swallowing down. The last time. The words kept looping in his brain, running in circles like a hamster in one of those crazy wheels. This is the last time for this.

The past few months have turned Dean into one maudlin son of a bitch. It's not as funny as you might think.

He hadn't wanted Sam here. He fought Sam on it, fought tooth and nail for Sam to let him do this by himself. Dean knows exactly how hard this will be on Sammy, especially after the Tuesdays and whatever else happened that Sam refuses to talk about.

"What the fuck does it matter if it's hard, Dean? You're a bigger dumbass than you look like if you think I'm just going to walk away and leave you to die alone." Sam's voice had broken and he faltered a little on the words die alone. He didn't look away from Dean, though. He's as stubborn as John Winchester ever was and then some.

It matters to Dean that it's hard. The last thing he wants is for Sam to sit here and watch Dean die again, for real this time. It's a cosmic joke of the highest order that today happens to be both a Tuesday and his brother's birthday.

"I don't want you there, Sam." Dean thought maybe if he kept saying it, the words would eventually penetrate his brother's thick skull.

"No way in hell are you doing this alone, Dean." Sam's face could be carved out of granite for all the resolve Dean saw there.

"No way in hell? Oh, that's funny, Sam," Dean snorted.

"Bite me," Sam retorted.

And Dean finally gave in, because in spite of all his protestations, he really doesn't want to do this alone. In a last stupid act of selfishness, he's going to let Sam watch him die one last time.

Dean slowly eases himself out of Sam's grip, strong even in sleep, and sits on the edge of the lumpy mattress. His elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, he tries to gather strength for the day ahead. He slept well enough in Sam's protective grasp, but he ran from the hellhounds in his dreams. They are some ugly motherfuckers.

Dean raises his head sharply at a noise outside. It could be a car engine or a plane flying overhead, demonic claws scratching at the door, or simply wind blowing across the flat, empty parking lot. The hair on the back of his neck stands up and he shivers once. A flicker of light catches his attention and he startles before he sees the TV out of the corner of his eye.

They left it on last night, a holdover from when Sammy was little and afraid to go to sleep without Dad there. The quiet drone and dim light of the television made the drab, crappy motel rooms they grew up in less likely hiding places for the monsters Sam was so certain would one day get them. When even crawling into Dean's bed in the dark hadn't been enough, the noise of the TV made Sam feel less scared and alone.

Some morning news show is on now, the volume turned down too low for Dean to hear more than a murmur of voices. There looks to have been a plane crash somewhere, and Dean sits for a moment and watches images of flames and emergency vehicles, people running, the crawl across the bottom of the screen telling him it happened somewhere in California. It doesn't interest him much. He feels oddly removed from the rest of the world, as if he's already gone from it.

Sam stirs behind him and Dean pushes himself to his feet, running a hand over his face. Should he shave, shower, act like this is just another day? Does it matter if he brushes his teeth before he's dragged off to the pit? He has to piss, and once he's in the bathroom, he shrugs and goes through the motions of personal hygiene, concentrating on the familiarity of his morning routine to try and keep the terror at bay. He promised himself he'd maintain, for Sammy's sake if not for the sake of his own dignity.

It doesn't exactly work, and when he comes out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist, he has to swallow the hard lump of fear and sorrow that lodges in his throat when he sees Sam sitting up in bed, staring at him with haunted eyes.

"What are you doing?"

"What's it look like I'm doing, genius?" It comes out shaky instead of irritable like he meant it to, and Dean scowls. He moves across the room to his duffle bag, intent on finding clean underwear, a shirt, jeans. No way is he confronting any hellhounds while he's naked.

"Come back to bed, Dean." Sam's voice is flat, an order brooking no opposition.

Dean turns around slowly, a pair of boxers in one hand. "Sam," he says.

"Please," Sam says. Dean has to look away from the desperation in his eyes.

He glances at the windows again, his ears straining to hear what might be waiting for him beyond the door. He shivers, his shower-damp skin chilled in the frigid air of the motel room. Most motels can't seem to get the air conditioning right. They either freeze your balls off or they leave you to try and breathe in dank, muggy heat. This one could be located on the Arctic Circle.

Sam clears his throat. "Can you – I mean, do you hear -" he breaks off, darting a glance at the windows, lips tightening into a thin line, a worried furrow between his eyes.

Dean shakes his head. "Not yet," he lies. Sam looks back at him and his frown deepens. "Dude," Dean says. "I'll let you know." He shivers again and watches as Sam makes to get up, to look and see for himself what's out there.

Dean throws his hands out in surrender and crawls back into bed.

They end up in the same place they have for the past four months, ever since Dean admitted that he didn't want to die; with Sam at his back, arms and legs tangled tightly together. Once upon a time, Dean's body had been the one to cocoon Sam's protectively, but those days are long gone. Dean abdicated that position the instant his lips met those of the crossroads demon. He spent the first six months afterwards keeping Sam at arm's length, the only way he could get through it without breaking, but he gave that up a while ago, too. He has no defenses now except Sam.

Sam nuzzles at the back of Dean's neck, his breath warm behind Dean's ear. He places soft kisses over Dean's jaw and pulls him closer. Dean thinks stupidly that he doesn't know if he can push past his grief and terror to do this one last time. Sam's lips on him feel like failure.

But Sam soothes his hands down Dean's sides, palms his hips, burying his face between Dean's neck and his shoulder, and Dean finds he can close his mind to everything but Sam. Sam's touch, his smell, and nothing else matters.

He lets Sam spread him out, lay hot kisses along his collar bone, in the hollow of his hips, sucking bruises on the tender skin of the inside of his thigh, as if by marking Dean as his, no one else can take Sam's brother away from him.

It almost breaks Dean, and when he comes, Sam thrusting into him hard like he's demanding that Dean not leave him, he finally gives in to his grief, hiding his face in Sam's shoulder so Sam won't see.

Sam comes with barely a sound, a soft gasp, Dean's name like a prayer on his lips. It's a long time before he lets Dean go, before he slips out and rolls off to the side, curling his body back around Dean's.

Dean startles awake with a sense of dread some time later. He must have dozed off, and he grits his teeth in frustration at that. Sam tightens the grip on his shoulders and Dean shrugs him off. He glances back and flinches at the flash of hurt that crosses Sam's face. He grimaces an apology. He's already wasted more time than he should have sleeping today and he doesn't want to waste any more of it arguing with Sam. They've done enough of that over the past year.

Dean's stomach growls. Sam laughs softly behind him, and just that easily, Dean is forgiven. He tries to ignore the guilt that forgiveness brings. This whole thing has brought temptation to Sam, caused him to be tempted by things he shouldn't be, drawn to things Dean fears and hates, and it's all Dean's fault.

Dean doesn't know if he'll actually be able to eat anything, but his stomach is empty and he'll be damned if he's going to cower in this god-forsaken motel room all day, waiting. He reaches back and pats Sam's hip, letting his fingertips linger, savoring the feel of smooth skin. "I gotta move, dude. Let's go find some breakfast."

He can feel Sam hesitate, and Dean waits for him. He'll stay here curled up in this bed all day if that's what Sam wants. This day is for Sam, for better or worse, but Dean would really rather be up and doing stuff.

Sam tips his head forward and drops a kiss on Dean's shoulder, lips brushing lightly over Dean's skin. "Sure. Breakfast." Sam kisses him again, then swings his legs over the side of the bed and sits up. "I guess I should shower if we're going to go out somewhere to eat, huh." He looks at Dean, stares at him like he's trying to memorize his face, then hauls himself up and heads for the bathroom.

"Yeah, you don't exactly smell like a rose, Sammy," Dean calls after him. Sam flips him off as he disappears behind the bathroom door.

Dean gets heavily to his feet and goes back to his duffle, picking up the clothes he never got around to putting on before Sam coaxed him back to bed. "Way to totally waste my shower, Sammy," he mutters, but he doesn't have the oomph to say it louder, to make a thing out of it and give Sam a hard time. His sense of humor seems to have checked out early. That's unfortunate; it might have been a useful thing to have down in Hell.

The Impala is parked right outside their door. A few patches of grass are trying valiantly to grow through the cracks in the sidewalk, but otherwise the run-down motel is drab and bare of foliage, the parking lot barren. Dean raises his face to the sun. It's late spring and the air is soft and warm on his skin. Clouds scud across the bright blue sky and a light breeze carries the scent of some kind of sweet flower on it. He closes his eyes and breathes in deeply.

"Dean?" It's Sam's worried voice.

"Dude, get your ass in the car," Dean says brusquely. "I'm starving." He opens the car door and it creaks louder than usual. He really needs to oil that before…well, before.

There's a diner just a couple of blocks from the motel. It's almost empty when they get there, and Dean doesn't know if they're too early for lunch or too late for breakfast. He doesn't want to know what time it is, didn't even wear his watch. There's no goddamn way he's counting down the hours today. That's just too fucking melodramatic.

Their waitress's name is Ellie. She's a fairly attractive woman of indeterminate age, curly red hair and cleavage down to there. There are lines of tension around her eyes, maybe the faint hint of a bruise under the makeup around her right eye, but she smiles at them as she takes their order.

"How about that plane crash," she says, making cheerful conversation. "I hate to fly, I always tell my daughter, Becky, honey, if you wanna see me, get your own ass on a plane, 'cuz you ain't gonna see mine on one anytime soon." She shakes her head darkly then says, "So, what can I get for you boys?"

The feeling of dread gnawing at Dean's gut won't let him stop thinking about the time, and he reaches out and grabs Sam's wrist in spite of his best intentions, turning it so he can see his watch. Adrenaline jolts through him, fear making him light-headed. Sam stares at him with worry in his eyes. Dean just shakes his head and Sam's lips tighten again. Dean's really tired of seeing Sam make that face.

Ellie's starting to look a little concerned and Dean manages a smile.

It's 11 o'clock in the morning on the last day of Dean's life and he has to decide if he wants an omelet with a side order of bacon or a cheeseburger with fries.

 

Breakfast, which turns out to be lunch, is mostly silent. Sam stares out the window at what few passersby there are, his face a study in deep concentration. He's probably thinking about what he missed, what he hasn't thought of or didn't know enough to try, and guilt turns Dean's hamburger to sawdust. He tosses it onto his plate in defeat and wipes his greasy fingers on the flimsy paper napkin he grabs from the dispenser in the center of the table.

Sam turns his head and looks at him, sorrow on his face.

"Don't you beat yourself up over this, Sammy. Don't you do that," Dean growls fiercely. Sam shakes his head.

"I just – there's nothing – Dean, I can't -" He stops talking, his teeth clicking together as he shuts his mouth, so much despair in his eyes that Dean can't look at him. "Ruby -"

"I'm not doing this, dude," Dean says. He stands up abruptly, pulls some bills out of his pocket and throws them on the table. "Let's get out of here."

In spite of Sam's protests that there are things they could be doing to find a way to break the deal, they spend the afternoon driving, although Dean knows better than to think they can outrun what's coming. The Impala has always been where he feels the safest, this car that he and Sammy grew up in, riding the highway, together and warm in the backseat with their father at the wheel.

When Dad gave her to him, with gruff instructions to take care of her, Dean, do right by her, it was like John was trying to give Dean his childhood home back the only way he could. He misses his Dad, wonders if he'd be able to figure out some way to help Dean if he was still around.

There's nowhere Dean wants to spend his last day more than in his baby, Sam at his side on the open road, driving too fast, music cranked until Sam's ears bleed. They share old memories, things they've done and places they've been in this car, and Dean throws out the occasional pointed question about her care and maintenance. Sam smiles and rolls his eyes and gets every answer right.

They spend time pulled off at a roadside park, oiling the Impala's doors, checking the oil and tire pressure just for the sheer pleasure and satisfaction it gives Dean.

"Hey, Sammy, remember that summer at Bobby's when Dad was gone for a whole month? You were ten, weren't you?" Dean shakes his head. "Man, what a weird looking kid you were." Sam nods and smiles, handing Dean the tire pressure gauge. "You were supposed to be learning how to shoot." Dean snickers. "How many of Bobby's windows did you shoot out before you got the hang of it, Quickdraw?"

"Shut up," Sam says mildly. "I could out-shoot you by the end of the summer."

"In your dreams, Rambo," Dean scoffs. "I just didn't want you to start crying." He twists the cap back on the tire's valve and straightens up. "You remember how much her air pressure is supposed to be?"

Sam nods seriously. He's always known it's important to get the details right and Dean appreciates that.

When it starts to get dark, they head to a steakhouse a few blocks up from their motel. The afternoon with Sam soothes the ache in Dean's chest, eases him enough that dinner isn't the disaster lunch was.

The waitress seats them with a smile, twitching her hips as they follow her to their table, actually fucking fluttering her eyelashes at Sam. He's totally oblivious, the big dork, much to her displeasure. She slaps his menu down on the table in front of him and turns to Dean, smiling sweetly and handing him his menu with a there ya go, sugar and a wink.

Dean wolfs down a steak and crispy, fried-just-right onion rings, washing it all down with a couple of beers. Sam sits and watches him with a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, just toying with his own food.

It's peaceful, a respite Dean appreciates more than he can say.

The air is cool when they come out of the restaurant, the clear night sky filled with stars. Dean hears howling and he grabs for Sam's wrist before he can stop himself. Sam comes to an abrupt halt and glances quickly around the parking lot, his hand going for Ruby's knife, which is tucked safely inside his jacket.

"Dean?"

Dean shakes his head. "Nothing, Sammy. It's nothing." An older couple eyes them with suspicion and ducks quickly into their car, slamming the doors emphatically. Dean doesn't know if they caught sight of the knife or if it's the hand-holding that spooked them.

He and Sam both know the knife won't be of much help to them. It's not like Lilith herself is going to show up to drag Dean away, not when she has hellhounds to do her dirty work for her. They've spent too long thinking of the Colt as their only salvation, and even though it's gone, it's still a hard habit to break.

Dean's rage at Bela comes back full-force; he hopes she's the first thing he sees when he gets to Hell. Fucking bitch.

"Dude, stop staring at me," he snaps at Sam. "It's creepy. I don't hear a thing." Dean looks away, off into the distance, straining his eyes. There's nothing there to see.

"This isn't the time to start lying to me, Dean." There's real anger in Sam's voice, and even though Dean knows it's not directed at him, he feels guilty enough that he nods.

"I can hear them howling," he says simply. Sam goes white under the fluorescent streetlights.

"Let's move," he snaps and he pushes Dean at the car, towards the passenger side. There's a bit of a scuffle then, because hellhounds on his heels or not, there's no way Dean's passing up the chance to drive his car one last time.

"Get your ass in the car, Dean," Sam shouts at him, frantic.

Dean slides in, shoving the key in the ignition, throwing the car into gear, and then he stops, leans his head on the steering wheel and breathes. Sam glares at him.

"Dean, what the fuck! Go!"

"Why, Sam? It doesn't matter. Where are we gonna go?" Dean asks desperately.

"Back to the motel! We can keep them out!" Sam's still yelling and his voice echoes around the closed confines of the car.

Dean's heart is racing and he thinks he's starting to hyperventilate. "Can we please calm the fuck down? Christ."

Sam glares some more, until he finally looks away. "Okay. Sorry." He puts his hand on the back of Dean's neck and they sit in silence until Dean can breathe again.

Dean takes one last deep gulp of air and turns to Sam, leaning towards him. Sam meets him halfway, kisses him once softly on the mouth then rests his forehead against Dean's. Dean closes his eyes and does something he doesn't often do.

He prays for the strength to see this through.

 

Back in the room they undress quietly. The TV plays softly in the background, Tom Cruise trying to convince Jay Leno that he's not keeping his wife and child prisoners of some kind of cult and that Katie is thrilled to be pregnant again. Dean methodically folds his clothes, packing his duffle neatly. No reason to leave that for Sam to do later. He takes off his ring and his amulet and then hesitates. He shoves the ring into the bottom of the duffle and closes his hand over the necklace.

By common consent they crawl into the unmade bed, the sheets cool and wrinkled, still smelling like them from earlier in the day. Sam curls into Dean's chest and Dean reaches for him, his hand on Sam's cheek, forcing him to look up. He tucks the amulet into Sam's hand, folding his fingers over it, holding it in place. "Thank you, Sammy," he whispers.

Sam's face crumples and he loses his composure for the first time in a very long time.

And although he doesn't mean to fall asleep, Dean does, holding his tear-stained little brother in his arms, listening to the sound of howling just beyond the motel room door.

 

*

 

When Dean opens his eyes, it's morning. It must be morning, because the sun is shining in through the space where the drapes separate just a bit. "Dammit, Sam," he bitches automatically.

Dean closes his eyes against the glare and tries to think. He remembers falling asleep, which wasn't really part of the plan. He'd rather go out in a blaze of glory, Sam at his side, trying to keep Dean alive by force if not by their wits, taking as many evil things to Hell with him as they can kill. That'll be hard to do if he's tucked up in bed, snoring.

They've shifted in the night and Sam's behind him, arms unyielding around his waist, hand in its usual place over Dean's heart. Which gives a giant leap in his chest when he realizes.

He's made it; he's made it a day past his deadline. His due date's come and gone and he's still here.

"Sam!" he shouts. He sits up, trying to pull himself out of Sam's grip, which tightens instead of loosening. "Sammy! Let go, Sam! It's okay. Dude, it's okay. Hot damn!"

Sam opens his eyes, gazing sleepily up at his brother, confusion etched on his face. "Dean?" Then Sam's reflexes kick in and he sits bolt upright in bed, eyes sweeping the room with almost chilling intensity. "Dean, what's going on?" He reaches for Ruby's knife under his pillow and in an instant he's standing, putting himself between Dean and the door.

"Dude, it's okay," Dean says again. "I don't know what you did, Sammy, but it's okay. You did it! You're a fucking Einstein, dude!" He grabs Sam's shoulders and pulls him around, kissing him exuberantly. He doesn't know whether to laugh or cry. He feels like he could fly. He feels like he could run a marathon, or single-handedly shove every damned one of those evil sonsabitches who escaped the Devil's gate right back inside.

He settles for pushing Sam down on the bed and straddling him, leaning down to kiss him again. Sam kisses him back, because that's what they do, but he's distracted and he finally twists his head away, saying, "Dean," in a voice Dean doesn't want to hear. "I didn't do any -"

"What, Sammy, you did! Of course you did, you freak! C'mon, let's celebrate. Let's get you naked." He strips Sam out of his t-shirt and sleep pants, yanks his own shirt over his head, and has Sam's dick in his mouth before it's even half hard.

Sam gasps and thrusts his hips up like he can't help himself, even though he's obviously got other things on his mind. Dean shifts, wiggling around to get his own boxers off.

With one hand around his dick and the other one grasping the base of Sam's, Dean bends down and finishes the blowjob he started. He's practically giddy with relief and that makes him even better at this than he normally is, which is actually pretty awesome going by the noises he can usually get Sam to make. He gets Sam off in record time and then he kneels up, grinning at Sam from between his legs, hand still moving over himself, and he comes hard, shooting all over Sam's belly. He laughs and thinks he sounds a little bit hysterical, but goddamn, after the year he's just had, he fucking deserves it.

"Dean," and now Sam's kneeling up, too, facing him, his hands holding Dean's biceps in a vise-like grip. Dean's laughter falters a little when he looks at Sam's serious face. "I didn't do anything, Dean. Nothing's changed. I don't know what you're talking about, but I didn't do anything, I couldn't, I couldn't find any answers, I don't know what to do, how to stop it -" and he's starting to sound frantic, so Dean takes a deep breath and then another one as he tries to center himself and concentrate on what Sam's saying.

"Whaddya mean, Sam?" He gestures down at himself. "I'm here, I'm alive, it's all good. I'm awesome."

Sam shakes his head, his hands tightening further. "Well, yeah, you're here, but just because you made it through last night – it's still early in the day." He gives Dean the strangest look. "Do you hear anything? Dean, the hounds?" he presses urgently.

Dean cocks his head, listening. He hears the wind, that's all. He hears people talking on the television, still talking about the plane crash from yesterday. He hears a tree branch knocking softly against the window. That's all. "Nope," he answers with a grin. "And what do you mean, just because I made it through the night? I made it through more than that, man. I made it through the whole damn day!"

Slowly Sam lets him go, still looking at him like he's lost his mind. Dean flexes his arms and says, "That's quite a grip you've got there, Samson." He leers at Sam. "I kinda like it." Sam gives him a perfunctory smile. "Come on, Sammy. Let's go get some breakfast. I'm freakin' starving! I could eat a horse."

Dean calls first dibs on the shower, and he knows that while he's in there Sam's going to have his nose buried in his laptop, or on the phone to Bobby, trying to figure out how he saved Dean's life and soul from the pit of Hell. Dean stands blissfully under the hot water, shampoo in his eyes, and sings Highway to Hell at the top of his lungs, with no sense of irony whatsoever.

When Sam's in there, not singing, which he never does anyway, Dean sits on the end of the bed and tries to relax. He feels wired, high as a kite actually, and for some reason it's freaking Sam out. He maybe needs to chill a little.

So he does more deep breathing to keep himself centered and concentrates on the TV for distraction. They're still showing video of the plane crash, pieces of flaming fuselage spread across a field, emergency vehicles everywhere, misty mountains in the background. The crawl across the bottom of the screen doesn't say anything different than it did yesterday, and Dean idly wonders why this is still getting so much airtime a day after it happened. Something else more newsworthy should have happened by now. Maybe someone important was on the flight or something.

He hears a siren howling in the distance, at least he thinks it's a siren. That's all it can be, it's nothing really, nothing supernatural about it. Just a siren. "Sam, come on, hurry the hell up," he shouts as he glances at the window. There's nothing out there. "Sammy!"

It's another beautiful day, soft and spring-like, a gentle breeze blowing Sam's hair around his face, into his eyes. Dean smiles at the sight. "Get your ass in the car, dude," he says. His door creaks as loudly as it did yesterday and Dean scowls. Cheap-ass oil. He tries to buy the good stuff for his baby, but sometimes they both have to settle for less than the best.

Ellie still looks tense this morning and the bruise around her eye is a little darker, but she hands them menus with a friendly smile. "How about that plane crash," she says while Dean looks his over. "I hate to fly, I always tell my daughter, Becky, honey, if you wanna see me, get your own ass on a plane, 'cuz you ain't gonna see mine on one anytime soon." She shakes her head at them and says, "So, what can I get for you boys?"

"Now that's just freaky," Dean says. Ellie's words make him edgy and he doesn't like it. "I'll have two eggs over easy, a short stack, and extra bacon," he says, and he watches her write it down while he thinks furiously.

He digs in when his food comes, but after a few mouthfuls his appetite seems to desert him. He chews on a strip of bacon and looks around the diner, studying the few people scattered here and there. A couple of young guys are sitting at the counter eating, one with blond hair and a dark-haired one with a mustache. A heavy-set guy two booths down is reading a newspaper and drinking coffee, and then there's the girl at the cash register. Plus Ellie, and that's it. They look like the same people who were here yesterday, but Dean really hadn't been paying that much attention.

Maybe he should start.

Sam eats quietly, chewing morosely on his toast. Dean shovels a huge forkful of pancakes into his mouth and starts to talk, making sure Sam can see every crumb.

There's no reaction.

"Sam," Dean says impatiently, the word muffled by the food. He chews and swallows quickly. "What the hell's the matter with you, dude?"

Again with the are you insane? look. "This is the last day, Dean. Your last day, and I didn't find -" he stops talking when Dean slaps his palm down on the table. "What the hell's the matter with you, Dean?"

"What, you mean why aren't I dead yet?" he snaps. Sam pales and Dean immediately regrets his temper. "Sorry, I know, sorry." He waves his hand in apology. Sam takes another bite of his toast and this time he chews it accusingly. It's a talent he's had since he was thirteen.

They finish their meal in silence, Dean's euphoria gone before the last of his coffee.

"Can we get the hell out of Dodge?" Dean asks as they get in the car. Sam turns to look at him in surprise.

"I thought you wanted to stay here until -" Sam breaks off and looks away, stares out the window at the small town street with its boarded up storefronts and rusted out cars. Not really much to look at and the diner is only a few blocks away from the motel, but Dean didn't want to walk here for breakfast. He wants the security of being in the Impala whenever he's outside their room.

Dean doesn't answer Sam. He doesn't know what to say.

They go back to the motel and Dean wants to pack, wants to shove everything in their duffles and go back to Bobby's. They'd picked this place because it was nearby, so Sam could go there, after. Not for comfort, although Dean knew Bobby would do his best to provide it, but so the two of them could keep researching.

"One month, Sam. One month and that's it. Then you move on, find something else to do, something to hunt. No obsessing," Dean insisted. He made Sam promise one night when Dean was buried deep inside him, refusing to move until he had Sam's word. Dean doesn't put much stock in promises extracted under sexual duress, but it's better than nothing. Dean didn't give Sam his life back so he could spend the rest of it focused on Dean.

When they get in the car and drive, Dean finds that they're unable to leave the area and he can't quite figure out why. They pretty much drive around aimlessly, just like yesterday. Dean even oils the car doors again, and he wants to just go, drive until he gets to an ocean, he doesn't give a fuck which one, but he can't find a way out.

They don't talk like they did yesterday. Sam is totally freaked out by Dean's insistence that he's safe out of the deal, that it's all over with. He wants to wait until tomorrow, or at least until midnight, to call Bobby and tell him the news. Dean figures he can give Sam that much. The pressure on him these past few months has been pretty intense.

When they go to the steakhouse for dinner, the waitress flirts with Sam like she really expects to get somewhere, like she didn't get shot down just last night. When Sam is as unresponsive as he was before, she turns her fluttering eyelashes on Dean, putting the menus down in front of him as if he's the only one eating.

"There ya go, sugar," she says before she winks and sashays away.

"Absolutely," Dean says appreciatively as he watches her go.

He looks around and sees the older couple from the parking lot last night seated two tables away. They eat the way people who have been together a long time often do, with very little conversation, making eye contact periodically purely out of habit. It looks comfortable.

Dean halfway expects to get the shifty eye from them at some point after they seemed so spooked in the parking lot last night. But there's no sign of recognition even when they look over at Dean's inappropriately loud laughter at the face Sam's making at the way Dean is fellating his beer bottle.

Sam mumbles something about Dean's oral fixation and Dean tells him he should be grateful for it. He gets a weak smile in return, and sighs.

"Jesus Sam, would you lighten up?" Sam grimaces. "You'll see tomorrow, okay? Tomorrow we'll go to Bobby's and you can figure it all out."

They eat the rest of the meal in silence, just like the old folks across the way, only without the eye contact. It's not comfortable at all.

The parking lot is quiet tonight, no howling, although Dean swears he can detect a hint of sulfur on the cool night breeze.

He holds Sam's hand anyway, and now they do get a look from the old couple, who must have left the restaurant right after they did. The woman blinks and for an instant her eyes shine black under the street lamp and a tiny smile plays around her mouth.

Dean tugs Sam to the car, his heart pounding, and his fear must communicate itself to Sam because he reaches for Ruby's knife with a sharp glance around.

"Dean, what is it?"

Dean hears the old woman laugh as she and her husband disappear around the corner. The sound feels like broken glass in his ears.

"Nothing, just get in the car, Sammy."

"This isn't the time to start lying to me, Dean," Sam snaps, and for a moment, Dean can't breathe.

He slides into the driver's seat and says, "Sam. What day is it?" His voice barely shakes at all, he's trying not to freak Sam out any more than he already is.

"It's Tuesday, Dean." The what the fuck is wrong with you is left unsaid, but Dean still hears it loud and clear.

Dean grips the steering wheel, his stomach swooping somewhere around his feet. "Jesus."

"What's wrong?" Sam asks.

Dean catches his breath and manages a slightly panicked laugh when he says, "Have you seen anyone around who could be that goddamn Trickster?"

Sam frowns at him. "What are you talking about?" He's turned in the seat, staring at Dean with a look of total confusion on his face.

"I'm saying, yesterday was Tuesday, and I think that thing, that time loop thing, is happening again, only to me this time." And that feels like the dumbest thing Dean's ever had to say out loud.

Sam turns back around and glares out at the cars parked around them. "Let's get back to the motel," he says flatly.

Dean doesn't waste any time in complying and he drives fast and reckless. The wind has picked up and the smell of sulfur is stronger, ash blowing across the deserted motel parking lot as they hurry to their room.

They leave most of their shit in the car so they can head out first thing in the morning. Dean wants to leave now, but Sam says no, it really is only Tuesday and they need to be inside tonight, behind lines of salt and goofa dust and all of Sam's amulets and charms and protections. Dean doesn't know what to think at this point, he's tired and confused and Sam is adamant.

So they stay. Sam turns the television on as they get undressed in silence. Tom Cruise is on Jay Leno again and Dean's not even surprised. That certainly seems to clinch the screwy time loop thing. He fingers his amulet while Sam's in the bathroom, then he shrugs and takes it off. Just because he got one extra day doesn't mean he's going to get another. He really has no fucking clue what's going on. He's reserving judgment.

He tucks the amulet into Sam's hand and Sam regards him somberly, his eyes sad. "Can you hear the hellhounds yet, Dean?"

Dean can. He looks at the clock, determined to stay awake until midnight at least. "Just come here," Sam pleads, and once again Dean falls asleep in spite of his best intentions.

 

A few more mornings of Ellie talking about her fear of flying and a few more evenings of Tom Cruise grinning and pretending he doesn't want to kick Jay Leno's ass and Dean is convinced that the time loop is real. He thinks maybe it really isn't such a bad deal for now. He has no idea what's actually going on, but hey, he gets to spend every day with Sam and he hasn't been torn limb from limb by hellhounds yet, so how bad could it be?

He quickly figures out that the earlier in the day he tells Sam they're stuck in a time loop, the sooner he can banish the tormented expression from Sam's eyes when he looks at Dean and thinks he's failed and that they have to say goodbye today.

"It's okay, Sammy," Dean says, as Sam stares up at him from where he's sprawled on his back under Dean. Dean shifts slightly and Sam's cock hits him just right, sending heat fizzing through his blood. "Look at it this way, dude. We have all the time in the world to do this." He tightens around Sam and gasps as Sam thrusts up into him, hard and fast.

"Yeah?" Sam says with a grin.

"Yeah," Dean grins back.

Sometimes Sam's sorrow isn't replaced by curious relief, it's replaced by panic as the realization hits him that he's dealing with yet another time loop. The last one hadn't gone so well, if Sam's possessive, almost compulsive protectiveness afterwards was anything to judge by. He hadn't let Dean out of his sight for weeks after Broward, hardly letting him take a piss by himself, until Dean had threatened to deck him if he didn't give him some privacy.

"Dude, I had no idea you were into watersports," Dean had groused, trying to shove Sam out of the men's room at the hole-in-the-wall bar where'd they'd been trying to pump the locals for information about some missing college students. The tips of Sam's ears turned slightly pink even as he spluttered and shoved Dean right back.

Dean stopped pushing but kept his hands balled up in Sam's t-shirt, eying him with fascinated interest. "Yeah, Sam? Really?" and he grabbed Sam's elbow, pulling him with him into the bathroom. "'Cause I gotta piss real bad. You wanna hold it for me?" He was halfway bluffing, ready to laugh it off if he had to, if someone came in behind them, or if Sam punched him in the face or something. But Sam's eyes darkened and he had Dean by the shoulders, turning him toward the urinal before Dean could do more than draw a quick breath.

Sam's heat behind him made Dean almost dizzy as Sam reached for his zipper, easing it down slowly, warm fingers closing around Dean's cock. "Don't get hard, Dean," Sam murmured in his ear. "You can't piss if you're hard." His hand tightened for a moment, then he held Dean loosely and aimed him at the toilet. "Go on."

Dean knew an order when he heard one.

Letting go was probably one of the hottest things Dean had ever done, and after, when Sam shook him off and tucked him back into his boxers with a smirk, Dean smacked him on the arm. "You didn't even get me off, you fucker."

Sam cupped a hand around his own crotch and squeezed gently. "Later. You can wait until later. We're in a public bathroom, dude," he said, laughing at Dean.

By the time Sam let him come it was hours later, and Dean was spread out across their motel bed, trembling and sweating and cursing Sam's name. He totally forgot to bitch about Sam's hovering that night.

After that, little by little, Sam had eased up on the whole watching Dean like a hawk thing. But now that they're stuck in another time loop, Dean can see it all starting up again.

"I told you once before, Sam, if you and I decide I'm not gonna die, then I'm not gonna die," Dean says. "You promised, remember? And, hey, this way every day's your birthday. Pretty awesome, Sammy, don't you think?"

Sam smiles at that. "Are you gonna give me a present?"

"I gave you your present this morning, dude. What better birthday present could you ask for? My blowjobs are freakin' legendary." Ellie's approaching the table, coffee pot in hand, and she stops and blinks at Dean. He grins up at her and says, "Well, they are." She laughs delightedly and warms up his coffee with an indulgent smile.

"You're a legend in your own lunchtime, Dean," Sam says as he shakes his head and smiles again. It's good to see.

It doesn't always last. Some days are better than others and on a bad day, their afternoon drives are almost more than Dean wants to deal with. It's not like they run out of things to say. Hell, Dean's never had a problem finding stupid shit to talk about. But when Sam gets into one of his moods, dark and miserable, Dean sees more clearly than ever just how damaged he is by everything that's happened.

Sam tries to make Dean talk about the days right after Cold Oak. Those days when Sam lay stiff and gray on a bloodstained mattress, his skin chill to Dean's touch. No way is Dean discussing that, and he's about as uncooperative as he can manage to be under the onslaught of Sam's accusing eyes and insistent questions.

"Dammit, Sam, what the fuck do you want to know about that for?" They're leaning against the car, side by side and Dean pushes away irritably, scuffing his boot against the dusty road. He paces a few steps forward then turns and glares at his brother.

Sam's got his ass planted against the car door, feet crossed at the ankles with his arms folded over his chest. He glares right back at Dean. "I just want to know what you were thinking."

He's been probing all day, poking at it like a bruise, or a toothache he can't leave alone.

"I was thinking I didn't want you dead. I couldn't live with that, Sam, I just couldn't," Dean finally says with exasperation. "What do you want me to say here?" He spreads his arms wide, lifting his chin against Sam's fixed stare. "I got nothin' else." He shakes his head. "Enough, Sam."

Sam holds his glare a moment longer then drops his eyes. His shoulders slump in defeat and Dean says, "Aw, Sam. Come on. I'm sorry." He isn't, not really, but he doesn't want to argue about it anymore. It feels like they've been doing that forever.

Sam nods, but he doesn't look up at Dean. He's quiet and subdued for the rest of the afternoon, and Dean catches him looking at him when he thinks Dean isn't watching, an expression of speculation on his face.

Things are almost harder when Sam is happy. When he lets go of his grief and anger long enough to laugh at Dean's jokes, or throw back his head and let the wind blow through his hair as they ride around in the Impala, windows down and music blaring, singing at the top of their lungs. That right there is almost more than Dean can take, because he wants it to last forever and he's afraid of what it will mean if it does.

Sam promised him, promised Dean that he'd save him. Dean tried so hard not to put any hope in that, because even Sam is capable of failure, but as the days go by, as Dean wakes up every morning still alive and kicking, he starts to let himself believe.

"Dude, seriously?" Sam raises his eyebrows and laughs as Dean orders the 24 oz. sirloin at dinner. "You're in a good mood tonight." There's an odd glint in his eyes.

"You bet your ass, Sammy." Dean smirks up at their waitress, whose name turns out to be Darla. "A real steak for a real man." He looks over at Sam's steak and fries, smothered in red and smirks. "Real tomato ketchup, Eddie?" He raises his beer in a salute, and laughing, Sam reaches over to tap his bottle against Dean's.

When Sam's happy, it makes it easier for Dean to ignore the weird shit going on around them. All the things that make the spit dry up in his mouth and his heart rabbit frantically in his chest seem to retreat just a little, and the howling and rustlings seem just a little quieter.

When Sam's not happy, Dean spends the day on edge, glancing over his shoulder at every snap of a twig or car backfire that he hears. He grits his teeth so hard he can barely unclench his jaw by nightfall.

When they're in bed at night, Dean pulled firmly back against Sam's chest on the verge of sleep, Dean can never decide if he wants to wake up to the same day again tomorrow, or if maybe he just wants this to be over with. It doesn't seem to be his choice to make, but as he drifts off to sleep, he thinks he would always choose to have one more day with Sam.

 

*

 

Dean's backed up against the side of the Impala, fingers splayed against her hot metal skin. The engine ticks over, cooling in the night air. Sam is nowhere in sight, and Dean doesn't know where he is, surroundings desolate and unfamiliar.

Hellhounds encircle him in the dark, sharp pointed teeth flashing in the moonlight. He tries to hold them at bay with Ruby's knife but they just keep coming. They move closer, snarling and snapping, jaws gaping, claws reaching for him. He panics and tries to run, but he seems to be in a dense forest, and the trees spring into his path while the undergrowth tangles around his legs and brings him crashing to the ground.

The hounds close in on him and the pain is like nothing he's ever felt before.

Unbearable heat suffocates him, searing his lungs and burning his eyes. Flames lick at his flesh. The stench of smoldering bones scorches his nose and mouth. There's nothing but darkness, pain and blood.

"Dad," he screams. "Dad, help me!" Laughter jeers at him and he tries to wrap his arms around his head, cover his ears, but he can't move. He's suspended, tethered, joints stretched to the breaking point. "Dad, where are you? Help me! Sam!"

Dean screams until he's hoarse, but his father doesn't come.

Neither does Sam.

Dean jolts upright in bed, opens his eyes to the now-familiar strip of sunlight shining in his face. He blinks at the glare, disoriented until he figures out he's still in the motel room with Sam. His throat feels raw, but if he screamed in his sleep, it doesn't seem to have woken Sam up. He swallows down adrenaline and fear and tries to catch his breath.

Once he does, Dean's tempted to just close his eyes and go back to sleep for the rest of the day. The nightmare has left him exhausted, but the sounds of howling and scratching right outside the fucking door pretty much shoot that plan to hell.

Instead, he rolls carefully away from Sam and out from under his firm grip, extricating himself so he can think. Seated on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands, he listens to the wind gusting across the desolate parking lot. They tried to run again yesterday but when he raises his head to glance around, he sees that all their stuff is still there, strewn around the room like it was before, instead of neatly packed in the car like he knows it was last night when they went to bed.

Sam's duffle is in the far corner, a dark shapeless form huddled on the floor, shirts spilling out of it looking like broken limbs. Dean sees something glinting, two eyes in the darkness, although it's probably just the buttons on one of Sam's ugly-ass shirts. He looks away, focuses on the television, learns some more about the plane crash that's apparently never going to get any less immediate. He doesn't have the slightest idea what to do.

Sam's arms snake around Dean's waist without warning, pulling him back in under the sheets, back under Sam. Dean didn't hear him wake up and he almost has a heart attack. He always hears Sam wake up, always that one last soft snore and then lazy snuffling into his pillow, sure signs of life that Dean's been listening to since as far back as he can remember.

"Dude," Dean tries, but Sam whispers shhhh and please and I need you and Dean just goes with it. Sam wants Dean to fuck him and he's making these small, hurt noises that threaten to make it almost impossible for Dean to get it up. Dean wants to tell Sam to man up and stop acting like a girl, it's not quite the end of the world yet and it's possible the end is never coming, until he remembers that Sam doesn't know that yet today. Dean hasn't yet told him that it's okay.

Dean lets Sam cling to his neck and babble about how sad he is and how sorry he is that he couldn't save Dean, until Dean leans his forearm against Sam's throat and tells him to shut the fuck up. "I mean it, Sam. How do you expect me to fuck you if you're all crying and shit?"

An expression of hurt flashes across Sam's face, and he turns his head away on the pillow and stares at the wall until they're finished. It doesn't stop his hips from moving to meet Dean's every thrust, and it doesn't stop him from arching up into Dean's hand and coming all over his stomach. It just stops him from looking at Dean while he does it.

"What the hell, Sammy?" Dean says, pulling out and grabbing the sheet, wiping himself off.

"I'm sorry," Sam says, still not looking at Dean. Dean flexes his shoulders, releasing tension, then gets up and heads to the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.

By the time he's showered and shaved, he's feeling pretty guilty. Sam doesn't know about the time loop yet this morning, he doesn't know they're stuck like this, that for now they have all the time in the world. Sam thinks today is the end, so Dean needs to cut him some slack, even if he is acting like the heroine out of some romance novel.

When they head out for the diner, Dean can hear the sound of snarling in the parking lot and he glimpses shadowy forms slipping around the corner of the motel. The sun is bright enough that he wishes he knew where his sunglasses were, and the breeze is sweet and velvety soft.

"It's too pretty for this to be your last day, Dean," Sam says, a sad little furrow across his forehead. He sighs heavily and opens the car door.

Dean stares at Sam as they get in the car. "Dude. I mean it, what the hell is up with you today?" He slides the key into the ignition and the Impala's engine roars into life.

Sam's eyes are over-bright as he looks at Dean reproachfully. "I just don't want you to die, Dean, is there something wrong with that?" he says, his voice breaking as he leans forward to snap the radio off, glaring at Dean.

They drive the rest of the way to the diner in silence, mostly because Dean doesn't have a clue what to say that won't set Sam off again. He didn't mean to hurt Sam's feelings, but apparently today's version of Sammy is extra sensitive. Awesome.

"I hate to fly, I always tell my daughter, Becky, honey, if you wanna see me, get your own ass on a plane, 'cuz you ain't gonna see mine on one anytime soon," Ellie tells them as she hands them their menus. Dean sighs and she winks at him with her good eye. "So, what can I get for you boys?"

"You should go see your daughter," Sam interjects, his face tragic. "You never know what could happen, and you might never see her again."

"What could happen is I could die in a plane crash," Ellie tells him acerbically, before Dean can interrupt to head Sam's emo off. She sets their coffee cups down on the table with a clunk and brandishes the coffee pot at them with a scowl.

Dean smiles weakly up at Ellie and says, "Sorry, my brother's feeling a little off his feed today." He kicks Sam under the table and watches in horror as Sam's eyes fill with tears.

"I'll be back to get your order in a few," Ellie says as she edges away from their table, looking as if she's trying to decide whether or not to call the men in the white coats to cart Sam away.

If Dean's truly caught in a time loop and he gets to live this stupid day over and over again, he'd just as soon skip this installment and move on to the next one, thank you. One where maybe Sam isn't quite so freakin' insane.

"Would you stop being such a drama queen, you wuss," Dean says tightly, leaning across the table towards his brother to get in his face. Sam's lower lip trembles and his chin quivers and Dean holds up his hands and backs off and says, "Whoa, okay, sorry Sammy." He pauses. "Look, we need to talk."

Ellie approaches their table cautiously, keeping a wary eye on Sam as she takes their order. When she turns to head back to the kitchen, Dean says to Sam, "You remember Broward county? The time loop? All those Tuesdays?"

Sam rolls his still-tearful eyes. "Remember? How could I forget, Dean? It was awful! Watching you die again and again, and then Wednesday you died for real and I HAD TO BURN YOUR BODY, DEAN, so no, I haven't forgotten it." He's practically yelling by the time he's done, his face all red, and what?

"What? I didn't die on Wednesday, dude. What are you talking about?" Dean stares as Sam's hands come up to cover his face.

Sam shudders. His voice is muffled, but Dean can still make out the words, which is kinda unfortunate. "You died, Cal shot you in the parking lot while you were loading the car. I was alone for months, I had to burn your body, Dean, and tell Bobby you were dead. I hunted by myself, and it's just like what the whole rest of my life is going to be like, Dean, without you, you selfish bastard." At this point the few people in the diner are staring at them and Dean gets to his feet, pulling on Sam's arm and yanking him out of the booth without ceremony.

"Okay, let's go, Sam. We're getting the hell out of here and you're going to tell me what the fuck you're talking about." He waves apologies to Ellie and Kathy, the girl at the cash register, and pushes Sam out the door. Something dark and low to the ground slinks out from behind his car and Dean just about loses it.

"Get the fuck away from my car, you son of a bitch!" he shouts, looking around for something to throw, a rock, anything.

Sam turns to him, eyes wide and frantic. "Can you see them? Are they here? Oh, Dean, oh no!" and he scrambles to stand between Dean and the Impala, arms outstretched like he can keep the hellhounds away by flapping hysterically at them. Dean suspects the damned things have an evil sense of humor, a wicked craftiness about them, and they're probably laughing their hellish canine asses off at Sam right now.

"Dude, would you quit that?" Dean snaps as he ducks around Sam to unlock the passenger side door. "After you, Princess," he says as he shoves Sam into the car.

Dean drives them to where they usually spend the afternoons fussing over the car, doing the last-minute maintenance that is really just Dean's way of saying goodbye to his baby. The squeak is back and he's going to have to oil her doors again. Or maybe it never left, who knows. Fucking time loops give him a headache.

Sam is still showing an alarming tendency to cling to him, so Dean sits him down at the picnic table in the clearing where they've stopped and says, "It's a time loop, Sam. I'm stuck in one," without preamble.

Sam opens his mouth and closes it again. His eyes get wide and Dean has a sudden fear that he's going to burst into tears. He doesn't, but Dean suspects it's a close thing.

"Kill me now," he mutters to himself. "Look, I don't know, Sam, someone's jerking us around, or maybe they want to give you more time to try and figure out how to get me out of this deal."

Sam's face does crumple at that, and Dean quickly adds, "How the hell should I know what's going on? All I know is that every day is the last day of my year, and every morning I wake up to that same day again. We can't leave, we tried it a few days ago, and we just tried it again yesterday." He shrugs helplessly. "I don't know," he says again.

He gets Sam to stop crying by lying to him, by telling him that he's been hearing the hellhounds less often each day, and that's a good sign, right? They spend the rest of the afternoon back at the motel, Sam poking hopefully around on his laptop and taking copious notes. It keeps him busy and distracted.

"Put these in a safe place, Dean," he says, looking up and handing Dean a neat sheaf of paper. "I don't want to have to do this same research again tomorrow." Dean nods.

"Good thinkin', Sammy," he says, taking the papers and stashing them in the bottom drawer of the flimsy pressed wood dresser. He has no idea what could possibly be left that Sam didn't research the hell out of already, but he figures it can't hurt. If Sam has enough time, Dean is firmly convinced he can do anything he sets his mind to.

Dean wishes there was somewhere else to eat dinner besides the steakhouse. That old couple creeps him out, but there aren't a lot of choices in this one-horse town. They could probably get a pizza and eat in the room, but Sam's tendency to burst into tears at the slightest provocation is creeping Dean out almost as much as the old folks at the restaurant do. He hates to waste the time with Sam, he feels like it's a gift he should appreciate each and every moment of, but he's ready for this day to be over. Whatever kind of Sam tomorrow brings can't possibly be any worse than this one.

The waitress at the steakhouse does her unsuccessful flirting with Sam thing, and Dean manages to get her attention when she finally gives up and turns her back on his brother. She smiles beguilingly at Dean.

"Well, Darla, I'll have a beer. Yeah, the 22 ounce, not the sixteen." He looks across the table at Sam, whose indignation at being flirted with so shamelessly is still coloring his cheeks. "Better bring me two of 'em," Dean says with a sigh.

The old couple is eating peacefully across the way, and Dean tries hard not to look at them. That way he can't see the man's pale skull gleaming in the candlelight that's flickering around the room trying to create atmosphere, or the old woman's teeth, covered in dark red blood as she chews her steak.

Sam doesn't seem to notice that the old folks have gotten even creepier tonight, and Dean doesn't point it out. He really doesn't want to know what, if anything, Sam would see if he looked over at the other table. There are some things you just don't ask.

Sam decides dinner would be a good opportunity to tell Dean all about the time he spent alone when the Trickster was fucking with him. How long he was alone, how he killed a nest of vampires all by himself, how he killed freakin' Bobby before he even knew for sure that it wasn't really him. How hard it was to live without Dean.

Awesome. This is just what Dean wants to hear. He looks around for Darla and decides this might be exactly the right night to get shit-faced. He really doesn't think he'll have a hangover in the morning.

But Sam puts his hand earnestly on Dean's wrist and shakes his head. "No, Dean. Not tonight," he intones solemnly, his cheeks flushed again.

Christ. "Let's hit the road then, Mr. Not-Tonight-I've-Got-a-Headache." Dean throws the same fifty-dollar bill on the table that he does every night and stands up. "You ready?"

In the restaurant parking lot, the old couple lingers, grinning at Dean as he and Sam get in the car and the streetlights flicker just a bit.

Dean automatically turns on the television when they get back to the room, hoping it'll capture Sam's attention enough so that he doesn't feel the need to talk. Dean laughs extra loud at Leno's monologue in encouragement.

But when it's time to go to bed, Dean forgets how annoying Sam was today. He crawls in and settles himself with his back against Sam's chest and lets Sam wrap his arms closely around him. He slips the amulet over his head and presses it into Sam's hand as sleep overtakes him, and pretends he doesn't feel Sam's tears on the back of his neck.

 

*

 

When Dean wakes up in the morning, his first thought is please let Sam be back to normal today. They appear to be firmly entrenched in this time loop, and even though Sam is apparently going to be a little unpredictable at times, Dean thinks he can learn to be okay with it. He just keeps telling himself it sure as hell beats the alternative.

He checks in with the plane crash to make sure today is still Tuesday. It won't do to get complacent.

Dean's tempted to skip what seems to have become their obligatory morning sex. The memory of Sam staring at the wall while Dean fucked him is still fresh in his mind, but then he figures things can hardly be any worse than they were yesterday. As long as Sam refrains from crying through it, they should be fine.

And they're more than fine, and Sam is gratifyingly enthusiastic about sucking Dean's dick, and Dean feels like things are looking up.

That's probably because Dean has the forethought to explain about the time loop before they really get into it, and so Sam's a lot more cheerful while he's getting his dick sucked. Things goes so well, in fact, that by the time they get to the diner, Dean decides it's a lunch day for sure, way too late for breakfast. He orders a tuna melt and fries after Ellie makes her little speech about her daughter, her ass, and getting them on a plane. Sam makes a face and orders a club sandwich.

"So what do you think's doing it?" Dean asks, trying to reach a glob of tuna with his tongue as it slides down his chin. "Or, you know, who? The Trickster again, maybe?"

Sam makes another face and shoves the napkin dispenser at Dean. "How the hell should I know, Dean? You're the one who's been here every day, not me." He carefully eats his sandwich, ostentatiously wiping his mouth after every bite.

Okay, it turns out today's edition of Sam is a bit on the bitchy side, even after a morning of amazing sex. Awesome. Dean foresees endless days stretching ahead of him, trying to figure out every morning what kind of Sam he has to deal with that day.

Still better than the alternative, asshole, he reminds himself.

Ellie refills their coffee cups. "Hey, Ellie," Dean asks. "What happened to your eye?" It looks worse today, the skin on her cheek dark and fragile looking, and Dean can't believe he's never thought to ask her about it before.

Ellie quickly looks around the diner, her eyes resting uneasily for an instant on the heavy-set guy two booths down, the one who never seems to take his nose out of his newspaper. Her hands tremble just a little, coffee sloshing almost imperceptibly in the pot. The guy gazes at her over the rim of his coffee cup, face unreadable. She shrugs and turns back to Dean. "Ran into a door," she says shortly.

Dean reckons it's really none of his business and he nods an apology at her, but it seems like fucked up time loop logic for her to look worse on some days than others. He thought everything was supposed to be the same all the time. He'd secretly watched Groundhog Day a couple of times after Broward county, trying to understand the reasoning behind the Trickster's actions, other than to torment Sam.

He never did get a handle on it.

Ellie's back to her cheerful self when she brings them the check. The guy two booths down has his face buried in his newspaper again, apparently oblivious to everything around him.

Dean thinks there might be a better way to spend the afternoon than driving aimlessly around the surrounding countryside, and besides, Sam might want to take a look at the research he did yesterday. Maybe he could still find something useful. Dean turns the Impala in the direction of the motel and tells Sam all about it, and how they tucked it away in the bottom drawer of the dresser.

It's not there. The notes Sam took yesterday are gone, and the inside of the drawer has a fine layer of dust covering it, not a trace of evidence that it's been disturbed lately. Dean's not really surprised.

He shrugs at Sam. "It's a time loop, dude. Who the fuck knows?" He's keenly disappointed, even as he tries not to show it. If they're stuck in endless time, why the hell shouldn't they be able to take advantage of it?

"So I just wasted the whole day yesterday, is that what you're telling me?" Sam asks, glaring moodily at his laptop. He closes it with a sharp click.

"Dude, quit being a bitch," Dean snaps. "You don't even remember it, because it didn't really even happen to you." He drops down onto the edge of the unused bed and scrubs a hand over his face.

Sam huffs out a breath, blowing his bangs off his forehead in annoyance. "Whatever, Dean. Now what are we supposed to do?" Tossing the laptop on the desk he mutters quietly, but still loud enough for Dean to hear, "Whole thing's a waste of time, if you ask me."

Dean's stomach clenches in shock. All those promises Sam made, is that what he really thinks? That it was all just a waste of time? No wonder he hadn't come up with any answers.

Dean refuses to feel guilty at that thought.

Sam gets crankier as the day progresses.

If anyone had asked Dean just a few weeks ago, before all this started, if they had asked him if he would find an afternoon spent in his brother's company boring as fuck, he would have laughed. Sam can be a dork, and annoying as fuck when he gets stubborn, but he's hardly ever boring.

Okay, maybe when he's lost in a book and Dean has to throw stale microwave popcorn at him every ten seconds, timing it to see how long it takes for Sam to tackle Dean to the bed and make him stop, he can be boring. But generally, Dean doesn't let him get away with that shit.

And whether Sam's boring, annoying, or just deeply weird, Dean's been storing up every moment with him, memorizing everything, hoping that way he can keep something of himself alive after he dies.

But an afternoon of Sam stomping around the room, restless and impatient, bitching at Dean for every little thing is too reminiscent of Sam's adolescence for Dean to be able to do anything as lame as treasure it. He already has those memories and they weren't that great the first time around.

From the age of twelve to sixteen, Sam was insufferable. He was pissed off at the world in general and his father in particular, he thought he knew everything and that his father and brother were idiots, and he didn't hesitate to let the world know it. He also grew at the rate of about an inch a week, which made it hard for Dean to kick his ass when he got to be too much of a pain.

That didn't stop Dean from trying, though, and his attempts to wrestle Sam into submission eventually became attempts to kiss him into submission.

That worked a hell of a lot better to cheer Sam up, and Dean was just thankful at the time that John had no idea why at age seventeen, Sam became a lot more adept at choosing his battles instead of going off about every little thing.

It didn't keep him safe within John's orbit, though, and in the end, Dean had to let him go. Much like he's been telling Sam to let him go this past year, although Dean's pretty sure Stanford and Hell don't have that much in common.

You're wasting precious time with Sam, Dean keeps thinking, but he can't help it. He mostly wants to deck Sam and start the day over again. The awesome sex seems a hell of a long time ago.

When they go to dinner, Sam glares icily at Darla as she flutters her eyelashes at him, enough that she actually takes a step backwards. Dean smiles apologetically at her and grabs Sam's elbow, shoving him down into his seat. The old woman at the other table smirks. Her nose is bleeding.

Dean has a sudden urge to march over there, overturn their table and knock their wine to the floor. It would give him great pleasure to scatter their food everywhere, get his hands around her throat and ask her what's so fucking funny.

The old lady whispers something to her husband and he turns and looks at Dean, grinning toothlessly at him. Dean subsides back in his seat and turns away. He doesn't want to see their faces.

Dinner is silent, Dean lost in thought, Sam apparently sulking. Dean's thinking he wishes Darla would flirt with him for a change, then at least he would have a friendly face to look at and not the scowling hulk across the table from him.

"Dude, seriously, what is up with you? I haven't seen you this crabby since the itching powder in your shorts." Hey, there's an idea. Maybe tomorrow he'll instigate a prank war. It might keep Dean from dying of frustrated boredom and doing the hellhounds' job for them.

The bitchy snarl he gets from Sam at that is enough to cheer him up for the rest of the meal. Now, those are some good memories, the kind he wants to take with him. The way Sam laughed when he glued that beer bottle to Dean's hand, Dean would give a lot to hear Sam laugh like that again.

There's trash blowing across the parking lot when they leave the restaurant, Sam walking silent and brooding behind Dean. An empty plastic grocery bag, some loose newspapers, a used MacDonald's hamburger wrapper; they all rustle against the chain link fence surrounding the lot. The bag swirls at Dean's feet, tangling itself briefly around his ankles before another gust of wind carries it away.

"What was that?" Sam asks urgently, pulling Dean back against his chest, arms around him like steel.

Dean wants to scoff, to tell Sam it's only a piece of trash and to please lighten up, but this whole place always feels creepy as fuck and the words stick in his throat. He pries Sam off him and gets in the car before the old couple even comes out of the restaurant, peeling out of the parking lot like the hounds of hell are on his trail.

Which would be funny if his hands would just stop trembling on the steering wheel long enough for him to laugh.

Dean's pretty much had it with Tom Cruise and Leno, so he finds an infomercial that drones in the background while he and Sam silently get ready for bed. When Dean comes out of the bathroom, Sam's already under the covers, his eyes closed. Dean putters around with his duffle, packing it almost out of habit. He feels as if someone's watching him, but whenever he turns to look at Sam, Sam's eyes are shut.

And then he catches a glint of light shining under Sam's eyelids, light reflected from the small bedside lamp that's still on and he realizes that Sam is watching him slyly out of the corner of his eye, a small smile in place.

Dean looks at the other bed, thinks how it would feel to sleep alone, the sheets cold and no one at his back.

He gets in bed with Sam and shuts his eyes. Sam's hand comes around him and closes over the amulet on his chest.

 

*

 

If hell really is other people, then Dean suspects he may have already arrived in the pit, only without the HellRaiser CGI. Dean thinks it was some French dude who said that, and he surely knew what he was talking about. Sam will know who it was, and Dean would ask him if his mouth wasn't so busy sucking Sam off.

Part of the problem, Dean thinks, is that they never see anyone else but the folks in the diner and the folks in the restaurant. And Dean likes Ellie just fine, but he's tired of worrying about her black eye. It looks worse every day, and yesterday Dean could have sworn a strip of skin had been hanging down, exposing her cheekbone.

Sam didn't seem to notice, and Ellie had been her usual cheerful self. Dean was too busy trying to stave off her airplane speech to look any closer at her face, because there are days when he thinks if he hears her talk about her fear of flying one more time he might just go nuts and shoot her. He wonders what that would do to the time loop, but he's confused and anxious enough not to actually try it.

Besides, he really does like her.

It doesn't make sense about her eye, though. He thought – well, he's never actually given time loops that much thought, because, hello, headache, but surely that's wrong.

The heavy-set guy two booths down has taken to staring at them over his morning newspaper while they eat. It seems to make Kathy nervous, and she jangles the change in the cash register drawer, a nervous clinking that's punctuated by an occasional burst of laughter from Ellie.

Today Sam seems pretty happy, all things considered. Dean hasn't told him about the time loop yet since he's been so cheerful. He figures he'll explain it to him over breakfast. Again.

Some days Dean's tempted not to bother with the explanations, depending on Sam's mood. He's just – he's tired of telling it over and over again. Sam usually catches on pretty quickly – he's already lived through a freakin' time loop himself, so it's not like he doesn't believe they exist. It never takes very long to convince him.

"Just like Groundhog Day, Sam. Just like Broward county." That's usually enough to have Sam nodding.

Dean's just more tired than he would have thought. Kind of run down, or something. Maybe he's getting a cold, or the flu.

Today Sam doesn't seem worried about the situation when Dean explains it to him between bites of biscuits and gravy. In fact, he barely seems interested. "Hang on, Dean," he says as he gets up and heads across the diner toward the men's room. On the way, he stops to talk to Kathy at the cash register, and Dean watches them laughing, Sam chatting with her like he doesn't have a care in the world.

The gravy is cold and congealed on what's left of Dean's biscuits by the time Sam comes back to their booth. He smears it around his plate with his fork, making patterns with the tines, not looking at Sam.

Sam doesn't seem to notice.

They go for their usual ride in the car. Every day Dean thinks maybe he can find the road out of town, that this will be the day they can just drive off into the sunset. Every time that they can't, every time it's impossible to find their way, Dean finds himself freaking out a little more.

Sam's just the life of their little party of two this afternoon. He tells jokes, tells Dean a million stories about his years at Stanford; how terrific it all was, how hot Jessica was in the sack. How happy he was to be away from home, away from Dean. Dean turns on the radio, but it doesn't shut Sam up.

"You should have seen her tits, man. Jess had the greatest tits. All round and soft, they fit right in my hands so perfect." Sam holds his hands out in front of him, flexing his fingers, studying them. "And you know I have big hands, don't you, Dean?" He chuckles. "If anyone would know, you would. I remember, you couldn't keep your eyes off 'em, back when I was about what, twelve? Thinkin' about what I could do to you with 'em even then, weren't you, Dean?"

Dean never thought he'd ever get sick of the sound of Sam's voice. The years Sam was away at college, that's what Dean missed the most, the sound of Sam's voice. Whether it was whispering secrets in Dean's ear, earnestly explaining over breakfast about the lore on whatever it was they were hunting that week, or raised in anger at their father, Sam's voice grounded Dean, gave him something to hold on to whenever John's voice disappeared into silent disapproval.

Those days after Cold Oak were the most silent of Dean's life. He couldn't hear the sound of the birds, there were no crickets chirping at dusk, the wind blew through the trees without even a murmur of rustling leaves. He needed Sam's voice to make it possible for him to hear everything else. The noise of the Impala's engine on the way to the crossroads was the first sound he heard after enduring those two days of silence.

And now Sam's voice is grating against his ears, rubbing his nerves raw, and all he wants is for it to stop.

His hands tremble on the steering wheel as he drives them to the steakhouse for dinner.

Tonight Sam seems pleased with Darla's attentions, his face lighting up, smile wide, dimples out in full force as he takes the menu from her hand, fingers brushing against hers. She blushes at the contact and Sam chuckles in triumph.

"I bet she's a screamer, huh, Dean," he winks. "You think she'd go for both of us at once? This one time with me and Jessica, there was a guy at the bar and – that was the first time I ever got fucked, dude, and let me tell you, it rocked."

That's not true, Dean thinks fiercely. That's not true, Sammy, the first time you ever got fucked was me, when you were seventeen and Dad was away. We were in Oklahoma and the summer was scorching hot, remember? There was a thunderstorm and it cooled everything off after, the air was like velvet out on the back porch of the old cabin we were holed up in, and you let me, you begged me to. And I was so scared, Sammy, scared I was doing something so wrong there'd be no coming back from it.

Sam's grinning at him, and maybe it's a trick of the candlelight, but his eyes, just for an instant his eyes flicker and darken. Dean blinks and the effect is gone, and he's not sure that he didn't imagine the whole thing.

But he's not imagining what an ass Sam is being. "Shut up," he mutters. Then, louder. "Shut up, Sam."

Sam just laughs.

The old couple's clothing tonight is torn, bloody rags on their feet instead of shoes. There are leaves and twigs in the woman's hair, but no one else seems to notice anything out of the ordinary at all. The way they watch him in the parking lot almost makes Dean feel as if he's being chased to his car.

The ride back to the motel is blessedly silent, but once they're inside their room, Sam starts in again.

"You know what I can't figure out, Dean? I can't figure out how you talked that crossroads bitch into making this stupid deal in the first place. I mean it's not like you had anything of value to bargain with. Your soul versus my life? No contest, dude." He shakes his head as pulls off his jacket and starts to undo the buttons on his jeans.

"Shut the fuck up," Dean says again and slams the bathroom door behind him.

He sleeps in the other bed for the first time since this all started. Sam doesn't remark on it except to say that if he'd known he was going to be sleeping alone, he'd have invited Darla back with them for sure.

Dean turns his back to Sam's bed and watches shadows flicker across the window until he falls asleep, his amulet clutched in his hand.

He misses his brother desperately.

*

But Sam acts more like Dean's little brother again the next day. Or maybe it's hundreds of days later, Dean doesn't really keep track anymore. Sam's kind and gentle and his voice is soft when he tells Dean good morning. Dean turns away from the television and studies Sam's face. He likes what he sees today. He's probably a fool to trust it, but he can't seem to help himself.

Dean grins and slips back into bed beside Sam. None of the rest of this shit matters. This is Sam, here in front of him, right here, right now. Dean scoots closer, resting his forehead in the hollow of Sam's shoulder, sighing deeply. His fingers trail over Sam's stomach and he slips them under the waistband of Sam's boxers, fingers skating over warm skin. He plants a small kiss on his chest.

Sam jerks backwards, trying to shove Dean's hand away. "What are you doing, Dean?" he asks, shock written all over his face.

"Uh, trying to get you off?" Dean answers, thinking it's pretty damn obvious what he's doing. "Is this a trick question?" He shifts, peering up at Sam.

"What? Why would you do that?" Now Sam's looking absolutely horrified. Dean frowns.

"Dude, you love handjobs. What the hell is the matter with you?" Dean pulls his hand out of Sam's shorts and sits up, staring in confusion.

"You know that about me? You know that I love handjobs?" And, swear to God, Sam's actually clutching the sheet to his chest like some outraged virgin. Not that Dean's seen many of those in his time. He knows better than to get involved with virgins. That's just asking for trouble.

As evidenced here by Sam's bright red face and bulging eyes. It's not an attractive look on him and Dean starts to wonder why he wanted to jerk him off in the first place. He gets up and stomps toward the bathroom.

"You love handjobs, you love blowjobs, you love rimjobs. Name the job, Sammy, and you love it." Dean slams the door on Sam's incensed face.

Dean knows it's not normal, or at the very least, it's not common for two brothers to be fucking each other outside the confines of the Jerry Springer Show. Dean's had plenty of chances at love, slept with plenty of women, and even some men. Hey, he's as open-minded as the next guy. Sam loved Jessica with all his heart. But their life is just too weird for anyone else to easily find a place in it. There's only been the two of them for a while now.

Except apparently not today.

The rest of the day is awkward, not surprisingly. They eat breakfast in silence and Kathy is even jumpier than usual. The heavy-set guy two booths down looks pleased behind his newspaper. The two young guys at the counter watch Sam without appearing to look at him at all. Sam ignores them completely, the way he always does.

In fact, Dean realizes he's never seen Sam talk to them in all the time they've been here, even on the days when he's chatty and schmoozing with everyone else in the diner.

Sam opens his mouth once in a while as he eats, like he has something to say, but he ends up closing it every time. That's fine by Dean. No way does he want to know what Sam could possibly have to say today.

Dean doesn't tell him about the time loop. One more wasted day, another day spent with a Sam who's so different that Dean just wants to crawl into the front seat of his car and lock all the doors and stay there until this nightmare is over.

Maybe he's losing his mind. That would explain why he thinks he and Sam are fucking and Sam thinks they're not. Sam looks at him accusingly from the passenger seat of the Impala and says, "I thought you and Lisa were going to get married."

"What? Are you – no! What's the matter with you, Sam?" Married? Dean is weirded out almost beyond words.

"Don't you remember, Dean? You said when this is all over, when I save you, you were going to go back to see Lisa, ask her to marry you." Sam's got that expression on his face, the one that he uses on bereaved family members to get them to spill all their dirty little secrets. "Settle down with her and Ben, lead a normal life," he says with pious satisfaction. He rifles through the box of cassette tapes and pops Led Zepplin in, bopping his head as soon as the music starts.

"Are you actually insane, Sam?" Sam smiles to himself and Dean has a momentary flash of panic that somehow Sam has it right and Dean just can't remember.

But no, that's not possible. Dean would know if he was planning to do something that out of character.

But he's shocked into near-silence for the rest of the day. Sam doesn't seem to care. He sings along to the music, and that Dean does remember, Sam's off-key caterwauling. It usually makes him smile and sing along, but not today.

Only when Sam slips in a Bon Jovi tape does Dean start to hum, joining Sam on the chorus. He knows it means something, the two of them singing Dead or Alive at the top of their lungs, but he can't remember why it's important.

 

When he gets ready for bed that night, the water in the bathroom sink is blood red. He sees scars on his body in the mirror that he doesn't recognize and when he tries to picture his mother's face, he can't.

 

*

 

Dean stands in front of his duffle bag, his red plaid flannel shirt in one hand and the long-sleeved denim in the other. He stares between the shirts, hoping inspiration will come. He can't think of one reason why it matters which shirt he wears today. He has no idea which shirt he wore yesterday, or the day before that, or the day before that.

At least they're always clean. Score one for time loops – no laundry to do.

"Get dressed," Sam snarls. "Pick a fucking shirt and get dressed."

"Fuck off," Dean says, but his heart's not really in it. He drops the denim shirt and shrugs into the flannel one.

"Let's go, Dean," Sam says impatiently. He slaps his hand on the wall next to the door of their room, the Impala's keys jangling loudly in his other hand.

Dean doesn't know what the hell the hurry is. It's not like the diner is going to run out of coffee if they don't get there right the fuck now.

"Don't get your panties in a twist," he throws at Sam as he shoulders past him and out the door. Where he stops dead in his tracks, Sam bumping into him from behind.

"Jesus Christ, Dean, what the fuck is your problem? Move," Sam says, shoving a hand into the small of his back.

There's blood smeared across the windshield of his car and across the driver's side window, dripping down the door. It's hot already this morning, the sun beating down on the desolate parking lot, and there are flies buzzing around the congealed mess already. "What the fuck?"

Dean stumbles a step or two as Sam pushes. He wheels around and pushes back, hands clenched, fists ready. Sam snorts. "You gonna take a swing at me, Dean?"

"Yeah." Dean answers with a right hook to Sam's jaw. The corresponding crunch of pain in his hand is the most satisfying thing he's felt in a long time. He stands waiting to do it again.

Sam rubs his jaw, moving it from side to side, testing to see if it's broken. Doesn't matter if it is. It won't be tomorrow.

Sam's face darkens with anger, but he doesn't do anything except wrench open the car door and climb into the driver's seat.

The blood is gone.

Breakfast is more unpleasant than usual. Kathy brings Sam some ice for his face, where a bruise is already blooming along the edge of his jaw. She glares at Dean with more hostility than he would have expected.

Pancakes. Eggs and toast. Hamburger. Chicken sandwich. Meat loaf and potatoes.

Dean would give a lot for a new menu. Just a chef's special once in a while to break up the monotony, or something.

He slides out of the booth, gets to his feet and heads to the restroom. The eyes of everyone in the diner follow him. As he's washing his hands the bathroom door opens behind him and the young blond guy from the counter comes in, looking back over his shoulder before closing the door.

"Dean," he says.

"Do I know you, hoss?" Dean asks. He has no idea who this joker is.

The guy shakes his head. "No, not really," he answers.

"What the hell's that supposed to mean?" Dean demands. He tosses his paper towel in the trash and tries to get around the guy to the door.

"It doesn't matter. Just -" the guy cocks his head, listening. "Just be ready," he says quickly. The door slams open and Sam comes in, looking furious.

"What are you doing?" He grabs Dean's arm and tugs him to the door.

Dean shakes him off. "I was taking a leak. Go fuck yourself," he says and he marches back out to their table, Sam on his heels. He turns and gets up in Sam's face. "Would you give me some fucking space, Sam? Christ."

They sit back down to wait for Ellie to bring whatever the hell it was they ordered today, Sam glowering at him the whole time. Dean really doesn't give a shit. He sends a furtive glance over at the two guys at the counter, but they're eating and talking together, heads huddled in conversation, ignoring Sam and Dean completely.

Be ready for what, Dean wonders.

When they go driving, Dean tries to convince himself that the leaves on the trees at the side of the road are changing color, the green fading into yellow, that somehow time is passing and there are visual cues to mark it. Because there has to be a limit to this. It has to end sometime, it can't just go on forever.

Because that would be unthinkable.

That night at the steakhouse, Darla fusses over Sam, kissing his bruised face, asking him if it hurts. Dean may as well be invisible, which suits him just fine. The old couple doesn't seem any happier with Dean tonight than anyone else has today, sending nasty little glances his way all through dinner. The old man's throat appears to be slit, the front of his white dress shirt soaked with blood.

When Dean brushes his teeth that night, which he does only for the taste anymore, not to prevent all his teeth from rotting in his head and falling out or anything, he looks up into the mirror to see Sam's face, eyes dark with anger. He drops his toothbrush in the sink and spins around, his heart pounding.

Sam's right there, his chest looking like a fucking wall in front of Dean. Dean's not used to being afraid of his baby brother and he doesn't like it.

"I don't want you talking to those guys in the diner," Sam says. "I want you to keep your ass in your seat and mind your own business."

Dean's already slugged Sam once today and he has no objections to doing it again. But it's late and the sooner this day is over, the happier Dean's gonna be. "It's not like I have anywhere else to go, Sam, so fuck off."

Dean swallows on his dry throat and pushes past Sam, who doesn't push back, although he doesn't really move easily out of the way, either. "Goodnight, Dean." Dean's not sure why that should sound as sinister as it does.

Dean falls asleep still wondering what the hell he's supposed to be ready for.

 

*

 

"For Christ's sake, asshole. Stop asking me if I can hear the goddamn hounds. Yes, I can hear them. They never fucking stop, okay?"

Sam flashes a look of hurt at Dean, then a small smile makes his lips curve with delight. He looks pleased with himself. "Okay."

Dean stares down into his coffee cup. It's taken him a long time, longer than it should have, for him to realize. The change was gradual, or maybe it happened overnight, Dean doesn't really remember. But he's finally figured it out.

That's not his brother sitting across the table from him. That's not Sam.

Not-Sam leans closer, his eyes dancing with amusement. "You're not very bright, are you, Dean? I always knew I was the smart one." He pauses, then adds, "Dad knew it, too."

He settles himself back in the booth and waves Ellie over for a refill on the coffee. Smiling up at her while she pours, Sam says, "Hey, Ellie, did you know that when my brother here was seventeen, he almost let Karen Murphy drive our dad's car into a lake? Just so he could get in her pants? Too bad she was too drunk to know the difference between the brake and the gas pedal." Sam goes off into peals of laughter that make the hair on the back of Dean's neck stand on end. "Dad busted him for that one. Bent him bare-assed over that crappy old desk we had and beat him with a belt until he cried and begged him to stop." Sam chuckles like it's his favorite memory ever. "And then when I was seventeen, he convinced me to let him fuck me." He cocks his head, looks at Dean consideringly. "I didn't really want to, but he made me."

And that's just about Dean's limit. He bolts blindly to his feet and stumbles towards the bathroom, barely making it there before emptying his stomach into the toilet. He can't catch his breath. He's never had a panic attack in his life, but he thinks he may be having one now. He can't do this, can't spend endless days with that – that thing out there that isn't Sam but looks and sounds just like him.

Dean moves to the sink and bends down, splashing cold water on his face. When he straightens up, Sam is standing behind him, smiling at him in the mirror. His eyes shine black.

"Aw, did I tell Ellie all your secrets, big brother?" Dean wheels around, adrenaline making his heart pound.

"You're not my brother, you son of a bitch," Dean grits out. "And demons lie. Dad would never do that. None of that ever happened." He and Sam did first fuck when Sammy was seventeen, but not like that. Never like that. "None of it."

The demon smiles. "Demons lie," he agrees. "And sometimes we tell the truth. You know for sure it was all lies? No doubts at all about your brother wanting to give it up to you when he was really just a kid?" He pauses, moving his hand down to the front of his jeans, cupping himself lewdly. "He was so young, Dean." He shakes his head, eyes glittering.

Dean shoulders past the demon and shoves his way through the bathroom door and out into the diner. Ellie is looking at him with horror and revulsion on her mangled face and Kathy doesn't look at him at all. He's out on the sidewalk, heading for his car, when he hears Sam's voice behind him.

"Hey, Dean, I think you forgot something." Dean turns to see, and the demon is dangling Dean's car keys in his hand, grinning widely.

Dean instinctively feels at his pockets, flat and empty. He doesn't care, he doesn't have to drive anywhere, he can just get in the car and lock the doors and then he'll be safe. He's always been safe in his father's car.

He reaches for the door handle and tugs but nothing happens. The car is locked and he can't get in. He slaps his hand on the roof in frustration, whispering an apology to her while Sam laughs behind him.

"Give me my goddamn car keys, you son of a bitch," Dean says forcefully.

The demon cocks his head and glances down at the keys in his hands. When he raises his eyes to look at Dean again, they're flat and shining like obsidian.

"Your dad and I, we spent some time together while he was down here in Hell," the demon says. "We had some good conversations, he and I did. That is, when he wasn't screaming in agony." He blinks and he has Sam's eyes again, but Dean's stared down a possessed Sam before. He knows how to keep it separate in his head. He knows this isn't Sam. He won't get confused.

Sam – the demon – tosses the car keys to Dean, smirking when Dean almost drops them. His hands are shaking badly enough that he almost can't get the car door unlocked. He finally manages it, sliding behind the wheel and knowing there's nothing he can do to keep the demon from getting in the car with him.

"So, Dean, where to?" the evil son of a bitch says brightly in Sam's voice. "Should we go on a picnic? I know, let's work on the car." He looks across the front seat at Dean. "No? Research, then? Maybe there's something we forgot to dig into to get you out of your deal, something we overlooked, maybe." He chuckles softly. "We have all eternity to do research, Dean. You never know what we might be able to find, a century or two from now. Do you think Sam will wait for us?" He laughs, Sam's big booming laugh bouncing around the inside of Dean's car.

Dean clenches his hands tight around the steering wheel. "You son of a bitch."

"No threats, Dean?" Sam – no, goddammit, the demon, Dean thinks furiously – asks. "No big talk about sending me back to Hell? Isn't that what you usually do when you meet a demon, Dean? I'm disappointed. Oh, wait." He snickers. "We're already here. You're already here, Dean." He throws back his head and laughs again. "Welcome to Hell, Dean."

 

*

 

It's not like Dean keeps count of the days. He thinks he tried at first, but it got too hard. Ten, twenty, a thousand, it doesn't much matter. Sam knew how many Tuesdays he lived through and it didn't make it any easier for him. So there's no point in even trying. How many days make up eternity, anyway?

Sometimes the boredom is excruciating. Nothing ever changes, or, at least, there's nothing else to do. Wake up, have sex that he no longer wants, eat food that he's lost interest in, drive around on roads that lead nowhere, eat again, pick a bed, sleep, do it all over again the next day.

And he has to do it with a demon at his side, a demon that looks like his brother. It doesn't matter at all that Dean doesn't want to do it; he has no choice. There's no way out.

But nothing's ever the same, either. Every day Sam is different. Dean shakes his head in frustration at himself. The demon is different. Sometimes that part's hard to remember.

Dean misses Sam. It hurts, fire burning him, knives cutting his skin, flaying him open. Salt rubbed into open wounds, tortures the human soul can't endure without changing. That's what missing Sam feels like. The hardest part is that Sam seems to be right here beside him.

"Dean," the Sam-thing says. "Dean, open your eyes and look at me. It's morning, it's time to get up." A gentle hand touches his shoulder, caressing him. "Come on, Dean. Rise and shine, dude. It's your last day on earth. There's things to do, brothers to say goodbye to. You're burning daylight here."

Dean keeps his eyes resolutely closed. Some days the demon tries to keep up the pretense of being Sam. He'll wake up, staring at Dean with sad eyes as he coaxes Dean into sex. Dean tries to resist, but his body betrays him every time, responding instinctively to Sam's body, Sam's touch.

"Dean," Sam's voice murmurs in his ear, "Dean, come on, come for me, let me see you. It's the last time, Dean, I need you, I need to see you." And Dean can't help it, can't stop himself from shooting over Sam's fingers, closing his eyes against the shiny blackness of Sam's triumphant gaze.

Dean might not remember how many days he's been here, but he remembers every orgasm, every time he came with Sam's name on his lips like a plea.

Almost half of Ellie's face is missing today. Dean thinks vaguely that it looks as if it should hurt like hell, but as always, she doesn't seem bothered by it. This is one of those days when the demon spends most of their time in the diner at the cash register, talking and laughing with Kathy. She looks tense, her smile forced.

"Oh, no, you've got to be kidding me," Sam says, laugh booming across the diner. No one looks up from their food. "He really said that? The guy always was a real hardass."

The demon strolls back over to the table and slides into their booth, snatching a strip of bacon off Dean's plate. He shoves it into his mouth and says, "Kathy was just telling me the best story about Dad. Seems when he was here, he had a tendency to make a lot of enemies. Now there's a real surprise, huh?" Sam pauses and cocks his head thoughtfully. Dean feels sick. "Of course, he had a lot of enemies already waiting for him when he got here. They were mighty glad to see him, let me tell you." Sam grabs another piece of bacon and crunches down on it, teeth white and sharp. "Meg was here at the same time, you know. He told her the proudest he ever was of you was when you sent her back to Hell." Sam pauses. "Twice!" He roars with laughter. "Good old Dad."

Dean doesn't really see the humor. Sam reaches across the table and gives his shoulder a playful punch. "C'mon, Dean. Lighten up."

Dean clenches his hands around his coffee mug. "Fuck you," he says dully.

The demon frowns. The petulant expression on his face is so like Sam at age thirteen that Dean feels as if he might break in two from grief.

"There a bit of a welcome party here for you, too, Dean," the demon says darkly. "They're getting impatient. They want to say hello. Maybe they should join us for breakfast tomorrow. How would you like that, Dean?"

That sets the tone for the rest of the day. Sam may have been yukking it up with Kathy earlier, but now he's pissed and he doesn't have much to say to Dean as they drive aimlessly around the countryside that never changes. The leaves on the trees are the same fucking green as ever, the fragrant flowers always in bloom.

The demon is driving, because he insisted and Dean doesn't have the energy to resist. He really just doesn't care and he sits huddled in the passenger seat staring at his knees.

He loses track of time. It's getting dark when they pull in the parking lot of the steakhouse. Bile rises in Dean's throat when he thinks about eating a steak, but he follows Sam into the restaurant, one foot in front of the other, stumbling a little on the uneven pavement.

Sam is practically fucking Darla against the wall when Dean comes through the door, his big hands under her ass holding her up, her legs wrapped around Sam's hips. Sam lifts his head from where he's nuzzling Darla's cleavage and looks at Dean, his eyes black. He goes back for one more taste, tongue darting over her breast, and when he looks back at Dean his eyes are a clear hazel. He grins widely, his dimples flashing. Darla giggles.

They must have arrived later than they normally do, because the old couple is already on their way out of the restaurant. They smile indulgently at Sam and Darla as they pass them, their black eyes smirking at Dean.

Dean tries to choke down his steak, although he has no idea why he bothers. It sits on his plate, red and juicy, oozing blood. He finally pushes back away from the table, startling the demon.

"I'm outta here." Dean stands and marches out to the parking lot. He looks around, but the old couple doesn't seem to have lingered tonight. Clouds scud across the sky, covering the moon, and there are shadows everywhere. It almost looks like someone is sitting in the Impala, a tall, dark figure in the driver's seat, but when Dean blinks it's gone. He thinks he hears helicopters overhead and the wind buffets him against the side of the car.

He clambers in and immediately feels less like he wants to throw up. Maybe the Sam-thing will stay to fuck Darla a few more times and Dean can just spend the night here. He rubs his thumb over the leather seatback, worn smooth with age. Dean can read their lives, his and Sam's, in the leather of these car seats. Small nicks and dings where their shoes scuffed against the seat, the spot on the back of the driver's seat where Dean scratched his initials with the first knife Dad ever gave him. He'd carved them small and Dad never found them.

Dean reaches his hand around and touches the letters, rubs his fingertips over them. Sam used to threaten to show them to Dad whenever he was really mad at Dean, but he never did.

It was worth it, this was all worth it, Dean thinks fiercely, every fucked up minute of his life and death was worth it to save Sammy. Sam is alive, alive and whole somewhere and Dean can never regret that, never in all of eternity will he ever regret that.

There are a couple of marks on the leather that Dean can't remember being there. They look familiar, he knows every inch of his baby and he knows they belong, they fit in his life somehow, but he can't remember how they got there. He frowns. He's losing pieces of himself and he sits in his car in the moonlit parking lot and tells himself the story of his life so he doesn't forget it.

He can almost feel the real Sam next to him, just like he's been for the whole of their lives together. It's nice to think about, makes him feel warm and loved.

It doesn't last.

Sam's tall figure comes out of the restaurant and the demon stands laughing at Darla, illuminated in the doorway, light spilling out around them. It's so hard, because the demon looks so much like Sam and sometimes Dean forgets. Those are the worse times, worse even than when he aches for the real Sam. To have something that looks like Sam but isn't his brother is more than he can bear.

Sam stops laughing when he opens the door and slides into the passenger seat. He doesn't have much to say and Dean wearily puts the key in the ignition and starts the car. He drives them back to the motel and wonders again if he could spend the night in the back seat.

But Sam waits for him, pointedly holding the motel room door open and glaring until Dean gets out of the car. Sam doesn't move out of the doorway and Dean has to edge past him, brushing against him in the darkness. The demon laughs softly.

They get ready for bed in silence. This Sam doesn't need a television for comfort or to ease his fears in the darkness. This Sam has no fear. When Dean comes out of the bathroom, Sam pats the bed next to him invitingly. Dean shakes his head and moves to the other bed. Sam snorts.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," he says. "You don't even want to know what's under that bed, Dean."

Dean hesitates. He ends up crawling into the unoccupied bed alone in spite of the warning. Whatever's under there can't be any worse than what's in the bed across from him.

 

*

 

One morning Dean forgets that it's not really Sam with him, and he goes for the whole day like that, laughing and teasing and loving Sam, and it's one of the best days he can remember.

When he wakes up to the shaft of sunlight in his face, Dean stretches and yawns, turning in Sam's arms, pushing his face into Sam's shoulder. Sam's arms tighten around him and Dean just breathes in the scent of him, feeling at peace for the first time in a long time, although he doesn't know why. There are things nagging at the back of his mind, things that he knows would fill him with horror if he let himself think about them, so he doesn't.

Ellie smiles at him when she pours his coffee, face smooth and pretty, her eyes sparkling in the morning light. Dean smiles back at her and Sam reaches across the table, covering Dean's hand with his own, tangling their fingers together and squeezing gently.

In the afternoon, they find a small lake, secluded by trees and lush undergrowth, the path leading to it narrow and twisting through the woods. There are flowers everywhere, growing up the banks of the lake, their scent filling the air. The surface of the water sparkles in the sunlight, diamonds dancing across the waves.

It's the most beautiful place Dean has ever seen.

It's nothing to the beauty of Sam's smile, seductive and happy, inviting Dean in.

They leave their clothes in a discarded heap on the soft golden sand and dash into the lake, splashing like they were kids again. Sam grabs Dean around the waist, pulls him under the water, dunking him and then escaping. When Dean surfaces, spluttering lake water and curses in equal amounts, Sam is swimming away, knifing through the water, sunlight glancing off his skin.

"Oh, you're dead meat, bro," Dean yells, swimming after him in the cool water. Sam lets himself be caught, wrapping his arms around Dean and capturing his mouth in a kiss that's hot and slick and wet.

Dean wonders why they've never done this before.

They drowse in the sun, kissing lazily on the shore, tangled together. They wake up covered in sand, and Dean insists they brush off the worst of it before hiking back through the woods and getting back into his precious car.

They're alone at the restaurant for dinner, the only customers, eating perfectly cooked steaks and crisp, crunchy salads, drinking cold beer that's sharp on Dean's tongue and goes straight to his head. Sam cocks his head attentively, listening to Dean chatter about the stupid shit they always find to talk about.

That night while he's brushing his teeth, the sound of Sam's happy laughter ringing in his ears, Dean looks up, looks in the mirror to check his chin for any stray toothpaste, and Sam is there in the mirror behind him, his expression lost and desperate.

Dean whirls around but there's no one in the bathroom with him.

Sam's voice comes from the other room, telling Tom Cruise he's full of shit, and Dean freezes, closes his eyes, fist tightening around his toothbrush hard enough for his nails to leave imprints in his palm.

He's afraid to open his eyes, but he does, and his brother is still there, still looking at him in the mirror.

"Hey, Dean," Sam yells over the noise of the television. He pounds on the bathroom door. "Get your ass out here, I found some cheap pay-per-view porn."

Sam in the mirror fades away and Dean reaches out to him, but he's already gone.

It all slams back into him, everything. He's in Hell and Sam's not here with him. That isn't his brother in the other room.

The joy and beauty of the day turns to ashes and he sinks to his knees under the weight of it. The tiles are cold and hard, digging painfully into his skin, but he can't move. He let his guard down, failed to be vigilant enough, just for a moment he let himself have what he wanted so desperately.

He let the demon in.

He failed Sam.

"Dean!" The thing out there bangs on the bathroom door, but Dean hardly hears him. "Dean!"

He has no idea how long he stays like that, but his knees are stiff when he finally gets to his feet. The demon has been quiet for a while now and Dean reaches slowly for the doorknob, watching his hand tremble.

The demon is on the bed, settled back against pillows stacked behind him, remote control in his hand. He raises his head and smiles at Dean knowingly.

"Did you have a nice day, Dean?" he smirks.

Dean is filled with a rage unlike any he's ever felt before. He launches himself at the demon with a cry of fury, but Sam just raises his hand and Dean is flung back against the wall, pinned in place while the demon laughs at him.

"You wanted it so much, wanted to believe so badly, Dean. I haven't had that much fun in a very long time. Thank you," he says, inclining his head in a parody of gratitude. He lowers his hand and Dean slumps to the floor, defeated.

He crawls to the other bed, pulls himself up and huddles on his side, back to the demon, and grieves. You promised me, Sammy, he thinks traitorously. You promised I would never have to do this. The guilt of that thought nearly overwhelms him.

But after that day Dean sometimes sees what he thinks is his real brother, catches glimpses on the periphery of his vision, flashes of Sam slipping around corners, crossing the street, sitting in the Impala. Sam shimmers and fades away when Dean really looks, but Dean knows he's there. He tries not to let his confusion show, tries not to let the demon see.

He pushes away the small spark of hope he feels. It's too dangerous to even acknowledge.

 

*

 

After that it just gets worse.

One morning the demon wakes up before the shaft of sunlight can penetrate Dean's sleep. "I'm hungry. Get your ass out of bed and get dressed," he snarls, slamming the bathroom door behind him.

Dean's not fast enough and he's just stepping into his jeans when the demon comes back out, scowling.

"You stupid shit, what did I tell you?" He shoves Dean back onto the bed. Dean's arms windmill as he tries to keep his balance, his jeans caught around his knees, and he catches the demon on the side of the head with his fist. Sam backhands him across the face and the shock freezes Dean in place.

That's enough to give the demon a chance to yank Dean's boxers down to where his jeans are already bunched, flipping him over onto his stomach. He jerks the underwear and the jeans the rest of the way off and kneels over Dean, straddling him and pinning him to the bed, hands on his shoulders.

Dean fights and he manages to get the demon off, twisting under him and aiming an elbow at his nose. Dean knows how to fight dirty, but so does Sam. Dean's the one who taught him, after all. Sam might have an obvious size advantage, but Dean's never felt small next to him until now.

Small and scared. The demon maneuvers Dean onto his front pinning his wrists at the small of his back with one large hand, the other one on the back of Dean's neck, and that's when Dean decides to stop fighting. He'll only get hurt worse if he keeps trying to get away.

He thinks, too, that maybe if he doesn't fight, if he's good, the demon will be in a better mood at breakfast. Sex sometimes makes him expansive, and on more than one occasion the other occupants of the diner have been treated to the details of exactly what they've done in bed that morning.

If Dean can phrase his questions just right, there's a chance the demon might tell him about Sam, how he is, if he's still alive. Dean's desperate to know, he'd do anything for any scrap of information the demon will let him have. The demon's so eager to taunt Dean about his family, maybe he'll get careless and let something real slip.

The demon senses his surrender and eases his grip on the back of Dean's neck, shoves his way inside Dean. It's brutal, there's no lube or prep, but whatever damage is done will be gone when Dean wakes up tomorrow. It's easier to just let it happen and Dean closes his eyes and submits.

Sam grunts his release with the skin of Dean's shoulder between his teeth. Dean thinks he drew blood, but that, too will be gone tomorrow. Sam pulls out roughly and Dean bites down on any noise of pain he might want to make. There's no way he's giving the demon the satisfaction.

Without a word Dean gets up off the bed and makes his way to the bathroom on shaky legs. He stands under the warm spray of the shower until the water goes cool, not really giving a good goddamn about the demon out there yelling at him to hurry it up. It doesn't matter. None of it matters. He's fooling himself if he thinks the demon's mood will make any difference.

The demon wasn't kidding about being hungry. He ignores Kathy and Dean can't tell if she's relieved or annoyed. Ellie brings plates of eggs and bacon, toast and hash browns, pancakes and sausage with warm maple syrup, and Sam eats it all.

He gets up as soon as he's finished the last bite and storms out of the diner without waiting for Dean. One of the two young guys sitting at the counter, the blond one, tries to get Dean's attention, jerking his head in a come here gesture that Dean ignores. He has no choice, he has to go with the demon.

He's halfway through the door when he looks back over his shoulder, and he swears he catches a glimpse of his brother huddled in conversation with both of the guys at the counter. He tries to turn back, to go to them, but he can't.

The demon is in the car, not at the counter, waiting impatiently in the driver's seat. Dean can't remember the last time he drove his own car, although it could have been yesterday.

The demon likes to refer to himself in the first person most of the time, like he's really Sam, only rarely referring to Sam as your brother. He drives fast today, as if there's really someplace to go. He turns to Dean and says conversationally, "You know, you're the reason I left. Stanford was just the excuse. You were the real reason." He takes a curve too fast, tires squealing as the car fishtails across the blacktop shining in the sun.

Dean grips the dashboard with one hand, trying not to end up going through the windshield. He doesn't respond to the demon's words. He's learned it's better not to engage when he's like this. There are things he doesn't need to hear Sam's voice saying.

"I couldn't stand your clinginess One. More. Minute. Dean. Your neediness. Dad was a prick, sure, but you. You made me sick to my stomach." Another curve, another potential close encounter with a tree. Sam makes a face like he's sucking on a lemon, saying in a high-pitched whine, "Please, Sammy. Please stay. Please love me. God, it was disgusting."

This isn't really Sam, Dean tells himself over and over again. Sam would never say these things. Sam loved him. Sam still loves him. Dean's sorry he really didn't get a chance to say goodbye to Sam, not properly. He's said goodbye to this son of a bitch more times than he can count, but he never told his brother how much he loved him. He never told him he didn't regret any of it. He knows Sammy already knew, but there was never a moment. He didn't get to say goodbye.

The demon is still talking, taunting. "Jess was a much better lay than you, Dean. You, with your desperate need to please, to keep me close by any means necessary, even if it meant fucking your little brother. How sick is that, Dean?" Sam laughs. He reaches forward to twist the volume knob and Styx blares from the speakers. The demon sings along in Sam's off-key baritone.

They spend the rest of the afternoon in silence, except for the music. Dean ran out of things to say a long time ago. He can't trust his own memories anymore, and the demon enjoys fucking with his head too much.

Suppertime and they're at the goddamn steakhouse again. Dean's too tired tonight to care what goes on around him, and he barely notices Darla. She seems to take this as a personal challenge and by the time they order dinner, she's draped over Dean's shoulder, whispering in his ear, while Sam sits across from him with a smirk on his face.

Darla licks a stripe across Dean's jaw and Sam says, "Trying to steal my best girl, there, Deano?" Darla laughs and runs a hand down Dean's chest, fingers coming to rest on his stomach.

"Not hardly," Dean says, shaking Darla off. His voice is rusty with the disuse of the day and he picks up his water glass and drains it, trying to ease his parched throat.

The demon shoves his mouth full of food and says, "You're always so smug and superior, Dean. How's that working out for you these days? Half the time you don't even know who I am." Dean pushes his food around on his plate. He can't remember the last time he actually wanted to eat anything.

The demon keeps up his running commentary in the parking lot when they leave the restaurant. "Your brother couldn't save you, could he? That's a real shame, Dean." He shrugs his shoulders into his jacket. "Do you think he really tried? Maybe he wasn't sure you were worth what it would take, you think that's possible? Maybe Sam is just a selfish bastard. You told him that enough times, maybe he decided to prove you right. Maybe he believed you." He laughs. "Or maybe Lilith was just too much for him to handle."

Dean feels a thrill of fear penetrate his exhaustion. "Is Sam – he's still alive," he croaks, trying desperately not to make it a question.

"You think I'm going to tell you that?" the demon snarls. "You're so fucking stupid, Dean. Even stupider than you look."

Dean starts to walk down the street. He knows he has to go back to the hotel, but he doesn't have to ride in the car. It's only a few blocks and he can damn well walk it.

Sam follows him in the car, driving close to the sidewalk, taunting him through the open window. "Your brother's always hated you and you know it. He's never forgiven you for John's death." Dean keeps walking, not looking up from the sidewalk. One foot in front of the other, the way he's lived his entire life. "This isn't the time to start lying to me, Dean!" the demon bellows. Suddenly he swerves, pulling the car to a quick stop in front of Dean. He gets out, leaving the door open and the motor running.

"Get your ass in the car," he snarls, shoving Dean in and across the seat. Dean hits his knee on the glove compartment and his head bounces off the opposite window. Sam laughs.

There's no way the demon is going to let Dean sleep in the other bed tonight. Dean braces himself as he feels Sam hard behind him, pushing against Dean's ass. Whatever, today is almost over. He doesn't let himself think about tomorrow, or the eternity of tomorrows after that.

He falls asleep, sore and exhausted in both body and soul. He aches for his brother.

*

 

When Sam finally comes for him, Dean's caught completely by surprise.

They're at the diner, mid-morning coffee and pancakes stuck dry in Dean's throat while the demon and Kathy chat at the register. Kathy's extra jumpy and the jangling coins in the register drawer sound louder than usual. She laughs and it echoes strident and unnatural around the room. Dean slurps at his coffee desperately, trying to get his pancakes down. It burns his tongue.

The heavy-set guy two booths down suddenly tenses, lowering his newspaper and looking around until he catches Ellie's eye. She seems startled and glances quickly over at Dean. Moving carefully in his direction, she gives him a nervous smile, both of her eyes hollow in her damaged face.

The two young guys at the counter continue to shovel in their eggs and bacon, seemingly oblivious to the changed atmosphere of the diner. Ellie closes in on Dean, coffee pot shaking in her hand. He's never been afraid of Ellie before, no matter what her face happened to look like on any given day, but right now he's keeping a wary eye on the hand holding the coffee.

The clanking noise from the cash register gets louder and Dean turns in time to see Kathy back away from the demon, shaking her head, her face distorted with terror. The demon throws his head back and laughs like she told him a joke, and the coffee pot slips out of Ellie's hand. It shatters when it hits the cracked and worn linoleum and coffee splashes up and across her legs. The skin blisters and burns but she doesn't seem to notice.

The room thrums with tension, but the demon appears oblivious, lounging against the counter, leering at Kathy. Ellie gapes at him, sidling slowly over toward the man two booths down, not taking her eyes off the demon. The heavy-set guy folds his newspaper and starts to get to his feet.

And then Dean can't move. His arms and legs are leaden and he can't open his mouth to speak. The air is suddenly scorching, searing his lungs as he drags in a breath. He's dizzy and disoriented, but he manages to turn his head slightly to watch as the door of the diner slowly but inexorably opens.

And Sam stands in the doorway. His Sam. Dean knows it in an instant, without conscious thought. This is Sam.

The door eases closed behind Sam, the bell above it tinkling softly. The air clears, cools, and Dean regains his balance. He's barely aware of the tears streaming down his face. Sam.

No one moves, no one makes a sound. The demon straightens up, pushes away from the counter and Kathy. His eyes are black and fixed avidly on Sam's face.

Dean blinks and the two young guys who have been eating breakfast at the counter every morning since Dean's been in Hell, who only once ever looked up and acknowledged him, are ranged at Sam's side, flanking him protectively. They look like they're prepared to take on a whole demon army for Sam.

Or else they're part of a demon army for Sam, and the horror of that thought has Dean half out of his seat, reaching for his brother. Everything will have been for nothing if Sam's ready to lead a horde of demons out of hell. Dean can still think clearly enough to know that. He would sacrifice anything to prevent that.

He thought he already had.

Sam shakes his head, pinning Dean in place with a flick of his wrist. No.

"Sammy!" Dean cries out. His brother can't do this to him. It's won't be any different than what Dean's been suffering for this endless unfathomable time if Sam has turned into something dark, something other than Sam.

"Wait for me, Dean" Sam pleads quietly, determination and desperation at war on his face. "It's all okay."

The demon laughs again and it's almost triumphant, as if what he's been waiting for all along has finally happened. Kathy, Ellie, and the heavy-set guy are ranged behind him. Kathy looks terrified, but Ellie and her apparent boyfriend look prepared to do battle. Ellie smirks at Dean and says, "Sorry, sugar." Now her eyes are cavernous in her twisted face.

The demon who's been using Sam's body to torment Dean for so long raises his eyebrows at Sam and says, "Finally. Took you long enough." He looks at Sam, tilting his head and studying him almost curiously. He brings his arms up, crossing them in front of his chest, feet apart and shoulders straight.

Sam looks calmly back at him and the air crackles with tension. The silence is absolute, and then Sam finally breaks it.

"He's mine." It's a simple statement, but it's effective. Galvanizing, even. It's more than enough. Relief and love flood through Dean, making him tremble. He shakes his head to clear it. He has to be ready when Sam needs him.

Dean's not the only one who reacts to Sam's words. The demon's face distorts with fury, rage making him look so unlike Sam that Dean can't believe he was ever fooled that this thing was really his brother.

"Yours?" the demon snarls. "I don't think so. He was never yours. He belongs to Lilith. He always has and he always will." Kathy blanches at the name, at hearing it spoken aloud. She looks as if she's about to pass out with fear and she stumbles against Ellie, clutching frantically at her arm. The demon throws an angry look her way and she shrinks back even further.

Sam shakes his head. He looks around as if searching for something that's not there. "Lilith's not exactly on the front lines for this one, is she?" The demon scowls and Sam smiles darkly. "You can tell Lilith from me, she needs to watch her back. She's pretty much at the top of my shit list." He makes it sound a lot more menacing than the casual words alone would imply and Dean is impressed. That's his baby brother.

The demon is less impressed. He snarls and lashes out, pointing at the blond counter guy and pinning him to the wall. The kid's feet dangle off the floor and he clutches at his throat, gasping for air.

The demon stands, feet planted wide with the counter at his back, challenging Sam's claim on Dean. Ten feet separate him from Sam and the door of the diner.

Dean chances a glance out the window. The Impala is waiting, idling next to the sidewalk in front of the door. There are no people around, the illusion of passersby and townspeople long gone. The sound of crockery smashing on the ground makes him jerk his head back to Sam.

Dishes and silverware are flying every which way, an expression of fierce concentration on Sam's face. Kathy screams and ducks and a large dinner plate hits the heavy-set guy in the head. He ignores the blood that trickles down his forehead and into his eyes, blinking it away as he bares his teeth in a grin.

With a shock of surprise, Dean realizes that Sam is the one making all the cutlery whiz around the room. That's my boy, he thinks, with the part of his brain that's not terrified out of its mind. He makes another move to get up, planting his hands on the table in front of him and Sam snarls at him, "Dean. Stay the fuck where you are. Don't fucking move."

"Fuck that shit, Sammy," Dean snaps back. There's no way he's not going to be by Sam's side for this battle. He shoves to his feet.

"Dean!" Sam yells and again something pushes Dean down, something he can't see or even really feel.

"Goddammit, Sam! Don't you do that to me!" Dean struggles against it, but Sam is too strong.

And Dean's not sure who he's fighting against at this point. Too long spent with a Sam who wasn't Sam and Dean's left rudderless. He falls helplessly back into his seat and stares at Sam, watching in fascination as his brother fights the battle for Dean's soul with his mind.

Kathy seems to have abandoned her hiding place behind the register and is now looking eagerly from Sam to the demon. She reaches into the pocket of her apron for something. The movement catches Sam's attention and in an instant the heavy cash register slams into her and she falls to the floor with a grunt. Sam bends to slit her throat with Ruby's knife, then straightens up, his face grim. He hasn't even broken a sweat; he's doing it all so effortlessly.

He throws Ellie back toward the kitchen, where she crashes into the wall, and the heavy-set guy ends up pinned to the ceiling. Sam stops short of slicing through his abdomen and making him burn, for which Dean is inordinately grateful.

The door of the diner swings open and the old couple from the steakhouse hustle in, followed closely by Darla, who licks her lips with a wanton smile. Her eyes light up as she looks from the demon Sam to the real one.

"Sam! Behind you, Sammy!" Dean yells in warning.

His brother doesn't take his eyes off the demon. The two younger guys from the counter who are flanking Sam turn as one towards the door and all hell breaks loose as they attack. Dean sees the old woman go down under the blond guy, and Darla throws herself at the one with the mustache.

Sam tosses something to Dean. He's not quite ready and he almost doesn't catch it in time. It's Ruby's knife and Dean hefts the weight of it, moving it from hand to hand as he's finally able to get to his feet.

"Now, Dean," Sammy says softly. He has the Colt in his hand, aimed straight at the demon's head. The demon isn't laughing anymore and his face is twisted up with hate and rage. It makes him even more unrecognizable. Sam's face has never in his life worn that expression.

Dean gets up and goes to his brother, ranging himself at Sam's back. Shoulder to shoulder, and Sam says to the demon, "I told you, he's mine, you son of a bitch," and pulls the trigger.

The demon with Sam's face, the one that's had Dean so twisted up for so long, jerks, a red flash shooting through his body. As smoke pours from the bullet hole, he sinks to his knees, eyes unseeing as he pitches forward to the ground.

Ellie screams as Sam turns the gun on her and puts a bullet in her heart. Dean can hear Darla's voice, hoarse and guttural, cursing Sam with every breath. The young guy with the blond hair is dead and Darla stands up with a look of triumph on her face, hands covered with his blood. Dean rushes forward and plunges the knife through her throat. Her eyes flash and then the light in them flickers out as she crumples to the ground.

The old man from the steakhouse has joined forces with his wife and together they plunge their hands into the young guy with the mustache's chest and rip out his heart. His screams reverberate around the diner as Sam pulls the trigger of the Colt twice more in rapid succession.

Together, Sam and Dean move to the door. Dean holds the knife out in front of him, keeping everyone at bay, away from his brother, except there's no one left to protect Sammy from. They're all dead.

Then they're out the door, heading for the car. There's no howling, no dark shapes slinking around the Impala, but the breeze smells more of sulfur than it does of spring flowers. Smoke fills the sky and thunderclouds tower overhead.

Dean doesn't stop to think, he just gets into the car at his brother's side. Sam's already thrown the car in gear by the time Dean slams the door closed, and they take off down the road and out of town.

The scenery isn't exactly what Dean has gotten used to. The familiar landscape is unrecognizable. Charred trees bend in the wind, and familiar buildings appear deserted and run down, their decrepitude seeming ancient and primeval.

The wind howls, ash-filled and dark. Thunder crashes around them and lightening illuminates the sky, flashing on the road in front of them. Hail beats down on the car and ricochets off the hood, flying up to hit the windshield. The car sounds like it's under mortar fire and Dean can't help it, he lifts his hands and covers his ears.

Sam drives with fierce concentration, seemingly oblivious to the chaos and destruction around them.

Rain lashes at the car windows. Trees topple onto the road, their limbs reaching for the car. Dean spots a funnel cloud in the greenish sky ahead and Sam reaches across the front seat and places the Colt in Dean's left hand.

He looks at Sam, but Sam doesn't take his eyes off the road ahead. Dean transfers the gun to his right hand and Ruby's knife to his left, ready. Prepared for whatever comes their way. The storm roars around them and still Sam drives.

Flames appear on the horizon, large red flames licking the trees, reducing them to cinders in a fraction of time. Soon there are no trees left, just a barren, dusty landscape. There's nothing to fuel the flames, but still they burn, consuming the very air around them. Dean feels the unbearable heat of it even in the sanctuary of his car.

He loses track of time, or maybe he never had a grasp of it in the first place. He knows only that they could have been driving forever, or for no time at all.

They drive on, silence weighing heavily around them. Soon the road starts to climb, and it rises ever further in the distance, a promise Dean can't yet acknowledge. No one pursues them, but that doesn't mean anything to Dean.

Sam speaks at last. "Sleep."

Dean does. There's something in that single word that frees him for a while and he closes his eyes against the flames.

 

*

 

Dean wakes up and automatically turns away from the window, tucking his head into his shoulder to avoid the sharp beam of bright sunlight waiting for him.

Except the window is small and high in the wall, and the sunlight is diffuse, as if it's being filtered through leaves. It's not at all familiar, not what Dean's used to.

Dean hears movement nearby, where someone is breathing quietly and evenly. Pulling his face out of his pillow, he looks up to find Sam staring at him almost hungrily. Dean closes his eyes. He'd tried to put a stop to the daily sex once he realized his brother wasn't really his brother. Some days he's been more successful with that than others.

He scoots backwards in the bed, but all that does is put him more firmly between the wall and Sam. His heart starts to flutter in panic and his breath is shallow.

"Dean," Sam says, his voice soft, as if trying to soothe an injured animal, one that's cornered and terrified. "Dean. You're awake." There's something in his voice, something like wonder. It's achingly familiar and Dean tries to block it out. The more like Sam the demon becomes, the more it hurts.

Okay, so today the demon is going to play it nice, be good-Sam, pretend everything is normal, just fine and dandy. That stopped making Dean feel any better, any safer, a long time ago. The demon's volatile and Dean's learned the hard way that he's capable of turning on him in an instant, without warning or cause.

Dean says nothing, stays still and quiet, and Sam's tentative smile fades a bit. "Hey, you hungry?" He looks hopeful, like a dog waiting for someone to pat it on the head. Dean remembers that expression, Sammy trying to convince Dean to let him drive the Impala when he was fourteen, or to tag along with Dean and his friends when they went out drinking when Sam was seventeen. Sometimes Dean let him, because Sammy's a total lightweight and was always an amusing drunk.

Now he's just a mean one.

"Dean, it's me. Sam. Dude, it's okay. You're safe, you're outta there. Dean, it's just me." Sam's voice is soothing in its repetitiveness as he continues his litany of reassurance. Dean allows it to lull him into relaxing a fraction, unable to help himself. He fights it, but he's just so tired.

"How long?" Dean asks, his speech slurred with exhaustion and fear. He doesn't even know what he's asking. How long has he been here? How long is the demon going to torment him? How long is eternity?

He doesn't really expect an answer.

But Sam provides him with one. "Two days. It's been two days."

Dean stares at the face that looks so much like his brother. "Two days?" he repeats blankly. Two days of eternity? It's only been two days? There's only two days left? What does that mean, two days? It's not an answer. He starts to feel agitated and he can't catch his breath.

"Dean, Dean, it's okay." Sam looks worried, guilty. "Two days since I brought you home. You were there…" Sam hesitates. "Longer than that, you were there for a while," he whispers.

Dean doesn't know what to say. He doesn't know what any of it means. He tries to slow his breathing down. He doesn't want to make Sam angry.

"I'm sorry," Sam says, voice so low that Dean almost doesn't hear it. "I'm so sorry."

Dean knows he's supposed to get up now. He has to get up and dressed, shower and brush his teeth. They have to go to the diner, decide whether to eat breakfast or lunch, listen to Ellie talk and look at her face. He has to decide if he wants a hamburger or pancakes, and he can't. He doesn't know what to do.

So he goes back to sleep. It's easier that way and Sam lets him.

The next time Dean wakes up the room is dark and there's moonlight coming in through the high, open window. He seems to be alone and he looks around carefully. There's something different about the room and he finally sees what he didn't before.

It's not the motel room. It's the room he and Sam used to share when they were kids, whenever they stayed at Bobby's house.

He hears his father's voice in his head, mumbling as they seat themselves in a noisy auditorium, squeezed in with hordes of normal, middle-class parents, waiting to see Sam perform in his high school's production of Our Town.

"What fresh hell is this?" John had said sotto voce to Dean as he opened the program to find Sammy's face smiling out at them, while Dean struggled not to laugh. It had become something of a Winchester family joke and the phrase runs through Dean's mind as he lies motionless, assessing.

What fresh Hell indeed?

He realizes with a start that he's not alone. There's a figure sleeping in the other bed, sprawled out on its stomach, feet hanging over the end of the bed. The sheet has slipped down and moonlight reflects over broad shoulders and messy dark hair.

Sam.

Dean watches Sam sleep for a long time. He's confused, because he thinks that this could really be Sam. But he hasn't seen Sam in so long – an eternity a voice whispers in his head – and he can't be sure.

He slips quietly out of bed, keeping an eye on the sleeping form in the room with him. Dean's dressed in boxers and nothing else. He doesn't know where his clothes are and so he pulls the blanket from the bed and wraps it around himself. He eases out of the bedroom, pulling the door silently shut behind him.

He creeps down the stairs, and he still knows which steps creak. Years of sneaking out at night to wander in the salvage yard, poking at the hulks of the wrecked cars Bobby collects, without either John or Sammy hearing him have made him adept at knowing which steps to avoid so as not to get caught.

Dean always had the feeling that Bobby knew each and every time Dean snuck out at night, but he never said a word about it.

He finds Bobby in the kitchen getting two cups out of the cupboard, his back to Dean. "Coffee's almost ready, son," he says without turning around.

Nodding, Dean stands uncertainly in the middle of Bobby's homey kitchen, shivering in spite of the blanket he's got clutched to his chest. "Sit down, boy," Bobby says. Dean sits. He doesn't know what else to do.

Bobby sets a cup of coffee down in front of him and Dean wraps his hands around it, warming his cold fingers. He sits there thinking, trying out and discarding questions in his head. Finally he simply says, "Is this real? Are you really Bobby?" His voice is low, and he doesn't look up from his hands. His throat threatens to close on his next question. "Is that really Sam upstairs?" His voice is little more than a whisper.

"Aw, kid." Bobby sounds sadder than Dean's ever heard him. "Yeah, this is real. Sam went right down to Hell and brought you out. Took him a damn sight longer than he wanted it to, but he did it."

"It took me longer than it should have," a voice says, and Dean snaps his head around to see Sam standing in the doorway. He sounds sad, too, just like Bobby.

"But, this," Dean waves his hand around to encompass the kitchen, the whole house, Bobby and Sam and himself. "It's real? You're real? You're – you're Sam?"

Sam nods, his eyes never leaving Dean's.

"I saw you," Dean says slowly. "I saw you in the car. In the mirror once. In the parking lot? And then you came?" he asks, staring up at his brother in wonder.

Sam nods again. He moves to the table and pulls out a chair. Bobby pours him a cup of coffee and sits down between them. "I could only stay for short periods of time at first. I practiced, learned things. Finally I could stay long enough to get you out." He doesn't speak again, as if that's all the explanation Dean needs. Like that's all there is to say. Maybe it is.

"And it's really you?" Dean asks again.

Sam nods. "Yes."

Dean thinks about that. "I'm gonna go take a shower." He leaves Bobby and Sam sitting at the kitchen table staring after him, and he leaves his coffee untouched.

 

*

 

They stay at Bobby's for two months. Dean has trouble staying awake for more than a few hours at a time, and he finds himself drifting off at odd moments and in weird places. He wakes up once under the Impala, socket wrench in his hand. Sometimes he finds himself in an old lawn chair on Bobby's porch, the frayed seat sagging under his weight, or huddled on the couch in the front room, nose buried in a dusty cushion. Whenever or wherever he wakes, Sam is almost always there.

"Christ, Sam, stop watching me sleep. It's kinda creepy, dude." Dean blinks up at Sam, who starts guiltily and jerks his eyes away from where he'd been studying his brother's sleeping form. Dean tries out a small smile. It's been getting easier to do that lately.

His sleep is mostly dreamless, and usually blessedly quiet. There's no howling filling him with dread, no scratching at the doors, no wind whistling in around the windowpanes. He's started feeling sparks of his old energy coming back.

One morning he's in the bathroom shaving and when he looks up from the sink, Sam is behind him, face in the mirror, and Dean freaks the fuck out. His razor clatters to the floor and he spins around, horror squeezing his throat, choking him. He clutches at the sink behind him while Sam stares at him with dawning realization on his face.

"Fuck, Dean, Dean, it's me, I'm sorry, man, I didn't mean to – Bobby sent me up to tell you breakfast is ready." Sam looks sick with guilt.

Dean's heart pounds in his chest, but he manages to take a shallow breath, and then another one. He offers Sam a small nod and brushes past him, needing to get the fuck out of the bathroom. He starts nervously at every sound for the rest of the day while Sam watches him with miserable eyes.

Bobby cooks for them and holds huddled conversations with Sam when Dean's not around. Dean knows they do this because he knows Sam and Bobby. Bobby cooks the kind of food they grew up with, the kind he taught Dean how to make over the years. John was never much of a cook, although he tried, and Sam's talent in the kitchen has always involved opening cereal boxes, or maybe Pop Tarts.

Every summer until John pissed Bobby off so badly that he was no longer welcome in his home, the Winchesters spent a week or two here in this house. Dad would make use of Bobby's library and pick Bobby's brain, learning everything he could about the evil things he'd never expected to spend his life hunting.

Dean listened to their conversations around the kitchen table, refilling their coffee cups inconspicuously, trying not to draw attention to himself and get banished to the salvage yard while the adults talked. He didn't really mind so much when he got chased away, because he never tired of the cars out there, but he wanted to learn, to know what bad things were out there in the dark.

Sometimes he and Sam fished in the stream behind the house, built dams and caught frogs, as carefree as they were ever allowed to be. In the warm summer evenings, Dean stood at the stove next to Bobby and watched him cook, committing to memory the way Bobby's hands touched the food, the way he handled the pots and pans. He studied how Bobby stirred simple spaghetti sauce or layered macaroni and cheese in a pan so that it tasted so very different from the kind that came in a box, the kind with orange powder, that they might as well have been different foods.

During the rest of the time, when he and Dad and Sammy were on their own, Dean remembered what he learned in Bobby's kitchen, and Dad would ruffle his hair gratefully as he got up from the table in some rented apartment after a meal of meatloaf or tuna casserole.

Those memories seep into Dean's soul, soothing him. The familiarity of this place comforts him, pushes other, darker memories farther and farther away. One day, he finds he can't remember what was wrong with Ellie's face. He hasn't talked much about it to Sam, hasn't told him what it was like. He doesn't think are words sufficient to convey the sheer horror of it.

Sam sleeps in the other bed still, and he hasn't made any attempts to touch Dean since the day he scared the shit out of him in the bathroom. Dean misses Sam's touch, his hand on his shoulder or their arms brushing together in passing. He wants to feel his brother's skin, warm and alive, but he doesn't know how to do that anymore. He keeps the bathroom door locked whenever he's in there.

He thinks Sam is waiting for him.

One evening after Dean brushes his teeth, he eyes the distance between the two beds thoughtfully. He has to keep himself from packing his duffle neatly every night, fighting the urge to give his amulet over into Sam's care. Maybe if he moves the beds closer together it will keep him from wanting to run as far away as he possibly can. He pushes until there's only a foot of space between them.

Sam looks at the beds when he comes in, but he doesn't say anything. After they turn the lights out, when they've both settled, when Dean's pillow is bunched up the way he likes it and the top of the sheet is tucked over the edge of the blanket just right, Dean closes his eyes and moves his arm, reaching ever so slowly across the space between them. Hesitantly, he rests his hand on Sam's bed.

He opens his eyes and looks at Sam. Sam is watching him, eyes wide and bright in the dim light spilling in from the hallway. A tear runs down Sam's face, but he doesn't move closer, doesn't say anything.

Dean closes his eyes and goes to sleep.

 

 

Dean still gets confused sometimes, but he's gotten better at remembering that it's really Sam beside him every day. Neither Bobby nor Sam pushes him, no one seems to expect him to talk, or stay awake for more than an hour or two at a time, or do the dishes, or anything at all, really.

He lurks in the hallway outside the kitchen and overhears Sam and Bobby talking about him. Sam sounds worried.

"I don't know what else to do, Bobby," he says.

"Just give him some time, kid. Dean's strong, he's gonna be fine. He's like his daddy, he holds the important things close. It don't seem like it, but he trusts you. Still, he trusts you still." Bobby's voice is warm and matter-of-fact.

Sam murmurs something Dean can't make out, and then he says, "I just want my brother back." Dean doesn't think he's ever heard Sammy sound so sad.

"You've got him back, Sam." Bobby sounds calm and sure. "You went and you got him back."

Dean does trust Sam, would still trust him with his life, his soul. It's just his sanity that he's not quite ready to surrender yet.

He can feel himself getting stronger, getting restless. He's drawn to the Impala, as always, and he often spends the quiet hours of the afternoon sleeping in her back seat. He wakes up with his cheek stuck to the warm leather, sweating in the sun.

One day Sam wordlessly tosses him the keys and Dean drives around for hours. He shakes his head apologetically at Sam when he gets back. Sam has clearly been going out of his mind with worry the whole time Dean was gone. It was obviously hard for him, letting his brother out of his sight for so long. He's just as clearly restraining himself from asking Dean where the hell he's been all afternoon, or else throwing his arms around him in a relieved hug.

"Just trying to figure out how to get to the ocean from here, Sammy," Dean says with a small smile.

"Which ocean?" Sam asks.

Dean shrugs. "Don't matter."

Sam manages a smile back and Bobby, who's come out onto the porch to see for himself that Dean is safely back, looks between them with a nod. "You boys are welcome to stay here as long as you like," he says. "But don't feel as if you have to."

Part of Dean wants to stay here forever, tinkering with the cars in Bobby's yard, letting Bobby feed them, Sam spending his days with Bobby's books. The on-going demon war doesn't concern him much, although he knows it should. He knows it concerns Sam, just as he knows he'll have to let Sam tell him about it eventually.

Dean doesn't want to know what Sam's been doing, doesn't want to know about his powers, or about the fact that unless Dean didn't see what he thought he saw, there are demons out there willing to fight for him, whether Dean likes it or not. He has a feeling Ruby had something to do with it all and Dean can't seem to find the rage he knows should be there. It keeps slipping away whenever he tries to grab onto it.

He's not giving up, he'll still fight Sam on that, but not right this minute. He's having a hard time mustering up the energy.

Dean doesn't even know how long he was in Hell, how long he was gone. The days are warm, but the nights are cool and the leaves on the trees around Bobby's house have turned a deep red-orange. He'll have to look at a newspaper soon enough and then he'll figure it out. He won't ask Sam. Sam already feels guilty about how long it took him to get Dean out. He shouldn't, but he does.

Dean has their beds shoved completely up against one another when Sam comes in one night. It's midway through the second month and Dean is suddenly sick of the sadness and guilt in Sam's eyes that never go away.

Dean's already in bed, far away from the wall and close to the door, and Sam doesn't say anything, just crawls in and settles down, giving Dean plenty of room to maneuver as far away as he wants. There's a free and clear path to the door, the hallway, outside to the Impala. To freedom if he needs it.

He doesn't, not any more. Not from Sammy.

Dean takes a deep breath and scoots over toward Sam's side. Sam raises an eyebrow and lifts his covers up, a clear invitation. It's not easy, but Dean gradually moves around until he's under the blanket, tucked in next to Sam. He holds himself rigid, his back against Sam's chest but barely making contact. Sam makes no attempt to touch him. It takes a long time but slowly he relaxes back into Sam's strength and warmth.

They lay in silence, the sound of their breathing filling the small bedroom. Then Sam's arm comes around Dean's chest and he gently lays his palm over Dean's heart. Dean breathes.

He knows they'll have to leave soon. It's almost time, and there's work to be done. He still feels that pull to see an ocean and he still doesn't give a damn which one.

But right now he's just gonna stay here with Sam for a little while longer.