A/N: This story veers into AU territory (but has a mostly canon ending). It takes place sometime during the Kripke-era of SPN. If you assume spoilers for the first five seasons there will be no surprises.

Acknowledgements: I borrowed my title from Cheryl Wheeler's song of the same name. And as always, my undying gratitude goes to my Aramis-loving beta, Sue Pokorny. You rock my socks, girl. Nong Pradu has my thanks as well for beta reading the story and offering invaluable feedback. And many thanks go again to Sue Pokorny for the beautiful poster art she created to accompany the story on LJ and AO3. Head over there and take a look, y'all! Thank you to BlackIceWitch for the lovely poster here on ffdotnet. I have ZERO artistic ability. Without them, I'd have no artwork at all.

Thank you all from the bottom of my heart for choosing to read this story…

But the Days and Nights Are Long

**8**

NOW

The last shreds of sunset crawl down the wall and onto the bed where Dean sleeps. Sam sits at the table, head in his hands, rubbing the heel of his palm against his forehead. He drags his fingers through his hair, tugging the ends until his scalp burns. The starburst clock on the wall ticks, demanding his attention, and Sam acknowledges the time with a death-stare and a sigh. It's 8:30pm. It's late.

It's so late. And yet he lingers for another five minutes, staring at nothing, idly fingering the draw strings of the leather pouch that sits next to his gun on the table. He looks at the time again and picks up his weapon, checks the chamber to make sure it's loaded before easing it into his waistband.

He stands, follows his shadow across the room and sits on the edge of the bed. Dean's dead to the world. An oily sheen of deep sleep coats his face. Sweat curls the ends of his too-long hair. Sam should've taken care of that—should've at least had the decency to cut his brother's hair the way he always liked it. But he didn't. Dark, Rorschach-like pit-stains blot the underarms of Dean's shirt, and his breaths come ragged and heavy like they always do after a seizure. And last night's was particularly violent. It'd interrupted their movie—came on midway through Every Which Way but Loose—and had stolen the rest of the night and most of the next day from Dean…from Sam, too. In the past twenty-four hours Dean'd roused twice only, both times barely coherent, just enough energy to piss in a jar, take his pills and turn over before passing out again.

Sam'd let him sleep. Nothing else to do at this point—just keep his brother comfortable.

"Hey, man." Sam grips Dean's shoulder, doesn't shake it but rubs a circle into it instead. Dean's breath hitches; his good arm stretches above his head, fingers flex and twitch and then relax again. Beyond that, he doesn't rouse. "Dean, c'mon. Time to wake up."

One languid eye half-opens, and Sam shifts into its field of vision. Used to be Sam woke his brother like this at his peril, but that was then. Dean doesn't throw punches anymore, doesn't reach for the knife under his pillow—hell—probably doesn't remember he used to keep one there. Sam continues rubbing circles with his thumb.

Dean's lips work soundlessly at first, and when he does manage to speak, his dysarthria and apraxia garble the words beyond most people's ability to understand. But not Sam's. Sam's fluent in Dean-speak now.

"Huhh-heya, suh-suh-ssuh-Sammy," Dean says.

"There you are. You've been sleeping all day. How you feeling? Better? You hungry?"

Dean fixes a quizzical eye on his brother for a minute, digesting his questions. Sam says nothing, let's him process and work it out, offering a few more rubs to stimulate him. Dean's normally quicker than this, but everything takes more effort for him after a bad seizure. Sam tinkers with the idea of repeating himself but knows Dean hates that, so he keeps his mouth shut and waits.

"M'not angry, juhh-jus' thuh-thuh-thirssy. Still tire'. Wuh-wuh-wha' time 's'it?"

Sam's eyes flit between the clock and Dean. "The word's hungry, dude. And it's time you got up. You've slept all night and all day. We'll get you some water here in a sec, but after that, hungry or not, you're gonna eat."

"Nuhhh. Duh-duh-dun wannit. S'crap."

Sam snorts. "Oh, you'll want this." He tosses a thumb over his shoulder at the greasy sack on the table. "Got you a double-bacon-cheeseburger—heavy on the onions—fries and apple pie for desert." Dean's pupils saucer at the mention of his favorites, and Sam laughs.

"Dude, so predictable."

"S'it muh-muh-my…" Dean pauses, labors to extract the word from his broken brain. "Buh-buh-buhh-Bird-day?" he says at last.

"No, it's not your birthday. I just figured you deserved some," Sam draws air quotes, "real food for a change."

"Tuhhh-tomorrow's buhh-back t'nola an' flafluh?"

Sam closes his eyes, steeling himself. "No. No more granola, no more alfalfa. I promise." That does the trick. Dean grins from ear to ear, taps his chest with his hinged elbow and twisted fist. Spastic Elbow Flexion, Sam remembers the doctors calling it. Whatever the name, Dean's flapping the useless limb against his chest, and Sam knows what that means. He lays his head on his brother's beating heart while Dean embraces him with his good hand.

"Luhh-luhv muh-muh-my Sammy. Luhv mm-muh-my li'l buhh-brother."

Sam sighs, spends a precious minute sinking into the embrace, drawing comfort from its warmth. Of all the catastrophic changes in the past year, this is one Sam doesn't mind. "Love you, too, Dean," he says, twitches his nose then adds to cover up the lump in his throat, "but you need a bath, dude." Sam rises and manages a smile. "You stink."

Dean lifts a lone eyebrow, scoffs. "Pffpht. Smell luhh-like puhh-puh-ponies."

"I think you mean, posies," Sam says. "But ponies is closer to the truth. Trust me. That was a bad seizure. I timed it, it lasted almost four minutes, and even the short ones make you sweat like a pig. If you stay in bed much longer, you're gonna ferment. Let's get you clean."

"Buh-buh-but m'angry!"

"Oh sure, now you're hungry. Well, it'll keep. Shit, shave, and shower…then food." Sam braces his brother's back and helps him sit, gives him a minute to acclimate before swinging his legs off the side of the bed. It's a cumbersome transition. Dean's right foot is curled tighter than usual—Acquired Equinovarus foot—another indignity he's had to endure. Though, in truth it bothers Sam more. He stoops and rubs the twisted toes, trying to ease the knot. It does no good. Dean needs muscle relaxants, a lot of physical therapy and maybe some surgery, but none of that's going to happen. Sam tries not to think about it.

"Oww, suh-suh-Sammy. Hur's!"

"Sorry." Sam stops what he's doing, glances at the hooked limb, now pink and abraded from too much manhandling. "Sorry. Can you stand?"

Dean places his good hand on his brother's shoulder while Sam circles his waist. He pauses, allowing Dean to do his count—a ritual his brother finds soothing or meaningful in some way.

"Wuhhh-one—"

"I got it, Dean."

"Fuhh-fuhh-four—"

"I'm cramping, man. Hurry."

"Thuh-thuhh-three!"

Sam hoists his brother up, holds him until he's got his balance then scoots his walker close. The thing's a godsend—specially outfitted with high-frame, forearm platforms and a chest-support since Dean has only one working hand and a weak trunk.

He pivots the walker, angles it at Dean. "You got this?"

"Yuh-yeah." Sam helps Dean work his right arm into the cuff on the platform then tightens the grip so his arm doesn't slip out. After that, he moves back. Dean rarely gets angry these days, but if Sam tries to help him beyond this point, he will get pissed.

Dean rests his good arm on the other platform and holds the handlebar-like grip. Leaning against the chest support, he pivots his hip, dragging his right leg up then out in front of him in a cockeyed goosestep of sorts then hop-hitches along, making slow progress across the room.

Sam opens the bathroom door and backs his way in, watching as Dean approaches. "Got it?"

Dean nods. "Guhh-goddit."

"Okay, I'll get you on the can, give you some privacy and when you're done I'll draw your bath. Sound good?"

A smile parts Dean's lips. "Yuhh-yer a good buhh-brother, Sammy. Ruh-ruh-real good."

Sam closes his eyes against those words, against the implicit love and trust in them. He doesn't deserve the compliment. And he's not a good brother. Dean's life is fucked in every way because of him.

**8**

THEN

It happens on May 5th, during an average salt-and-burn of all things. Some pickled dick with a tight fist on his wallet has been going around killing his beneficiaries. Dean would appreciate the irony in the situation—kind of like getting cornered by a snarling beast and then being fatally bitten in the ass by a gnat. And it happens because Sam decides to argue in the middle of digging up Old-man Darby.

"Dean, you're being a dick about the whole thing."

Dean ignores him, thumps the lid of Mr. Darby's casket with his shovel, scraping away the last bits of dirt. "Found you, y'freak. Now, say hello to my little friends," he says with a smirk, shaking a box of stick matches.

Sam points his flashlight into the hole and continues to argue. "Dean, c'mon, man. This is important."

Dean grunts each word in time to his thrusts, the last few shovelfuls of dirt flying up and out of the grave in an angry arc. "We're…not…going…dude! Give it a damn rest. I told you. There's not a chance in hell. There's no debate here, Sam. It's off the table."

"But if we leave after this, we can be there by noon tomorrow."

"No we can't, because after this, I'mma go buy me a fifth a'whiskey and ring up them hot twins who gave me their number last night, huh? Yeah? Settle in for a cozy night of some double-mint fun." He pauses in his work, gives Sam a flippant once-over, eyes sparkling. "And you're gonna find yourself your own motel room, dude, spend the night with curlers in your hair, cotton between your toes, watching 'The Notebook'—again—you know, the usual." He chuckles at his own joke.

But Sam doesn't laugh. It's all a big, affected show anyway, and it pisses Sam off. "S'not funny, Dean. I'm serious, and you should be, too. Let's leave tonight."

"It's not happening, Sam. Give it up." A final shovelful flies out of the grave, and Dean's aim is off—or it's dead on, Sam doesn't know which—but either way a spray of dirt pelts Sam's leg.

He spits out an angry blast of air. "Real mature, Dean." He tucks the sawed-off under his arm, pockets his flashlight and bends to dust off his pants.

And that's all the opening Old-man Darby needs. Before Sam says another word, the ghost is on him, a cold blast of energy wrenching the salt-gun up and away to his left.

"Sam!" Dean shouts as he jumps out of the grave in one fluid motion, cold determination on his face.

Mr. Darby aims another blow, but Dean pushes Sam out of harm's way, shoving him onto a fresh grave still mounded with funeral flowers and teddy bears. Dean dives for the gun, but the ghost blinks up behind and barrels into him like a linebacker. Sam's close enough to feel the whoosh of air leave Dean's lungs as he hurtles through the air and plows headfirst into a stone angel three graves away.

A thrill of panic shoots through Sam at the hollow crack of bone hitting stone. "Dean!"

Dean falls lifeless to the earth, leaving a dark streak of blood on the statue's marble robe.

Sam screams his brother's name again. "Dean!"

Old-man Darby smiles sadistically at the desperation in Sam's voice. The ghost wheels around and barrels toward him, stuttering and flickering like an old nickelodeon. And Sam's up with a primal growl. He lunges for the gun, grabs it and shoots Mr. Darby in the face. Every fiber of his being tells him to get to Dean, but he knows the salt-round won't keep the ghost away for long.

"God! Fuck!" Sam fumes and jumps into the grave, clawing away the dirt with his bare hands. He grabs the crowbar, opens the coffin and jumps out. Salt and lighter fluid go in next, and though Sam's breath freezes white when he strikes the match, Old-man Darby can go fuck himself. Sam drops the match, ignites the bones. Mr. Darby shrieks and is gone.

Sam loses time, loses all sense of self for a moment. One second he's standing at the lip of the grave, the next he's kneeling by the stone angel, flashlight in hand, calling his brother's name. Dean's lying on his back, blood seeping from the left side of his head and onto the earth. There's no movement, no sound, except a small gurgle deep in Dean's throat. He's choking on blood, Sam thinks.

"Shhh, shhh, shhh—I gotcha." When Sam eases his brother's head into the recovery position, bits of broken skull grind against one another under the scalp. Bloody pieces of hair and bone fragments fall into Sam's palm.

"Oh Fuck me! Fuck! Dean!"

Dean chokes again as a clear fluid—not blood—runs from his mouth. The same stuff drips from his nose and ears. Sam's brain shuts down at this point, and he loses more time.

He remembers nothing else, nothing at all until he's slamming on the brakes outside the Emergency room. The Impala's tires squeal as she comes to a full stop, and Sam lays on the horn until help arrives.

**8**

NOW

Sam draws Dean's bath while his brother sits on the toilet seat and brushes his teeth. Dean's all concentration and grunted effort as he raises a clumsy fist to his lips, toothbrush poking out between his thumb and forefinger. Even his good hand lacks agility and strength, and though Dean tries to stick it in his mouth, he misses several times, poking his cheek instead.

Sam swishes his hand in the bathwater. "Open wide, Dean. You need help?"

"Ah gahh'it," Dean says as he pries the brush under his cheek and industriously works it around his mouth. Toothpaste drips from his chin and onto the floor. Sam says nothing about it.

As soon as he finishes, Sam rises and lifts Dean's bad arm over his head and pokes his left. "Up," he says, and when Dean complies, Sam pulls off the dirty Henley.

He reaches for the string of Dean's sweatpants, but his brother squirms away, dragging his useless foot through the toothpaste. "I guhh-goddit, suhh-ss-Sam." He fumbles with the cord, determined to undo it but only succeeding in tangling it worse.

Sam gives him a chance, glances at his watch. After a moment he pushes Dean's fingers away. "No you don't, dude. Let me just get this undone. You can do the rest."

"Nnuhh-no, Duhh-duh-dude!"

Sam unties the strings anyway. "There, see? Done. Now you can get them off on your own." He helps his brother stand, holding him steady while Dean shimmies out of the sweats. Sam doesn't help except to shove the garment away with his foot, using it to mop up the glob of toothpaste at the same time.

Dean pivots his hip and uses the sink and towel-rack on one side and Sam's shoulder on the other to get to the tub since his walker is useless in the bathroom. He knows he can't get into the tub without Sam's help, so he doesn't fuss when Sam lifts and settles him into the warm water.

"Ahhh," Dean relaxes, cups his good hand and releases a sluice of water over his chest and shoulders. "Guhh-good, Sammy. Yer a good buhh-brother."

Sam clamps his jaw, counts the pulse in his temple and ignores the comment. Kneeling, he scrapes a bar of soap against a washcloth and sets to work scrubbing his brother's bony shoulders and back. He uses the motion as an anchor, something to keep his brain from thinking beyond this moment.

As he massages shampoo into Dean's hair and scalp, his brother burbles in pleasure, eyes rolling, lips lifted in an ecstatic grin. "Muhh-myyy suhh-suh-Sammy," he whispers, and Sam's heart breaks.

He clears his throat, fending off tears. "Hey, do you remember when you used to wash my hair when I was little?"

Dean flutters his doe-lashes, jade eyes focused on his brother. Sam sees no real memory there, well, not the hair-washing memory, anyway. Dean genuinely remembers some things, but he's learned to fake the ones he doesn't. He so desperately wants to please Sam, so eager to share in the moment that he sometimes pretends.

He nods. "Muh-muh-memmer, Sammy. W-ww-when you were li'l."

Sam works the lather, taking care around the sensitive scar tissue. "When I was little you took care of me—real good care. And when it was bath-time, you always used to give me a shampoo mohawk."

"Hawk?" Dean laughs, flaps his good arm like a bird.

Sam begins sculpting. "No, not a hawk, a Mohawk, like a punk-rocker." He attempts to create the hairdo, but it doesn't last. Dean's locks are so long the tufted strip of hair soon wilts under its own weight. Without thinking, Sam bends in and kisses the spot just above his brother's temple where his scar peeks through the suds. He knows the misshapen indentation is the main reason he never cut Dean's hair this past year. There's no way he could deal with the constant reminder of yet another one of his many failures.

Dean leans into the kiss, relishing the affection. When Sam breaks the half-hug, Dean points and laughs at the soap bubbles smeared on Sam's shirt.

The exchange warms Sam's heart for one brief second before raw grief and anger overtake him. Damn him. If Dean hadn't been hell-bent on saving Sam, if he hadn't sacrificed himself on that horrible night a year ago, they wouldn't be in this position now. Sam quivers with a fiery demon-rage, but he doesn't let it out, doesn't say one goddamn word. He rinses Dean's hair in silence, shaves his brother's face there in the tub and then pries up the stopper.

Dean frowns, thrashing his spastic limbs in and attempt to replace the rubber plug. "Nuhh-no Sammy, wuh-wuhh-wanna stay. S'warm."

Sam glances at his watch again. He hunches his shoulders and works his head back and forth, trying to relieve the tension. Grabbing a towel from the rack, he drapes it over Dean's head as the water drains. "How 'bout I make you a deal? You let me get you out'a here, get you dressed—and then we can eat those burgers and have pie. I don't know about you, but I'm starved."

Dean's sold. "Duh-duhh-deal!" he says from underneath the towel.

**8**

THEN

Sam demands they let him stay in the Emergency Room while they work on his brother, but two orderlies press him back with hasty warnings: You're not helping him. Let us work. We'll keep you updated.

He finds himself standing outside a pair of swinging doors, listening. The only clear words Sam hears from within come from an animated, male voice. Come on people, he's circling the drain! Move! The rest of the man's words get lost in the ensuing clamor. Thirty minutes later a harried doctor comes out, tells Sam that Dean's alive but his condition is grave and they're taking him to surgery. The doctor grips Sam's shoulder, gives it a compassionate tug and tells him to sit tight. But Sam doesn't sit. He paces, checks the clock every few minutes, and he doesn't stop for the next eight hours.

spn

Morning sunlight stretches across the waiting room floor like a golden carpet when the tired surgeon finally returns. Dean's made it through surgery, but the prognosis is poor. Ten-dollar words fly past Sam, Intracranial Hypertension and Bilateral Frontotemporal Decompressive Craniectomy but the gist is clear. Swelling's caused too much cranial pressure, depriving Dean's brain and other vital organs of oxygen. They removed a piece of his skull in order to give his swollen brain some room, to get some much-needed oxygen to his heart and lungs. But the doctor says there's nothing else they can do at this point. Dean remains unresponsive, pupils fixed and dilated, his blood pressure perilously low.

He says Dean's a GCS-3 and goes into detail about what that means, but Sam doesn't listen to the explanation—something or other about a coma-scale. However, he hears loud and clear when the doctor tells him he doesn't expect his brother to last the day. He urges Sam to make whatever calls he needs and to prepare for the worst.

Time blips again and Sam finds himself in the ICU with no memory of having gotten there. He's sitting at Dean's bedside, cupping his brother's hand and begging him not to leave him. Stay with me, Dean—Don't leave me Dean—Not now—Not yet become his mantras. He repeats himself until his words become just another part of the white noise surrounding him in the ICU. Over and over he begs his brother, oblivious to the doctors and nurses working around him. They speak to each other in stage whispers so as not to disturb his vigil. He refuses to leave, refuses to eat. He watches the clock and continues his hushed but incessant babble, shift-change after shift-change.

spn

Dean makes it through the day, but the doctors remain unencouraged. The prognosis does not change. Dean's not breathing on his own, his vitals are shit. It's a raw deal, and there's sympathy on their faces when they address Sam, but they don't sugarcoat it, either. Dean's close to death, and they don't think they can pull him back.

spn

After three more days of this, Dean's still alive despite all the doctors' predictions. Now they say Dean will never open his eyes. When one of the doctors uses the phrase persistent vegetative state, Sam tells him to go fuck himself—refuses to let the man touch his brother. They remove Sam from the ICU at this point, suggest he cool off, go get some sleep, shower, eat, and they tell him not to come back until morning. Sam storms from the hospital, winds up at some grubby motel and uses the time to call Bobby. He tells him what happened to Dean—tells him everything. The conversation's brief; Bobby says he'll be there by morning, and he is.

They sit in the ICU for two days, Bobby watching over Dean, Sam on his laptop, researching a way out of the mess Dean's in. He only leaves to use the restroom and make some calls from his cell phone. On the second morning after Bobby's arrival, Sam produces a slip of paper with a name scrawled on it.

"I've been doing some digging, but I can't leave Dean like this. Can you go find her? It might take a while. I hear she's a recluse, moves from place to place within the French Quarter, but if you can track her, I think she can help with this kind of thing."

Bobby tears his eyes away from Dean, takes the slip of paper from Sam and reads it. He looks up, not comprehending. "Son?"

"She can get him out of this—save him. She lives in New Orleans. Priestess or something. Go see her, see if she can do anything."

Bobby's brows crease with sad, gentle judgment. "Son, I don't think anyone can help with that kind of thing."

"Bobby, please. He's in this mess because of me. I have to do something. We have to do something. I have to save him. I have to try."

Bobby nods his head and sighs. "All right. I'll go." His attention wanders to Dean lying inert and unaware, the focal point of a dozen bleeping machines. "Take care of him," is all he says and he's gone.

spn

About ten days later Bobby still hasn't found the priestess when Dean's pupils begin to dilate. The doctors determine he's stable enough to undergo more surgery. Now that the edema has subsided, they want to replace the piece of skull they removed to reduce the pressure on his swollen brain. After surgery, they bring Dean back to the ICU and ween him off the ventilator. But he remains unresponsive, still categorized a GCS-3 despite the improvement in his pupil dilation. Sam spends most of his time researching from the recliner the ICU nurses provided. He dozes in fits while he waits for Bobby to contact him.

spn

Bobby calls three days later and tells Sam the lead was a bust. The woman was a fraud. He says he'll be back by the next day, but Sam has another name, another address, this one in Oregon—a white witch who he's certain can help. The old hunter tries to talk some sense into him, but Sam won't have it. In the end, Bobby relents and says he'll be on the road headed west in an hour.

This pattern continues for weeks. Bobby drops by the hospital every time he's near, spends an afternoon or evening with Sam and Dean. Then he's off chasing another lead, hunting down every shaman, diviner, witch doctor or priestess—whatever or whomever Sam asks.

spn

Bobby's off on another goose-chase when Dean opens his eyes, but the doctors tell Sam his brother isn't awake. And after the initial shock has passed, Sam knows they're right. Dean's eyes are open, but he's not there, not really. He's exhibits reflexive responses; sometimes he'll make a growling sound in his throat. If prodded, he'll twitch. He responds to pain, to loud noises, but there's no spark there, no awareness—no Dean. He stares straight through Sam.

They move Dean out of the ICU on the 4th of July. The bandages come off his head, but the peach fuzz of new growth does nothing to hide the noticeable crater and devastating scars left by the stone angel and ensuing surgeries.

The next time Bobby visits, he hints that Sam's obsession with saving Dean is doing more harm than good, but Sam's got a new name, a new address. Sam walks Bobby to the door, thanks him for everything. The old hunter gives him a lachrymose sigh but agrees to look into it. Sam knows Bobby's only humoring him. He doesn't believe Dean can be helped this way, doesn't believe the name on the paper will offer any kind of solution—not a good one anyway. Fixing something like this, after all, usually costs more than the seeker has to give—but to his credit Bobby doesn't refuse him. After he leaves, Sam shuts the door. When he turns toward the bed, he notices Dean's eyes are tracking his every move. Sam races to the door again, opens it and shouts for help.

spn

When Dean wakes up, doctors say he'll never talk again, never walk again. The cognitive impairment sustained is too profound they say. And when Dean fools the doctors yet again and says his first words, a stilted and stuttered 'Hheh-hehh-hey y-y-yuh, suh-suh-Sammy', the doctors are astounded and delighted. But Sam's heart sinks. The doctors may be celebrating, but Sam's devastated. The cognitive impairment is profound. Most of the damage to Dean's brain occurred in his frontal and parietal lobes, which means much of what made Dean 'Dean' has been irrevocably altered or lost.

His long-term memory is spotty at best. Dean has no recollection of the accident whatsoever, no memory of the week or so leading up to it, in fact. Sam doesn't know whether he's relieved by that or not. It complicates everything, that's for sure. Dean remembers some things, though. He remembers being a hunter, for instance, and he often mentions past cases at the most inappropriate times.

"Muhh-muh-memmer when wuh-we took down them puh-puh-punkhole v-vuh-vampires? Huh, suh-Sammy? Muh-memmer?" he says to Sam while his favorite nurse, Shelly, stands by reading a printout from one of the machines. She cocks her head at Sam.

Sam plasters a smile on his face. "Uh…we used to play a lot of Dungeons and Dragons," he says. Shelly raises a brow, mouths the word 'oh' and accepts the explanation. She tells him not to be too concerned, tells him Traumatic Brain Injury patients often mix fantasy and reality. And Sam remembers to use that handy excuse anytime one of his doctors or nurses ask what a Wendigo or Tulpa is.

Dean remembers some things, has completely forgotten others. He remembers Sam, remembers Bobby, too, but when the old hunter comes to visit, Dean doesn't recognize him. They have to spend his whole visit convincing Dean the man in front of him is his old friend. Sam's not sure if Dean believes them in the end or if he pretends to for their sakes. It doesn't take long, though, before Bobby and Dean forge—or reforge—an unshakable bond.

Dean's short-term memory is no better. He often repeats himself. And his moods swing every which way, often alternating between tears and laughter—but rarely anger. Doctors say many TBI patients become combative and aggressive, but not Dean. Dean's personality presents as docile and affectionate—childlike. He only displays anger when Sam hovers excessively or does too much for him. And he has no emotional barriers, no inhibitions. He expresses himself in raw truths he never allowed himself to indulge in before the accident.

"Luh-luhh-luhv you, Sammy. Yyy-yeh-yer muh-my…" Dean pauses, asks for a hug by patting his chest. "…buh-best friend." When Sam bends down and embraces him, Dean adds, "Muh-my goo' luh-lover."

Shelly chokes, tries to pretend she didn't just hear that.

Sam looks up. "I think he means brother," he tells her.

Sam adds apraxia, aphasia and dysarthria to his day-to-day vocabulary. Apraxia makes it difficult for his brother to find his words. He gets hung up on them and stutters incessantly, sometimes taking up to a full minute to say one sentence. Some vital connection's been lost or broken due to oxygen deprivation, and the pathway from his brain to his mouth is unstable. Aphasia has him often picking the wrong word even after a long, apraxic battle to get it out in the first place—most instances aren't as egregious as 'lover' instead of 'brother', but 'peas' become 'pigs', 'tomato' becomes 'motato' and for some random reason, 'spoon' becomes 'harp'. Dysarthria affects his articulation and clarity of speech, making Dean sound like he's been shot up with Novocain. Combined, all three conditions make it difficult for anyone who isn't Sam to understand him.

spn

Every time Bobby visits he brings disappointing news—the latest lead didn't pan out—the shaman or witch or seer or psychic couldn't help—nothing but dead-end after dead-end. And every time Sam responds by giving him a different name, a new address.

"Rumor has it, this guy's the real deal, has done this type of thing before—had good results, I hear," he says.

Bobby doesn't stay long—just long enough for Dean to become attached all over again. Dean has great love for the old man. When he shows up, Dean greets him with joy, garbling and laughing into Bobby's neck as they hug. When he leaves, Dean cries himself to sleep.

spn

Dean has his first seizure a few weeks after he starts talking, and he has seizures nearly every day thereafter until the doctors bring them under control with medication. Though the seizures lessen in frequency, they're still tonic-clonic, grand mal episodes when they do occur. Because of this and despite the heavy-duty anticonvulsants he's on, the doctors outfit him with a helmet and line his bed with bumper pads to protect his still fragile skull. Another head injury at this point in his recovery, even a mild one, would likely prove fatal.

About the same time the seizures begin, spasticity starts to settle into Dean's right arm and foot. Day by day Dean's limbs tighten and twist inward. No matter how often or how hard Sam rubs them, Dean's wrist and foot flex up and in at an unnatural angle, first his fingers and then his toes curl into themselves, each becoming a fixed, rigid unit of braided digits.

The doctors say it's common—say it like it's not the huge fucking complication it is. They smile and give sterile explanations how Traumatic Brain Injuries can interrupt the delicate flow of nerve impulses between brain and muscle. They shrug, tell Sam it's the least of Dean's problems at this point. They put him on muscle relaxants that do diddlysquat and say there are some surgical procedures that can help. Of course that's all much further down the road—maybe in a year or two, they say, and even then, Dean'll likely never regain full use of those limbs—you know—no big whoop. They're dicks for being so nonchalant about it, and it's another goddamned cruel development.

spn

One day in early October, Dean takes his first tottering steps. They have him down in the physical therapy room, rigged up like a marionette.

"On thuh-three," Dean says. His left hand grips the bar as he works himself up for the challenge. "Wuh-ww-one…fuh-ff-fuhh-five…thuh-three!" He lurches his right hip forward, nearly climbing over his own useless foot before finding his balance and swinging his left foot in front. Everyone in the room cheers for him. Everyone but Sam. He's in the corner with his head buried in his laptop, emailing a Hoodoo priest he heard about who might be able to help Dean.

After that, Dean spends an hour a day in PT, and he soon upgrades from the harness to a modified walker Sam's never seen the likes of before. It resembles a movable scaffold more than it does a walker, but Dean needs all the extra buzzers and whistles. The spasticity in his right side exacerbates his already ataxic gait, making walking even more cumbersome, but with the walker he manages to hold his balance most of the time. Over the next couple of weeks, as he builds up his leg and trunk muscles, his gait strengthens and smooths out. It's not anything close to normal, but it's progress. His therapist tells Dean he has a real shot of working his way up to a cane in a year or two but it'll mean a lot of hard work. Dean promises to do whatever it takes. Sam excuses himself and uses the time to go vomit in the restroom.

spn

A week or so later, Dean's giddy when Shelly brings him an extra helping of pudding. He feeds himself for the first time but winds up dribbling more pudding on his bib than he manages to get into his mouth. It doesn't matter to him, though. It tickles him to no end to do this under his own steam. Shelly's delighted, too, and after Dean's down for his nap, she gushes about it to Sam.

"If you asked me when he first came here where he'd be today, I'd have said it was a million to one long shot if he even lived. But this?" She shakes her head, her voice breathy with awe. "Your brother must have an incredible cognitive reserve."

Sam quirks a brow. "What do you mean?"

"Well, it's a known medical fact the more intelligent the TBI patient is the better—the more successful—their recovery. Of course, persistence and internal drive are equally important components to rehabilitation. But I can tell Dean's a fighter, too—an intelligent, determined fighter."

Sam wants to believe her, wants to celebrate his brother's small victories, but he can't. He swallows bile thinking of Dean's future. It flashes before him like a Dante inspired Hellscape.

"I've worked with many TBI patients, Sam, and this? Dean? He's a miracle," she says, then pauses and touches Sam's arm. "I'm a nurse. I believe in Science. I've witnessed the power of medicine, but I also believe with my whole heart your brother's been touched by the hand of God himself."

Sam stiffens, wants to punch something. "Excuse me," he says and leaves the room before he does anything, says anything, he'll regret later.

Outside the room, he huffs and puffs through his rage. What…his brother taking half a dozen spastic steps while people cheer him on like he's two fucking years old is being touched by the hand of God? His brother struggling to get a couple of spoonfuls of pudding into his mouth by himself is being touched by the hand of God? Fuck Shelly. Fuck God, too, for that matter. Dean's brain is a storm of neurological malfunctions. Sam can't imagine what it must be like to be trapped in his own body the way Dean is trapped in his. It's a goddamned nightmare is what it is—it's hell.

Sam checks the time, walks off the ward, down the hall and out the building. When he enters the windy courtyard he's still seething mad. He paces around, tries to decompress. After a while he sits on a bench under a tree, watching the wind rip away withered leaves from their branches. Once he's collected himself, he gets out his phone to check in with Bobby.

But it's another letdown, another fucking dry lead. He cuts Bobby off when he says Sam needs to adjust his priorities—refocus his attention. Sam responds to that by giving him another name of a witch some hunter told him about, tells him to find her and see if she can help.

Bobby sighs. "You know I will, Sam. I'm just thinking of you, is all. If we can't fix this, you need to prepare yourself for how things are gonna be."

"You worry about finding that witch. I'll worry about me."

"Kid, you sound more 'n more like your daddy every day, you know that?" And when Sam doesn't answer, he sighs. "All right, look, I'll do my best. I'll be in touch," he says and hangs up.

Sam's hair dances eerily in the wind as he continues to watch dead leaves fall. He takes several cleansing breaths. He needs to stop worrying about what Dean can or can't do at this point. That's a battle for another day. Despite what Bobby says, Sam does have his priorities straight. He's going to get Dean out of this. Nothing else matters.

**8**

NOW

"Tuh-tuh-tuh-tastes so guh-good, Sammy," Dean says after he swallows his first mouthful of cheeseburger. He jams a fry in, gnawing it down as he goes and shakes his head in pure bliss. "Ah lahhhbbit" he says with a see-food smile. Dean may not be the man he once was, but one thing hasn't changed—the sonofabitch still loves his junk food.

The clock on the wall ticks in the background, and Sam mechanically chokes down his own burger, taking no pleasure in it whatsoever. Dean's delight makes up for the both of them, though. Of course that only sets off Sam's shame and remorse all the more. His brother's the happiest Sam's seen him in months, and all it took was his favorite foods. He should've allowed him all the fucking fries he wanted. It wouldn't have made any difference in the end. They still would have wound up where they are.

Sam doesn't say any of this, though. He produces a small, broken smile. "Leave room for pie. Don't forget."

"Naw gahn fuhh-fuh-fuh—" he stumbles over the word, tracks it down again. "—fuh-fuh-fo'get."

They eat in silence until words flow from Sam's mouth, unbidden and uncensored. He doesn't even realize he's speaking aloud until he's halfway through. "There's something else I don't want you to forget, okay? Don't forget I tried everything. Dean. Remember that. Remember I didn't want this for you."

Dean's brows corrugate as he presses another french-fry into his mouth and chews thoughtfully. After he manages to get it down, he says, "Duh-Don' haffa tuh-try Sammy. I tol' yuhh-you. Mmm'ok-kay. Eh-ehh-everythin's ohh-okay."

Sam's hamburger turns to ash on his tongue, and he lets it plop back onto its wrapper. He rinses his mouth with a sip of beer, swallows the bitter liquid. Things are as far from okay as they can get, but all he says is, "Eat up."

Dean doesn't answer. He stops chewing mid-bite, drops his hamburger and stares at Sam with wide, frightened eyes.

"What?" Sam asks.

"Nuhh…duh-d-don', Sammy. Puh-puhh-please stop. Duh-don' like it wuhhh-when your fuh-face duh-does that."

"Does what? I'm not doing anything with my face." He swipes a napkin across his chin, thinking maybe there's something on it.

Dean shrivels in on himself, avoids eye contact. "Duhhn-don' Sammy. Don' like it."

"Dean, I'm not doing anything. I promise. Look at me." Dean shuts his eyes tight, turns his head. Sam grips his shoulder. "Hey, hey, hey Dean. It's okay. Look at me."

Dean doesn't want to, but he obeys. He opens his eyes, looks at Sam and lets out a relieved sigh—whatever it was, it's passed.

And it's not the first time this has happened, either. They've been dealing with this for the past couple of days, another random symptom of Dean's TBI or a side effect of the Keppra he's on to control his seizures, maybe. Lucky them.

"Better? Okay?" he asks.

Dean nods. "Buhh-better. It wuh-was scuhhh-scuh-scary. Don' like it wuh-w-when y'face goes cuh-crazy."

The fit soon passes, and a minute later Dean's happy again, tucked into his pie, making yummy sounds as he relishes every bite.

**8**

THEN

After Halloween, they transfer Dean to a long-term care facility, and the move triggers a cluster of seizures in Dean. His doctors have to increase his meds and keep him sedated for that first week.

And they can call this place whatever the fuck they want, spout phrases like 'frontiers in rehabilitation' and 'groundbreaking treatments', the place is nothing more than a state-run warehouse for those poor bastards who can afford no better. It's filled with incontinent, drooling, senile people who caw like crows from their four-point restraints. The smell alone is enough to knock Sam over the moment he walks in the door. It's hell.

Dean's the youngest person in the building. Sam's sure of it. There's some guy in his forties down the hall who's been in a coma for the past three years after a motorcycle accident, but that's it.

Bobby finds them there after his latest chase. He palms Dean's cheek, kisses his forehead and gives him some finger poppers and a puzzle that takes the form of big, plastic nuts-and-bolts that he has to fit together. Bobby tells them Shelly recommended the games last time he saw her, said they'd help develop Dean's bilateral coordination. He also gives Dean a new baseball cap since he no longer has to wear helmets. The bones in his skull have healed well enough that the extra protection is no longer warranted.

"Looking good, kid," Bobby says as Dean cocks his head, peers past the bill of the cap, fluttering his long lashes in pleasure.

"Yuhh-you luh-lookin' good tuh-tuh-tuh-too, Buh-Bobby."

Sam doesn't think so, though. Bobby's lost weight. He's pale and careworn—and, holy shit, there's a whole lot of anger percolating just below the surface. The old man's pissed as hell. Once he gets Dean working on his puzzles he aims a smoky glance at Sam.

"She was a black witch. You sent me to a black witch, Sam. But I'll bet you knew that, didn't you?" He keeps his voice steady, but he doesn't try to hide his contempt. And Sam's defenses kick in.

"Yeah, so? Can she help?"

Dean stops playing with his puzzle, swivels his head from Bobby to Sam as they spar.

"As it turns out, no, but that's not the point! Are you listenin' to yourself? You got any idea what in the hell you're doing here? You gotta stop this and stop it now."

Sam scoffs. "Stop this? I'm just getting started." He squares his shoulders, gets up close to Bobby and glares down at him.

Bobby doesn't budge. "It ain't right to keep doing this, Sam. Think what this is doing to your brother."

"I am thinking of him. That's all I'm doing is thinking of him."

"No you're not. You're trying to hang onto something that's as good as gone"

"Don't you say that, Bobby! I'm not gonna lose him like this. Not like this! I'm not!"

"That ain't your say-so, Sam."

"He shouldn't'a done it!" Adrenaline surges through him and he punches the wall behind Bobby. Dean squawks in the background, but Sam doesn't stop—can't stop, and he doesn't edit himself, either. "It's not my goddamned fault, Bobby! I didn't ask him to save me; I wouldn't have wanted it. Not at this cost, no way! But I had no say in the matter! He put himself in danger! He played the overprotective brother and now look where we are!"

"Suh-suhhh-Sammy?" Tears stand in Dean's eyes and his chest heaves.

Sam has no idea if Dean understands or if it's just Sam's anger scaring him. At this point, he doesn't care. He's incapable of being gentle or reasonable. He reels on his brother.

"You shouldn't have saved me, Dean! You shouldn't have butted in! This is your fault!" He spits the hateful words at his brother.

"Enough!" Bobby shouts, goes to Dean and wraps his arms around him. He scowls at Sam, disgusted. "You shut your mouth, boy. I ever hear you talk to him like that again, I'll take you down so many pegs your ass will be sweepin' the floor."

Sam's cheeks flush with shame. He's gone too far. He knows it. Fucking hell. He slumps into the chair, pinches the bridge of his nose. "I'm sorry, Dean. Fuck, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it."

Dean says something through his tears, but not even Sam can decipher it.

Bobby caresses Dean's shoulders, wipes his face and whispers soothing nonsense to him. When Dean's quiet he says, "Dean has always put himself between you and trouble. Every time. And he'd do the same thing today, even knowing how it'd all end up. You know that."

"I know." Sam says and stands up, legs planted wide apart, arms folded. "So now it's my turn. I'm fixing this."

"So, what…you're gonna keep on with this madness, even if you blacken your soul in the process?"

"Blacken it—lose it—I don't care. Whatever it takes Bobby. You understand? Find someone who wants to buy the damn thing and it's theirs just as long as they fix this! Do it, Bobby!"

"I won't, son. Dean wouldn't want that—doesn't want it—and you know it. You need to listen to reason. Sometimes you just gotta accept what's what."

"No! I don't! I'll never accept this. Now get back out there and do your goddamn job!"

"I'm sorry Sam. This is where I put my foot down. I've looked. I love him. Hell, I love you too—even hell-bent as you are. But Sam, I'm warning you; you go down this black road and I ain't riding shotgun. I can't. I won't. I care too much about you boys. I'm not gonna lose you, too."

Sam explodes. "Then leave! Stop lecturing me like I'm a goddamned child and do it already! Leave!"

Bobby staggers under the shock wave of Sam's anger. They say nothing else. After staring each other down while Dean sobs in the background, Bobby slumps and turns away. He picks up his hat, puts on his jacket and gives Dean a hug, tells him not to cry. Sam opens the door.

Bobby pauses on the threshold. "Sam, don't do this. Don't do this to Dean."

"Get out—and don't come back."

"All right. I'll keep my distance. And I'll keep looking, too. I will. But for Dean's sake I won't go down a dark path with you, boy. I doubt there's anything out there that'll change this, but if I find anything, hear of anyone who can help without doing more damage than is already done, I'll call you."

"Just go," Sam says as he looks at the ceiling. Bobby's shoulders fall, and he walks out the door.

His departure leaves Dean inconsolable, and an hour later he has another seizure. When he wakes up the next day, he doesn't appear to remember what happened. Sam counts his blessings.

spn

Without Bobby to follow up on leads, Sam sneaks Dean out of the nursing home. Their getaway is uneventful. Sam straps Dean into his walker, says he's taking him outside for some fresh air, and that's it. They're gone.

Dean remembers the Impala and he's over the moon when he sees her.

"She muhh-mm-missed me. I can tuh-tell. I muh-muhh-missed you, too, buhh-Baby!" he tells her and strokes her vinyl, exploring her contours with his good hand.

"Get a room, you two." Sam jokes as he starts her up, and Dean laughs and laughs until he chokes.

However, the next few days prove bumpy. Dean misses his room, misses his routine—the stability that institutionalized life provides. That place had been a shithole, but Dean'd felt safe there, and he has trouble acclimating to his new surroundings.

Of course, it doesn't help that Sam isn't prepared to be a full-time caretaker, either. He makes the mistake of driving all day and all night that first night, something he and Dean had done a thousand times before the accident. But by morning Dean's so stiff and cramped he can't stand, can't walk. And just like the Dean of old, he refuses to admit when he's in pain. Sam doesn't notice anything's wrong until Dean exhibits classic signs of shock: shivering, shallow breaths, clammy skin, racing pulse—the works—all the while insisting he's fine. Sam learns his lesson after that, and he makes a point to take plenty of rest breaks to give his brother a chance to recover.

spn

His first stop is to a crossroads in Alabama. Sam prepares the necessary items, digs a hole in the ground and waits. When nothing happens, he spends the next several hours trying to bait a demon, to draw it out: I'm here you fuckers! You wanna Deal? I'll Deal! But no demon shows. At daybreak he gives up and decides to head to Nebraska to talk with a hunter who has some talismans and charms that may help.

spn

They'd left the nursing home with nothing but Dean's souped-up walker; he has none of his medications. So it doesn't take long before Dean's having seizures every day. Sam takes him to a free clinic in Arkansas, tells them Dean's injuries are the result of a car accident a couple of years ago, says he's lost his Keppra. They leave with a refillable prescription, but Sam doesn't dare ask for anything else for fear they'll insist on admitting Dean to a hospital.

The seizures diminish in frequency after that, but Keppra does nothing for the spasticity in Dean's leg and arm, and being cooped up in the car day in and day out only exacerbates the problem. At night, Sam spends time massaging Dean's limbs, has him soak in warm baths. Still, it doesn't take a genius to see Dean's deteriorating. Without professional care, he's regressing both physically and cognitively.

So, Sam does what he can. He stops allowing Dean any junk food for one thing—no burgers, no fries, not even pudding. He might not be able to save him, but by hell he will get his brother sorted out nutritionally. Providing good, clean foods gives Sam something to focus on, gives him a sense of control in all the chaos. Dean, of course, hates it, and he drops several pounds he can ill afford to lose.

spn

They're on the road one day about two weeks after Thanksgiving when Dean asks when Bobby's going to come visit him again.

Sam picks his way through the minefield, twists the steering wheel in his hands. "Bobby's pretty busy, Dean. He might not have time to come see us for a while."

Dean focuses his soulful eyes on him. "Ss-so you stuh-stuh-stuh-still mad at'im?"

Sam freezes. He had no clue Dean remembered the incident. "It's complicated, Dean."

His brother nods and his gaze wanders out the windshield. "He wuh-wan's y-you tuhh stop tryin'a fuh-fix me."

"Not fix you, fix the situation."

"Don' you luhh-luhhve me?"

"Dean, what kind of a question is that? Of course I love you."

"Nuhhh…" Dean shakes his head. "Nuhhh, you luh-luhve the ol' me, not thuh-the nuh-new me. Yyuh-you wanna tuh-try and m-mmuh-make me luh-like I use t'be."

Sam does a double take between the road and his brother. "You think that's what this is about?"

"Mmm hmm…"

"Dean, it's—it's not like that, man. You don't understand."

"Duh-do too. I unn-unn-unnerstan' I ussa be s-s-smart."

"You're still smart, Dean. You injured your brain, that's all."

"Nuhh, I'm naw smar'." He smiles a crooked smile. "Stuh-still duh-duh-damn good lookin', though."

Sam snorts. "If you're into that kind of thing." The joke falls flat, though, because Dean's gone pensive again. "Hey, you okay?"

Dean draws in a long breath. "I muh-memmer I ussa hun' muh-monnsers, ussa fuh-fuh-fight 'em. Took goo' cuhh-care of m'lil lover—I muh-mean buh-brother," he says. Sam's glad he's learned to correct himself there, at least.

"You did. You were fighting a monster when you got hurt. And you saved me. But that's not what I'm—"

"I'll aww-alway suh-suh-save you, Sammy." Dean interrupts him. "Even with shuh-sh-shit for brains, I'll aww-always have your buh-buh-back."

"I know." Sam blinks, refuses to let his emotions get the better of him. "I know you will."

"So why you wuh-wuh-wuhh-wh—" He can't find the word. He swallows and tries again, "—wuhh-why you wuh-wanna fix me? M'okay, Sammy. M'happy. Wuh-woul' be hap-happier if—" he swallows again, "—if-if-if you wuhh-were huh-happy, too."

"No." Sam shakes his head, resolute. "No. You don't understand, and I can't—" He stops himself before he loses his temper like he did last time Bobby was there. He counts to ten before continuing, "—Look, there are things you don't remember, and things can't stay the way they are, okay? You have to trust me on this. They just can't. That's all there is to it. I'm not gonna lose you like this. I'm not."

"But I'm right here, Sammy." The words flow from Dean's mouth so clear and unencumbered it shocks Sam. He looks at his brother, but Dean's watching the Amish farms of Ohio fly past him. He says nothing for a while then turns to Sam. "Memmer wuh-when I ussa duhh-drive m'baby?"

Sam draws a deep breath, relieved Dean's lost the thread of their conversation. "Of course I do. You never used to let me drive her."

"Tha's 'kuh-kuhh-cause Baby luh-luhvs me best." Dean runs his good hand along the dash. "I miss duh-duh-d-drivin' her."

Sam's quiet for a moment, still watching his brother as much as the road. He grips Dean's good arm, draws him close. "C'mere." Sam sets his brother's left hand on the wheel, throws his own arm around Dean's shoulder, and together they steer the car.

Dean's face is a perfect blend of concentration and joy. "Suhh-ss-see Sammy? Jus' like ol' tuh-times."

"Just like old times," Sam says. He sticks AC/DC into the tape deck, steps on the gas while the opening bars of Back in Black roll over them. An answering rumble from Dean's best girl reverberates around and through them as Sam and his brother drive down the road together.

spn

They spend Christmas Eve in Massachusetts—Sam's following a lead in Boston, some blind Kabala mystic, but the man says Dean's issue is beyond his abilities. The old rabbi places his palm on Dean's head, recites a Hebrew prayer of protection and asks God to take mercy on him. That's when Sam tells the old man to piss off and grabs Dean by the collar, forcing him up before he's got his balance. He storms from the house all but carrying both his bewildered brother and the walker.

The next day, Sam doesn't say anything to Dean about Christmas. They spend the day on the road, heading toward Santa Fe where Sam's meeting a Jicarilla Apache medicine man. Dean taps his fingers—way off rhythm—to Led Zeppelin for a while before he falls asleep.

spn

The year slips away and a new one begins. And Sam's no closer to saving his brother than he was eight months ago. It's a weight pressing upon him, as heavy as a brimstone boulder, every minute of every day, making for some excruciatingly long days. Toward the end of January, he goes to see yet another Hoodoo priest in Shreveport. It's mostly a bust, but he comes away with a small, leather pouch he hopes he never has to use.

spn

By early spring they've crisscrossed the country more than a dozen times. Rummaging through a rare bookstore one day, Sam finds what he believes to be a Black Magic spell-book. There's no way the woman who owns the store has a clue what she's got, and when she's off helping another customer, Sam steals it. Then he spends more time learning the obscure dialect it's written in. He talks to more people, shows them the book, but everyone tells him there's nothing in there that can help, not for this. He keeps it with him at all times, though. Studies it every night.

Easter comes and goes and Sam grows cold and detached, lost in his obsession. He robotically follows every flimsy lead. Most aren't legitimate leads at this point, but that doesn't stop him. And Dean's wasting away next to him, neglected, gaunt—confused at Sam's behavior. Every day he backslides a little further. His dysarthria and apraxia worsen, make him all but incoherent, even to Sam. His balance is poor. At the rate they're going, Dean's going to have to start using a wheelchair soon.

None of that stops Sam, though. He pursues lead after lead, and when he's exhausted them all, he tries again to summon a crossroads demon and again he's left standing in the dark. Three more times he knocks. Three more times no one answers. And it isn't that the demons can't help him, Sam's sure of that. It's that they won't. The bastards won't even let him plead his case.

After his last attempt to sell his soul, Sam flies into a rage, drives to a park and drinks himself into a blackout. The next morning, he wakes up in the bushes with the mother of all hangovers, and he's halfway back to the Impala before he realizes with a jolt that he must've left Dean alone in the car. By the time he gets to him, Dean's in a postictal state. He's had a seizure at some point during the night, and he's covered in piss and vomit. Dean sleeps the better part of the next two days.

Sam holes up in a motel room, taking care of Dean while he recovers. And of course Dean remembers the whole goddamned thing, too—because it's not like Sam can catch a break here—fucking short-term memory as inconvenient as ever. Apparently, during Sam's binge, he'd ranted and raved, accused Dean of playing the big damn hero and ruining everything! He'd gone on and on, verbally abusing his brother until he'd stomped off swinging a bottle of whiskey. Dean's traumatized by what Sam said to him and he tells him he's sorry for whatever he did that made Sam hate him. It takes a lot of work for Sam to convince him it isn't so—that he does love him—that Sam was the one being an asshole and that it won't happen again.

Toward the end of April, right about the time Dean's emotions stabilize and he's back to normal—normal for him anyway—something snaps in Sam. Shards of reality pierce him like flying shrapnel. He knows the whole damn thing is futile. He can't fix this. An entire year gone. An entire year spent searching, fighting, begging, praying—trying to sell his own goddamned soul—and it's all been for nothing. Dean's stuck, and there's no undoing this.

After that, Sam makes what last few preparations he can.

spn

A couple days later, Every Which Way but Loose comes on one of the local TV stations. They sit side by side on Dean's bed, feet up, settled in. Dean's seen the movie before, of course—several times—but he doesn't remember it. Sam's glad he found it, though. Dean loves it every bit as much as he did when they were kids, and he laughs uproariously every time Ma calls Clyde a goddamn baboon!—something about a petite old lady being a foul-mouthed spitfire tickles Dean like little else can.

They're halfway through the movie when Dean throws his head back and laughs at something Sam didn't even think was all that funny. But he snorts at his brother's antics and laughs all the same. It's not until Dean's spastic arm lurches up and hits him in the chin that he realizes Dean's not laughing—he's seizing. Of all the fucking nights.

Dean's muscles stretch so tight his legs hover above the bed, wobbling back and forth like a windup toy. His arms cross one against the other, fingers pointing in every direction at once. Sam pulls Dean's lower lip out from under his teeth before the skin breaks, and he shifts him so he doesn't hit the headboard.

Thirty seconds in and the clonic spasms take over. Sam knows the drill, knows to leave Dean where he is unless he's in danger of hurting himself. He has to make one adjustment when Dean flails too close to the edge of the bed, but other than that, he lets the seizure take its course. It's a long and brutal one, though, one of the worst Sam's seen. After four agonizing minutes the seizure ends, and Sam's left shell-shocked. Hopeless.

This unwinnable war he's been fighting has beaten him down, left him exhausted and ruined beyond all hope of ever being whole again. And for the first time since this fucking thing started—for the first time since that horrible night one year ago when his brother saved him—Sam cries. He cries with unbridled abandon, mouth frozen in a rictus of misery, long wailing sobs wracking and twisting him until his diaphragm burns and his voice is shot. He cries for what he's lost and what he's losing. And he doesn't stop until he's laying half-conscious on the floor.

Time passes and Sam sits up, staggers to his feet. The movie's over, some infomercial's on. He switches off the TV then goes over to the bed, gathers his brother in his arms and moves him to his bed since Dean's is soiled. Sam wraps him in his bedspread, kisses his brow.

He goes and takes a long shower, washes away his tears and snot and Dean's piss still clinging to him. After toweling dry, he dresses in clean clothes and then wastes more time just leaning against the doorjamb, watching his brother sleep.

He can't square this circle. He can't save Dean from this horrible fate. He knows it. And so there's only one thing left to do.

Searching through his duffel, Sam finds the leather pouch he got from the Hoodoo priest in Shreveport and sets it on the table next to him. He spends the rest of the night sitting, gun in hand, woodenly inspecting and cleaning it, oiling every component and then starting all over again until long after the sun has risen.

**8**

NOW

After he's eaten, Dean licks his fingers and beams his appreciation at Sam. There's a greasy blob of hamburger juice and a puddle of apple pie filling on his shirt, so Sam changes him into a light tee and a hoodie. He tries to take his mind off things by keeping Dean amused with some of his puzzles, but as the night winds away Sam has trouble staying focused. His hands shake, and he can't fit the fucking plastic yellow screw into big green bolt any better than Dean can. And Dean's too worried about Sam to give any thought to the game.

"Wuhh-wha's wrong, Sammy?" Dean says from where he's perched on the bed.

"I'm fine. Why don't you take a nap or something?"

"Nuh-nuhh-not tired. Slep' all duh-day."

"Then work your puzzle or something. I need to think." Sam falls silent after that, and for the next hour he wracks his brain, trying to come up with a last-ditch solution—find a way out of this—a way to fix it, but as the minutes tick away, he knows he's out of options. This ends tonight.

He can't keep still, and he prowls the room, back and forth—back and forth, fiddles with the lamp, bolts the doors and windows and double checks the salt-lines. He walks up to the starburst clock on the wall, checks it against the time on his phone to see if it's accurate. It is. With his phone in hand, he breaks down and flips through his contacts to see if Bobby ever called or left a message. He didn't.

"Fuck." He throws the phone on the bed.

"Wha's wrong, Sammy?" Green eyes scope him, take their measure as Dean tries to figure Sam out like one of his puzzles.

Sam paces between the door and window, flicks one of the blinds down and peers outside.

"Suh-Sam. Wha's wruh-wrong?"

"Nothing, Dean. It's gonna be okay," Sam says and lets the blind snap back into place. He cracks his knuckles and stares at the clock. Fuck. He has no clue how he's going to get through this. But somehow he will. He will get through it. He has no choice.

"Sammy?" Dean plays with the ties of his hoodie, bunching the strings in his good hand and giving them a nervous tug. "Suh-Sammy?"

"Hmm?" Sam says, but it's a token acknowledgment. He doesn't know what Dean's said or what he wants. Sam goes to the table and picks up the pouch lying there. He balls it in his fist then stuffs it into his pocket.

"Whu-wassat?"

Sam's too busy grabbing one of the chairs from the table and wedging it under the doorknob to answer.

"Sammy!" Dean fumbles his way to the edge of the bed, biting his lip like a lost child.

Sam ignores him. He paces the floor, all twitchy energy—tense and sweaty—like a thoroughbred spoiling in its paddock. He looks at the clock again. "God, fuck!" He pulls the gun from his waistband. It'll all be over soon.

"It'll all be over soon," he says aloud, not knowing he's spoken.

Dean stands up but he's unsteady and his walker is out of reach. His core wobbles and he has to work to balance himself. "Y-yyou're scaring me, Sam. Ww-what are y'doin' w'the guh-guh-gun?"

Sam glances at the weapon. He grips it tight, bounces it to test the weight in his hand, trying to find the courage to face this. He shrugs. "It's nothing. Sit down before you fall down."

"Is it vuh-vampires? Shuh-shuh-shifters? Whuh-whuh-what?"

"I told you it's nothing, Dean! Sit down!" He crosses the room in two strides and grips his brother's shoulders with adrenaline-fueled hands and pushes him back down on the bed. He doesn't mean to be so rough, but he is, and it's too much too fast. Dean loses his balance, and he flails toward the foot of the bed. When he can't regain his equilibrium, he topples onto the floor with a cry. He hits hard, and his spastic foot somehow hooks the lamp cord. The momentum of his fall yanks it from the wall socket, and the room is plunged into darkness. Sam hears his brother weeping in the shadows.

He kneels, crushes Dean to his chest and holds on for dear life. "Oh, God…oh, Jesus. Shhh…I'm so sorry, Dean. God, I'm sorry. Don't. I'm so sorry for it all. I ruined everything. I tried to fix it and I can't.

Dean fists Sam's shirt with his good hand, anger and hurt radiating from him. "I tuh-tol' you. Yuh-you, don' nuh-need to fuh-fuh-fix me! Why don' you luh-luh-love me the wuh-way I am?"

"Shh—shh—shh. No, that's not it. Oh fuck, Dean, that's not it. I do." He looks at the clock. "Fuck!" He repositions Dean so his back is to Sam's chest. Sam holds him steady with one arm while adjusting the gun with his other. He flicks off the safety. "I'm so sorry." He says and kisses Dean's soft curls at the nape of his neck.

The starburst clock on the wall is too cheap to chime, but the mechanical arms whir when they come together and strike midnight. It's the only warning Sam has before Dean stiffens in his arms and cocks his head, listening to something Sam can't hear.

"Duh-duhhh-Doggies," he whispers in the dark.

"Don't." Sam holds him tighter, rocks him back and forth. "Don't…don't…don't." He repeats the words like a prayer.

"They're muh-muh-mad, Sammy. Why?"

"Dean…shh…shh. Don't listen to them." Sam pulls the corded pouch he got in Louisiana from his pocket, uncinches it and spreads the goofer dust in a circle around them. He resettles Dean against his chest, tightens his grip on the gun. He hears nothing, but Dean does, and Sam knows they're close.

"Wuh-why they so muh-muh-mad?"

Sam wraps his legs around Dean, using all his spare limbs to hold him fast. He extends the gun in his free hand, frantically switching his aim from window to door, not knowing which poses more threat. When Dean focuses his attention on the door, Sam does too. He rises to his knees, pulling Dean with him. They both jump when the door shudders and the scratching begins.

"I'm scuh-scared, Sammy." Dean trembles in his arms. "They're gruh-gruh-growlin'. Whuh-what duh-do they wan'?"

Sam can't let it end like this—with Dean not knowing, not remembering. "Dean. Look at me." He nudges him when Dean's attention remains fixed on the door. "You look at me, now."

Dean squeals when there's a tremendous crash on the door. Sam can't hear the hounds, but he hears the door shudder when they fling themselves against it, hears claws scratching the floor as they start digging their way through. "Look at me, Dean."

Dean can't tear his eyes away from the door as it buckles and bends from the strain. "Whuh-why? Why're they huh-here?"

"Listen to me, Dean. Listen to me!" Sam physically forces Dean to face him. "It's not over. You hear me? I'm gonna get you back. I promise you."

"Buh-back?"

There's another boom followed by a salvo of pounding. The chair Sam wedged under the knob shivers and creaks. It won't hold much longer. This is it. It's happening.

"The Deal, Dean! The Deal! The goddamned deal you made three days before the fucking ghost slammed your head into that gravestone. I told you there were things you didn't remember."

Dean shakes his head, still not comprehending. "Whu-whut deal?

"Your soul, Dean! You sold your soul to save me! One year ago tonight. Jake killed me at Cold Oak, and you sold your soul to bring me back. And now we're both damned. I didn't tell you because I thought I could get you out of it, Dean. I really did. And I tried. All goddamn year, I tried."

"No, you whuh-whuh—" Dean's face twists in an effort to get the words out, "—were truh-tryin'a fuh-fix my brain."

Sam has to shout over the cacophony to be heard. "No! It wasn't about fixing your brain—it was about saving your soul! I tried! And Bobby tried, too, until he couldn't do it anymore. And I'm sorry Dean. I'm so fucking sorry. Please forgive me."

Dean caresses Sam's cheek with his good hand. "Nuh-nothin' to fuh-fuh—" A resounding blow shatters the door, cutting Dean off mid-stutter. Splinters of wood fly toward them, scattering the salt and goofer dust.

"NO!" Sam screams and throws himself over Dean in an attempt to shield him, to keep him safe as long as he can.

Sam isn't aware when Dean's taken from him, only that he is. And when he looks up, an arterial spray coming from a gaping wound on Dean's right shoulder hits him in the face. Invisible claws leave grisly slash marks on Dean's left leg, and he writhes in agony, trying to get away from foes Sam can't see. Sam lunges for him, but the beasts drag Dean away like a coveted bone they refuse to share.

Dean struggles and screams and screams and screams, and Sam does, too. He wails for them to stop, to take him instead. He chases the hellhounds around the room on his hands and knees as they continue to drag Dean along, always just out of arm's reach, shaking him like a chew toy. He takes a chance and shoots at them a couple of times, but the bullets uselessly lodge in the walls. The gun doesn't stop them. Nothing can.

The hellhounds flip Dean onto his back and set to work on his chest, clawing and mauling until nothing but a pulpy slop of bone and muscle and gristle remains.

Sam closes his eyes against the horror of it, and they both scream until Sam's the only one left screaming.

When he realizes he's alone, Sam opens his eyes to a quiet scene too gruesome to process. His stomach revolts and he vomits next to what his brain distantly identifies as one of Dean's kidneys. The path to Dean is laid with a gory, red carpet of entrails and organs and undigested burgers and pie. Huge swathes of blood paint the room. It drips from the walls. It puddles on the floor. It spatters the bed, the drapes—even the fucking ceiling. And Sam's covered, too. There's a piece of white tendon on his shirt, and beads of blood drip from his bangs and onto his nose. He's drenched, and he'll never be clean of it. Never. Never.

He crabs his way to his brother's lifeless body. Dean's empty eyes communicate nothing beyond the agony of his last horrific moments.

"No…" Sam chokes on the word. "No…"

He cradles his brother, lifting him until Dean's head tilts back, eyes still staring—still dead.

"Dean…Dean…" he pleads, but it's no use. It's over. Sam's failed. His brother's in Hell.

They both are.

**8**

Epilogue:

FOUR AND A HALF MONTHS LATER

It's warm and humid for mid-September in Pontiac, and the sleazy honeymoon suite has no air conditioning. Sam's hot and sticky, and though he lingers under the jet until the water runs cold, he still doesn't feel clean. But there's not enough water in the world for that.

After having no luck finding the demons he's been tracking, he spent the rest of the afternoon in bed with Ruby—the demon who came to him after his brother died—too late to save him, of course—but offering Sam a path to revenge. She's helping him get strong. Bobby'd kill him if he knew. Hell, Dean's probably spinning in his grave, but Sam doesn't care. He knows what he's doing and he's got it under control.

Besides, indulging in some mindless sex is no big deal all things considered. It gives him something else to think about other than…you know…hellhounds ripping his brother apart and dragging him to Hell right in front of his eyes. No amount of help from Ruby can make him unsee that. In fact, the stronger he gets, the more 'help' he consumes—the sharper his senses become—including his memories. So, yeah sure, the summer's flown right on by, but being treated to Technicolor replays of Dean's death whenever he closes his eyes has made for some really long days and nights. He's cruelly aware of each and every age-long second that passes without his brother. So, he has no problem fucking himself numb now and then.

He turns off the water, towels dry and throws on some clothes. He's sure the pizza's here, because he can hear Ruby over the music in the next room bitching at the delivery guy. He figures he better go save the poor bastard before she kills him—literally.

He threads his fingers through his wet hair and walks out of the bathroom. "Hey is th—" he says and stops short, unable to move or speak because the door's wide open and Dean's standing there, unassisted—tall and healthy and alive. Dean's there. And the only thing separating the two of them is Ruby's diminutive meatsuit.

Sam's brain seizes for a moment; his eyes stutter from Dean to Bobby and then back to Dean. He more than half expects the image to flicker and disappear, some heartless, fucked up side effect of the demon-blood, maybe. But Dean doesn't flicker, doesn't disappear.

His brother smiles a thousand words, but he says only two. And there's no hint of apraxia or dysarthria in his voice when he speaks—no, not a trace.

"Heya, Sammy," Dean says.

—The End—