Chapter 1 June 2010

Cicero, Indiana

His head was pounding, and when he lifted his hand, curled into a loose fist to knock on the door, he felt the tremble in his fingers.

The hell you doing, he asked himself, letting his hand fall as he looked around the small porch he stood on, at the quiet, dark road, his gaze skating over the black car, parked by the kerb. The scent of flowers, from some garden bed somewhere in the neighbourhood, filled the warm night air.

Keeping a promise.

The answer was there, a splinter in his mind. He'd waited for two weeks at Bobby's, waited and searched and called around and no one had come and there were no answers for him and time had ticked away, increasing the pressure of his grief, until he'd finally been forced into the car. He'd made a promise and the only thing he had left was to keep it.

Through the lit squares of glass in the door, he could see into the little house. Normal. A rug on a polished floor. A skateboard, carelessly left on its side by the wall. A kitchen, visible at the end of the short hall, a fridge with its door covered in reminders and magnets. He didn't belong in this house, this road, this place.

Taking a deep breath, he told himself it didn't matter. He'd wanted it. This … normal. He thought he wanted it. And he'd promised his little brother that he would quit and eat apple pie. Sam'd thought he'd wanted this too.

He knocked against the front door quickly, his pulse accelerating as he saw her come out of a room to the right, saw her expression change as she caught sight of him through the glass pane.

The door opened and Lisa stood there, looking at him, her expression a little nervous.

"Hey, Lisa," he said, forcing himself to smile.

This was it. He'd come here, not that long ago. She'd asked him to stay then but he hadn't. Back then, he'd been ground down by despair, ready to give up, but he'd still had a very small hope.

"Oh, thank god," she said. "Are you alright?"

No. That answer came fast too. No, he wasn't. But he couldn't say that, not yet.

"I – uh, yeah. Uh, if it's not too late, I – I think I'd like to take you up on that beer?" He didn't recognise his voice, high and broken, and his gaze dropped to the boards on the porch, swallowing hard at the tightness in his chest.

She ducked her head, smiling a little then looked back at him. "It's never too late."

Opening the door, she stepped back and he took a step forward. Her arms were around him before he could take another, holding him tightly and he slid his around her, feeling them tighten involuntarily. Behind the walls where he kept the things he couldn't deal with, a surge of emotion flexed and he felt the tentative tentacles of the pain that'd been waiting for him, outriders of a grief that was going to drown him if he let it all out.

Her hair smelled clean and of some kind of fruit, soft and silky against his cheek and neck. He closed his eyes, forcing memory back, forcing it down and away. It wasn't right, but he needed this, this connection, this closeness to someone. Needed to it to feel alive. Needed it to remind himself that he hadn't gone done into the hole with his brother, not dead, not living.

Lisa closed her eyes tightly as she felt a shudder ripple through the man in her arms. "Sshh, it's okay," she murmured against his neck, her fingers stroking the skin above his collar. "It's going to be okay."

Look, I have no illusions, okay? I know the life that I live, I know how that's gonna end for me. Whatever. I'm okay with that. But I wanted you to know…that when I do picture myself happy…it's with you. And the kid.

His face, when he'd said that to her, had scared and exhilarated her, both at the same time. When he'd left, only the scared part had remained. For him. For herself. For the world, when she'd replayed the whole of the conversation back to herself.

She couldn't remember how long she'd held a torch for him – since they'd met, she thought; a tall young man, full of cocky attitude and secrets, he'd seduced her easily over beers and games of pool. Her type, she'd thought back then. They'd spent a weekend together and then he'd disappeared, and she'd thought it'd been for good.

She'd hoped and prayed that the test results would not match the sample she'd given them. Flip Ryeson had been long gone as well, but she hadn't given him more than a few minutes thought. Dean had been impossible to forget. But Ben wasn't his son.

Behind her, she heard a noise and Dean straightened, his gaze, she saw, going past her.

"Hey, Ben."

"Hey."

Lisa heard the uncertain wariness in her son's voice and she stepped back, turning to look over shoulder. "You remember Dean, don't you, Ben?"

He nodded, the uncertainty vanishing, the wariness remaining. "Sure."

"How 'bout setting the table for dinner," she suggested, looking back to Dean. "Can you stay? It's, um, not much but –"

He nodded. "Yeah, I'd like to, if it's – uh – no trouble."

She saw his gaze return to Ben, the boy turning away and walking to the dining room door to the right. "It's no trouble."

Following her into the kitchen, Dean belatedly registered the smell of roasting meat and vegetables. His palms felt sweaty and he wiped them discreetly against the side of his jeans, looking around. The galley kitchen was small, the counters clean, a little cluttered with small appliances.

"Nice place," he said, stopping and leaning against the narrow counter.

Opposite him, the fridge door held a calendar and notepad, photographs and reminder notices for utilities, dental appointments, school functions. One of the photographs caught his eye and he leaned forward a little, staring at it. He was in it. Standing next to Ben, looking down at the boy. She must've taken it, he thought, the last time he'd seen them. After the changelings.

Lisa opened the oven, her hands enveloped in thick mitts, and took out the pot roast, glancing sideways at him. "It's home. Beer's in the fridge."

"Thanks." He stepped forward and opened the door, pulling out two automatically then turning to her, the bottles lifted in a tacit query.

Nodding at him, Lisa closed the oven and turned back to the food.

"Table's set," Ben said from the doorway. "For three, right?"

"Right," Lisa told him.

"Can I help?" Dean asked, backing up against the fridge door as Ben walked past him to drain the boiled peas.

"No," Lisa said, looking over her shoulder with a slight smile. "Dining room's the door to the right, just make yourself comfortable. This won't take a minute."

He sidled out of the room and walked to the dining room. It was small, the table and four chairs nearly maxing out the available space. He looked at the settings, one on each side of the square table and swallowed a mouthful of the beer. Beige placemats with a border of autumn leaves, plain white china, plain stainless cutlery lined up to either side. Ordinary.

Normal.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten off china. Sitting down in the chair that faced the window, he took another swallow to drive down the restless surge of tangled emotion that threatened to break through.

He'd told Lisa that she and Ben were the ones he thought of when he'd imagined himself happy. He still didn't know why he'd said it. Trying to make himself believe it? Trying to have a single connection to something before he became nothing more than a conduit for an archangel? He didn't know. He hadn't thought of her at all when he got out of Hell. Or since. Not until … but that was something he also wasn't thinking of.

"I hope you like pot roast," Lisa said, carrying in the dish and setting it on the mat in the middle of the table. "Kind of our Sunday night special here."

"Uh, yeah," he said, looking up at her, forcing his expression into a smile. He put down the beer and shifted slightly in the chair. "Whatever's good."

Ben set dishes of vegetables on the table around the roast and sat down, Lisa carving and serving portions onto each of their plates.

Was he supposed to say something, he wondered, picking up the knife and fork and looking down at the food on his plate. Supposed to hold up his end of a normal conversation? He couldn't think of anything to say.

"So … uh … Ben," he started, looking across the table at the boy. "You in high school yet?"

Ben stared at him. "I'm ten," he said, a slight edge to his voice.

"Right, uh, sorry," Dean said, looking back down at the food in front of him. "Ten, wow."

"I've got a couple more years before I have to worry about grades and girlfriends," Lisa interjected, smiling at her son.

"Mom, c'mon," Ben said, ducking his head, his fork stabbing at a piece of meat.

"Homework finished?"

"Mo-om!"

"You know the deal," she said. "School night and everything ready for tomorrow."

"Yeah, yeah, I know."

Keeping his eyes fixed on his plate, Dean only half-heard the conversation, his stomach churning with every mouthful of food he swallowed. Who the hell was he kidding? He didn't belong here, that much was clear to him. Couldn't imagine himself being able to fit in here, to talk about anything … normal.

"You want some dessert?" Lisa interrupted his thoughts and he looked up at her, then down at his plate, seeing it was empty.

Ben got up and cleared the dishes, taking the plates to the kitchen and depositing them with a resounding clatter into the sink.

"Uh, no," Dean said, uncertain of what he'd missed. "I'm good."

"Another beer?"

"Yeah," he agreed quickly, looking at the empty bottle. "Thanks."

She got up and he half-rose from his chair as well, sinking back down when she turned away.

His throat was tight and sore, his head still pounding. There were too many things he was holding in, forcing back, and he wondered bleakly how long he was going to be able to keep it together before those things came out.

"What happened?" Lisa asked, her voice soft and Dean closed his eyes, leaning back in the armchair, fighting down a bubble of inappropriate laughter as he wondered where the hell to start.

Ben had gone to his room, and he'd followed Lisa into the small living room, taking the glass of whiskey from her gratefully and dropping into the chair. The alcohol had burned down his throat, clearing a path through the jammed-up memories and settling with fiery heat in his stomach and he'd looked around the small room, seeing it without paying much attention. The sofa and armchairs faced a wall unit, tv and stereo the focus of the room. On the walls, photographs and a few prints hung, adding a little interest and colour to the earth-toned walls.

Looking down, he'd wondered if he should've taken his boots off before coming in here, the mud from Bobby's yard still adhering to the soles and dropping off in little chunks on the long-pile white rug under them.

He didn't know what he could tell her. Didn't know what she could hear, without deciding he was a nut and calling the guys in the white coats. The devil had risen and the countdown to Armageddon had begun and he and Sam had just gotten in the way of it, no plan, not really, just a blind faith in each other.

"You remember what I said, a while ago?" he asked, opening his eyes and looking at her.

She nodded. "You said it was going to get bad."

"Yeah." Leaning forward, he tipped his glass up, the pungent liquid leaving another heated trail down his throat, making it easier to breathe. To talk. "Sam and me, we got in the way of it."

Lisa's expression was uncertain, and he drew in a deep breath. "It's – it's a long story, Lise," he said. "Long and bloody and now – now it's over."

Was it, he wondered? Over? Cas'd said that he'd gotten what he wanted, no paradise, just more of the same. The balance restored. The monsters weren't gone. Demons still broke free of Hell and the angels who'd been responsible for the whole goddamned mess were still out there. How the hell could it be over?

"So … we're alright?" she asked, her eyes on him.

"Yeah, we're alright."

He didn't think he was ever going to be alright. That didn't matter. He would deal with his problems the way he always had.

"Where's Sam?"

"Sam –" The words he'd meant to say filled his throat and stopped there, suffocating him. Sam took the devil back to the pit. Sam gave up his life and soul to hold an archangel and keep him from destroying the world. Sam …

He hunched forward, his muscles getting tighter and tighter as he tried to hold all that back.

"Dean?"

She was beside him suddenly and it was all he could do not to flinch from her touch, too raw and bleeding to stand it. He screwed his eyes shut, his glass hitting the low table with a hard thud, both hands clenching as he tried to sit with it. Deal with it.

Accept it.

"Sam … Sam's gone," he croaked, the admission coming through his closed teeth.

"I'm sorry," Lisa said, her arms tightening him. "Dean, I'm so sorry."

Grinding his teeth together, forcing the pain to stay inside, he barely heard her. Down deep, where he lived and breathed, where the past and present mingled, all one time to him, the longing for someone else was almost as agonising as the knowledge that Sam was not dead, not at peace or safe or at rest. His brother was with the devil and the person he needed had gone as well. Leaving him alone. Leaving him with grief that he wasn't sure he was going to be able to bear.

The bunched and solid steel rigidity in him slowly ebbed away, and Lisa drew in a deep breath as she felt the muscle under her cheek become softer, pliable again.

She'd met Sam twice, once when they'd turned up at her house with Ben after she'd watched the changeling burn up on her living room floor, and the second time when he and Dean had stopped by before heading out of town. Both times had been fleeting and her attention had been focussed on Dean. She had an incomplete impression of a tall, young man, a thick fringe of hair falling over his forehead and rather lonely hazel eyes looking at her from under it. Both times Sam had withdrawn after a few minutes, giving his brother privacy. There had been something between the two of them, she'd recognised, visible even in those brief glimpses, some solid feeling she hadn't been able to figure out.

That they'd been close didn't seem to be in doubt. She tried to put herself in his place, imagining losing someone so close to her. It didn't work. She couldn't really bring herself to even visualise that kind of loss.

"Dean?"

"Uh … yeah," he said, a shiver going through his frame as he lifted his head. "Sorry."

"Don't – don't say that," she said, pressing closer to him. "I asked you to stay, once before –"

His face was pale, the freckles that had so charmed her when she'd first met him, standing out over his nose and cheekbones against that drawn pallor. It was hard to see the expression in his eyes; they seemed dark and shuttered, looking out at her without her being able to see what he was thinking.

"– you could stay now, if you wanted to," she continued, more carefully. "For as long as you wanted."

He looked away and she saw his mouth compress into a tense line, his throat work as he swallowed.

"Thanks, I – I – that'd be good," he said, his voice harsh. He cleared it, turning back to her. "I don't want to mess up your life, Lisa."

"You won't," she said. "You couldn't."

The house had two bedrooms but he'd opted for the sofa. It wasn't quite long enough to accommodate him, his feet dangling off the end, next to the arm. Sleep was a distant land, too far away to see and after he'd lain there and stared at the ceiling for an hour, he sat up, listening to the silence in the house, trying not to hear the silence in his head.

Once the Cage is shut, you can't go poking at it, Dean. It's too risky.

Fuck that, he thought, getting to his feet. His duffel and Sam's satchel sat in the hall. He walked to the satchel and pulled out the laptop.

There's no way into the Cage, Dean, Cas'd said. Michael was the only one powerful enough to break through to the ninth level, and he's gone.

He's right, boy, Bobby'd added. I've never even heard of anything being able to break in there, and if the angels can't …

There's always a way, right, Bobby? he'd said in return, his frustration rising. Always a way. Just had to find it.

He cleared a space on the low table and walked back to the kitchen, going to the cupboard he'd seen Lisa take the whiskey bottle from and pulling it out. It was almost half-full and he picked up his glass from the drainer and carried both back to the living room, sitting down and pouring himself a double with one hand as he opened the computer with the other.

There was always a way. He couldn't sit here, numb and lost, knowing what his brother was going through and not try to find it.

The curtains covering the windows were edged with grey when he finally gave up, turning to the bottle and finding it empty, the sight amping his fury and despair. Around the corners of his mind, his blocks and barricades, the walls and armour he'd spent a lifetime building, were bulging and flexing. Grief hammered at him and he threw back his head, the tendons in his neck standing out, the muscles of his jaw bunched as he tried to force it down.

They were gone and they weren't coming back.

Deal with it. Accept it. Let it in.

It came like the tide, rising and filling him until he couldn't breathe and he shook with silent sobs, his tears falling hot and fast onto his arms as he muffled the sounds with them, his lungs struggling to get air, his heart solidified into ice, heavy, unliving, freezing him from the inside out.

For the next week, his days and nights followed much the same pattern. Through the day, he was as polite as he knew how to be, he tried his best to talk, and smile, and be involved with Lisa and Ben. He protected the house, as well as he could, a devil's trap on the stoop; hex bags secreted in the walls; bags of salt in the kitchen and garage. He cleaned up as much as he could, helped out where he could, kept himself as busy as he could, odd jobs, fixing things around the place.

Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn't. Lisa and Ben knew now to just leave him be if he was silent, or if his eyes had become dark with a memory, or if he took out the bottle of whiskey before midday.

Every night, he woke sometime past midnight, sweating, exhausted from fighting against the grip of the latest nightmare, not sure if the screams in his head had come out. He would go to the bathroom, douse his face in water, dry off and go to the kitchen. He was drinking a lot and it wasn't enough. It didn't seem to matter how long he cried, how much he grieved; the desolation in him was self-replenishing, ever-flowing. He wasn't letting go, he knew that. He couldn't let go. He couldn't find a way to say goodbye, to remember his little brother without the pain. And he knew why.

Sam wasn't dead. He was gone, but not at peace.

Far from it. The certainty of his torture was a knife point in Dean's heart and mind, in his soul. It twisted savagely if he let his thoughts get anywhere near his brother. But the promise kept him bound and gagged. He couldn't think of Sam without torment. He couldn't let him go without thinking of him.

Ten days

Lisa walked quickly along the pavement, groceries held under one arm. The day was warm and still, clouds piling up in the distance. She felt a restlessness, like an unreachable itch, that had made her morning classes almost impossible. She shifted the weight of her purse higher onto her shoulder, digging through the pockets for her keys.

When she entered the house, the first thing she noticed was its dimness. The curtains had been drawn, the blinds shut in the rooms. In contrast to the warmth outside, it felt cool, almost cold. She felt her heart sink, realising it was one of Dean's bad days.

He had good days and bad days. Days when the whiskey didn't come out until after dinner. Days when it made an appearance before lunch. Most of the time it didn't matter which kind of day he was having, she couldn't see the man she thought he was through the thick shroud of despair that seemed to live in his eyes.

Not the secretive but cheerful young man he'd been at nineteen. Not the man she'd met eight years later, more secrets and a past full of pain that he wouldn't say anything about. The Dean Winchester who lived in her house now was completely different.

She listened for a moment, but she couldn't hear anything. She unpacked the groceries quickly, smoothing out the bag and folding it, putting it into the drawer. Then she walked slowly through the dining room and into the living room. Dean sat silently in the armchair, his hand holding an empty glass, the room faintly redolent with sharp scent of the whiskey. His eyes were open, but he was staring into the past, not seeing the present. She sighed and backed slowly out, her emotions veering wildly between anger and an aching sadness.

He was struggling with his grief, she knew. He spent hours and hours on the battered laptop he'd brought with him, searching for something that he wouldn't tell her about. He'd ordered dozens of books, from around the world, one corner of the dining room piled with them, their spines turned to the wall, their contents shocking and malevolent. She hated them in her house and he kept promising to move them to the car's trunk but somehow he never did.

He slept in the living room, the little he did sleep, uncomfortably on the sofa which wasn't long enough for him. His face was hollowed out and too pale, the shadow of his stubble giving him a look of careless disregard … for himself … and, she thought, for her.

He'd fixed things that the landlord wouldn't get around to, on his good days. She kept thinking he might getting through it, on those days, might be letting go, moving on, all the clichés for grief and its processes. Then it would change and he'd be moody and silent and the level in the bottle would drop overnight. She wasn't worried about him, at least, not as a threat to Ben or herself. But he wasn't here, most of the time, even when he was and she'd begun to ask herself why she was putting her son through this. Why she was putting herself through it.

As she withdrew from the room, Dean's eyes focussed and he turned his head, following her quiet progress back to the kitchen. He knew she was angry, knew she was disappointed. Knew that he had to do something – anything – to change what was going on because sooner or later she was going to have to give up on him. He was slightly amazed it hadn't happened already.

They were alone in the house. Ben had gone to stay over at a friend's house. He put down the glass and stood up slowly, his muscles and joints aching from the length of time he'd been sitting there.

Walking to the kitchen, he found her chopping vegetables at the counter, the knife thudding into the chopping board. He leaned against the other end of the counter, watching her, wondering vaguely if she was visualising his neck under the sharp blade.

"Lise?"

Lisa turned around, looking at him. Her heart contracted as she saw his expression. He was so lost, he was so alone even here, even with her beside him. Her anger vanished with the sight of him. How could she maintain anger at him, knowing what he was going through?

"Hey, Dean." She put down the knife and walked to him. "How're you doing?"

He gave her a half-smile, one that didn't reach his eyes, but was better than nothing, better than the cold, remote looks she sometimes got.

"Not great, but I'll live," he said honestly. He'd held so much back from her, there so much unsaid, that he tried to be honest about this, his day to day feelings, the thoughts he could get out.

"Can I do anything to help?" She stepped closer to him, putting her hands on his hips, lifting her face to look into his. "Please. Tell me what to do? Let me help you with this."

"I – no, it's not - no." Dean looked down at her, putting his arms around her, drawing her closer. She felt real. Solid. Warm and alive. He needed to feel that, against the cold that seemed to be all he had inside. She reached up and pressed her lips against his, sliding her hands up to his shoulders, to curl around his neck.

He knew what she was asking, what she was offering. For a painfully long moment, he tried to kiss her back, tried to feel the faintest vestige of interest in her soft mouth, her smooth skin. But he had to pull back, grimacing inwardly as he saw the confusion in her face.

He was dust and ashes inside. No heat of desire could rise, no flicker of lust touched him. He couldn't explain that lack of feeling. Couldn't find the words to describe the way he wasn't registering anything.

"I'm sorry, Lise. I can't." He stepped back from her, as she stared at him.

He tapped his chest, over his heart. "There's nothing here."

She nodded, her gaze dropping. "Even if what – even if you don't feel –" she started, then stopped, lifting her face reluctantly to his. "That sofa's too short for you."

He looked back in the direction of the living room, one brow lifted slightly. "It's okay."

"Dean, maybe it would help if you – maybe the nightmares would stop if you had someone close, in the night," she said. "I'm not saying … look, it's a big bed. There's room for us both without … and it might help, don't you think?"

Watching his face smooth out, his eyes shutter, she felt a peculiar tightness in her chest. The things she'd thought when she'd opened her front door and seen him standing there, none of them had happened, and while she'd recognised that those expectations had been … unrealistic … she had hoped that things would get better.

Taking a deeper breath, she said, "Look, I'm not trying to jump your bones and I don't want to put more pressure on you than you already have. It was just an idea."

Dean looked down at her. He doubted it would do as much as she hoped for, but if it made her feel better, then he could accommodate that. The sofa wasn't helping much with sleeping anyway.

"No, I mean, yeah," he said slowly. "If you're sure."

A flush of relief filled her. "It's worth a shot, right?"