Sam ought to recognize the place; he has a nagging idea that he's stood here before. Crumbled stonework scattered across an untended garden. Vines and weeds have the run of the place. Every so often a blood-red rose emerges to twist amongst the vine stems.

"Where am I?"

"You always end up here." A man Sam hadn't noticed walks from behind a statue. His face is unmistakable. "I never lied about that, Sam." Lucifer's vessel is just this side of a corpse: skin peeled and flaking in dry shingles; hair all but gone, what's left gnarled in gray clumps. But his eyes—they are sharp and alive as if the state of his vessel is no more a concern than the weather.

"This is a dream."

"I never said you physically had to be here." Lucifer's clothes are mere rags, muted brown and filthy. All unimportant. "This is enough."

"Go ahead," Sam bristles, voice echoing as if within a cavernous room, not an overgrown garden. "Do whatever you want. I'll wake up eventually and you still won't be able to find me."

"Yes, your brother and mine have done their jobs admirably," Lucifer says smoothly, a complete contrast to his appearance. "How's that going, by the way? Having fun in that little town?"

"How'd you—" Sam blurts before he can stop.

"I know how my brother works, Sam," Lucifer taunts. "Get the dangerous one out of the way to make things easier. What about your brother? Oh, that's right." His smug attitude is out of place on the deathly countenance. "Dean did the exact same thing."

"You don't know what you're talking about," Sam grates between clenched teeth.

"Trust me on this one. This, I know well. I have no reason lie to you."

"You must be desperate. Have you looked at yourself in the mirror lately?"

"You don't like it?" Lucifer checks himself out, his poor vessel's face literally crumbling. "Maybe this is more your style." Not even a snap and Sam's faced with his reflection, a perfect mimicry dressed all in black, his hair slicked back and tamed.

"Change into whatever you want. I'll still wake up."

"Picture it for a minute, Sam. You could have this. Say yes here and now and it's yours."

"No." Sam stresses the word with everything in him. He wants Lucifer to feel his answer.

"Say yes," Lucifer continues without flinching, "and you'll be free of your brother's trap." Sam watches his mirror image's face harden. "Our brothers imprisoned you—sent you away like you were garbage. I know better, Sam. You're a prince."

Out of the corner of his eye, Sam thinks he sees the foliage moving, writhing as if the slick vines are possessed and reaching for him. "Is that your best deal?"

"I know how it felt." His dark twin sidles into his space; Sam's feet are poured into concrete. "I've known that pain. Banished, ignored, and held—all so big brother could get the glory. Say yes to me, Sam, and I'll find you. I'll lay the town to waste and give you back your freedom. Then you can take your revenge."

Anger fills Sam, coming up from his toes and seeping in through every pore. They're familiar emotions, a lifetime's worth of arguments and harsh words between brothers. A slide show of reasons for Sam to say, "fuck it" to Dean and his plan. To Michael and the unnatural hold he must have over Dean. Dean, who betrayed Sam just like—

"Think about it. This is a limited time offer." His fierce double turns and walks away, long fingers skimming over thorny vines. He leaves the anger stewing in Sam's mind.

Sam's feet are released and he stumbles forward, throwing out his arms to break the fall—

March 2nd

Sam sits up in bed. It's dark, barely any moonlight to see by. He blinks until his eyes adjust enough to pick out his old furniture instead of the strange, tangled opulence of his dream garden. It's his fourth time waking up like this in seven days and Sam's getting used to rubbing away the momentary disorientation.

The dreams are becoming more frequent and more seductive. Lucifer's refined his argument to target Sam where he can do the most damage, but Sam is no closer to saying yes than he ever was. In the darkness, he finds resolve by remembering Dean's last visit, more enticing than any illusion the Devil can conjure.

But the dream's not easily brushed aside. Sam's bedroom is too big, vacuous space closing in around him until he wants to explode from the pressure. If Eric were here to feel Sam shaking, he'd reach across the bed for Sam's hand. One touch for Sam to know he's not alone in the cavernous darkness.

Sam could roll over and find a warm, human connection if Eric were here, but they haven't slept together since the mild fall gave way to winter's bitter chill. The recoil from Sam's dream leaves him weak, desperate for Eric's quiet presence, but that would be unfair. No matter how badly Sam wants that comfort, he likes Eric too much to betray him with false hope.

His dreams had been the catalyst to bring Sam and Eric together. It was unexpected, but they'd been keeping each other company through the spring months after Dean left, living so closely in parallel existences. When it happened, Sam realized he hadn't wanted to deny himself that connection.

"Sam—hey."

Sam startles awake, a light touch on his shoulder. Eric crouches close, his eyes drawn in concern. Sam doesn't remember falling asleep but what came after is nauseatingly clear.

"You were shaking so bad I thought you were gonna fall off the couch," Eric says. "Are you okay?"

Rather than lie, Sam takes a deep breath to dispel the threads of his nightmare. Lucifer uses even the most gossamer sleep as an excuse to claw at the inside of Sam's mind.

"Sorry I fell asleep on you."

Eric's couch is more comfortable than Sam's, easy to settle into the overstuffed cushions. In the incandescent light, Sam picks out the fine lines on Eric's face, more from the stress of his former life than age, but they don't make him any less attractive. Sam focuses on that.

"It's okay, I was making coffee when I heard you."

"Man, coffee sounds great right now."

Eric isn't moving away and it's a moment before Sam understands why. He follows Eric's blue eyes down to where they're fixed on Sam's hand. His fingers are tightly wound in Eric's shirt, the fabric creased in his grip. And Sam's not letting go.

Touch, already a rare commodity in Sam's life, has been withheld for so long and it feels too good to give up. But Eric's nervous, all tension and heavy pulse under Sam's fingers.

"I'll—I'll get you a cup if—"

Sam doesn't let Eric work his arm loose; they move together with a magnetic affinity, lips meeting somewhere in the middle. Both so starved, gentle mouths foregoing any hesitation and taking what they need...

Eric's handsome exterior was matched by his steady, true spirit. For a man who'd witnessed so much hardship and pain, Eric's heart was remarkably well-kept—no cruelty or apathetic cynicism from long years spent knee-deep in the atrocities of human nature.

What started impetuously settled into a relationship no stranger than the majority of others in Sam's life. Easy like a salt-and-burn, going through the motions and finding comfort in the little things. Eric dealt with Sam's frequent nightmares the best way he knew how, never letting Sam go back to sleep without their hands woven together or their feet slowly burrowing for warmth under the covers.

Sam aches for those comforts now and has to content himself with memories. They dull the edges of Sam's latest nightmare but fall short of the relief of having Eric next to him.

When the garden fades completely from his mind, Sam slides back onto his pillow and slowly drifts back into unconsciousness.

March 26th

"Do you guys want anything else before I go?" Riley hangs her old apron on a hook outside the kitchen door. Eric and Sam shake their heads simultaneously, a slowly-progressing game of chess laid out between them on the booth table.

"Have a good time with Mitch," Eric says with a grin, fingers lighting on his bishop before reconsidering. They tease Riley like brothers; it's well-meaning, but she huffs as she runs a hand down her black shirt. "Me and Sam'll be fine."

Now alone in the diner, Sam silently squares off with Eric over the table. The outcome of the game hardly matters; playing is the fun part.

"I hope Riley and Mitch don't get too serious." Eric makes an aggressive move with his knight.

Sam considers his counter-attack. "She'll never abandon us. She likes us too much." Pieces float across the checkered board—it matches the new curtains Annabel had sewn for the diner—in no hurry. Eric's fingers occasionally brush Sam's when they reach for the plate of brownies Riley left, but Sam no longer feels the uncomfortable sting to pull away from the touch.

The dust has settled between them in the last few weeks. When Sam looks at Eric, those blue eyes only drum up feelings of affection and friendship instead of confusion. Though the rules of relationships are unquestionably skewed in Bells Pond, they'd gone through an inevitable period of awkward looks and stilted conversation before regaining their balance.

"Your move."

Eric's brow is set in deep furrows. "I'm thinkin' here."

"Think faster."

The diner remains Bells Pond's town center. With fifteen residents, it's no more crowded than it used to be. Others come and go, benefiting from the food and company. They grasp that, at its heart, the diner belongs to Sam, Gus, Riley and Eric, who certainly spend more time there than anyone else.

An hour later, Eric pumps his fists in victory. "And the student becomes the master!"

"It's about time," Sam concedes, stealing the last brownie in retaliation. Admittedly Sam is no chess master, but he knows the basics and they'd gone from there.

"Something else I never thought I'd have time for." Eric resets the board, spins the black queen between his long fingers. "Learning chess."

Sam never thought he'd have time to teach chess to anyone. Dean would have found a way to cheat or make money from the game; Cas probably figured there were better things to waste time on.

"Do you want a ride home? Ames finally got me a few more gallons of gas," Sam explains. "And I had to bring Riley that stupid table that was in my basement."

Eric smiles, calm and casual. "If you're offering..."

The old Ford sputters and shimmies until Sam shifts out of park. It had taken weeks of painstaking work as Sam followed Dean's instructions, but the truck runs well. The gas station across from the diner is beyond anyone's ability to repair, but angels have their uses. Ambriel—turned out the Wanderer did have a name—scrounges up a few gallons of unleaded every few weeks to keep Sam's truck on the road. Since having a vehicle benefits everyone, Ames is willing to help. If it were just Sam, he imagines their angel would be much more reluctant.

The trip to Eric's seems to take seconds compared to walking, and it's a familiar route. His house is no flashier than Sam's, a low clapboard ranch that came with a massive oak dining room table and silly gingham curtains Sam loves to mock. He's pretty sure his amusement is the reason Eric never takes them down.

"Up for a drink?" Eric's fingers drum rhythmically on the window frame.

"Not tonight." Sam says honestly. He deserves it after the way Sam wavered over their relationship. Just the sight of this house makes Sam want to say yes; it means a good night's sleep, the tune of someone's steady breathing as a barrier to turbulent dreams.

"I've got a few things to get done." Eric knows about Dean. Not the whole truth—the Winchester gospel isn't for everyone—but enough to understand Sam's commitment to an absent man. "But I'll be at the diner in the morning. Can I pick you up?"

"Don't be early."

They clasp hands, each holding on a second past casual.

Back at his own house, Sam pushes Eric to the back of his mind. One more day to get through. Deciding that cleaning can wait until tomorrow, Sam heads to bed early and prays he stays out of the garden—or the motel room, or the crossroads—with the Devil tonight.

March 28th

Dean is late.

There's a cinnamon coffee cake warming in the oven. Riley had outdone herself when Sam told her Dean was coming back. She'd saved the third pan of breakfast cake for Sam after the first two fell victim to hungry residents. The coffee is ready, two mugs on the counter waiting to be filled.

But it's 8:15 and there's been no white-hot blaze or the sound of a familiar tread on Sam's porch.

8:16.

Ten minutes is an eternity. Twenty is unbearable. After half an hour Sam's ready to start screaming for Ames but he's stuck on the couch with the heels of his hands digging into his eyes. Sam's got the wrong day—that has to be it. He wastes eight minutes double checking his "Birds in Flight" calendar. No question, it's the twenty-eighth.

One minute shy of nine o'clock, the house starts to shake. Fine tremors at first, then the floor starts to warp and creak beneath Sam's feet. Lamps and dishes vibrate where they sit and Sam springs off the couch and attempts to keep his balance.

Light explodes in the kitchen, pure rays hitting Sam in the living room. Dean is there when the light recedes and the foundations stop their violent dance.

Sam doesn't notice at first; relief momentarily short-circuits his ability to process. Meeting Sam's eyes, Dean lurches forward and falters. Whatever force brought him here suddenly cuts his strings and Dean goes down in a pile on Sam's kitchen floor.

"Dean!" Sam reels and drops hard onto his knees. Sam doesn't know where to start. Dean's not wearing his jacket, blood staining from the hem of his shirt to his underarms. Face down, Dean gives a great shudder and pushes up.

"I'm okay, Sam."

Like Sam's going to believe that when it sounds as if Dean's been gargling nails. "You're not, stay down!"

Dean listens as well as ever, groaning all the way up onto his knees. Sam's initial assessment was crap—Dean looks horrible. Like he picked a fight with shrapnel and got his name taken. The blood on his arms is from dozens of cuts underneath his shirt and the fingers of his left hand are swollen to the size of breakfast sausages.

"Stop moving," Sam commands harshly.

Dean rocks back on his heels but stays put. "Nice to see you too."

"Shut up."

Dean snorts and coughs roughly when the sound irritates his throat.

"Are you gonna let me help you up?" Sam is careful, sliding his arm around Dean's torso and gingerly pulling him to his feet. When he eases his grip, Dean wobbles, trying to shake Sam off. "Come on, you have to lie down."

Dean grins lewdly when they hobble into the bedroom, humor marred by the bloodstains on his face. "All you had to do was ask, Sammy."

It's pointless to tell Dean to shut up again, so Sam attempts to ignore the words that could be taken so differently.

"It's worse than it looks," Dean says when Sam helps him sit up against the headboard. "A lot of this blood, I'm pretty sure it's not mine."

"Let me look." Looking involves getting Dean out of his bloody shirt and trying not to freak out every time Dean flinches. "Did you get in a fight with a blender?"

"Kicked its ass, too."

"Liar."

It's hard for Sam to joke after that. Dean's t-shirt comes off, plopping on the floor with a weighty smack. As appealing as seeing Dean half-naked might be under normal circumstances, seeing his bruised and battered torso brings bile up into Sam's throat.

Dean keeps his mouth shut while Sam puts years of wound dressing into practice, never more glad for his decently-stocked first aid kit that's never seen use until now. Sam's sheets are a lost cause as every cut is washed and cleaned, pinkish water soaking through beneath Dean's thighs. The copper tinge to the air chokes Sam up as he bandages the largest injuries and gets a huge bag of ice for Dean's left hand.

"You missed your calling," Dean finally says. "You could've been a nurse, a hot male nurse—murses, isn't that what they're called?"

"Ready to tell me what happened?" Sam ignores him.

Dean scans over his own injuries. "A fight over a seal, a big one. The Devil himself made a cameo," he grimaces.

Sam's heart nearly stops. "Was he the one—"

"No, this wasn't him," Dean adds quietly. "But he had plenty of his pals playing Stab-the-Vessel. The seals are working, though. I think we're winning."

"This is winning?" Sam nods to the Rorschach bruising over Dean's chest. Some pieces of Dean didn't make it to Bells Pond this year. "I'd hate to see you losing."

He's relieved to see a genuine smile even if Dean's eyes bear the weight of pain. They sit together, Dean taking the deepest breaths he can with his injuries.

Sam had thought a lot about Dean's mission over the last year, relying on optimism to bring himself a tolerable measure of peace. He'd succeeded for the most part but now, with the evidence of the battering Dean's taking—definitely not the first, Sam guesses—he starts to reconsider just how well the angels have a handle on things.

"Wasn't Michael there? He couldn't have healed you?"

Dean shakes his head with minimal movement. "He was off in another fight and he left this one up to me and Cas."

"What about afterward?"

"He offered, but healing takes time and I had an important date." He shrugs. "I told Michael that I'd live and that I wasn't going to miss this. He was a little...reluctant, I guess, so Cas called in a favor and had a few other angels drop me off. Sorry if they made a bit of a scene."

"You should have let him help you."

"And miss getting nagged by my little brother? Not a chance."

After moving Dean long enough to change the sheets, Sam's stomach grumbles and he remembers the coffee and cake all set to go. He brings breakfast to the bedroom instead, no way Dean will pass on food unless he's throwing up or unconscious.

"This is from Riley." He sets a plate and napkins on the bed next to Dean. "Apparently she thinks you deserve it."

"She baked me breakfast?" Dean's impressed with the spread. "Sam, you need to wrap that up."

"Too late."

"Really?" Dean asks with cinnamon crumbles at the corner of his mouth. "What happened?"

"A new guy named Mitch got dropped off a few months back. He sort of made an impression," Sam explains as he hands Dean water and Tylenol, also fetched from the kitchen.

"Stolen right out from under your nose? That's too bad."

"I'm sure I'll get over it." Sam grins, watches Dean's throat rise and fall as he finishes the glass of water.

"Mitch—I don't like it. Sounds like a douchey kind of name."

"Nice, Dean."

Dean starts to nod off when the full force of his injuries and the drugs hit. Sam clears away breakfast before Dean faceplants into his plate. He stays, listens to Dean's muttering as he finally falls asleep wrapped up in Sam's covers. When he's positive Dean's under, Sam grabs his coat and books it out of the house.



"I didn't expect to see you out today." Ames appears in the road behind Sam, standing nonchalantly as if he hadn't been disturbed by Sam's ragged shouting.

Sam ignores the pleasantries. "Can you help him?"

"Help who?"

"Dean!"

The unflappable Ames ponders, no doubt downloading the information he needs from the angelic network, figuring out what's got Sam so riled up. "His injuries, you mean. I'm sorry, Sam. Your brother is a no-fly-zone for the rest of us. He's Michael's vessel and only Michael can heal him."

"You're telling me there's no way I can help him?"

"He's not dying, Sam." A dry breeze picks up the bottom of the angel's coat; it billows out behind him. "He might need to rest, but then he'll be back with Michael."

"Where he'll keep getting torn to shreds in your war."

Ames is shrewd enough not to respond. Bells Pond is normally quiet but this silence goes deeper as if the very air around them has stopped to listen in.

"Can you pass along a message?" Sam asks quietly. "Tell Michael that Dean needs time to recover."

He expects apathy. At most, sympathy and inaction. Sam gets neither.

"You've started to care again."

"I—what?" Sam's stunned. "He's my brother."

"And now you want to help him," Ames stresses. "Has that always been the case?"

Figuring out what Ames is getting at proves tough; his implacable front frustrates Sam to the point of anger. "You're crazy, okay? I have always cared about Dean."

"I know your story, Sam." Ames doesn't miss a beat. "We all do. You and Dean are broken. You have been for a long time and yet you barely paused because you were on a mission. Because Dean wasn't important."

"You don't know what you're talking about." He spins and paces a few steps up the road. His house lies just around the corner where Dean is hopefully asleep. Deja vu hits from the empty fields, placing Sam outside dingy motels, neon glare harsh on his eyes. Secret meetings, afraid Dean would wake up and find him...

"We're getting better." Sam doesn't turn around, speaking to the open road.

"You are." He senses Ames right behind him. "Did it take coming here for you to realize you weren't whole?"

"No," Sam says. "I knew."

He stands there, the earth ceasing to turn beneath his feet, for so long he thinks Ames has disappeared. The air shifts subtly and he glimpses the angel in his periphery.

"I didn't want you here."

Sam closes his eyes, lets his head hang forward. Ames has never come out and said it, but he's never been as easy with Sam. The angel is friendly with Eric; next to Riley and Sam, Ames is Eric's closest friend. They remind him of Castiel and Dean, completely different yet drawn together. But with Sam, his interactions are confusing on a good day, vaguely bordering on hostile for the rest.

Ames isn't finished. "I knew about you and your brother. When Michael shared his plans with me, I was...unenthusiastic. I may not be the one choosing who comes here, but I'm the guardian of Bells Pond. With everything you'd done, I thought you'd make a destructive addition.

"Think, Sam! You helped so many people, yes, but how many did you harm along the way? You carry that guilt like a mantle and you could have wrecked this place. But," he concedes, "you didn't, even though you certainly gave it your best shot in the beginning."

"Only because I was angry."

"That I can understand," the angel counters. "Instead of joining in our war, as you put it, I was asked to watch over these people. A nobler task I could never have imagined."

"We're just regular people."

Ames rarely shows amusement, but his eyes light up here. "Of course."

"If you didn't want me here, you could have let me go."

"Much as we share a distaste for authority, Sam, you know I couldn't do that," the angel says. "Perhaps I knew that one day you would learn why you really came here."

"Because of Michael? The only way he could get Dean to say yes was to agree to keep me safe."

"Michael could have easily put you into a coma and hidden you away. Or kept you in a box, he's creative like that." Hearing sarcasm from an angel is a new experience. Castiel never got the right tone down. "Part of it was Dean's wish, that's true, but Michael thought of this as a gift when reason said he should have killed you on the spot."

"Lucky me," Sam groans.

"Indeed."

"You know you're not making any sense, right?"

Ames' mouth quirks up. "Eric informs me that I rarely do."

Sam's heart warms a little at Eric's name. "Drop by and see him today, will you?"

"I was on my way before you started yelling." The angel turns, but looks back at Sam. "You might want to head back to your house. Dean's about to wake up and—"

He doesn't wait around to hear the rest.



Dean sulks over lunch, not allowed to get out of bed and shot down when he suggests they go to the diner.

"Someone's gotta convince Riley that Mitch is totally wrong for her."

"You've never met him," Sam points out, gathering their plates and napkins and taking them back to the kitchen.

"What's suddenly put you in a funk?" Dean asks.

"I'm not in a funk," he says, but it sounds surly.

"Trust me, Sam. I know a little brother funk when I see one. What the hell could have happened when I was only asleep for an hour?"

There's no tactful way to bring up the revelations Ames had dropped, but Dean's like a dog with a bone, staring at Sam until he gives it up. "Before you made your deal with Michael, did you think I didn't care about you anymore?"

"Great, something new," Dean snarks, eyes doing a full roll.

"I'm serious. Did you think I was—"

"No," he cuts in. "We were both really messed up, alright?"

"But I was screwed up, right? Ruby, Lucifer, the demon blood—I let everything get to me and I was dangerous."

"Sam, I don't really want to hear this."

"But I have to say it. I was losing you, pushing you away, and all I could focus on was the Apocalypse and finding a way to end it. I didn't notice that we, that I..."

"I'm not letting you take the blame," Dean says, voice clear and sharp. "We let angels and demons, even ghosts, tell us what we're supposed to be doing. When you died and I made the first deal, that was it."

"That was what?"

"The moment things changed."

"But if you hadn't, I would have—"

"No, I should never have let you die in the first place. I should have been there to save you, Sam, and I wasn't." His voice sinks to a pained whisper. "I broke a little bit more every day after that, knowing that I started it all. But I still had you. You stuck around and things were okay for a while until, well, you know."

Until the Winchesters became Ground Zero for the Apocalypse.

"It's been a long time since I've done something that was necessary like this."

"What do you mean?" Sam asks.

"I figure, at this point, it doesn't matter who started this, or why," he tells Sam. "All that matters now is that this ends the way it's supposed to. And that's with our side winning, Sam. Not Lucifer's side, and not really the angels' side either. We deserve to come out on top in this. Mom and Dad were good people and they didn't deserve what happened to our family."

Dean sags, the speech draining what energy he'd built up. Sam's throat won't work no matter what he tries.

"I had no idea you thought that way."

"When Michael's not riding my ass, I have a lot of time to think."

"Sounds dangerous."

Dean gives Sam a small smile. "Anyway, I was so wrapped up with you, and with this." Dean's this sounds intentionally vague and Sam tries not to imagine what Dean's thinking. "Being away from you hasn't changed that, but I think we're getting better."

"That could be the nicest thing you've ever said to me."

Dean relaxes. "Don't get used to it. Now are we done?"

"Oh yeah," Sam pats Dean's leg, the tension Ames had instilled in him, gone. "I hope so."

"Fucking finally," Dean sighs, real relief in the words. "Can we go and do something?"



They make it to the front porch where Dean settles carefully on the top step with Sam's help. He leans against the railing wrapped in one of Sam's old sweatshirts. The excess fabric makes Dean appear smaller and sicker, but he's grinning even after Sam refuses to bring him a beer.

"When you can walk on your own, I'll think about it."

They catch up on life in Bells Pond, Sam explaining why Mitch is good for Riley and assures Dean, like he'd reassured Eric, that she'll always have time for her friends.

"It's good to make that kind of connection here. For them, I mean," Sam covers, edging too close to his own time with Eric.

"Did you guys finish your library?"

"Yeah." Sam sits on the stoop next to Dean. "Only Gus decided it needed to be bigger and it's become sort of a trading post. We all got saddled with a bunch of junk, not just books, and it's a good way to get rid of stuff you don't want."

"Sounds way too practical," Dean mutters.

Large, rolling clouds churn in the north, lending a dark edge to the sky. Dean falls in and out of the conversation, injuries making themselves remembered and Sam goes for more pain relievers. It seems like Dean could fall asleep right here with his head tilted back against the weathered beams. He's carefree as if Sam hadn't cleaned and bandaged dozens of scrapes and several deep gashes.

Sam tells Dean about fixing the truck and keeping it running, proud that he managed to get it going in the first place.

"I knew you could do it," Dean sleepily appraises, never opening his eyes.

"Yeah, that's why you had to leave such detailed instructions. 'Cause you had total faith."

The wind picks up out of the north where the towers of clouds have begun to amass. They move from the porch to the sofa where Sam brings two mugs of fresh coffee and watches Dean try to make himself comfortable on the lumpy cushions. They're quiet as the first low rumble of thunder passes as a warning to anyone in the storm's path.

"What about Eric?"

Sam falters, fumbling with his mug.

"I remember you talking about him last year. Is he still in the picture, or did he get lucky and get out?"

"No one gets out," Sam's says with less bitterness than he expects. "Eric's fine, he's just trying to make it through like the rest of us." The way Dean's staring, Sam feels exposed. As if he's said more but can't remember doing so. "We spend a lot of time together, just two guys who'd be starving if not for Riley."

Dean's expression is carefully neutral. The battering rain comes as no surprise; neither flinches at the intense whip-crack of thunder. The fury of the inclement weather has been building all afternoon, shaded clouds rolling in from the north now hanging heavily over Bells Pond. The sun hides away, layers of rain-thick clouds obscuring its path to the ground.

"You don't have to live like this."

This is news to Sam. "What are you talking about?"

The storm surrounds the house in an eerie half-darkness; whatever daylight is left has been diluted by the downpour and cloudy haze.

"I mean you could find someone. A connection, like you said before."

"This isn't exactly a hard life," Sam lies.

"Just sounds to me like you wouldn't mind, that's all." Dean looks away. "This whole situation, it's not gonna be permanent. We'll win and you can have whatever—"

"C'mon, Dean." Sam sighs. "Stop acting like when this is over, I'm gonna split."

"I wouldn't blame you."

Sam chooses not to dignify that.

"I'm just saying, if you want to..."

"I already have," Sam says, plain and simple.

"Oh." It seems inadequate after the show of support Dean had just put on. "I guess...who?"

"Eric." Sam has no idea what Dean's thinking. It was never a secret—no two men lived in each other's pockets like they did and not realize how flexible they were. Not that they'd never talked about it.

"Eric, huh?" The shades go down over Dean's face, his gloomy eyes fixed on Sam. "I didn't know...I mean, I knew, but I thought you were pretty much—"

"Straight most of the time?"

"I was gonna say, a monk."

"Funny, Dean. Nice try."

"If he's a good guy then, yeah. Okay. Does he...fuck." Dean scowls and Sam grins at the unintentional joke. "He's good for you, right?"

"Dean, we're not, like, together. We never really were and now we're friends."

"Sorry." Dean keeps his eyes far away from Sam.

"Don't be. It's good." He gets up before Dean adds more. The questioning isn't uncomfortable, just strange. Getting Sam's hopes up to a level where they really shouldn't exist. Not enough air to live on way up there.

By the time Sam comes back, the subject is dropped and Dean's in a half-doze. Off the hook, he lets Dean sleep. The color hasn't quite returned to his face, still drawn and pale. Grabbing a book from his bedroom—some true-crime thriller Eric had recommended as 'not completely worthless and manages to get a few details right'—Sam lets the words and the rumble of the storm lull him into his own afternoon nap.

March 29th

The sun cracks the horizon in a low streak of orange, breaking through the gray dawn Sam's been staring at for nearly an hour. He'd woken with a jolt to find the house quiet and Dean still asleep in the bedroom. Watching Dean is strange; they no longer share motel rooms where they'd long worked out a routine of getting around each other. Some familiarity remains, but the rest has been lost as their lives split in different directions. Sam had spent the quiet hours of the morning wondering if that was a consequence or a benefit.

His thoughts had pushed into more precarious territory after that. Sam inevitably thought about Eric and the relationship they'd attempted to build. Though they were attracted to each other and compatible, Sam knows they lacked a foundation. Without support, no structure could stand and it was impossible for Sam and Eric to find such a base of emotions in Bells Pond.

For Sam and Dean, there is a lifetime of emotion and conflict on which to build. Before Michael and Lucifer ripped them apart, they'd been so close, too close for brothers. Anything on top of that wouldn't change their relationship; Sam knows their fates are tied together. No physical relationship will alter that.

The sun comes up with Sam sure about one thing: he needs more time with Dean and he's willing to fight the angels for it.

"It's too early for thinking." Dean's voice hasn't caught up with the sun, still sleep-tinged.

"Telling my head to stop never works." Sam kicks the opposite chair out for Dean, his brother's movements slow and precise. "Still hurting?"

"Nothing I can't handle," Dean says as he winces. "I think sleep did some good. Sorry I crashed kind of early last night."

"You needed it." Sam could have used a few more hours, but he'll have plenty of time after... "Want breakfast?"

"Only if I don't have to move."

They eat a hastily-made breakfast and Sam pays more attention to his brother than his food, dropping a forkful of egg into his lap.

"Having trouble?" Dean laughs and scrapes the last bit of cheese off his plate.

"Ever thought about asking Michael for a few more days?"

"You mean here? Tried that the first year. It was a no-go."

"Oh." Sam should have figured. "But since you're hurt—"

"Michael'll fix that," Dean mopes. "I don't even get decent injury time, can you believe it?"

"Dean."

"I'll be fine."

Sam can't say the same. He'll carry the image of Dean collapsing on his kitchen floor throughout the year. Back to never knowing if Dean's alright, only truly living in the space between his nightmares and his daydreams. Sam is dreading it more than ever.

"Sam?" The plates are gone and Dean's standing, leaning on the back of his chair. Even the minimal exertion turns his face ashen.

"I don't think you should go." The numbers on the clock flip towards 8:15.

Dean moves behind Sam's chair and casts a long shadow. He doesn't waste breaths with platitudes, won't tell Sam that it's impossible. He's so close, only a few minutes left until Sam loses him all over again. Suddenly, it's not enough.

With a long, desperate scrape, Sam pushes back from the table and nearly knocks Dean over. He stumbles against the wall, saved from falling by Sam's chest pressing into him. Without thought, Sam wraps his arms around Dean's shoulders, gently at first, mindful of the injuries he'd only treated a day ago. He adds more pressure when Dean doesn't physically respond. The risk of Dean pulling away is too great; Sam won't let go.

If he tethers Dean to Bells Pond with his body, Michael can't take him back.

"Stay here," Sam pleads.

Dean returns the hug, gingerly raising his arms, one around Sam's neck and the other across his broad back. Fingers tighten and hold in Sam's t-shirt and he takes a ragged breath. In Sam's life, hugs have been reserved as a last resort for emotional expression. When words won't come, or come close to being adequate. To forget about death or celebrate life. Sam figures it's the best way to tell Dean how confused he's been without needing to speak.

One minute left.

Sam doesn't need to look at the clock. The thought makes him crazy because the next thing he knows his lips are on Dean's, pressing hard. No dream turned reality, it's an imperfect kiss where the parts don't quite match up, but the moment burns into Sam's mind regardless of how dry Dean's lips are or the way Sam breathes heavily through his nose. They're both shocked, standing motionless, and Sam feels the fear crawling up his spine. If Sam is wrong, he's just done more damage than any bullet from the Colt could wreak.

All it takes is a subtle shift, Dean pushing up using the wall as leverage, and it's there. Sam closes his eyes a second after Dean does and just takes, laying Dean's mouth open for his tongue and teeth. The kiss takes on a sharp edge as the seconds continue to tick away. Hands on Dean's shoulders, Sam pushes to get closer while Dean angles to deepen the kiss. Coming together from head to toe, their hands grapple and move, tongues sliding to find their pleasure. Sam has known every inch of his brother but this, and the final piece is like nothing he ever expected.

Sam's skin feels warm and he moans into Dean's mouth.

"Sam—" Dean gains enough space to take a breath as Sam continues to kiss the corner of his lips and the stubbled skin above.

He won't let Dean stop. Not now. "I've wanted...please, Dean."

"Sam."

It's not just warm; the skin on Sam's arms becomes hot as light burns behind his eyelids. He takes a chance, opens his eyes against the aurora suddenly filling his kitchen, needing to see Dean one more time. The edges are blurred, erased by the radiant beams, but he focuses enough to see Dean's clear eyes, free of shame or anger. There's a smile, small but strong, and all for Sam. Fingers skim from Sam's shoulder to his throat, up over his chin and then are gone along with everything else.

The only thing Dean leaves behind this year is the pain of a kiss on Sam's lips.




year four


master post