A/N: It's been a while since I uploaded a story onto here but I'm going to give it a go and hope you guys like my twist on the boys and a possible future for them. Music was a huge inspiration while writing this so that's why there are lyrics at the beginning of every chapter. I'll be uploading more chapters (whole story is already written) if you guys like it! Let me know by following or favoriting or reviewing!

But if you close your eyes,
Does it almost feel like
Nothing changed at all?
And if you close your eyes,
Does it almost feel like
You've been here before.
"Pompeii" -Bastille

Dean hadn't planned on seeing Sam again. Ever. The brothers had parted ways over three years ago and Dean went from spending most of his waking moments with his brother to not even talking to him on the phone. It was strange but like all strange things, he learned to deal with it. Sam had never really bounced back after the angels fell and even though he tried to fake it for a while, Dean knew it was a struggle for his little brother to keep up. He was slow to react when fighting, getting them both almost killed a couple times. On bad days, his hands shook and his head throbbed and Dean had seen that hunting was killing his brother. So Sam had moved out of the bunker to a small town about a two days drive away, sending his address about six months after he left. Not that Dean had ever visited. He'd never even called though he knew that Sam spoke to Kevin a couple times a year, making sure Dean wasn't dead or missing. He thought it was easier this way, not to communicate. It eased some of the pain from the daily absence along with the thought that somewhere out there, Sam was making a life for himself. Dean didn't know what he did for a living or if he even had a girlfriend but sometimes not knowing was best. In three years, Sam had never once come back and so that must mean he was doing pretty well for himself.

But now, a hunt for a Wendigo had gone wrong and Dean's life was spilling out onto the driver's seat of the Impala from a gash in his back. He was also pretty sure he was wanted for kidnapping or attempted murder or something in this state so going to a hospital where he might be recognized was out of the question. Garth wasn't answering any of his phones and even though Kevin still lived at the bunker with Dean, the kid had gone a little crazy lately and had left on a "camping trip" just a few days before Dean got the tip for the Wendigo. That left Dean with no one.

"Sorry, baby," he said to the car as he felt the seat grow slick with blood. That'd be a bitch to clean out; it always was. The pain was overwhelming when he did anything more than blink but sitting here wasn't going to help anything.

With a grunt, Dean reached for the glove department, feeling his wound rip even wider and spill more blood as he did so. Beneath the badges and a backup handgun and an emergency vial of holy water, he found a crinkled piece of paper. Dean smoothed it out on his lap and stared at the address. It had some sort of stain on it – whiskey probably – but he could still make out the numbers. There was one person he could try. If he could make it that far. If Sam still lived there. If Sam even wanted to talk to him.

Dean started the Impala.

If it didn't work out, he would pull over on the side of the road and die. Crank up the music, close his eyes, and just…go. Dean was tired; tired of hurting, tired of the way his joints were stiff in the moments after waking. He would never admit it to anyone but he was growing tired of being alone. Maybe dying wouldn't be so bad.

But Dean didn't die. He had to pull over twice when the road started wobbling beneath the tires but he made it to the address on the paper, cutting the engine outside of a modest ranch in a quiet neighborhood. The house itself was an ugly sort of grey but the colorful landscaping made the place look homey. As much as he was hurting, Dean took a second to just stare. There was a garden on the side, with some sort of miniature tree that had a stone fountain under its branches and flowers at its base. Dean could see the side of a shed in the backyard, which no doubt housed a lawnmower and other tools. This was exactly the kind of place he used to dream up of for Sam, and for a time, for himself. When he was young, he often fantasized about stealing Sam away from John and buying themselves a house somewhere like this. They could eat Lucky Charms and play video games all day and not have to worry about whether the guns were all cleaned and if they had enough salt in the car.

A pair of chimes whistled as he slowly made his way up the front steps, leaving bloody handprints on the white railing where he gripped it tight. It was ten in the morning on a Monday; the chances of Sam being home weren't good but Dean knocked anyway. And then rang the doorbell. Twice.

"Come on," he muttered, glancing around. He hadn't noticed it before but there was a large pot sitting just to the left of the front door, the kind you would make soup or stew in. A white envelope lay underneath but there wasn't a chance Dean was going to bend down and investigate. The door opened as he nudged the pot with his shoe.

"Can I help you?" Well, it wasn't Sam but the woman who spoke was pretty enough to throw Dean off guard. She had dark hair that hung in loose curls framing her heart-shaped face. Slender but not devoid of curves, she was the type of woman Dean would love to pick up at the bar. Her eyes matched the dark blue sweater she wore and they roved over Dean with instant suspicion.

"Can I help you?" she repeated, keeping the screen door shut between them. Dean noticed one hand drift to her front pocket, no doubt reaching for a cell phone.

"Uh, does Sam live here? Sam Winchester?" Her expression didn't change. "Big guy, obnoxiously long hair, bad sense of humor?" He tried to change his grimace to a smile but most of his concentration was set on keeping his knees from buckling. After a few awkward moments, she still hadn't said anything.

"No? Okay, sorry I bothered you."

"Wait," she said as he turned away. "Sam lives here."

"Oh," Dean said, relief coursing through him. The wound in his back pulsed. "Is he at work?" Something in the woman's expression flickered and she shook her head.

"Could you tell him someone's here for him? It's important." The woman bit her lip.

"He's sleeping." Dean raised his eyebrows, the only part of him that didn't hurt.

"So wake him up. It's ten in the morning." She said nothing and Dean could practically feel the reproach emanating off her.

"Who are you?"

"Listen, I'm sorry. Tell him its Dean. If he doesn't want to come after that, I promise I'll leave." She narrowed her eyes and Dean felt his knees give another inch, the knuckles on his right hand turning white as he clutched at the doorframe.

"Okay," she said after a long minute, walking into the house without inviting him inside. A moment later, he heard two voices.

"Babe, who is that? He's covered in blood. Is he okay?"

"Kat, I promise to explain." The second voice was definitely Sam's although quieter and rougher than Dean remembered.

"He scares me." Dean heard Sam chuckle.

"Dean's not dangerous. Well, not to us."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I'm just going to see what he wants. Stay here, okay?" She must have agreed because Sam came around the corner and into view, alone. By this point, Dean was leaning heavily on the doorway; there was something wrong with the air here, it didn't seem to be getting all the way to his lungs.

"Hey, Sammy." Sam's step quickened when he saw the blood. It encircled Dean's neck like a noose, dripping onto a leather jacket that Sam hadn't seen before. It was bright red and Sam could catch its rusty scent even from feet away. It smelled fresh.

"Dean, what are you doing here?" He opened the door and Dean almost fell onto him, causing Sam to take a step back.

"Hey," Sam said more urgently, gathering his older brother up in his long arms. "What's wrong?"

"Wendigo," Dean panted. He wondered if it was only his jacket keeping his spine in place.

"By yourself?" Dean grunted again, something that sounded sort of like "obviously."

"You gotta fix me up, Sammy." Dean's voice had dropped to a whisper and now Sam was supporting most of his weight, Dean's arm thrown around his neck, his side pressed into Sam's. Sam could feel the hot thickness of blood soak through his thin shirt and he wondered how long Dean had been so hurt, cursing his brother's pride for not getting help sooner. That's when he noticed the Impala sitting outside the house, one wheel up on the edge of the lawn. Jesus Christ, his brother had driven himself here. It was a miracle he hadn't wrapped himself around a tree.

"Okay, just hang on a sec," Sam said, half-carrying, half-dragging Dean into the house and down the hallway.

"Kat!" he called over Dean's head. "Bring me your sewing kit and that unopened bottle of whiskey." She was watching from the doorway of the kitchen, cellphone in hand, arms crossed over her chest.

"Sam –,"

"Now!" Sam demanded with the old authority Dean remembered well. He moved Dean into the bathroom, caring less about getting blood on the rugs than anything he ever had. "Sit," he directed, lowering Dean onto the seat of the toilet. The floor tiles blurred under Dean's eyes and he swayed. The air bit at his skin as Sam removed the torn jacket revealing two shirts underneath, both shredded. "Can you raise your arms?" Sam asked and Dean had just enough energy left to shake his head. He heard the shirts tear as Sam's hands ripped them apart. Then he felt hot air as Sam let out a long breath.

"Jesus, Dean."

Sam couldn't believe Dean was still alive, let alone conscious. There were three gashes starting at Deans' left shoulder and raking across the length of his back. And it wasn't the easy kind of cut, with clean edges; the skin was frayed in some places. Sam would have preferred a knife or gun wound to this. Two of the cuts were still bleeding freely.

"Dean, I don't know if I can fix this. We should call an ambulance."

"No." Dean closed his eyes, slumping over even further. "Can't." Sam didn't question his brother but that didn't stop him from wondering if Dean was going to die on his bathroom floor. There were only a handful of times when either of them had had wounds this badly and all of those times, Bobby or Cas had been around to help out. What Sam wouldn't give for an angel right now.

Kat appeared at the door with the supplies Sam asked for.

"Oh my god, Sam." Sam didn't look at her.

"Give me the whiskey. Start threading needles. Run them under hot water first." She hesitated but only for a moment then got to work and Sam spared her a grateful glance. She was good in emergencies, not easily rattled and always quick on her feet. Just a few of the reasons Sam had married her.

Dean moaned.

"Sammy…" and Sam's attention refocused on his brother. He broke the seal on the whiskey and unscrewed the top. With shaking hands, he tilted Dean's head back and put the bottle to his lips. Dean spluttered as the liquid hit his throat.

"Come on," Sam said, crouching in front of his brother. "Don't be a pussy. Drink up."

Dean opened his eyes long enough to glare at Sam. He took another drink while Sam held the bottle up to his mouth.

"There's food on your front porch," he mumbled. Sam felt Kat glance at him from her position at the sink. She almost couldn't hear her husband's answer over the rushing of the faucet.

"Yeah, that happens a lot." Dean's whole body shook once as he laughed. Sam found the gesture morbid. That was Dean all right, laughing in the face of death.

"Wish someone would give me free food."

"Yeah, well, after this you can have as much casserole as you want."

"Sam," Kat said, "Everything's ready. What else do you want me to do?" He held up a finger.

"One more drink, Dean. Make it a big one, we have a lot of stitches ahead of us." When Dean had swallowed, Sam stood and motioned to his wife.

"Can you stay in front of him and make sure he stays upright and still? I have to stitch up his back." She nodded and they switched places. She knelt before the bloody man in front of her, thinking that through the dirt and blood, he had a kind of raw beauty about him. His eyes were a startling shade of green, not much dulled by the pain and alcohol. When they fluttered open every so often, one corner of his mouth would twitch up as if remembering a joke.

"You're Sammy's girl, huh?" he breathed, fingers clenched into fists as the needle pierced his skin. His eyes were closed but he was holding his head up, the rest of his weight being held by her hands that gripped his shoulders. Sam met Kat's eyes over his brother's head. He held onto to her curious gaze for a second, the needle shaking slightly between his fingers but then he looked down again.

"Yeah," she said softly, putting a hand to Dean's cheek. To her surprise, he leaned into the touch. "I'm his girl."

"That's good," Dean mumbled before blacking out. He came to a half dozen times during the process and she took each as an opportunity to pour more whiskey his throat, those emerald eyes always watching her over the top of the bottle.

The more she watched, the more of Sam she saw in him: in the way he clenched his jaw as Sam continued stitching, the way his head would periodically drop to her shoulder as he faded in and out of consciousness. She held him by his strong shoulders as Sam worked on his back, and when her arms grew tired, she watched her husband. The gentle but pained look on his face, as if he were the one bleeding out on a toilet seat and not this stranger. He moved in a way she had never seen before, with placidity and utter control, as if he had done this a hundred times before. The way his fingertips brushed Dean's skin, dipping into the blood as if it were his own.

After a while, she had put together a decent idea of what was going on.

"You're brothers, aren't you?" she said softly. Sam stopped working for a minute and glanced up. His wife's face was smeared with Dean's blood but her eyes were wide and gentle. Dean's forehead rested on her collarbone. Sam felt his whole body expand with love for his wife as she cradled his brother in her arms. She had become his whole life in just three years. When Sam thought back to those years of hunting, he didn't know how he did it without her.

"Yes," he said. "Dean's my older brother."

"That's quite the secret, Sam Winchester."

"I'm sorry." He paused, then, "It's a long story." Coming from anyone else, she would have been furious but the open vulnerability in Sam's usually stoic face kept her quiet. He sighed.

"Let me finish this and I'll explain everything." Both of their eyes shifted to Dean as he groaned.

"Done yet, Sammy?" he said, pain and alcohol blurring his words together.

"Almost," Sam said, pulling the needle through another patch of skin. Kat was watching him again from over Dean's shoulder and for the first time in a long time, her gaze was uncomfortable. There were too many questions now; it was as if a chasm had opened up between the two of them. Everything Sam had tried to keep secret about his past was threatening to collapse his new life. He focused on threading the blood-slicked needle through Dean's skin so he didn't have to think about the possibility of Kat walking out on him. He knew he wouldn't survive that. But then Kat's eyes slid from her husband to the sink where a pile of towels sat by the faucet.

"Hand me one of those," she said to Sam. "A hot cloth." He did as she asked and then watched as she palmed it with expertise and started wiping the blood from Dean's face. Her movements were steady and tender, her fingers sliding across his skin like a mother stroking her newborn. Sam's heart swelled. When she noticed him watching her, her lips curved into a smile and she ducked her head, moving the cloth to Dean's throat, scrubbing gently to remove the now-dried blood. Dean whimpered and Sam heard Kat illicit a soft, "shhh," and run her free hand through Dean's hair to calm him. It worked. He quieted and she went back to washing until he was considerably cleaner. His skin was still ashen and grimy but most of the blood was gone. And it all it had taken was Kat's patience and the set of towels her mother had given them for Christmas last year.

"Okay," Sam said, twenty minutes later. "That's as good as it's gonna get for now." Once the wounds were cleaned and stitched, they didn't look as horrible. They would hurt like a bitch but as long as they didn't get infected, he would be fine. He stood and wobbled momentarily, clutching the kitchen sink for support.

"You okay?" Kat asked, watching him closely.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Just a head rush. Come on, let's put him in the guest room." They each grabbed a side and shouldered Dean down the hallway into a room decorated with an odd collection of furniture. They laid him down on his stomach and Sam pulled a chair up to the bedside.

"I'll sit with him. I know you have to go." Kat hesitated.

"I can stay if you want." Sam shook his head.

"No, we'll be fine." She bent and kissed his cheek her sweet perfume cutting through the metallic smells of blood and whiskey.

"We'll talk when I get back."

"Yes," he agreed, watching as she headed out the door. He listened to her get changed in their bedroom and then the front door opened and shut and all was quiet.

Quiet except for Dean's heavy breathing. It was a sound Sam thought he'd never hear again. The sound he had spent the majority of his life listening to. When Sam was small he was plagued with nightmares and John grew impatient with the frequent midnight awakenings, so Sam learned not to make a sound as he lay staring at the ceiling, clutching his favorite action figure under the covers. He figured out soon enough that listening to his brother breathe was soothing, almost like a lullaby, and Sam spent the next years trying to match his brother breath for breath. After Jess had died and they had gone back on the road, Sam hadn't slept for months and again been forced to lay awake, listening to the sound of Dean sleeping. It was a comforting sound because it meant that Dean was at peace, if only for a little while, and Sam liked that part of his brother best.

When he slept, the harsh lines around his face disappeared and he looked almost like a child again, blameless and innocent. Sam knew that Dean carried crap around with him like bricks, each one breaking the man underneath just a little more than the last. He knew one day Dean was going to crumble under that weight. Cas had disappeared only six months after Sam left and he didn't find out about it until Kevin called him accidentally three months after that. Sam had been tempted to head back to the bunker but Kevin had managed to convince him otherwise. At that point, Sam was already married and Kat made it easier to stay behind. If Dean needed him, he would call.

But he never did.

Sam checked in with Kevin every couple months, always calling when he thought Dean might be out, just in case. He didn't want Dean to think he was spying on him but he wanted to make sure his brother hadn't done anything stupid. Well, over-the-top stupid. Dean was always doing foolish things; Sam just wanted to make sure they didn't kill him.

Dean groaned and tried to roll over in his sleep, the pain stopping him from getting too far.

"Easy buddy," Sam murmured. "You can relax here. Nothing's coming after you." He watched Dean for a minute longer then dropped his head into his large hands, rubbing his palms against his closed eyes. Even though he was relieved Dean had come to him for help, his brother couldn't have picked a worst time to come back into his life. Sam was dealing with bigger things that sibling rivalry at the moment. And he certainly didn't need to be pulled back into the world of hunting. Not now. Not ever.

When he couldn't sit any longer, he paced the room, then the entire house. The blood on his clothes had dried and he stripped, throwing them straight into the trash. He stopped in the kitchen to down a glass of water, eyeing the pill bottles lined up on the counter before taking a couple of them into Dean's room, where his brother still hadn't stirred.

He muted the small television set in the guest room and watched an hour worth of Jeopardy before getting another glass of water and taking one of the pills himself. Just to stop the growing headache born out of exhaustion and worry. He fell asleep with his chin tucked to his chest, just the way he used to when riding in the back of the Impala.