Summary: "It's hard to explain, what if feels like to just — stop being whole. I remember thinking about it a lot, when Dad and Dean started actually letting me go on hunts, you know…? I wondered what pain felt like to them, when they don't have the chemicals and nerves for it, no bodies to replicate the feeling. I wondered what tethers them to that kind of hurt, instead of running away from it."

Little brothers, turns out, can be the most stubborn, petulant creatures to roam the earth. If Sam weren't already so flighty and impossible to get into a chokehold nowadays, Dean would probably be wrestling him over the edge of his bed to prove a point about just who is the tougher Winchester here (and sure Sam's tough, but not in Dean's daydreams, alright?). Instead Dean just folds his arms and looks impatiently at Sam as the kid glowers from near the malfunctioning television. At least that's one decent thing in this junky motel. They've got more than three channels, but maybe that's to make up for the missing room number plaques and the stench of tobacco.

Dean huffs, "Dude — seriously, I called first dibs. Aren't you supposed to be the fair one? What happened to taking turns?"

"I've been telling you all day," Sam says sharply, arms folded in a mirror image of his brother; sometimes Dean has no idea why Sam bothers keeping up appearances, all things considered, but here they are,"They're airing that special on Medieval history and I'm not missing it. Besides, this is what you get for pissing me off this morning."

Bullshit, Dean thinks haplessly. He only made fun of his freaky powers for maybe five seconds. Or twenty. Sam leaves himself wide open for it, anyway. Can't be blamed for having a big brother with a seriously awesome sense of humor. And it kinda' sets a mood with them, right? Sometimes it's all Dean can think to do, in the wake of Dad leaving them to fend for themselves — and of the words he'd spoken to him before. It's hard to shake them out of his head. You might have to let Sam go, Dean. Well, fuck that, he's not letting Sam go. And Sam's not darkside. Sam's not anything but the usual dog-eyed geekboy, freakiness aside. Dean could go through the rest of his life like this, if it meant sparing them from hunting his brother.

The task at hand, though. Sulky Sam, trying to wrestle his beloved action flick from his calloused grubby fingers. Taking the challenge, Dean hits the pre-channel button back to some movie that he's re-titled Chicks With Gunsin his head, but just as soon as he does it Sam's changing it right the hell back to some boring piano and some voice-over guy who admittedly sounds pretty cool, but —

"This isn't any fair! Stupid long-legged — "

Thunk, thunk, thunk.

The hollow sound of a fist knocking against the old red door stops them both, and Sam looks toward the origin of the rumble before disappearing into the bathroom with a weary sigh, which as far as Dean's concerned is amildvictory in his favor while he turns it back to Chicks with Guns just before rushing to the door. The score is Dean 1, Sam 0… or he'll just pretend that's the current score, new slate wiped clean. He ticks off dollar bills to the friendly pizzaman that greets him out in the nighttime — or, uh. Pizzakid. Looks kind of young to be out at seedy motels, with zits ready to pop and the proud beginnings of a goatee on his chin. Granted, Sam and him have always been around, but they're hunter's kids; it puts hair on your chest to sleep around the sounds of druggies and middle-aged men getting their rocks off with ladies of the night. What a den of iniquity. He'd almost considered getting some flip-flops to wear in the shower. Just in case the maids hate their jobs a little extra and don't bother scrubbing the tub of sin.

Eh, anyway, Dean'll go ahead and tick off some cash for a good tip. And also he feels kind of bad, because the unnatural chill in the air has Mr. Pizzakid shivering a little, and Dean can't help but compensate for their cold-ass entryway.

"Oh man, that's a good one," the pizzakid says, and smiles, motioning toward the sound of gunshots and dying henchmen on the TV. Good, good, he gets another dollar added to the tip.

"Heck yeah it is. Better than some snoresville thing on the history channel, am I right?"

There's an innocent little click, and the channel changes.

Dean pauses in his midway delivery of the pay, and pizzakid's eyebrows quirk.

"… Except," Dean continues, "You know. When annoying family members change the channel from the bathroom." The kid just laughs in good humor and goes on his way, leaving Dean with a greasy pizza, a cold room, and the boring narrative voice of defeat. Fine. Dean 1, Sam 1. Dean's not budging on the initial victory. "You think you're so cute, don't you?"

"I think I'm adorable," Sam replies, a mimicry of Dean, while he returns from the bathroom to stare forlornly at the pizza. Dean surrenders (just this once) and lets a quip die on his tongue, because Sam does the tired, sunken puppy-eyed look pretty well. He still can't fight it for long.

"You doing okay?" he asks, pushing aside the cardboard box as he takes a seat.

Sam just shrugs, drifting toward the single twin-sized bed. He looks like he hasn't slept in years, Dean notes sadly. Sometimes it just aches to think about. Sam says, "Yeah, I — yeah. It's just… it's Dad's birthday tomorrow, you know? I just wonder…"

Dean gets it. He still has trouble waking up restless, picking up Dad's journal and rifling through it. And there's Sam, unable to sleep himself, looking out the cracked window of the week and thinking about it, too. It's not like they have many people left alive in the family. It's a fucking curse, is what it is. All this time, and still radio silence. It's one of the scarce few times he wants to punch his father in the nose.

Dean puts his hand up. "Well, hold that thought. Maybe getting your mind off all that'll make you feel better, huh? We could go to a movie. Or… go to an arcade. Or, hey — novel idea. We could go on a hunt."

Sam blinks. "You found one?"

And isn't that just kind of funny, the way he says it like they're nervous hungry storeowners waiting for customers. Hauntings and mutilations and grizzly murders have been kind of on the downlow, lately. And per the usual Winchester weirdness, Dean's a little put-out by it. How else do you keep busy and not think of the obvious problems in your own life? Hunting is great for that. He's starting to think Sam feels the same way, anxious even as they are about him and overusing his abilities.

Regardless, Sam looks eager to get back to work. Dean grins.

In the morning, they pack up and get ready to head out. Dean slings his duffle over his shoulder, tucks his good ol' lucky newspaper that details under his arm, and heads toward Baby as she shines ready and willing to hit the road again. It's a clean day in a dirty little neighborhood — his kind of people, honestly. Sun's shining, not a cloud in the sky —

"Oh my fucking god!"

Dean whirls around the moment he hears the first half of the girlish shriek, heart viced and hand reaching for his blade by instinct. One of the gals who'd bagged them a money-raining pervert the night before is looking in horror passed Dean, and then begins a slow horror movie walk backwards. She isn't about to become a statistic from Scream, looks like, because she's booking it by the time Dean actually looks in the direction of her pointed finger. Towards Sam. He's standing at the door, a listless look on his face. Blood is caked around a fleshy wound in his scalp and rolls out of his nose and mouth, defying gravity as it drifts sideways into the shell of his ear. His clothes are stained with it. For a moment, Dean feels like his own hands are, too. They're not, but he feels it, the tacky warmth. A memory.

An ugly gurgling noise works his brother's throat. Dean can see through him.

"Sam," Dean says urgently, walking over. He can't touch him. Hasn't been able to touch him in years, and it's torturous sometimes. "Fuck, focus! Sammy!"

Sam blinks finally, glancing down between them and making a soft breathy noise of startled disappointment. Not for the first time, Dean can't help but wonder why ghosts sigh or gurgle or gasp when they have no lungs to do it with. It's hardly a passing thought as he waves his hands at Sam, a helpless, wordless way of telling him that he needs to figure himself out; sometimes Sam gets in these modes and he's gotta be snapped out of it, because it's really, really hard to travel when you've got the image of a walking corpse standing in the middle of a motel parking lot. For all the twisting his heart does at the sight, he's a little more used to it than the average passer-by.

And… this has been happening more frequently. Dean doesn't want to think about what that could mean. Three years as a ghost is already pushing it, isn't it? Forget worrying about the other shoe dropping when it comes to Sam going vengeful, he's just worried he's going to lose what his brother used to fucking be. Dean's been on enough ghost hunts to see the other side of the coin: some ghosts go rabid, but then… some are aimless, lost, a glazed look in their eye and nothing left of their old selves. He's not the only one who thinks about it; he can tell his little brother broods over it sometimes, too. Sam looks miserable when it happens, and Dean can't face that because he might start feeling miserable about it, too — and he refuses to feel miserable about having his brother in spirit. Literally.

Besides… where do ghosts go, when they die all over again?

Are they… just gone?

"Hey — eyes on me, Christmas Past. Focus."

Sam looks at him, and Dean has to hold back a wince. So much fucking blood. He doesn't want to remember that night. But Sam seems to relax under the weight of his stare, and after a moment Sam replaces the cruel, twisted husk of his brother back into a much more alive looking figure. The ragged wound on the side of his head seals up and, like a mirage, the blood evaporates. Dean breathes a relieved sigh through his nose, and Sam tucks his chin a little, cursing under his breath. "My bad."

Dean's surprised by the little laugh that bubbles out of him. Slightly delirious? Nah.

"Hurry up and get in the car before they call the Ghostbusters."

"I don't get into anything anymore," Sam grumbles back.

"And all the ladies of the world mourn that, truly."

The mood is fixed for the day, just a little bit, simple as that.

They get back on the road and keep looking for Dad.

Life does go on. Sort of. Sam can't exactly work a crossbow with adequate precision, but he can fling monsters just fine, and traveling through walls isn't exactly a problem. Though Dean seriously hates how much thought and strategy he has to put into banging a pretty girl who's looking for a good time. We can't have it all, can we? He wanted his brother to stay. His brother can't leave. He hasn't figured out a proper way to apologize for jynxing Sam to death.

… One hunt does go sideways. It starts with a hunter blasting Sam with rock salt and ends with Dean punching them in the dick.

While Sam watches Dean bandage his own arm, quiet and concerned, he eventually wanders onto the topic on both of their minds.

"What do you think will happen, when we find Dad?"

Which is, as far as Dean's concerned, the same question as: "What happens when he finds out I'm still here?".

It's hard to explain, what if feels like to just — stop being whole. I remember thinking about it a lot, when Dad and Dean started actually letting me go on hunts, you know…? I wondered what pain felt like to them, when they don't have the chemicals and nerves for it, no bodies to replicate the feeling. I wondered what tethers them to that kind of hurt, instead of running away from it. When I… was fading, I recall being cold and feeling everything go numb — not like a city slowly blacking out, but like a slow submersion into water — and that's when I got the idea. The why. I wasn't dead, but I could see the transformation to supernatural, like some zero to a hero in some big epic. Or maybe a hero to a zero.

I remember a voice swimming, stilted and emotional and familiar, and I thought: 'Well, what the fuck do you want me to do about it? I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.' Nothing I thought could have helped them, or me. Nothing would've fixed it, right? And there were so many things unspoken. Like… I'm sorry I snapped. I'm sorry I've always wanted to leave. I'm sorry I wouldn't change that fact, that I want to flee that life. I'm sorry I wasn't the obedient little brother I could've been in some other roll of the dice. I'm sorry you had to look out for me. I'm sorry it's raining tonight. I'm sorry about Mom. I'll always be sorry about Mom.

I'm sorry. That's what I thought.

I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry…

And then… When you evade a reaper and come back from it all with those hopes and dreams unfufilled… I had so many things I wanted to do still. I wanted to go to college and maybe meet someone to spend my life with. Maybe have some kids, if I felt like I could be any good at it. A place of my own that wasn't some hotel in the middle of an old, dark highway. And I wanted… heh. I wanted to make amends someday. I wanted to not have to evade the topic of my family, and have them over for really tense, awkward barbeques until they warmed up to my new life. I wanted them to have some of that, too. Didn't we deserve it, after everything that got thrown in our faces…?

You know, though — all that, it wasn't even the reason I stayed behind.

Figures, huh?

It's dark outside, rain abusing the cheap roofing of the roadside motel, and the thunder sends explosions of light like shrapnel through the spaces between the window blinds. The air is cluttered with harsh words spoken, left to dangle in the tense atmosphere that settles over their heads. The storm out there is far less intimidating than the look that passes over John Winchester's face as he watches Sam packing his things. Their father is a man of usually withheld emotions, but when he's angry — he gets angry: this time, a cold, icy anger that is not explosive, but is just as destructive. Sam's at least used to some ire being directed at him, so he barely hesitates when he packs his bag and hauls it over his shoulder to get the fuck out. What he doesn't expect —

"If you walk out that door, don't you ever come back!"

And Sam whips his head around to look at his father, pain in the lines of his face before his nostrils flare and his eyes light up with indignation and hurt and betrayal and frustration. For a moment, he's staring his father down, and they both know there's no changing what's happening right now. They're stubborn, and orders aren't being followed, and that? That is enough to be exiled. Sam's eyes burn, but he refuses to break apart under the look he's being given.

He storms out into the wicked winter air.

The crackling footsteps rushing through the leaves and crunchy dirt behind him aren't his dad's, he knows. It's Dean (always Dean), who is breathless and cracking under the weight of trying to play referee. Sam's sorry about that, too, but he didn't ask Dean to do it. And they all know what side Dean's actually on. Dean's panting in a rough tone, "Sam, you're bein' crazy here — get back in the room, let's talk this out."

"I'm being crazy?! Are you — christ, Dean. Get back inside with Dad. I'm not going back." His hair flattens around his face, and there's a chill on his skin that raises goosebumps. His brother is as stubborn as he is, as long as it's not going against John's wishes. So it only figures he picks up the pace in the direction of his kid brother, his brother who had surpised him in height already. His rushed strides barely match Sam's; it's hard to be in sync with an angry brother, hard to find that groove that Sam once felt solace in. Dean's hand grips his bicep and whirls him around with a bit of that boiling Winchester force. He's pissed at Sam, too, Sam knows. He doesn't understand, and Sam's mad at Dad for that, too. Because this is the kind of shit he'd put on Dean's head. How long have they been marching to the same old song? Revenge for someone who wouldn't have wanted any of this for them? It's insane, is what it is. Have they ever actually asked what Mom wanted? He asks himself that every time one of them is sewing the other back up into one piece. Every time Dad passes out bandaged but still on the war path for whatever destroyed their home.

"Yeah, you're being crazy," Dean replies. "You're really gonna run off on us like this?" And then he shakes his head, looking miserable about it, about the fact that his family is jaggedly cracking down the middle. Sam knows what it does to him; Dad pulls him one way, and Sam tries to pull him another, and it just doesn't work. Nothing about their set-up ever really worked. "Sam, be real with yourself. After all this time, you're just walking out? Running away? We need you here, man. I need you here."

The guilt tripping can't work. He's put too much into his future to let it. Don't they get it? This is a fucking blessing. He's dreamed about this, prayed about this. In a perfect world, his father would hug him tight and Dean would be helping him pack, maybe even drive him to Palo Alto for one last road trip before the semester would begin. And his mom would kiss his cheek and tearfully tell him that she's so, so proud. Yeah. That mother he knows little to nothing about, because Dad and Dean shut down when she's brought up, put up walls Sam can't get around.

Reality is a beast.

A car's headlights bask them in a soft, golden glow for a brief moment. Sam grabs his brother's shoulders, eyes glistening under the barrage of rain.

"Come with me, Dean."

"What? Oh, come on…"

That shield is up; that mask of casual indifference that Dean tries on. Sam sees right through the act.

"No, I'm serious. You can walk away from this, too — from all of this. We can go right now, get a bus ticket, start a new life. Hell, you don't need to go to school. People live happy lives on a GED, you know. You could be a mechanic, some kind of fixer-upper, and Dad'll come around; he'll have to — "

Dean jerks back from his brother's grasp, disbelief in the motion.

"Seriously?" Dean sputters.

Sam fans his hands out, duffle precariously dangling on his broad shoulder. "You know Dad's gonna run us into the ground for this stupid crusade of his. And then one of us will really be alone."

"You might want to abandon your family, but I'm not like you. I actually give a shit about the mission." Dean's body seems to go rigid, like a coiling cobra ready to lash out with his own brand of poison. "What we've always set out to do! Once upon a time, you understood that. Or are you that pissed about being a freak, too, you'd rather be a grade-A selfish asshole instead?!"

It's low, and Sam can go lower.

"Go to hell," Sam bites.

Dean rubs a hand over his mouth, some kind of delusional humor in his eyes. Humor and something sadder. "Jesus. Already getting there, bitch. You're gonna be the death of me."

He can't do this fight again. Not for the hundredth time. He has to go. He deflates, because he can't use his energy up on this. He has a few states to jump through, and time's wasting, and he can't think about how he's just been disowned by his family — how he's not even supposed to turn back now, because John told him he wasn't walking back through that door. Not anymore.

"Goodbye, Dean," he says tiredly.

That seems to hurt his brother more than the rest.

There's a pregnant pause speckled with raindrops. "Yeah… yeah. Enjoy life without us."

It won't be that way, Sam'll hurt every day when he's not forcing himself busy with studies and books and life expenses, but Dean won't get it. He has to worry about his future now, before he dies in a pool of his own blood by some new monster of the weekend. Sam turns away and doesn't look back, following the murky yellow paintdrops that make up the lights down the highway. Mud squelches under his feet and his hair is dark and tamed by the weather, but with every step, he feels like some kind of tether is strained more and more, ready to snap and free him. He has the bus fare. He has his acceptance letter, a wad of cash, a potential place to stay. He's almost there. So close… If nobody will be proud of him, he will. He's proud of himself. He'll repeat it until he completely believes it.

I'm proud, I'm proud, I'm so proud of you. He imagines it in other people's voices. I'm proud of you, Dad says.I'm proud of you, Mom says, I'm proud of you, Dean grins. And Sam smiles back.

With the bus stop in sight after a long, uncomfortable hike and a million fluttering thoughts, the tether keeping him at his family's side snaps, and then he breathes, closes his eyes, and feels alive for the first time in a long time. His pant sleeves are soaked, toes sopping in their shoes, and he'll probably get one hell of a cold, but he's here.

That feeling is cut off — suddenly, confusingly, inexplicably — by the harpy's scream of wheels and the long blaring of a car horn behind him.

He turns enough to see it. Some little piece of shit car that Dean would tsk at, and those headlights — those headlights are so bright, they drown out everything, take his eyes from him like he's caught in a ripple of lightning, or maybe a heavenly transporter; Beam me up, Scotty, as they say. The metal bumper hits his legs first, and he flips forward and bounces so easily, might as well be a pebble across a pond. The sky somersaults, his body twists and crackles and bends wrong. His forehead causes the glass to splinter and spiderweb across the windshield, his nose breaks against the roof, and his wet foot catches the wiper of rear window. Water whips off him. He's a sopped ragdoll.

Thudthudthud—

Thump.

He rests by the roadside, staring at a sky that looks like it leads to oblivion, and it's a long moment before he registers anything. He tastes mud and blood and the rain above. His duffle bag soaks up a puddle tinged with blood next to him, and he can't help but twist his quivering arm to try and pick it up from where he lays — My paperwork's going to get dirty, he thinks slowly, his world dripping like a slow syrup. A car stops, a door ding-ding-ding's, and then someone crouches low next to him. He feels the warmth breath on his ear.

"Goodbye, Sam Winchester."

And then…. then they're getting back in and driving away from a potential reckless driving and manslaughter charge, and Sam should be asking who that could have been, how they would know his name, how they would know where he is — but Sam just thinks tiredly: My clothes... My paperwork. My pictures.

He only catches up with his shock when pain thrums through his back, as if a devilish chill, and he wheezes on the taste of his lung floating in blood.

Oh, shit.

'Oh shit' is about as eloquent as you can get when you're dying.

It's kind of embarrassing, in hindsight. Right? You're so close to proving your family wrong, that you have what it takes to make it out there with a normal life, and in some freak twist, you get yourself into trouble right out of the door. I just remember wondering… If I survived this, how many 'I told you so's would I get to hear about? What were the friggin' odds that fate hated me that much?

It hurts. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts —

"H-hurts — "

"Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck — Sammy, Sam. What the fuck!"

Dean had driven after Sam without a single fucking clue what would come of it, if he's honest. Yeah, Dad had said Sam couldn't actually come back, and yeah, it would be fighting-a-bear hard to reconcile this entire situation, but Dean was nothing if not resilient. And shit, Sam, can't he be selfish, too? He wants you and the old man all to himself; a hunter's family 'til the end. It's shitty. It's so shitty, but what is he supposed to do? Watch all he's got shrink down to nothin'? This wasn't what he fought for, for the last eighteen years.

It doesn't even matter, because he sees a crumpled body in the mud through the whipping windshield wipers. It's not moving as he approaches on foot. Irrationally, he thinks maybe it's a case for them. A supernatural murder mystery. But he recognizes the discarded shoe, and then the bag, and then the hair…

Preposterous. Can't be.

There's blood everywhere, congealing in the mud, fogging up the frigid water. It takes him about two seconds to ditch the Impala by the shoulder of the road and collapse next to Sam, and when he gets there he almost wishes time could slow the fuck down and back the fuck up, because he has no clue what to do about this. Sam looks at him with eyes that are practically shut — just slivers of a dulled green color that trembles and flickers under the battering of the rain. His skin is white, and his nose is scarlet and swollen, and — and his head, it's cracked open, and Dean has to swallow the bile that tries to get up his throat. The amulet swings wildly between them as he puts his hands on Sam's cheeks and tries to process when he's looking at. This can't be right. Ambulance. He needs an ambulance. Sam's gurgling, he's making gurling sounds, and Dean knows it means he can't put butterfly bandages on him and call it a night. It's bad. Legs aren't supposed to twist like that.

What is that high crying noise? It sounds horrible. Is that really just coming from him?

Dean's moan is helpless, and his throat hurts. "Sam! Sam, come on. Don't do this."

Sam's gaze flickers toward Dean and the stare holds, shockingly. But froth is Dean's only reply, an rattling sound curdling in Sam's parted mouth. All Dean can really think to do is rip off his jacket and put it over Sam's stuttering chest, as if it even blocks out the wet chill. What else is broken? Should he try to pick him up and move him, get him to the hospital himself? He should be running. He needs to run back to the car and drive back to a phone and — and — and.

"Who the fuck did this, Sammy?! I'll friggin' kill them. I'll rip their guts out of their assholes-"

Sam gurgles, sobs in pain while his hand spastically tremors in search for Dean. Dean tethers, clasps his brother's hand. His brother's dying. What do I do, what do I do, what do I do? You'd think you know how to address a life or death situation, when you're a hunter. You'd think you'd know how to face this.

Instead, he rambles hysterically.

"Please, please. God, don't do this. Sam, I didn't — I didn't mean any of it. You can go to college. I'll fucking drive you there. I'll pay your fucking rent. I'll make Dad visit and I won't complain for even a goddamn second, but don't you fucking die right now. Don't you dare die right now, do you hear me?! You're not forgiven if you go out like this, not like this. You wanted a normal life, right? You can have it. You can have whatever you want! I'll be right there next to you, you hear me?!"

Sam's lips move. Dean leans in and puts his ear to his brother's mouth like its a heartbeat, eyes wide and pleading. "… Sammy?"

"… S'r…ry… M'sr…y…"

It takes approximately eighty-five seconds afterward for Sam to die. The human body is a piece of shit. It shouldn't happen this way. Dean squeezes his brother's chilled hands in his and shakes him over and over, and when it doesn't drag anymore life from Sam he screams himself hoarse. He can't really remember how he's pried away and who does it, but he remembers throwing swings when the black body bag comes out. He gives his father a black eye and then hugs him for dear life, because he forgets for a moment how old he actually is and thinks maybe — maybe — his dad could tell him it's just a dream.

That night gives Dean a new person to bury and a serious head cold.

It's all wrong.

You know the saying, "This too shall pass?" I learned the Hebrew for it when I was looking into some spell work and got into a brief stint researching Muslim poets. גם זה יעבור, something I always considered when I worked toward the rest of my life: everything's temporary. The people you think are going to live forever, the immortal legends you outrageously think will outlive you when you're already thirty years their junior — rock stars, actors… parents, grandparents. You forget that everything has a beginning, a middle, an end. Abraham Lincoln had the right idea. "This too shall pass." It's just… you know, not only the bad passes by.

I can't really explain what it's like, to watch your family suffer from the outside. And Dean, he took it hard… really hard. And I couldn't watch that. You understand? And I couldn't leave knowing that's what was left over. If you'd looked into his face before you died and saw what I did, you'd have a hard time saying goodbye, too.

And then, well. I came back. He almost hit me with an iron rod from a fireplace. But there I was.

Here I am.

They find their father with thousands of miles under their belts. Sam's not exactly sure what he expects, but he does anticipate the blanching of his father's face. And the silence that fills the room, so much different than the quiet tension the last time he'd spoken to John, alive. The way they'd parted was… rough. It was another regret. And while he was afraid of his father's reaction to this… broken, different version of his dead son, he also knew he had to do this. Had to come and set things right with the old man. It's what they all deserved, including himself. Peace of mind.

Dean stands to the side as he always does, in the middle of the two, ready to leap in if it gets — violent. Sam wonders if Dean's unsure which side he should be on.

"… Jesus christ… Sammy? S'that you?" John says, eyes wet and haunted. He puts out one of his calloused hands in a gentle way Sam hasn't seen in a long, long time.

"Hey, Dad," Sam says softly, remembering what it must be like, to cry. To feel that desire to. He puts his hand over his father's, his fingers sinking into the hand like quicksand. Dean turns away slightly, arms folded, his own battle with his emotion clear in the furrow of his brow. They'd talked about this reunion before, but neither of them had any answers about the epilogue — the end result. John looks at his eldest with a look of wonder. Or maybe a look of fear. Sam isn't sure.

"What the hell? We burned his bones," he says. Dean reaches up and curls his hand around the amulet under his chin, squeezing. The haunted object, Sam had told him.

Sam's tether.

"He's… Yeah," Dean half-asses. "I was just as freaked out as you were."

"He tried to hit me with a firepoker," Sam says flatly.

John wipes his eyes and smiles. "I'm just — I'm glad I get to see you… Tell you how sorry I am, for how everything went the last time we…"

"It's okay," Sam's quick to interject. He looks worse than usual, the fine touches of death more obvious in his eyes, blood on his head. He's nervous. But he has to say what he needs to say. "It's fine. I mean, it's not, but… it's fine. I — uh. I won't say it's not what I wanted… because I did want to leave. I wanted to go, and even if I could go back and change what happened that night, I'd still want to go. But I didn't want to… leave it like that. Shit happens."

He looks at Dean, and then his father. Both are listening. Maybe more than they've ever listened; or at the very least, more than they've listened with a look that wasn't incredulity, or exasperation. They hear him. He feels something in the entirety of his spirit strengthen in that moment, like a candle burning a bit more brightly in a dark room.

He continues, "I just wanted to let you know that I, um. I'm okay. We're okay."

"It's not," John says quietly. His smile is strained. "It's not okay… My boy's dead."

That's something they all have to come to terms with, Sam thinks.

He just wishes he could hug them both at least one more time, at the very least.

He misses feeling.

It takes him a moment, looking at the pained looks on his dad and brother's faces, to realize that he's lost control of himself — that he stands in their cheap room as a shadow of a bloody corpse, skull showing and blood on his face. An afterimage of their Sam, after rubbing their eyes and watching the shapes dance. Maybe tonight will be the night he can't take those horribly sad looks anymore. Maybe…

Sometimes, you just gotta let go, right? This too shall pass, they say. This, too. I wish I knew what I wanted. I used to be so good at knowing what I wanted.

Dean feels like he can breathe a little easier now.

They stay together for the night, in an old cabin nearby that Bobby and Rufus co-owned near a pond full of ducks and chump fish. Dad's recommendation. Figures it's the least they could do — the least the old man could do for them. As much as Dean hangs on his every word, when it comes to this, he's stone solid: don't you dare go running off on us without some kind of call or note or friggin' something.

It's not that Dean isn't still invested in hunting down the thing that killed mom; of course he is, of course, why the fuck wouldn't he be? It's Mom. He'd leap into a cave full of Wendigos with a batshit grin if it meant the end result was murdering the thing that burned her up and took their livelihood with the house. Doesn't matter if he only had her for a handful of years. None of them went to waste, and he holds them close.

But this is Sam. And he's willing to put him first. And Mom would understand; hell, she'd want that.

God… It all went so fucking crazy, this life.

But at least he had a decent night's sleep. Solid alcohol sleep, he'd say. He wakes up with a dry smack of his lips, hair askew until he runs a hand through it. The room smells like beer from the late-night talk the three of 'em had — one of the kindest, calmest nights Dean can remember between them as a family, where Dad didn't care about a bigger picture and he was just there, and Sam looked more alive in death than he's looked since that night he'd found him on the roadside. Maybe even before that, if it's even fucking possible. There was a home here for a few midnight hours; a place where Dean felt like everything would be okay, somehow.

As he sits up fully, he absently tosses out a, "Hey, Einstein, where'd you float to?" and pulls his button-up back on his shoulders, reminding himself to take a long shower before he starts scaring off the ladies a whole town away. But something feels off. Wrong. Unlike every morning for the last three years, Sam doesn't chill the room, and Sam doesn't throw back a witty retort or stupid fun fact. It's so quiet, actually, that Dean can hear the buzzing of isolation, dust mites drifting in front of the window. He paws distractedly at his neck, feeling as though something about him was all wrong.

The amulet is gone.

And so is Dad.

"Dad, no — " Dean whispers, an urgent sort of panic before he's springing from the rickety mattress and rushing to the front door. He nearly trips over his own boots, struggles with the lock without any sort of grace until his spastic fingers actually turn the knob and he can barrel out into the fresh morning air. He doesn't see Sam — neither version of him — but he smells smoke first, sees his father second, standing in front of a strong and steady dance of fire. A small red gasoline tank is in one of his hands, their salt supply sitting, used up, at his feet. It doesn't take Dean long to know what happened, why his neck feels so light, why John's shoulders are squared up like he's stopping himself from breaking to pieces.

He sees red first, logic thrown out the window. He flies forward and throws all of his body weight into John with a betrayed roar, and they both hit the ground hard beside the fire. It's a sick, twisted version of their sparring matches — Dean straddles him and shakes his collar, eyes wild as they bore into John's red-rimmed stare. "Dean!" John barks, an order on the tip of his tongue, and Dean shakes him again.

"What the fuck?! Why would you — Tell me he wanted this. Tell me he told you to do this, so I can be pissed at him instead!" John is, as Dean had thought, silent in the face of the question. He just gets this look that makes Dean's blood boil, and he knows. He knows. "Did he watch you do it? You didn't have the right to do this! It wasn't your choice to make…!"

He feels dizzy. The world spins, and John pins him stomach-first into the sharp woodland floor, where his cheek scratches against bits of bark and rock, forced to look at the fire where the amulet's likely dribbled into a sad puddle; fuck knows what it was made with, if it was even anything special to anyone but Dean. Tears burn in his eyes, drip openly down the side of his face, and he struggles against the knee pressing into his back. "Get the fuck off me, you son-of-a-bitch—"

John's hand presses the side of Dean's head, to pin him. And to keep him looking at the fire.

"Goddammit, Dean, listen to yourself! You're clinging to your brother's ghost — " John's voice is nasally and stuffed, the rough sound of a man who's done his crying and has made his peace, the fucking bastard. His hand is warm and solid against Dean's temple. "Ghosts aren't supposed to stay. They're not supposed to stay here. We can't — we can't hold onto him when it's his time, son—"

He struggles still, but his dad, older as he may be, is stronger. Always stronger. Always had an easier time doing the things nobody wanted him to do.

"Shut up, sh — he wasn't one of your fucking hunts…!"

"This wasn't about the hunt," John hisses, his voice jagged like glass. "This was about putting my son to rest."

He shoves off Dean, stumbling backwards in case Dean was ready for another go-around. But Dean's too tired and dumbstruck by the fire beside him. Sam's spirit, gone up in flames, without a goodbye. Without one final anything. Their father didn't have the right to take that from them. He just didn't. He pulls his knees up and pushes his palms into his eyes, defeat telltale in the slump of his shoulders. Sweat prickles his skin, and the fire leaves a painfully hot glow against his bare toes.

"It wasn't your choice…" Dean mumbles.

John looks away. Looks older, much older. "It wasn't yours to keep him here, either."

Neither of them move for a long time, and John's the first to go, to return to the cabin and wait for — whatever Dean decides to do next. But, see… He has no clue what he's going to do. He's back to square one. Dad's inside mourning for a second time and drinking himself to sleep, while Dean sits until the sun sets and the fire dies into nothing, and Sam's just gone again. Gone.

Gone.

Gone until something brushes against his shoulder, the barest sensation of an icy touch.

"… Dean?" Sam nearly whispers.

Dean slowly picks his head up, mouth parted. Has he lost his mind? He doesn't want to address it, because if he's just dreaming, he'll freak out all over again. But glinting just faintly, the amulet rolls from the fire and sits to rest between Dean's numbed feet. The small golden face stares him down, and that's when he finally cranes his neck to look up — up, where Sam's figure has materialized next to him. He rubs a sleeve across his snotty red nose and suddenly feels like a foolish kid. What should he say? What does he say? He supposes his favorite name will do. "Sam."

"Sorry," Sam says quietly. "I wanted to wait for Dad to go to sleep."

He hovers indecisively before floating down to sit, the shaky image of him tucking his hands under his crossed, long-ass legs.

"Sam…" he croaks again, unsure what to do. He can't hug him. Can't show him how relieved he is. Or worse yet, how unsure he is. All this time, all this time with Sam's ghost, and he just… He just doesn't know. Sam looks so lost. Dean's betting he doesn't look so found, himself. "So the amulet, it didn't…"

Sam scoffs. "Dude, I wasn't tethered to the amulet."

Dean stares at him for a long moment before he gets it. His eyes mist and he looks back at the campfire, dimly lit and blackened into sad, crumbling pieces. "Then… you, uh. Then you're here… because you're haunting me?"

Sam smiles ruefully. "I'm here because you wanted me to be. You said it, man. If I died back there, you wouldn't have forgiven me."

"Sam, that — "

"You also promised to pay my rent, and that was kind of too good to pass up."

Dean's throat tightens, but he manages a surprised, strained laugh.

He remembers rambling, of course he does. He remembers pleading. But he didn't think that would be what…

Dean tries to talk. Stupid him. "Dad wasn't trying to hurt anyone. He just wanted…"

Sam nods, and how those shaggy bags still work to make him look all but twelve and aimless, he doesn't understand. "I know."

"… Do you want to be here, Sam? Because if you… Fuck. If you don't want to be here, I'll let you go, Sam. I will. Right here, right now, I'll do whatever you need me to. I can't — I can't tell you that I want you gone, because I sure the hell don't, man. The idea of not having you around scares the hell out of me. Because it's been you and me since forever. But if you're in pain — if you're suffering like this…" He looks at his brother — his brother, who is swimming in his vision, pale as the moon and lips blue, with the faintest hint of blood on his collar — "I'm ready to say goodbye, a-as long as you, you know… As long as you're ready to go. When it's your time, then it's your time. And you just have to say it, and I'll do whatever I need to, to let you go."

Sam sighs after a lengthy pause, seemingly peaceful for once as he hovers closer beside his brother, matching his huddled figure with Dean's. He's so terrified he won't see Sam again, and Sam had always said he was scared he'd never see Dean again, either, if death meant… y'know. Nothingness. But how will this story end? Dad had tried to look at the bigger picture. Maybe now they all did. As angry and shocked as Dean is over their father's actions, he knew there was some truth to it all. What happens in the final chapter, when Sam can't control himself and becomes something else? Something they'd hunt?

The silence between him and his brother is filled with crickets chirping and the frogs puffing their chests and ribbiting. It's nice out here, Dean thinks. It's a blue world framed by the outlines of tall trees and mountains in the distance, stars puncturing the solid blue ocean above them. Dean can hardly feel his fingers, they're so cold now in the wake of the fire dying and Sam lingering so close beside him, but it's serene.

"I think," Sam says at last, glancing at Dean, "I'll stick around a little longer."

Dean doesn't want his hopeful glance to deter Sam from his own choice, but he can't help the crooked smile that pulls at the corners of his mouth. He's entirely uncool right now, like someone trying to lighten the mood after a quiet funeral. "Oh, yeah? I hope ghost boy isn't thinking about staying just so he can go peeping in the shower rooms."

Sam snorts, fizzling slightly, fading in and out. Dean always likened it to a television that needed the antennas fiddled around with.

"No… I want to see everything through. I want to find the thing that killed Mom. Maybe even find the asshole who decided to murder me via hit-and-run. And then… maybe I can face her out there… Meet her for real, you know?"

"Yeah," Dean says in a way that is achingly sincere. "Yeah, Sammy. She sure would. She'll be relieved to see you're not a total loser… I already know, she'll love you. Even more than she already did."

Sam's shoulder sinks into Dean's. It's warm, like marbled rock in the sun.

Dean closes his eyes and hangs onto that.

Another good quote: 'Yesterday is gone. Tomorrow has not yet come. We have only today. Let us begin.'

Mother Teresa, written in the back of one of my lame trapper keepers, in middle school.

It wasn't easy, deciding to stay behind. As much as I was freaked out by what was ahead of me… I believed in a Heaven and a Hell. I believed in angels and demons. In a God. Death couldn't possibly just be — just… nothing. Not with what we've seen out there. Even if I'm nervous, I know there's gonna be a time where I'm ready to let go of the handrail and drift away. But the way I see it, it's like a challenge. It's like a math final on trig. Complicated shit, and you're bound to freak out, maybe have a crisis of faith, but you'll get through it. If this is what keeps my brother going for a little longer — if this isn't the goodbye he's ready for — then I'm okay. I'm good.

It's good.

… Besides, it'll be fun to ruin his life a little, maybe do some poltergeist moves on the tacky motel art if he tries any one-nighters with me around.

How long I can keep pissing off my brother until he offers me last rites?

Yeah, that's a good measure of time, just for now.

I think I'll earn my rest.