A/: Well this is the end of this story. I won't lie to you, this has been one of the hardest fics I have ever written and am happy to see the end. But I am also grateful to those who stuck with it, even when they had every right not to. Thanks to NerdAngel, who binge read both this and Receive Me Brother. Your support this past month or so has been awesome! And a huge thank you to LilyBolt, who has always stuck with me, lol. You are a great friend! Anyway, I hope you enjoy! And as always, I don't own Supernatural, all that belongs to the awesome Eric Kripke.

Chapter 12

The flames snapped and danced in the darkness, casting an eerie glow upon the faces of the two young men standing on the periphery. Sam closed his eyes, listening to the crackle of fire as it consumed John Winchester's body, its heat providing no warmth from the chill in his heart. He wanted to cry, to find solace in tears, but after days of crying for his brother, the young hunter's eyes were dry. But that did nothing to ease the pain as he stood there, watching as his father's corpse burned before his very eyes. Thoughts of his dad, of how they had never truly seen eye to eye, flashed before him, images of his haunted childhood and adolescence. Not even death could wipe clean the bitter memories of his staved childhood: the nights alone with Dean, living on boxed suppers and sleeping in far from reputable motels; the loneliness; the way he had been practically disowned for wanting a higher education. And yet, he had done his best. For Sam Winchester had finally begun to understand that his father loved him, at least in his own, rather twisted way. Dean had always insisted that his drill sergeant methods of parenting were for protection, and Sam actually did believe that. The man had even signed his death warrant just to bring his brother back from the edge of the grave. And it hurt like hell that he had never gotten the chance to tell him how much he appreciated the man.

Sam sighed, drawing an unsteady breath as he watched the pyre before him, occasionally stealing a glance at his brother. As expected, Dean was also dry eyed, but there was no escaping the grief (and was that resentment? Guilt?) in his jade irises. Sam opened his mouth, about to say something; and then wisely closed it again. This was not the time for the share and care, no matter how much he wanted, needed, his comfort. As if reading his mind, Dean muttered a single "Don't, Sammy," and the younger Winchester nodded. And so the two stood there, waiting until the last of the embers of their father's body faded into nothing. Slowly Dean turned and headed back to the Impala, Sam following with a heavy heart. For several minutes they drove in uncomfortable silence, Dean staring ahead as Sam leaned against the passenger window, as if trying to sleep. He had actually fallen into a doze when the crunch of gravel and a quick jerk to the left startled him awake.

"Dean?" But his brother had already left the car, still idling on the shoulder, slamming the door shut. Something Dean Winchester never did. Troubled, Sam followed him, watching as he leaned against the trunk, kicking at a stray beer bottle in frustration. For a moment, it looked as if his stubborn older brother might actually say something. Not the sappy "we only have each other now, I love you" speech usually reserved for Lifetime movies, of course. But for one second, it really did seem that Dean might slip off the mask for at least a moment. There was a yearning in his mossy green eyes, a desire to just say fuck it and bear his burdens; but even that was gone in seconds, replaced with a dullness Sam had never once seen in his brother.

It terrified him.

"Dean?" Sam repeated and his older brother blinked, once again back to reality.

"Did you hear something in the engine?"

"What?..."

"The Impala," Dean repeated, gently tapping the hood of the glossy, black muscle car. "Sounded like something rattling in there. Maybe I should go under the hood, check her out."

"Dean, I'm sure the car's fine."

"Nah, think I'll drive her to Bobby's. Been a while since she had a good tune up anyways."

Sam sighed in defeat. Of course his brother would use the Impala as an excuse to hide from his emotions. Why had he expected anything different this time? He closed his eyes, giving one last attempt at getting his brother to open up; and was far from surprised when Dean's answer was to climb back into the driver's seat, glancing impatiently at his younger sibling. Wordlessly, Sam slid in beside him, staring absently out the passenger window in an effort to hide the silent streak of tears.

XXX

There was nothing truly wrong with the Impala; Dean knew it from the get go. He was always in tune with every different noise and rattle in the old car; could tell from the slight shaking in the front if the tires needed balanced or a spark plug needed to be replaced. The slightest veer to the left or right and he'd be checking to see if Baby needed an alignment. And he knew damn well that the most serious work he really needed on the car was a very slightly overdue oil change. But working on his car, his father's most prized possession bequeathed to him as a teen, was therapeutic. He could get his hands dirty, could let his mind relax for even a few minutes. To see something that was once broken now running smoothly had always given Dean a slight thrill, even during the happier times; it encouraged him that if he could fix a right off, having it run like new, he could also fix the problems within his family. Perhaps a bit naïve, and not at all realistic, but the false sense of comfort was enough to keep him going during the rough patches.

And to say that he was going through a rough patch would be a gross understatement. He had almost died of cancer, twice, and had lost his father in less than a year. He'd witnessed his younger brother fall apart, grieving not only their dad, but his fiancée; not to mention having almost lost Dean, too. For a moment, he felt guilty; he wasn't the only one grieving, and just because Sam's way of coping was different from his own, it did not make the pain any less unbearable. Hell, the kid was going through the process twofold, having not had the time to fully say goodbye to Jess, let alone their father. But irrational in his own agony, Dean pushed the thoughts from his mind, hoping the physical labour would do something, anything, to dull the ache and praying that somehow, Sam had found his own way of dealing.

Of course, this statement would prove to be complete bullshit; even Dean noticed the way the kid looked exhausted in the morning, as if he hadn't even slept the night before; probably hadn't. Nightmares, no doubt. He'd had god knows how many after Jessica's death. What would make this time any different? The hunter watched from the corner of his eye as Sam quietly grabbed a mug from the cupboard and poured a generous amount of coffee into it, not even adding the usual cream and sugar. His eyes looked blank as he sat at the table, sipping the hot liquid but seemingly not event tasting it, while Dean drank his own, generously laced with whiskey despite the early hour. It almost looked normal, two brothers enjoying a morning cup of joe before breakfast, if not for the slight shake of Sam's hand as it clutched his mug. Seeing the tremor, the elder Winchester once again felt an overwhelming sense of guilt. He'd have to talk to Sam, no matter how much he dreaded it.

But, to Dean's surprise, it was his gigantor of a younger brother who spoke up first.

"Hey, Dean."

For a moment, there was silence, as Dean stared into his own (practically full) mug of now lukewarm coffee. As much as he had wanted to say something, and was glad that he had not been the one to initiate the conversation, he remained silent. Winchesters didn't talk about their feelings; they bottled them inside until the inevitable eruption, and then tried to forget about the whole affair as if nothing had happened. It was not until he heard the shuffle of a chair being pulled back that Dean finally spoke.

"Sammy, wait."

A pause, then a soft plump as Sam dropped tiredly in the chair.

"You know it isn't easy for me to talk about this stuff." Still avoiding eye contact with his brother. "These last few months haven't been all that easy. Between the, well, you know, and then Dad…" A single tear threatened to leak and Dean quickly brushed it away. "It's overwhelming, Sammy. So I fix cars. I drink. Keeps my mind off of all this shit. But I keep forgetting that I'm not the only one grieving. He was your father, too, and sometimes I forget that. And Jess…" Dean sighed, rubbing his eyes tiredly. "I just wanted to say I'm sorry. I'm supposed to look out for you, and here I am, thinking of my own ass."

"You're right." Sam's voice was soft, yet surprisingly steady. Dean looked up and felt another pang of guilt at the silent stream of tears running along the younger man's cheeks. "You're not the only one grieving. I lost the woman I was going to marry. I still have nightmares. And now I dream about Dad, too. Not about hellhounds and the pit, but about how we used to always butt heads; how we'd always be fighting about the stupidest shit. Hell, half the time I was the one who'd started it." Sam chuckled humourlessly. "I still feel guilty about that. He did his best, and all I did was pick a fight. And now I can't even tell him I'm sorry."

"Sammy…"

"Let me finish, Dean. I know we haven't gotten along, but I miss him, too. And I'm far from ok. And neither are you."

"Sam, I'm fine."

"You're far from it. You spend hours working on the Impala, when we both know that there's no need. You drink, even after knowing full well what happened the last time. You keep telling yourself you're ok, when all I'm seeing is my brother try to kill himself again."

"Sam, I'm…"

"Don't say you're fine! I already lost Dad and Jess, and the cancer…. I just can't do it a third, time, ok? I'm not asking you to go off the stuff completely, just ease up a bit, ok? Please?"

Dean sighed, picked up the doctored coffee… and set the mug back down. "I'm sorry, Sammy. I didn't…"

"Just remember you can talk to me, ok? And if you can't do that, at least ease up on the booze." Dean watched as Sam sat up and headed out the back door, wiping his eyes. How could he have forgotten about the drinking? How it had led him to this whole mess in the first place. "Fuck," he murmured, slowly rising from his own chair. And with an outburst of anger which surprised even himself, he picked up the mug and hurled it across the room; it shattered against the cupboard, spraying liquid and pieces of ceramic along the floor. "Goddamn it!" Pounding his fist against the table in frustration, Dean stormed out of the kitchen, unaware of the older man standing in the hall. Heart breaking for his boys, Bobby slowly dug out the broom and a towel, his own silent tears running down his face.

XXX

Dean found the journal a week later.

To be honest, the hunter didn't find it so much as it had been placed by his nightstand during the night. Placed on top of the worn leather was a note, in handwriting Dean easily recognized as that belonging to his father. For one irrational moment, he thought that John Winchester himself had somehow snuck into his room while he slept, his death a clever rouse to welch himself from his deal. And then another rush of pain as he remembered the night they'd burned their father's body, the event still fresh in his mind. For several minutes he stared at the neon pink Post-It note as if it were poison; of course he'd left his journal with Bobby before meeting up with his boys. The old man had a gift of foresight fine-tuned from years of hunting experience. But as much as he knew damn well what was written on that obscenely bright note, and that his dad was right, Dean still avoided it as he got up, showered, and returned to his room to dress. It wasn't until he was finished that he gently plopped on the mattress and picked up the worn volume, fingers gently rubbing across the spine.

Co-ordinates. That was it, neatly printed in his father's script. For a moment, he stared down at the three numbers, as if unsure. And then, a small smile crept across his face. Gently he rose from his bed, made his way to the room across the hall, where Sam was already buttoning up his shirt. The hunter turned at the sound of his brother, and could only nod as Dean gently raised the journal.

"What do you say, Sammy?"

Sam nodded again in confirmation. Echoing his brother from weeks earlier:

"We've got work to do."