The garden is gone. Sam gropes his way through the pitch dark but finds nothing of substance. He knows it's a dream just like he knows he's not alone. Lucifer lurks in the blackest of the black; the Devil circles Sam like a vulture that's caught the scent of decay.

"Can't you feel that it's over, Sam?" Closer now. "Why hide when you can be out here enjoying my victory? It's only a matter of time until I find you. My brothers want to leave you trapped because you've been such a nuisance, but I'll come for you."

"Don't bother." Sam's call echoes in the cloying air.

"You think Dean is coming back for you?" Something tingles up Sam's arm; he shrugs away. "Oh, did I forget to mention? Dean's finished."

Sam spins, tries to find eyes or a face to focus his rage on. "You're lying."

"Do I need to lie?" There's a light far off, nearly beyond the limits of Sam's sight. He stumbles in that direction. "My brother thought it was better to let Dean remain a human hero. His mistake cost him his precious vessel."

Sam tries to block the words but Lucifer controls this place. Sam wouldn't be allowed to stop listening even if he ripped his own eardrums to shreds. Lucifer is the room, his breath slithering towards Sam from every direction.

"I'll find you soon," the Devil assures. "There won't be anyone left to fight me. I'll find your little hideaway and I'll destroy every single person I find along the way—everyone you care about and even the ones you don't. And then I'll come for you."

Sam hasn't managed to get any closer to the light, unsure if he's stumbling in the right direction.

"You'll say yes because there will be nothing left for you to protect."

When Sam still doesn't answer, the darkness lurches and the light Sam was reaching for is snuffed out.

"There's another way, Sam." The darkness moves down Sam's throat and chokes him. "Say yes right now and I can bring Dean to you exactly how he was. You can have him by your side. Do whatever you want with him. He can be your slave—he can be your lover. I promise you that he'll be safe."

Sam can no longer breathe but Lucifer pays no mind. Sam's mind stutters, stuck on the promise that "he'll be safe".

"Think about it, Sam," Lucifer whispers, hot putrid breath filling Sam's space.

He's running out of air...

March 19th

Sam stalks up to the counter and grabs Eric's shoulder.

"When was the last time you saw Ames?"

Eric's startled, face blanked by surprise until Sam shakes him.

"It's been a few days," Eric says. "He told me..."

"What?" Sam reaches. "What did he say?"

"Not much. Sam, are you okay?"

They've attracted Riley's attention; she's staring at them carefully from the kitchen. Gus watches from the other end of the counter, his fork stuck on the way from his plate to his mouth.

"I'm not trying to scare you." Sam levels his voice, trying to keep his fingers from shaking on Eric's arm. "I just—I need to know what he said to you."

Eric takes a deep, measured breath as if it'll help Sam. "Just that he had something important to take care of, and that we should all be okay while he was gone."

"Is he coming back?"

"Yeah," Eric says softly. "Yeah, he said he was."

Sam wobbles onto the stool behind him and Eric's hands hold steady on Sam's knees. By then, Riley's made it out of the kitchen. His skin is clammy—unable to find warmth in the heated diner—and his throat ragged from shouting uselessly to the skies all morning. Ames had never showed.

"Jesus, Sam." Riley touches his arm gently but he flinches. "What's wrong? You're so pale."

"She means you look like shit," Eric adds gruffly.

"Thanks." Sam looks up. "Asshole."

"That's better." Eric's palms squeeze around Sam's legs and don't let go. "What the hell was that?"

"I just—" Sam can't get it out; the dream won't let him go. Darkness pools at the edge of his vision; one wrong move and Sam will be plunged into the black. He can't alarm anyone. "I had a bad feeling and I wanted to talk to Ames about it. I guess he's out of town for a while."

Riley's eyes are wide. "Hang on, I'll grab you some coffee."

When she's out of earshot, Eric leans towards Sam. "Was it one of those dreams?"

Sam nods, jerking his chin down to his chest.

"I've never seen you so messed up, Sam. What the hell did you see?"

Hell itself, he wants to say and would if Eric weren't already freaked out.

"I'll be okay." It's an amateur lie, but it's enough for Eric to sit back. Sam bottles his fear the best he can to keep it away from his friends. Riley fusses over him, topping off his coffee every few minutes, but Eric's stare lingers. Sam doubles his efforts to appear unconcerned.

The Devil may have no need to lie; it doesn't mean he hasn't botched or embellished the truth. Angels lie; it's an indisputable fact. The motives behind the lies are the only things setting them apart from demons.

Dean's not dead. Sam would know; a part of him imagines that they're so thoroughly connected, Sam would drop the instant Dean ceased to exist. Reality, he knows, is different, but the ripple of Dean's death would reach Sam even here.

When he finally leaves the diner, Sam does so with a full stomach, a wrapped lunch for later, and Eric on his heels.

"I told you," Sam insists. "I'm fine."

"I know." Eric shrugs, eyes unrepentant. "But I'm bored and without Ames around, I don't really want to hang out with Riley and Mitch all day. Plus, I'm too sore from yesterday to work with Gus again. So, you're taking me home with you."

Sam laughs. The effects of Eric's smirk are the same as they've always been and Sam's heart lightens enough for him to wave Eric towards the truck. They roll down the windows and drive from boundary to boundary just to waste time, eating Riley's lunch while they're parked in the field below the water tower. Its elongated shadow blankets the truck and keeps the sun's glare from heating the cab.

"Feeling better?"

"Yeah." Sam doesn't lie this time around. The dream has lost its potency. By the time Sam drives them both to the house, he's forgotten it completely.

The oblivion lasts until Sam falls asleep.

March 28th

So early it can barely be considered morning, Sam drags himself into the kitchen. The sun is nothing more than a hint of gray-blue in the east, dark silhouettes of low trees dotted along the horizon. For a moment it seems as if the sun won't return, held below the Earth to withhold its light. Sam breathes a little easier as the light begins to climb higher in the fields.

Sam's nerves are scraped down to raw ends. He'd stayed awake to avoid Lucifer's pitch black chamber, but even without another dream, Sam feels like he's lost too much blood. Barely able to stay on his feet, Sam's limbs take too long to pass sensations on to his brain.

The nightmare hadn't changed; Lucifer surrounded him with his malevolence and greed, whispering sour nothings in Sam's ears that burned down his throat and sickened his stomach until he was lucky enough to wake up. He shudders repulsively every time the dreams come to mind, his entire body rejecting Lucifer's rage.

Worse, Ames hasn't returned to Bells Pond. Everyone's on edge, not just Sam and Eric. The angel has become part of their lives as much as any other resident. His absence is felt as a loss.

Sam chokes down a second cup of coffee aiming to be more awake when Dean shows up. He wastes nearly thirty minutes in the shower hoping the hot water will loosen his knots—physical or otherwise—but it'll take more than heat and steam to fix Sam. He's been worked up for a year, waiting. All he wants is Dean.

There's no way for him to relax; he sits at the kitchen table, feet tapping a nervous beat on the floor. He can hear the clock ticking, his fingers drumming on his mug with the same maddeningly sluggish rhythm. Finally it's a quarter after eight and Sam stands, moving quickly to the front porch and throwing the door open to the morning.

There's no Dean.

Sam shakes himself. It's happened before and he knows not even injury could stop Dean from coming. Nothing short of—

—Sam stops before going down that road. It only winds back to the dark cell in his mind.

He'll be here, Sam hass to be patient. Unfortunately he's always been short on that particular emotion when it comes to Dean. Sam's nervous energy—excessive despite his recent lack of sleep—has him pacing across the porch, bare feet picking up every uneven grain in the wood.

He genuinely starts to panic at ten o'clock. By then his heart is hammering, pulse violent beneath the thin skin of his wrists. His fingers inch to scrape away the skin and put a stop to it for relief.

At eleven, Sam knows Dean's not coming.

The dreams were prophetic even if they came from the wrong side of the battle. Something's not right; the air around Sam is tainted, an imaginary waft of sulfur stinging his nostrils. Sam may be one of the only people in the world who's witnessed the world fundamentally changing before his eyes. It's happening again this very second.

There's nothing to do but wait for Dean or for the End. He waits for the fields in front of him to be torn apart in Lucifer's footsteps.

Sam doesn't know what's coming, but he waits regardless.

March 29th

A storm blows into Bells Pond the next day, the likes of which Sam has never experienced. Sam jerks awake on a thunderclap and hears the wind battering his house. Giant hands slap down on the siding, shaking the house down to its foundations. He can't see outside; the rain obscures every view. The glass panes shudder and rattle in their frames; Sam decides it's best to move away from the windows before they burst.

The violence doesn't let up. If he weren't watching the clock, Sam wouldn't know what time it was. The sun might've gone into hiding, not even bothering to rise, to protect itself from the maelstrom. This is no ordinary storm; Sam's senses sizzle with the unnatural electricity in the air. For all Sam knows, the entire world is braced against this same storm.

He huddles on the couch, unable to sleep even if he wanted to, and prays the world isn't coming apart at the seams. It feels like someone is trying to do just that.

The rain beats hysterically on the roof; there's no way for Sam to shut out the noise. He's sealed in, nowhere to go but deep inside his own consciousness, fighting the hook-and-pull of sleep until he's overwhelmed by exhaustion and falls asleep.

March 31st

"Sam? Sam—"

He wakes up to a familiar voice. Streaks of naked sunlight assault his pupils.

"Sam!"

Sam falls off the couch when he rolls towards Ames, blinking up at the angel's concerned expression.

"What the—you're back!" Sam scrambles on the floor, grabbing the coffee table and hauling himself up. A fine, gray dust lines the shoulders and sleeves of the angel's trenchcoat. "Where have you been?"

Ames leans away from the force of his words. Or, more likely, away from Sam's sour breath. "I thought I was being summoned away."

"For what?" Sam pushes.

"I don't know," Ames says. "I gathered with others to the north, each of us summoned but with no idea why."

The angel's composure irks him. "Was it Michael who called you?"

"No." Ames searches Sam's eyes. "I don't think we were truly called, but we could sense that something had changed. When I came back, Eric told me you needed to see me."

"I've been having dreams," Sam explains. "They started weeks ago and came back every night. Lucifer insinuated that the war was ending and he was winning." He meets the angel's placid stare. "Is that why you felt you had to leave so suddenly?"

"The was is not over," he offers flatly. "But it will end very soon."

Sam's felt the signs, but he must ask. "How can you be sure?"

"Michael and Lucifer are gone. That's why I can't feel anything, Sam."

Every muscle in Sam's body pulls inward, sucking the life from his blood.

"What do you mean gone?" he hisses.

The angel leans out of Sam's space. "The archangels are no longer on this plane. There's no way for any of my brothers to reach them." Ames' elegant voice injects very little emotion into the conversation. "Sam, I believe these are all signs of the final battle."

The darkness roars outward, pushing against Sam's skull and swallowing everything in his vision. The next time Sam blinks, he's lying flat on the couch and Ames is kneeling in front of him. Ames' voice seems to come to Sam from a great distance.

"—you been sleeping?"

"No." Sam forces himself upright. "I can't sleep—he's always waiting for me."

"Always?"

"Yeah, he—" Sam's memory snaps to attention. "No—not since the storm came through. I've been afraid to fall asleep, but I can't remember actually going back..."

"If I'm right, Lucifer can't reach your mind anymore."

"What about Dean? If this is the last battle, does that mean he's free?"

"Michael needs his vessel if they're going to banish Lucifer to Hell once more." Ames ducks, trying to find Sam's eyes and get them to focus. "Are you going to be alright if I go?"

"Why are you leaving?" Sam doesn't pay attention to the pathetic need in his voice. "I need to know—"

"I've told you everything I know," Ames says. "It's not much, but there are others I need to see. I'll come back if I get word of anything else." Sam's too busy putting the pieces together in his head. He can't find a thought that's not painful. Ames notices his absent expression, one brow lifting. "Do you want me to stay here with you?"

Sam shakes his head carefully, unwilling to wake the headache he can feel forming behind his eyes. For a moment he thinks Ames will stay anyway, but in the next breath their guardian is gone, no doubt to settle everyone else he'd abandoned for so long.

April 5th

The water's freezing when Sam splashes a handful on his face. The icy temperature brings life back into Sam's eyes.

His reflection tells the story of a week without hope; Sam hasn't bothered to shave or wash his hair in days and his cheeks are pale despite the cold water. He's not sure how much he's aged in the last week, countless years stolen by his lack of sleep and decent meals.

Sam's mirror image doesn't change the longer he stares. No sleek reflection appears to replace the haggard one.

He's been avoiding the diner, but Eric and Riley show up that afternoon doing their best to hide their concern behind lackluster smiles. Riley scowls at the state of his kitchen, picking empty containers off the counter and throwing them in the garbage. With very little to work with, she performs a modern-day miracle and manages to make them all something to eat, chattering away while Sam and Eric trade stares on the couch. Sam wouldn't be able to repeat a single word Riley's said.

"Hey—" Eric's voice is gentle and firm at the same time. Sam blinks and refocuses on his cloudy-blue eyes. "Sam, come on. Talk to us."

"You don't understand."

"You're right," Riley says. Her face is drawn; Sam can't remember seeing her so disquieted before. "We don't understand, but we're still trying to help."

Sam looks to Eric, the man he trusts more than anyone else in Bells Pond. He would understand; the sharp detective's mind would work through the facts, but Eric wouldn't understand what's got Sam so unraveled.

"You don't need to tell me everything," Riley adds, not blind to the stare-down between her friends. "I probably wouldn't be able to understand it all, but even I know you're not like the rest of us."

Sam looks to Eric. He nods. "She doesn't mean that in a bad way, but hell, none of us get visitors. You know what I'm saying? You're special." There's a twist to his lips like he's trying hard not to make it into a joke.

"You're an interesting person, Sam. That doesn't mean everything going on up here is good." She taps his forehead softly. When he doesn't respond, she sighs. "If you can't tell us, that's okay, but we're not gonna let you rot in this house by yourself."

"Not if we're free to stick around and bother you for awhile," Eric chimes in.

"You don't have to stay," Sam says. "I know you're trying to be nice—"

"Who's being nice?" Eric huffs. "I just don't feel like walking all the way home and I'm not up for stealing your truck."

Sam recognizes the offer for what it is and doesn't argue. Eric and Riley divide the house between them, each choosing a side to clean and make livable. Riley throws lines of conversation Sam's way but he can't grab a-hold of them. His friends circle around him like planets in orbit, making sure he's never alone.

When it gets dark, Riley does steal Sam's truck—rather, Eric hands her the keys and tells her to pick him up in the morning.

"Eric, you don't—"

"Seriously, Sam," Eric says, waving to Riley as the old Ford rumbles out of Sam's driveway. "Shut up."

If Eric hadn't forced Sam back inside, he'd have stayed out until the late-winter frost settled over his skin, forming crystals on his eyelashes. But Sam's pushed through the front door, man-handled by someone with half of his bulk.

"What are we doing?" Sam asks, out of breath when Eric drags him through to the bedroom.

"We are going to sleep," Eric says, knocking Sam onto the bed, never giving Sam a chance to object. Handing control over to Eric is exactly what Sam needs and he falls into a comfortable zone of follow-through. Eric doesn't expect him to do anything but obey; there's no expectation for Sam to spill his guts for Eric's benefit.

"Comfy?"

Sam's under the covers, bundled into a warm cocoon with Eric stretched out on top of the comforter next to him.

"Better," Sam admits quietly, drained beyond the point of complete sentences.

"I thought so," Eric says, scooting a little closer. "Now get some sleep and don't worry, I'm not gonna leave."

Sam's fairly sure he starts to cry but he falls asleep in the same breath.

April 12th

"Have you heard anything new?"

Ames shakes his head. Sam was too absorbed in thought to really be startled when the angel popped into the passenger seat of the old Ford a few minutes ago.

The grass waves innocently around the truck, moving like an ocean under the sun. Sam had tried to drive straight through the boundary earlier that same day with no luck. The invisible barrier had been as strong as ever. Giving up, Sam had sat in truck and stared out past the boundary; he could have been zoned out for hours before Ames showed up.

"Heaven is deserted," Ames says softly. "My brothers have scattered, probably just as confused as we are."

"You'd think that an epic showdown would be, you know, epic." Sam shrugs. "There should be signs."

"Not here, there wouldn't be." The angel gazes straight ahead down the road. The dusty lanes look the same on the other side of the boundary, an image reflected back like a one-way mirror. Sam wonders if someone's on the other side, staring back at the strange picture of an angel and a human sitting in a classic truck.

"What's taking so long?" Sam asks. "It's been weeks."

"It's been weeks here," Ames is quick to clarify. "Where Michael and Lucifer are, the rules of time are flexible and indefinable. There's no telling—"

Sam waves off the rest. A large fly lands on his windshield with a flutter of tiny wings but is quickly chased off by another insect.

"I should have tried harder to get back to Dean."

"Why?" Ames sounds genuinely interested in the notion.

"I'd be out there right now. I could help."

"That's not what your brother wanted."

"He's made plenty of decisions for me," Sam sighs bitterly. "This was never something he should have interfered with."

"The Apocalypse is not the domain of one man, or two," Ames adds when Sam looks over. "We all have a stake in the outcome, but not everyone can be a part of the battle."

Sam stews. Ames becomes distant, his conscious mind traveling far away from Bells Pond and Sam though his body keeps Sam company from the passenger seat. Sam thinks it's actually creepy, sharing space with an empty vessel.

He's gone two weeks with no news of Dean; there have been no signs or indication of anything out of the ordinary beyond the frequent storms and Sam's gut instinct. Ames has come and gone several times for a confab with other angel, but he knows little more than Sam.

Sam is even more desperate to crash through the boundary or force Ames into letting him go. If this is truly the End and Dean and Michael were to fail, Sam might be the world's last hope; he might be able to fight Lucifer off from the inside. A moot point if he can't even escape to find Dean—to see his brother for the last time...

There's a soft flutter in the cab as Ames returns. He studies Sam for a moment, his gaze going deeper than the surface. After a moment, he nods and looks back out to the road.

"Do you want to know what would have happened if you hadn't come here?"

"What?"

Ames glances over, no identifiable emotion behind his eyes. "The future is a strange thing, Sam. There are many different versions, none set in stone until they come to pass."

"What does this have to do with me?"

"When Michael and your brother sent you here, I wanted to see if their choice was worth my trouble. Therefore, I looked." The angel knows he has Sam's undivided attention. "You and Dean would certainly have kept fighting, but your aims were very different. You were fighting together but at the same time, fighting apart. You kept things from each other as if you were fighting two separate wars. One out there—" Ames nods to the boundary, "and one up here." He holds a finger to his head.

Sam tries not to look guilty. He'd almost forgotten how bad his last year with Dean was before Bells Pond drove a physical wedge between them. Distance and time has made the details fuzzy and less tragic.

"Would we have done any better?"

"That's hard to see," Ames says. "You were both so intent on not saying yes but only Dean, with Michael's help, could have replaced the seals. Did you think there was another way?"

"There's always another way," Sam says absently, a mantra from his former life.

"You're not wrong about that." Ames turns towards him. "But I don't know that you would have found it if you'd continued on the way you were. You and Dean were desperate; it made you dangerous and fallible."

"We tried. The angels didn't exactly make it any easier for us."

"There were those who lost their way long ago," Ames replies, lips thinned out and pressed together.

"Is Michael going to keep his promise?" What a promise means to the Winchesters may not be the same as what it means to others. Michael is not a Winchester. "What if he keeps using Dean for other battles, or he just lets Dean die?"

"We don't make promises, Sam."

"But—"

"We craft bargains," Ames says. "If Dean holds up his end, and since we've come to the last battle, I believe he has, Michael will do the same. It's simple. A promise can fall apart, but a bargain is created with clear expectations."

Sam frowns. "Like a contract."

"In a way."

Hearing it now, Sam's not surprised.

"So what's going to happen?" Sam asks. "If we're at the final battle, what comes next?"

"If Michael loses, I don't think you need me to tell you."

Sam hesitates. "And if we win?"

After the conversation they've just had, the smile on the angel's face is completely out of place in the old truck.

"If we win, that's when the true endeavors begin."

He pops out of the truck a moment later, leaving Sam to work through his thoughts, wondering what the future could possibly hold that would make Ames smile.

April 19th

Sam doesn't care how many times Ames repeats it; Dean must be dead.





April 24th

Nothing changes. There are no cracks in the sky above Bells Pond and Sam hasn't found a way to leave.

Sometimes he's alone, trapped by four walls and grief that manifests in physical pain. Other days, Eric and Riley won't leave him to himself; they drag him out to the diner to see the rest of his friends.

Sam acts brilliantly for their benefit; he puts on a smile as easily as he puts on his shirt. He's fine, just going through a rough patch. That's what he tells Mitch and Annabel when they ask. Anthony doesn't question him, or even welcome him back, but he watches Sam with wide, sad eyes. They're brothers in tragedy now.

Sam usually toughs it out for a hour, two at most, before he's back in his truck and trying not to hyperventilate.

It'll get better, Sammy. I promise.

Dean's voice might make things worse but Sam doesn't muster the effort to care. The gruff tone had returned a few days ago. Sam had looked for Dean on his porch when he first heard it, but the words were too soft, held no weight. Like a wave in his head, Dean's voice pushes forward to fill the empty hours as it had done so many years ago.

If it's all Sam has left of his brother, Sam's got to hang onto every word.

Sam feels a familiar purr; its vibrations sink beneath his skin—the perfect rumble of a classic V8 engine. The long stretch of highway is deserted from one horizon to the other, asphalt cracked beneath Sam's feet. Dream or no, it's one of the most beautiful places he's ever seen. Far in the distance, red mountains climb out of the Earth to clash with the blue of the sky. Sam takes an endless breath and feels free for the first time in a decade.

He can't see a car but the entire landscape shifts with the roar of acceleration.

The growl is in his heart, an intrinsic part of Sam's body since the day he was born. He'd know the sound of the Impala anywhere.

He swears it's there, just out of sight. Any second it will burst through the shimmering mirage of light and heat that wafts up from the pavement.

Sam waits.

The sun his high in the sky but he can't feel it burn on the back of his neck.

And he waits.

The shimmer starts to darken—

April 30th

—Sam fights through the disorientation, staring up at the light fixture on the ceiling from an acute angle. He twists his neck, wincing at the discomfort of waking up in such a contorted position, and his bedroom rights itself.

The full light of late-morning blasts through Sam's haphazardly-pulled shades. It's a moment before Sam places the sound that woke him, familiar and foreign at the same time. Lying there, he listens for the creaking thud again—maybe a branch had been blown into his driveway, the wind buffeting the wood up against his truck.

The sound could be a remnant from his dream. There had been a road—

"Hey, Sam—"

The shout shocks Sam so badly he rolls off the bed, the pain of impact enough to tell him that he's no longer confined to a dream. He scrambles up off the floor and out into the living room, his feet send dust bunnies fleeing towards the corners. With his front windows open to let in the early morning breeze, the light wind lifts his curtains.

Like a gleaming black chariot, the Impala is sitting in front of his house. Sam imagines he can hear the tick and sizzle of the cooling engine block.

His eyes track to the front hallway where Dean is propped against Sam's wide-open door.

"Did I wake you up?" He's smiling in the face of Sam's stupor. "I'm a little late, but c'mon."

This time Sam trips into Dean's arms on purpose, too relieved to question anything. He wraps himself over Dean, probably crushing him but not caring because he's real.

"A little—you son of a bitch, it's been—"

He ducks and finds Dean's mouth opening for him. The kiss is enough to tell him that Dean is really standing in his house, too nuanced to be imaginary. Relief—and no small measure of disbelief—trump every other emotion crowding forward trying to be recognized.

"How the hell..." Sam peeks over Dean's shoulder, out at the gleaming car. "You drove here?"

Hope tries to crawl out into the light of day.

"Sam." Dean pulls him close, lips touching when he speaks. "It's done."

He draws back so Dean's eyes are in his view. "Done. As in—"

"As in, this party's over and we're free, done." Dean takes a deep breath.

"You were supposed to be here," Sam mutters. "I waited—do you know how long it's been? A month, Dean—"

"What d'you want me to say, Sam?" Dean doesn't let Sam back away and keeps his voice quiet. "I didn't know how long I was stuck with Michael—it was different for me, I thought I'd make it here sooner. I tried...tell me, Sam. Tell me what you want to hear and I'll say it."

"I thought you were dead," Sam manages to gasp out. Dean's concession is harder to hear than an argument but he wants to avoid a blow-out that'll most likely leave them in irreparable shards of themselves. Sam doesn't blame him; things have changed.

"If Michael had let me die, there would have been hell to pay."

Sam laughs in spite of his emotions, easing some of the strain but by no means balancing the scales.

"So this is it?" Sam never thought he'd be able to say it. "The deal with Michael is done?"

"And Lucifer's back in his box for another few thousand years. How does that sound?"

It sounds like something Sam ought to kiss him for and he does. He drags Dean through the entryway, towards the living room and the nearest soft surface. The front door remains open, creaking on its brass hinges in the breeze, letting the sounds of a new kind of day blow into Sam's house.

Sam doesn't want to talk; he wants to kiss Dean to make up for every day they've been apart. At this rate, neither of them are coming up for air anytime soon.



Sleep doesn't come for Sam right away but Dean's out like a light as soon as his head touches the pillow, his body embracing the chance to rest. Dean stays well-under, giving Sam hours to allay his fears.

He can't think through everything that's happened since Dean failed to appear over a month ago; it's more beneficial in the moment to block off the entire chunk of time and focus on Dean, cataloging the damage he can see.

The skin around Dean's eyes is paper-thin; Sam can see the individual blood vessels in an array. No wonder Dean is caught in the sleep of the dead. He's thinner than what Sam remembers from a year ago, and he'd been underweight then. Not to the point of malnutrition, but every battle had clearly taken it's toll.

No matter what Sam finds on the outside, he knows it's nothing compared to the damages hidden away inside Dean's mind. With six years of relative peace and distance away from his brother's physical and emotional battles, Sam has never been more ready to patch him up in every possible capacity. Perhaps this was his journey all along.

Sam lies there for hours to ensure that Dean doesn't disappear. His hand finds the heartbeat in Dean's chest and settles there, pulse traveling up Sam's arm and into his body, and finally falls asleep with that slowed, steady beat in his ears.

May 3rd

"I still can't believe it," Eric mutters for the fifth time. Sam rolls his eyes and Eric scowls. "I saw that."

"Whatever," Sam laughs. "It's true no matter how many times you accuse me of lying."

Ames snags Eric's shoulder the next time he paces by and pulls him into the booth. Sam and Dean had emerged after a poorly-timed visit from the angel, the three of them making their way to the diner to meet with Eric, Riley and Gus. The unofficial town council of Bells Pond—their reactions to Dean's news had been vastly different.

Gus had drawn into himself, his eyes losing their focus as Riley gasped and fired off questions. Eric had stood up and paced the diner from end to end, scuffling his shoes across the linoleum.

"We're free, I guess," Sam says. "We don't have to stay here."

"It's pretty safe to go back to wherever you came from," Dean picks up. "It won't be the same, a lot of damage's been done since you left, but there's no real danger."

"What are you gonna do?" Eric looks to Sam when he asks, his blue eyes holding much more than a single question.

"I was never planning to stay." Sam plays idly with Dean's hand under the table. "I've been trying to get out since the day I got here."

Riley opens her mouth but closes it without a word. Her eyes find a pattern on the tabletop and follow it across to Sam's side.

"Do what you've gotta do, Sam," Eric says. "None of us are expecting you to stay."

"What about you?"

Eric looks at each of them in turn. Riley's on the verge of quiet tears. "I've left my life behind long enough," he says. "I think I'll head back to Sacramento and see if there's anything for me to do. The world still needs cops, right?"

"Take my truck," Sam says, drawing Eric's eyes. "I want you to have it."

"What d'you say, Ames?" Eric asks. "Are you up for a road-trip?"

"I've never been to California," the angel responds. "I'd like to see it."

Sam is relieved the detective won't be alone. After Bells Pond, he's not sure what further, self-imposed loneliness would do to any of them. Eric and Ames make a good team though Sam has no idea what the future could possibly hold.

Gus clears his throat, stirring milky swirls in his coffee mug. "So long as I ain't left on my own, this place is good enough for me."

"You will not be abandoned," Ames says, a peaceful smile gracing his features.

Gus nods decisively. "Then I suppose I'll be staying."

"You won't be alone," Riley adds, plenty of conviction in her voice.

"Riley—" Sam and Eric address her at the same time. "Are you sure?" Sam finishes them both.

"Yeah, I've got Mitch and my house," she laughs. "I've never had a house before, just cramped apartments. Besides, I couldn't handle letting anyone else take over the diner. I know Gus and I probably won't be the only ones staying, and the diner needs to keep running. For everyone."

They reach an agreement to spread the news around Bells Pond slowly, ambassadors of their new freedom. Sam leaves the diner with a heavy heart; though none of them are in a hurry to put Bells Pond in their rear-view mirrors, their time as one is drawing to a close.

Dean is out waiting by the Impala, Gus and Eric both taking a healthy interest in the Winchester's oldest home.

Where Sam's family goes, he has no choice but to follow. It no longer feels like a curse.



Dean's cock drops from Sam's lips and he wipes the saliva off of his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Why'd you stop?" Dean gasps, palm reaching down to keep the sensations rolling on. Sam smacks his hand away easily.

"I don't want you to come yet."

Dean whines and tries to find friction somewhere on Sam's body. "I'll be sure to return the favor later."

To prevent Dean from moving on with the show, Sam wrestles him over onto his stomach and restrains his hips.

"If you can still move by then," Sam teases, "you're welcome to try."

The sight of Dean's broadly-muscled back leads Sam one step away from obsession; his tone has been divinely sculpted and defined. Sam rears above him, the fine hairs on their legs rubbing and scratching together. His cock falls between the curves of Dean's up-turned ass, shadowed skin so unbelievably tempting. Dean twists his head to the side on the comforter to see what Sam's up—and very, very hard—to. Sam lets himself fall forward to connect with Dean's lips.

Dean moans, the sound caught between their mouths.

"Can you taste yourself?" Sam whispers. The last several nights, he's discovered just how significantly words, used in the right situations, can spur their pleasure. In the years before, words were a waste of time Sam couldn't afford, but he's cashing in now, dripping every dirty innuendo from his lips just to hear all the different ways he can get Dean to moan.

There's no limit to the things they can do with a previously unimaginable stretch of time in their hands. Sam wants it all; he wants it now.

He drops down so that his stomach rides along the curvature of Dean's spine. Sam can feel every inch of his brother, dragging his hands over Dean's arms, down to his bony knuckles, prying them loose and weaving their fingers together.

So much sweet skin within reach. Close-quarters for his tongue to slip around Dean's ear, exchanging little shivers of sound. Sam's cheek rubs against Dean's damp hair, sweat running down his face to slip into the corners of his mouth.

There's one thing separating him, a last boundary Sam intends to break through. He's felt that heat before, used his fingers to get Dean off more explosively and loving the tight clench around him. Sam's dick is fully on-board, rutting on Dean's ass and rubbing their skin raw.

They've never come this far but now that Sam's standing on the edge, he wants to throw himself off into the abyss. He was never ready, unwilling to share so much of himself if Dean was just going to up and disappear with the sun. Sam knows that's not going to happen.

"Sam—"

"I want every piece of you," Sam lets his breath go over the back of Dean's neck. "I know it's already mine, but I wanna feel it."

Ten fingers spread wide on Dean's shoulder blades, sharp juts of bone like clipped wings. The tension bleeds out of Dean's muscles in silent submission.

Neither of them are content to waste time with prep. As soon as Sam's fingers are slicked up with Dean's bottle of lube, he presses two inside. Dean elbows himself back onto Sam's hand, drawing him into a deeper penetration with no warning.

"Take it easy," Sam coaxes, knocking his knee against Dean's leg to steady him. But he's seen what Dean needs and adds another finger to the mix. "I want you so ready and open—"

"Get on with it," Dean hisses impatiently. One hard push from Sam after that and anything else Dean has to say is choked back with a gasp.

Sam grins while Dean's not looking. His wrist aches from the forceful preparation but Dean's patience cuts him short, his body language taut and demanding more than just Sam's fingers.

"You don't know—" Sam tries to say before his mind is consumed by Dean's body all around him.

Words leave him after that, forced away because Dean—Dean is all Sam wants to think about. The initial burn of penetration is slow to flare but Sam's arms tremble on either side of Dean's shoulders. They're sandwiched together on the bed, Dean flat on his stomach and Sam pushing in from behind, foregoing power for a position that brings their skin into close-contact. Practically laying on Dean's back, Sam can feel how every thrust affects him—which moves make his body sing and which hit off-target.

"You have to move faster." Dean's spine is rigidly tense. "I can't—"

Sam's hips snap forward whip-fast, inching them towards the headboard one thrust at a time. The intensity whips Sam into a vortex. Combined with rock-solid devotion beneath all of the sex, Sam begins to let go of the fear and despair that have driven him for so long.

When Sam pulls back too far, his cock slips out; Dean gets his legs underneath him and moves away.

"What are you—"

"Like this, Sammy," Dean says, sliding onto his back and pushing his ass against Sam's thighs. The new angle is like starting over, a fresh chance to hit Dean's prostate. Seeing Dean's face as he's moving is a distraction, rhythm stuttering as he watches Dean's eyes squeeze and release, his mouth forming sounds that don't quite make it past his lips.

They're mirror-images in bone and sinew, chests rising towards one another, eyes always coming back to center. Dean's legs clamp around Sam's hips to ensure he can't slip out again; his arms stretch up in vain to find something to hang onto, ending up braced on the headboard. He wonders if Dean can feel the change between them, the inevitability that their lives, already bizarre, are straying into uncharted territory. At least they're straying together.

Some need compels Sam to lay his hands on Dean's chest, plucking his nipples to spike up the pleasure. The bare skin over Dean's sternum gives his palms pause; something's missing next to the swirls of ink in Dean's anti-possession tattoo. The amulet. Safe in Sam's keeping, he'd never felt quite right putting it on like he had when Dean was in Hell. In Bells Pond, he'd only been keeping it until Dean came back.

He can't stop fucking Dean now, but Sam will see to the amulet later. It doesn't belong in the drawer next to his gun; it belongs on Dean.

Sam catches the movement as Dean's hand slips down to palm his cock, near-to-bursting and red in his fingers as Dean gets a quick stroke-and-twist going. There's no way Sam can spare the energy to help him jerk off so he watches, ramping up his own thrusts to match Dean's pulls.

He's felt others come while he's fucking them, but it's a full-body experience with Dean. The vise around Sam's waist tightens and Dean's abs pull taut just before he shouts and releases. Sam keeps pushing through his orgasm, a few extra knocks on his prostate forcing more come out onto his fingers. Sam'd body wants to tip then and there, but he keeping fucking up into Dean whose limbs are slowly loosening their hold.

And then Dean's eyes find his, clear and sated, and he smiles.

One look, and Sam's gone.



"What do you really want to do?"

Sam kicks the covers down past his knees to let the sweat evaporate.

Barely two hours after Sam fucked Dean for the first time, Dean had made good on his word to return the favor—a Winchester never breaks a promise, he thinks heatedly—and had left Sam a wrung-out, sweating mess on the sheets. The addition of Dean's body temperature beside him now doesn't help to cool things off.

"I definitely want to take a shower," Sam says.

"I was thinking more along the lines of the bigger picture."

"Since when are you this talkative after sex?" Sam complains as he tries to settle comfortably away from the dull aches.

"Since now," Dean mutters. "Answer the question."

"I want to do this." Sam leans out and lays a kiss right on Dean's lips. "Very often, and for as long as possible."

"I'm not as young as I used to be." Dean jokes, moving with Sam when he rolls back and coming up onto his elbow over Sam's shoulder.

"Neither am I. It doesn't matter," Sam says honestly. "There's always going to be something for us to hunt, isn't there?"

"The Apocalypse didn't exactly put us out of a job." Dean lies back on the pillow next to Sam, neither one bothering to count the hours left until the sun comes up. "There's always gonna be shit to hunt, but if you want to stay here, we can do that."

"I'll pass." For a small town, Bells Pond holds so much for Sam, the boundaries of the two can barely contain it. Sam needs to move on. "But I want to make sure everyone's going to be alright. I don't know what's going to happen to them after this. Riley and Eric are gonna be fine, but the rest—"

"Hey," Dean cuts in. "We can stick around for a bit, okay?"

Sam nods. He can't wait to get back on the road with Dean, but checking up on his friends isn't just an excuse; Sam's not looking forward to any of those goodbyes.

"And we'll swing through now and then," Dean says after a moment. "If Riley's still here, she'd be pissed if we drove through without stopping."

Sam sighs. They'll drive away, through the boundary and into a world Sam needs to reacquaint himself with, but Sam will never leave Bells Pond behind.

"Whatever we do," Dean whispers, half-asleep already, "this is the start of it. Right here."

Sam brings them together.

"Yeah, it is."



In mid-June, in an empty field, the grasshoppers protest the humidity with long, rasping stridulations. Clouds are fighting for space in the sky; a low ridge blows in beneath its competition to win the day. The brown prairie birds are nowhere to be found, unwilling to fly in the heavy air.

The Impala streaks down the dusty road in a flash of black, passing easily through the boundary as if it were never there in the first place and kicking up dirt with her back tires for an encore. Wearing jeans and t-shirts, Sam and Dean ride with the windows open to catch the wind in their faces.

It's an hour before the landscape changes to something other than cornfields and prairie grass. Dean steers the Impala onto the shoulder and stops so Sam can catch his breath.

Leaning into the passenger seat, Dean tells Sam that they can always turn back; he asks if Sam wants to keep going.

Sam turns, conscious of the pressure of Dean's hand on his knee and an unfamiliar world ahead of him, and gives Dean his answer.



fin.





notes.

soundtrack.

master post.