For the Sam Winchester Big Bang 2017 on tumblr/LJ!

Warning for psychological issues, mental anguish, mentions of torture, and so on. Also has minor self-harm (unintentional harm), and violence/blood.

(There's lovely art by quickreaver at livejournal, though spoilers abound!)

The soul is indestructible. But sometimes you can tear it into strips, like tattered cloth.

Samuel, he's called.

He kind of picked it himself, because it just seemed logical — that was his name for better or worse. Fit him better than Sammy or Sam, molded around him like a sterile glove pulled over his fingertips, hugging at the wrist. Dean had a hell of a time saying it without any jest ("Samuel, Samuel — that sounds like I'm getting mad at you for not eating your carrots."), and he still looks like he's trying too hard to get his mouth to form the syllables. Whatever. Samuel can leave him to his battles. As long as he's got work to do and a steady income to put toward the house, which always seems to need something worked on. It's been a year since they bought the little white and green house that sits twenty minutes outside of town (and a few hours drive away from Bobby's clunky junkyard where his soul had been resurrected), and things... settle. Settle as best they can, anyway. The sun says hello, the sun says goodbye, and the pages on the calendar rip away beneath his calloused fingers.

Cheap houses mean a lot of construction, which worked out, because they'd both swapped out their guns for hammers to pay the bills. The guy who owned the house before them tore half the place apart for rennovations... and then croaked before he ever finished them. Grief notwithstanding, the son was more than happy to have the land off his hands. Dean's repaired the floors, and Samuel's worked on the yard and all the scrap left there (rusted metal, the husks of dead tree branches, pepsi cans from a habitual guzzler), and — well, he's not sure where the cats came from, but he's determined not to feed them; it only makes them come back more.

Yeah. Things are as normal as they get. Life without hunting.

... For the most part.

He and Dean go out on rare occasion, because Samuel gets the itch sometimes, and Dean pretends he doesn't, but he does. Samuel knows he does.

Today, though, there's nothing strange in the papers or online. Today's a house maintanence day. Keeps Samuel's mind occupied. As he works on the back yard, there's the faintest sound of rustling that he assumes is a cat, one he'll have to scare away from the back door that leads to the kitchen. He hunkers down on his knees, muscle in his arms firm and glistening and old tight jeans sullied by dirt, he tries to peer into the dark abyss of the house's crawlspace where he'd tracked the sound; the opening's near the petunias (not planted by him, thank you, he prefers vegetables and things that acually make sense), and Dean has had to wriggle under the house sometimes if the old plumbing fucks up because he thinks he's a professional plumber. Dean's out shopping at the moment, so there's only one other person to expect under there. And it's not a professional plumber.

He pushes bangs out of his face and strains to listen to the whimpering in the deep, dark of the house's underbelly.

... For fuck's sake —

"Will you come out, Droopy Dog? Jesus, when'd you even get under there?"

"Under there," the man hidden in the shadows whispers, trembling with unseen wet eyes. "S-so cold, I can't — I can't breathe, please, please..."

He stays out of sight despite Samuel's attempt at gentle coaxing, and with a frustrated huff he rolls his eyes before pulling his phone from his pocket and attempting to illuminate the tiny space with the light function. If anyone thinks he's gonna wriggle his ass under there to drag that deadweight out, they've got another friggin' thing coming; he's got weeds to finish pulling. Hell, the guy under here is a weed that needs plucking, he thinks some days, albeit not as seriously as he'd like.

"Yeah, yeah, I'll end it alright. Just come out so I can listen to the radio without you moaning in the background, why don't you?" No answer, and Samuel sighs. "Do I have to ask nice, Droopy? Don't make me ask nicely. You know that's not my thing."

Someone (who is very obvious) says nearby, "What the fuck, Sammy?"

And Samuel sits back on his haunches and wipes mud off his arms, turning look at Dean and his bafflement as he wanders toward him from the dirt driveway. Behind him Tweedle Dumb (to Dean's Tweedle Dee) walks with long strides, a pleasant expression dimpling his cheeks. Bright-eyed weirdo, Samuel thinks. He envies him sometimes. Instead of expanding on that thought, he just shakes his head, already knowing it's going to be a long day that he has little patience for. He dusts his knees off as he rises and points to the entrance Droopy Dog must've scrambled into when nobody was looking. "He decided to have flashbacks again. And it's Samuel, remember?"

"I'm Sammy," Tweedle Dumb — Sammy, whatever — says with two fingers raised in attendence, grinning playfully from over Dean's shoulder. The guy is all good cheer and calmness in the wake of bad news, tanned like the warmth he radiates, hair way too long to Samuel's liking; short is better, short is safer on the hunt. Samuel peels off his gardening gloves and takes his place beside Sammy. Sammy works a cash register in Dolly's Market and is still in his red apron, probably figuring its useful at suppertime.

Dean grumbles under his breath before he drops to his knees. Peering into the dark himself garners no results, and Samuel's wondering why he didn't figure that would be the case. Yet Dean knows exactly who it is and why he's there; Droopy always finds the darkest and coldest and most unappealing nooks and crannies to squeeze himself into. "Whatever," Dean huffs. He talks to the quivering darkness. "Christ, you really outdid yourself..." And then to Sammy, with some level of judgment, "Didn't I tell you to keep your eye on him?"

"I'm sorry, man," Sammy says, and soon they're all hunkered on their knees in front of this small crawlspace, Samuel aiming his phone flashlight toward a scarcely visible, quivering figure. Dean's shoulder to shoulder between the two, Sammy with a pleasant expression and the other with all the grim annoyance in the world. The town twenty minutes drive away assumes they're identical twins, Sammy and Samuel, and really... they're not far off, are they? As the moments tick by, Sammy shoots Dean's concern a sympathetic little smile before he looks back into the inky blackness before them. "... Samson? You think you could come out for supper, bud? We're gonna need extra hands to peel some potatoes."

They don't actually let Samson peel potatoes. They don't let him or Sam near the knives. Locked down and defended.

"I don't believe you," Samson says weakly. "I can't leave, I can never leave."

"He's in one of his moods," Samuel grumbles, about as emotional as someone who's spilt water on his shirt. "He's ruining my evening."

"Oh, shut it," Dean growls. A silence pulls across them like an old blanket, and Dean bumps Sammy and Samuel's shoulders. "Go on, get outta here. I'll get him out, alright? Just get to work on dinner. I'm friggin' starving." The two men formerly known as Sam Winchester give each other glances over Dean's bowed head, nod, and raise up to their feet.

"Just call us if you need us, man," Sammy says, patting Dean's shoulder. Samuel forgoes physical touch; it's just not in him. Instead he goes back to checking the vegetables, which are coming in nicely and ready to be harvested — and he also watches Dean from the corner of his eye. It's an interesting thing, observing Dean, seeing his patience rise as the sun sets. His voice, gruff but soft, drifts past Samuel's AM/FM radio. 'It'll be okay, Sam. Samson. Hey, look at me. Hey, you gonna come out or do I gotta come get you? I'm getting too old for this, y'know. Samson, we need you out here, man. Take my hand. Let's get you warm and safe, yeah? Please, dude, I'm gonna beg 'til you do.' All that trial and error, trying to find something that will snap the hell-haunted man from his trance.

Samuel sits on the porch with his gloves removed. A pale, thin arm swathed with old scars reaches out from the darkness of the crawlspace finally, and Dean takes the knobby hand with a relieved sigh. From the shadows appears a messy head of brown hair, and then a pale face - a face that looks like his own, or worse yet, like his face had been stretched like a mask over a skeleton's. Samson's skin and bones and everything Samuel's glad he doesn't have.

"Dinner's ready," someone says from the doorway. The sullen voice is familiar, because all their fucking voices are familiar. Samuel leans far back until an upside-down version of his face appears in his line of vision, leaning on the doorframe. Oh, yes, there's the fourth and final one: Mr. Anger Management.

Sam — just Sam, short, harsh, simple — looks at him with a furrowed brow and folded arms. Sulking.

Huh.

"I thought you ran away again," Samuel says flippantly.

With an agitated glance toward the ever skinny Samson and the navy blue jacket being pulled over his deteriorated shoulders, he says, "I wish."

So it goes.

Dean walks Samson into the kitchen, his hand an anchor of protection against the man's sharp shoulder blades.

Four Sam Winchesters in one room, birthed from a soul that's been effectively hanged, drawn, and quartered.

Dean makes due with what he's got going on here.

When Sam came back from Hell — the real him, not that robotic soulless Sam shit — Dean had been practically clicking his heels together in joy. Because Jesus fucking Christ, hadn't they deserved at least one good thing? One good thing. Sam would forgive him for stuffing the soul back in, and sure, he probably owed Death way too much now, but with his brother brought back to him, it didn't matter. Nothing else mattered.

Except when it did.

It only took Death shaking his head as he stepped out of the panic room, and Dean knew something was horribly wrong.

"There are complications," the horseman'd said. And if Dean hadn't known how deadly the being was, he would have clocked him.

In the rusted old room, three Sams were slumped, folded over, and laying across the floor. One had been lying on the sullied bed as if he were just sleeping, one was sprawled out on the floor on his stomach, and a third was slumped against the wall with his bangs hanging in his face. The fourth — the one with glossy pink burn scars across his face and arms — was screaming himself hoarse with his hands in his face.

"The soul can't be destroyed," Death had said calmly over the keening, horrible noises the fourth made. "But sometimes it breaks apart."

Later that terrible night, the blank Sam and the patient Sam bathed and cleaned the keening Sam's wounds in the glow of Bobby's bathroom while Dean got piss-drunk off the liquor cabinet's very best of the worst. One Sam smiled softly and spoke kind, sympathetic words to the weeping Sam in the tub. The other worked effeciently, reciting first aid that their father had instilled in them. Dean couldn't wrap his head around it, wasn't sure what to call who. They're all just Sam Sam Sam.

"It'd be easier if we just let him die," the last Sam said, sitting curled on the floor nearby with his mouth against his arm. "I can't stand it."

Truth was, Dean couldn't stand it either.

But here they are a year later.

Sammy's setting the table and whistles as he goes, trying to keep some charisma alive and wafting through the room. Dean likes him the most, if he's honest — he feels like the man who sang shitty Bon Jovi songs with him on the open road what felt like lifetimes ago, the one who looked up to him, the one who smiled at his stupid jokes. He's the guy who smells like girly shampoo and who keeps himself sunkissed and eager to visit those stupid organic fruit farms.

Samuel helps with the cooking, though. He's — well, fuck, he's kind of the soulless guy, but also kind of not. Dean's not sure how to explain it, because he doesn't feel like the guy would kill him in his sleep, but he also has a hard time seeing his little brother in him, too. Or at least the part that Dean enjoys the company of, anyway. Samuel's methodical, that hunter in his brother who would read all the instructions carefully, but he's not the one who looks at the stars with him. He's not the brother he sold his soul for. Samuel knows it, too, he thinks.

But they hunt together. And the guy is as close to a supervisor of the house as they've got. And that's really it. He manages bills when they're not out doing work — but don't friggin' call him his wife. He'll die a bachelor with a ton of gold medals for one night stands, and that's about it; there's no place for normal lives with families and wives and barbeques, not how they are. He calls Lisa sometimes, and she's one of the few who knows what happened to Sam, but... it's just talk. Lisa's moved on, and frankly, Dean's happy for her. He just likes to know she's okay.

"Dean," Samson moans softly where he sits the table. "Dean, I can smell skin. It's happening, it's happening again."

Dean bites back a wince and reaches out to rub his fingers over the trembling hand sitting on the table. It's bony, so bony, and the old scars dress his fingers like demented rings. 'Samson' was an easy choice. Everyone knew the story of Samson, knows he lost his hair and his strength, pulled those pillars right down and died with that last effort. And that's what he is: everything hell spit out, everything ugly that Dean never wanted to actually revisit, it's right here. All the anxiety and fear Sam never acted on, it's all in Samson, the man who chews his lip raw and talks about Lucifer's fingertips touching him and begs Dean in the middle of the night to make it less cold in the middle of a hot summer.

"It's alright, dude, relax. It's hamburger meat." Dean sighs out of his nose. "You're gonna try to eat it this time, right?" Samson's fingers twitch under Dean's. His adam's apple is more pronounced on his long, thinner neck. "... How about you do that, and you can sleep in my bed tonight. Yeah? I'll let you hog the sheets and all that."

"He's not a fucking kid," Sam says sharply from the other side of the table, never quite meeting his eyes. "He's like 200 years old."

Dean bristles. As he always does when Sam opens his mouth. "Come the fuck on. He's got all the shit nobody here wants. How about some decency?"

Sam... Sam's Sam.

Sam's the one that runs away. Sam's the one that's always picking fights, always unhappy. He's the one who prepared to ditch his family for Stanford and butted heads as much as he could with Dad. He's the biggest pain in that ass, a bigger one than this sad half-mauled version of him could ever be. He knows, logically, that it isn't all the guy's fault; the soul split the way it split, and it gave the bastard a shitty hand. But some days, he'd really like a round two of that motel brawl. And this time, he'll goddamn win, he swears.

"He's right, you know," Samuel says, and — whatever, Dean can take them both on. "He's his own person. A little dignity wouldn't hurt."

"Who asked you, you ass?" he bickers back, not a lot of fight to it, honestly.

"It's okay," Samson mumbles, rubbing his arm where its already turned red. "It's okay Dean. It's okay. I've got 'em."

They all quiet after that, the words all resonating as something so much more important than petty squabbles, and dinner is a lukewarm affair. Sammy lets the radio play, though. Some pop station with songs from the 2000's. It's not terrible. It's not as bad as when Sam was trapped in the cage and Dean had to pretend to be happy, drinking in garages and crying about how fucked over everything was. Things are much better. Life is tolerable, when you know your most important family isn't crisping in the bowels of hell.

Later, even though he's hardly touched his plate, Samson ends up curled up in Dean's bed and burrowed in the covers.

Like he is every night.

It's about a month later that Samuel is woken up by the sound of his phone going off. Probably for the best, because he'd been trapped in some stupid looping dream where the Impala's engine fell out and nobody had noticed for miles and miles. Blinking at the dark, his eyes fall on the shuddering, frantic cellphone. Blue light shines like a beacon from a name: Mr. Anger Management, in bright black lettering, which was listed between Dean and Tweedle-Dumb. Smacking his lips, he answers, and finds his own voice talking back at him, as expected.

"I'm in jail," the slurred voice admits.

Samuel gets up, putting on a shirt, and wakes not a soul. Hardly any reason to panic. Nobody's hurt or dead. Probably.

"Sam, what happened?"

"Bar fight. Don't tell Dean. I don't want to hear it. You just... You understand best. You get it best, y'know? You get me."

Crap, the kid's all emotional. 'Kid', like he's any older than him, but Sam sure feels like one sometimes. "... Where are you?"

"Don't worry, mom, m'in a different town... Nobody's gotta know there's more than two of us. Twin cover's not blown."

Samuel pinches the bridge of his nose, and exhaustion clings to his shoulders like a cape made of lead, but his voice is level and he moves with the same energy as someone preparing to go to a long day's work. Or maybe a mandatory chupacabra hunt. As annoyed as he gets with Sam sometimes, he also knows they're more alike than anyone else in the place. In a way, they've developed a sort of mutual trust, some strange Frankenstein's monster you'd call friendship. He's not surprised that Sam skipped everyone else's numbers, especially Dean's. "I'm coming. Just sober up until then, Anger Management."

Click.

By the time he slips out of the house and drives two hours to a shit town that nobody knows them from, into the downtown where there's a bar on each corner, it's two AM and a dreadful silence has rolled out into fogged up streets. It's moments like these he feels closest to Samson: lost, alone, empty. He just has a hard time feeling the great despair, or anything at all, really. Sometimes he wishes he could. Sometimes he wishes it could punch out of his chest, a full force of agony. Instead, it's something depressive, indifferent. Emotions feel like a slippery oil that slides right off him.

He doesn't function right. None of them really do.

When he gets to the jail, it's Sam and a handful of colorful characters smashed together in the holding cells. The cops get the usual kick out of how alike the two men are before they give him the typical lecture about his disruptive, violent brother, the one who had decided to leap a table at a local bar and clock a guy in the face. Probably said something that ticked him off, if Samuel had to guess. There's a reason he's got the nickname he does in his phone, anyway. He nods along to the request he keep an eye on him (he'll try, no guarantees, not in this household) and escorts Sam out to the parking lot.

Sam flops down all heavy limbs and whiskey breath in the seat of their van and Samuel kind of envies him a little, too. He's never had an urge to drink himself into vomitting. He's never felt that kind of bubbling revulsion. It'd be nice to have something to hate about yourself, maybe...? He's not sure. Maybe he'll ask Sam about it more when he's sober; he's already planning on stopping at a drive-thru before they start heading back, get him some food and a large water to take off the edge. They drive, and Sam is dozing and trying conversation all at once.

On the bright side, when he's drunk he's far easier to talk seriously to.

"You understand," Sam slurs, and his hazel eyes stare blankly out at the passing lights as they drag sharp lines across his cheekbones. Samuel glances at him from the corner of his eye and sees an unhappy and troubled creature. It's weird... Sometimes he feels like grabbing him — or Samson, or Sammy — and absorbing them into himself, or bleeding into them, letting them take him in, so they can be something old and familiar and fixed-up. Sam says, "We're busted, y'know."

"Pretty sure I didn't get caught doing anything stupid, actually."

"You know what I mean, you dick. You're — We're both busted up. We're broken. I just feel like I've fucked up everything, and I just think of all the terrible crap we've done... How pointless it is for us to be here, for him to have dragged us back like this. Y'feel it, too. Like we're freaks. We are freaks. You and me, we're... all the shit he hates."

... He knows.

He just wishes he could feel.

He tries to anyway, thumping Anger Management on the chest supportively. "... Just sleep it off, moron."

Sam fumbles around, slapping hands that are exactly his. "Don't touch me, Haley Joel Osment."

"Are you really pulling the A.I. joke? You sound like Dean. Just as outdated, too."

Dean of course won't know about this drunken night getting picked up from jail, but... he'll bitch about the obvious hangover Sam has the next day anyway. And mention something about pushing him into AA meetings, too. Samuel wordlessly serves up a plate of microwaved pancakes to Dean and Sam while they give dirty looks over the salt and pepper shakers. Samson whispers about lakes of fire.

Time flies.

"Alrighty, dude, let's look at that arm."

Winter's setting in, and everyone's asleep soundly in their beds upstairs — save for Dean and Sammy, and of course the insomniac hellfire brother who still sleeps with him and chatters on about frostbite. It was pretty evident pretty early on after The Split that Samson wasn't going to be leaving the house often; everything about the outside world seemed to scare him, and he rarely ever ventured out into the dangers of a normal, functioning society. Dean had found him wandering blindly down the highway only once. He'd said that the devil was in their walls. It was then, when he realized that this brother was sick, really sick, and there was nothing they could do about it other than try to remind him of what was real. What was here for him to come back to, after his episodes.

Sammy's talking to Samson now with those soft tones, as they sit on Dean's bed. The gentle coaxing calls back to a time when his brother would find stray animals outside of motel parking lots. Dean supposes it's fitting, because that traumatized, frightened side of Sam? He reminds Dean of an animal in a lot of ways. Skittish, from a shitty home where he'd been beaten down to a pulp. It's really fucking unfair of him to think like that, to liken him to an animal, because this is the part of Sam who suffered the consequences for everyone's mistakes. Not just his own — everyone's. He died for them, and he spent all that time being kicked around in Lucifer's dogbowl, and Dean knows better than to lessen him to a pound puppy. He deserves better. And if they gotta help him for years to come, hell, he earned it.

This scene, though. This scene is friggin' weird. Memorizing, even.

He's watching one fragmented piece of Sam care for another.

Sammy untucks the man's pajama shirt, unwraps Samson's bandaged arm to inspect the self-harm there, combs back his hair... It's everything Dean has ever done helping Sam as a child, before the kid had become woefully independent at age seven or eight. It's just weird to see Sam helping himself. Literally, so damn literally. It's a fucking trip. Sammy glances at him, eyebrows raised and dimples deepening into a grin, and Dean manages to smile back.

"Sorry... I didn't mean to make things hard," says Samson, with some clarity in his eyes. He scratches himself sometimes, when he's out of it. Hard to really stop before he's already gotten going, though nobody knows what causes it; maybe he feels something under the surface, some absess that can't be drained physically. His bangs fall into his face and he sighs softly. "I wish... I didn't do this. You do so much. Must be tiring."

"You're fine," Sammy replies, easy breezy. "Just don't scratch anymore, or you're getting a pay cut."

"... Pretty sure I don't work," Samson nearly laughs.

"Seriously? Get on that."

Moments like that — Samson's lightness, his humor — silently knock the wind outta' Dean.

Midnight rolls around and, dammit, he's gotta be up in, like, four hours for the construction gig. Instead he just sits there with Sammy, the old television propped on the dresser playing re-runs of The Golden Girls while a soft dusting of snow piles on the ledge of the bedroom window. Sammy's got a beer in his hands that's half empty, and he turns it compulsively in his lap while Dean finishes his own bottle and smacks his lips. This is the easier times of night: the moment where he gets to just relax, forget that one brother is a walking trauma grenade and one barely talks to him and one is like the soulless guy who'd almost killed Bobby and left him to be vampirized. Yeah. Just... him and Sammy. It's almost like before.

"It's fucking weird, watching you do that. Work with — uh. Samson."

Sammy shakes his head. "I like helping. Besides, it's kind of like self-care, right?"

Snort. "Right."

"And, as weird as it sounds, he's also... not me. I mean he's me, but he's also apart from me, with his own kind of problems. So... should I think of him as his own guy, or myself, you know?"

"I'm not drunk enough for this conversation," Dean huffs.

Sammy laughs. "Right? Too bad you actually do have to be at work in a few."

"Hey, you do, too. Best cashier in the world. I bet they put your stupid face on Employee of the Month Awards."

Sammy scoffs, cheeks bright and expression softening. Love and admiration and appreciation. It keeps Dean moving. Maybe it's the alcohol getting to him a little, but he feels questions on the tip of his tongue he'd always wanted to ask. It's just... Dean's not... miserable. But he's not necessarily happy. He's not a lot of things. Yet here's Sammy, always in such good spirits, always ready to deal with this insane situation they have going on. And when Dean looks at the man curled up in his bad, covered in scars and scrawny enough to count ribs, he can't help but marvel at the acute differences between his brother's shadows. There's a Sam who can't even leave the house and hurts himself, and then there's this Sam, strong and socializing and so easy to work with, to get along with. That's the guy he knows from speaking to victims. From concerts and trips to Vegas. This is his brother more than anything, isn't it? Right? This is the one that he looks forward to.

"You're always so fucking happy. Like, smiling and all that." He sucks in a breath when Sammy gives him his attention, the younger brother's eyes rounded with mild surprise and curiosity. "You really gotta... spread the love and tell me how to do it, too. How're you always so happy?"

Dean doesn't expect a sudden uneasy silence. And while Sam's expression isn't any less relaxed, there's something to it that Dean's pretty sure isn't the beer talking. "Well... I don't know, dude. It's kind of just the hand I was dealt when we got brought back. Whatever I got, it was pretty good. No hellfire, no anger, no uncertainty or fear. That's why I can't help but just — do what I can for the others. It's not easy for them, and they've got all the pain and bullshit." He takes a drink of his beer. "It's mostly just... always moving forward, and trying to do my best with what I can. Making a difference? Hit that ground running and kill stuff with kindness."

Dean grins. "You're always fulla energy, Sammy."

"Guess so." Sammy smiles back, and it doesn't reach his eyes. "Sometimes it's actually kind of exhausting."

The snow hasn't even melted down into the Spring when things go bad.

And when they go bad, they go bad.

A rogue hell hound case drags Dean and Samuel from their jobs in construction for one weekend; they trade the tools used to build walls-n-shit for the tools used to gank monsters-n-shit instead. Dean loves when they get these breaks, and to give credit to Samuel, it's actually kind of ideal to have him around when things are monster-related. Sammy's good but he's missing the old Sam's killer instinct, his gut, his intuition and proficiency in all things hunter. When to-do lists are left at the house and the two of them ride off into the dawning day, it's with eagerness. They're kind of unstoppable and amazing and Dean looks forward to coming home sore but ready to duke it out with normalcy once again.

But tonight's a whole different story.

Tonight started with Samuel and Dean trying to kill an invisible bitch of a dog trying to collect on souls. It ends with hell hound guts strewn in inky black puddles and Samuel laying flat on his back in the snow, seeping claw marks across his stomach. Tattered plaid flicks in the icy wind. His shotgun lay feet from his curled pink fingers, wet with snow and blood, and Dean's scrambling with his heart in his throat to see the damage. It just took one split second of carelessness. It took one split second. Dean's fucking livid and scared and all breeds of fucked-over emotion, because this idiot took a hit for him, and he's gonna die, he needs a hospital, fuck, fuck —

And to his dismay, something bubbles up from Samuel's lips, his shoulders shaking — a deep, rich sound.

Laughter.

Fucking laughter.

Dean clings to Samuel's drenched jacket lapels, eyes wide as he watches the man cough and laugh and sputter joyously, like he'd heard the best joke in his entire fucking life. He's never seen this one laugh before, and it's terrifying and confusing. He clenches the ripped cloth in his freezing fingers and resists the urge to hysterically shake his brother. It's going to take a long time to get him help, and he's got to figure out how he's gonna drag him to the car through even half a mile of fresh snow, let alone out to an emergency room. "Wh—what the fuck is wrong with you?!"

"I was so scared," Samuel gasps, "I thought you were gonna die, and I — I cared so much about it. I was so fucking worried." Ice seeps into Dean's veins, and Samuel looks up at him like he's the moon, panting pale mouthfuls of wintry air. The loving baby brother. The one that says watch me when Dean says he can't do anything to save him. The one that doesn't want to be left alone, not without Dean, anything but that. Samuel rasps, "I've been waiting for that for so long. I'm just so relieved."

Dean blinks away hot tears and drags Samuel to his feet, and they make a painstakingly long and staggering trip back to the Impala while Dean tries not to think about what he'd said. It changes something — what, Dean doesn't know, but suddenly his mind is tailspinning and he's terrified of feeling Samuel's full weight slump entirely. He's less than graceful when he dumps Samuel into the passenger seat, nearly falling in with him as he runs, flushed, to get the first aid in the back seat. There's no time, and he's lost too much blood, and he's breathing like he's the one who carried a fully grown man through the rough terrain.

'I was so fucking worried.'

Fuck.

'He's right, you know. He's his own person.'

Fuck, fuck fuck.

Dean drives with one hand on the wheel and holds Samuel's guts in with the other, trying not to slip-slide all over icy roads in the mountains. A towel between life and death is pinned against Samuel's wound, sticky with blood. "I wonder... what happens to us when we die," Samuel whispers, slicking the upholstery with blood that had out-maneuvered the saturated towels. "Do we piece back together like a puzzle upstairs?"

Dean presses the gas with grim urgency.

'Just don't get yourself killed. Who else is gonna help pay the bills?'

"Nobody's finding out anytime soon, Sammy."

"... It's Samuel."

... No pyres tonight.

Or in the days that follow.

Dean lives in the hospital for a little bit. Sammy can't even come out to drop off clothes and a decent burger while Dean takes up temporary residence next to Samuel's bedside, because they're too far out without it just being easier to just buy new shit himself. The half-mauled Winchester is currently getting over a nasty infection that came from the surgery, which isn't the worst thing, because he'd have been dead without said surgery. Dean doesn't mind a broken arm to fix an amputated one, in other words, even if it made things perilous for a while there. They're quite a ways from home so he's mostly just been sticking to a crummy motel nearby until they can get a go ahead to take him on the journey back to South Dakota.

The doctors had said it was the slimmest of chances that things are going this well.

So basically: for once, their luck isn't total bullshit.

He steps out to get some fresh air, tucking in his jacket as he braves the cold picnic area just across the street of the hospital. It's a welcome reprieve from the sickness that clings like barnacles to the walls in there. Works out, because he can dial up Sammy and keep him updated. He punches in numbers with tingling fingers and waits for the chipper sound of the personified version of prozac to get on the phone.

"You sure you don't want me to drive down?" Sammy asks, and Dean sighs.

"No, no... You and Sam need to keep an eye on Samson."

A... hesitant pause. "Er, yeah, yeah... Absolutely."

Oh, great. That tone hits him like footsteps would to Peter Parker's Spidey Sense. "... Sammy..."

Busted. Sammy sighs and Dean takes to pacing, which is as useful as a cigarette. He's already had his fair share of wanting to run out to a forest to stab something, thanks to Samuel's stupid desire to cover Dean's ass. Sammy tries to keep the usual unconcerned aura about him, which Dean's learned to look right through: "Oh, Samson's fine. He's been worried about everyone, even. One of those good moods of his."

Patience, Dean. "... And?"

"More like 'but'," Sammy says. "Sam took the van."

Dean rubs a hand over his face, exhausted. He can already picture the guy sulkily stuffing a duffel and sneaking out in the middle of the night. Fucking figures, that idiot decides to be a selfish prick during one of the worst weeks he's had since — a long-ass time. Probably having another fit about being ignored or fighting Dean's foothold as owner of the house, or wanting to be away from his fucked-up family, or whatever. It's not like Dean hadn't found out about his stint in jail for a night. It's not like Dean hasn't always found out about the crap he's pulled on his little rebellious adventures. He always comes back anyway. Glutton for punishment — but he's Sam, and Dean needs every part of Sam like he needs air.

"... Ran off somewhere for the next week or two again, I bet."

Sammy hums, pots clanking as he prepares dinner for two. "Yeah, probably. He left a few days ago."

"And dumbass you thought you were gonna come all the way here on a bus, or what? You even okay without the van?"

"Oh, who, me? Seriously?" He almost sounds offended. Almost. The sass can't be contained over a phone. "I'm a Winchester. I'll get around."

Dean finds himself surprised before a soft smile tugs at his lips. "You sure are one. Talk to to you soon, Sammy."

He stuffs the phone back into his pocket and roams back toward the hospital, steeling himself to endure nosy nurses and surly doctors who have too much to do in too little time. What he doesn't expect going back inside Samuel's chilly room is finding the seat beside the man occupied — the mysterious figure ain't so mysterious, with his short and messy brown hair and his rumpled zip-up hoodie; the one that is undoubtedly Sam's favorite, even though it barely contains his mammoth shoulders. Dean stops at the doorframe and isn't sure what to say. Well, there's one thing: "You seriously took the van, huh?"

Sam looks over his shoulder, eyes hardened and rimmed red, like he'd had a sleepless night. It's crazy how the electric ire is like a gleam in his eyes, a twinkle of disgust or disappointment as subtle as a punch to the face. Samuel sleeps peacefully through everything — probably not the best thing, because Samuel's always been better at pulling the two wet, angry dogs apart. "I wanted to check on Samuel. What about it?"

"How about you left the others stuck at the house? How 'bout that? Pretty crappy, even for you." He fans his arms out. Come on, Sam. "Think for five seconds about what you're doin' to other people for once."

Sam surprisingly doesn't coil up like a viper right then and there. He just scoffs. Which is maybe worse. "Funny, coming from you."

"Really. Because last I checked, we all actually did what we were supposed to in this — fucked-up family."

"You don't give a shit about this family!" Sam stands up, and Dean straightens, confused, as he steps forward. He looks like hell, maybe even buzzed from an afternoon beer, and Dean's about to punch him in the nose just by virture of endangering the van and getting himself tossed in jail to be rescued from a DUI. Again. He points an accusing finger at Dean. "You couldn't stand me from the day I woke up in that panic room. You can barely stand anyone but your precious Sammy."

"... What?"

"You heard me. You think we can't tell? All you've ever wanted is to have your old Sammy back, without any of the dead weight or shit memories. Samson, Samuel, me, we're all the ugly parts you didn't want. It was the same when I was going to college — you bitched about me running, and you sided with Dad about me leaving, and you were all 'family this' and 'family that', but you didn't want who I was. You just wanted the image you had of me as this doe-eyed idiot who hung on your every word. If you actually cared, you would have been there for me."

Sam's eyes glisten faintly, shutting Dean's rebuttal down in the heat of the moment. "It's the same now. Sammy's your golden kid. You accept the rest of us because you have to. We're an obligation. But you never liked who I was. Lucifer was always right; Samson always denied it, but not me."

And — wait. Wait a damn minute.

"... What? What the hell do you mean, 'Lucifer'?" Something's not lining up right. He steps forward as Sam's wind flows out from under his sails. "When was this?"

Sam grits his teeth behind his lips, a tear spilling over. A tear that must've taken a year or more to collect, maybe. Or maybe he's had a few over the months he's kept to himself. Dean's suddenly not so sure. "... Sam."

"Where do you think?" Sam doesn't look at Dean. His breath is a relenting sigh, voice softer than the usual venomous retort. "... You think we're put in perfect little boxes? Just because Samson got most of the stuff from down below doesn't mean he's the only one."

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"You never asked."

Dean breathes out, closes his eyes, counts to ten. When he opens his eyes he sees Sam in front of him — hunched and looking like he wants to melt into the floor.

"... You're right," Dean says quietly. Sam looks up like he's been kicked, confusion clouding his expression and draining the rage like a pus-filled wound. Dean exhales his frustration and decides that here, in a place where you're supposed to get better before you can leave, he's going to try to get better himself. This whole thing is fucked up and broken, but if they keep this up... it'll never be okay. "You're right, Sam. I'm sorry. I'm not perfect; I know I've picked fights myself, just because I couldn't stand how this all played out. And I did play favorites. Absolutely. And... I pretended I knew exactly what each of you were..."

He bites his lip.

"But I was wrong."

Sam stares at him — mouth a trembling line that he tries to keep straight.

"But you're wrong about before. I was totally proud of you, and I liked all the ugly parts of you, too. I... liked my brother whole, is the problem. This whole situation, with... the old Sam being all of you? It's hard, it's so hard. And to be honest, I've spent the last year and a half mourning, you know? Because it feels like the kid I grew up with is still gone, and I'm not sure I'm getting him back... ever. You guys can't be him, not like it used to be." A pause, heavy in the air. "But I'd like to re-learn and figure you guys out, if it's okay. You just gotta help me out and put a little elbow grease into it, too. And stop running off when shit's hard; we'll work on it all together."

Stepping up to meet his brother, he wraps his arms around Sam, pulling him close. The kid is all vibrating energy, restlessness, uncertainty, distraught with trembles. He didn't have a choice in this. And part of that is on Dean. On Dean and Death and how screwed life was for them as a family. But...

'I was so scared. I thought you were gonna die, and I — I cared so much about it. I was so fucking worried.'

He inhales the smell of liquor on Sam's collar, mixed with a familiar scent of cologne. It's the kind Dean had sworn a much younger Sam would make him a hit with the ladies; that little pipsqueak pretended not to give a shit about his advice, but for years and years after, Dean always could tell the smell of that ladykiller brand. He smiles at the memory and slaps Sam's back hard, nearly knocking the wind out of him. "No more stealing the van, alright?"

"It's my van, too, asshole." But Sam slowly encloses his arms around Dean, and then buries his face like he's been waiting to do it for centuries. He sniffs hard and melts. "Alright," he says, and sucks in a breath, silent for a moment. "... I can hear him sometimes. I remember so many things he said... I can't — I don't want to believe him."

"I know. You don't have to."

Sam tucks his nose against Dean's shoulder. "... Please don't put me back in there."

"Never. You're my brother, Sam. You're stuck with me, better or worse."

And that's the truth. He's sorry that Sam felt like it was ever a possibility, that he'd throw him back where he found him. But it's not happening, no way.

"I know I'm the recessive junk, but I don't want to be the freak," he whispers hoarsely. Not a shred of worth in those words; it feels like when Sam had grimly told him that he's the least of them. He hears it now, clear as day, and had heard it every time he cracked open a new beer bottle at Lisa's place. 'For the record...I agree with you. About me. You think I'm too weak to take on Lucifer. Well, so do I. Believe me, I know exactly how screwed up I am. You, Bobby, Cas...I'm the least of any of you.' He regretted not arguing back. He regretted letting Sam jump while he felt like a failure, a weakling, a screw-up. Because he saved the world. This Sam, Sammy, all of them... they all saved everyone's bacon.

"Aw, Sammy," Dean murmurs, "We're all freaks."

A sniffle, wet and relieved. "... It's Sam."

Behind them, Samuel claps slowly in his bed, weak, but still a bastard. "Just like my talk shows."

They both turn, still practically playing a game of Twister with their arms, and the mood is just as easily changed; funny, for someone without a lot of positivity and good will, Samuel's made the whole place a bit easier to stomach. Sam scrutinizes the bedridden man with a scowl. "... Let's leave him here."

Dean nods, bottom lip stiff and turned out in wordless agreement. "Sounds good."

"... Hey — hey, where're you going? At least turn the TV on for me. Guys?"

They get to take Samuel home after everyone was totally sure his infection had been under control and his guts were all, in fact, in their proper places. He'd been deligated to the back seat, much to his surliness, while Sam took up the passenger seat; the guy seemed to really get a mood lift from that, and Dean suddenly realizes he'd never really bothered going out with Sam at all since they'd became four separate people. Now that he looks at everything, a lot makes sense. And now that he looks at Samuel and Sam, he thinks there's hope for Samson — there's hope in finding things in all of them that made good ol' Sam the guy he was in the first place.

It's still like mourning. Can't really change that. But he remembers what Samuel had said when he was dying — about being whole in Heaven.

And until that day, he's gonna do what they always do. He's gonna hit the ground running and learn how to be a brother to four younger siblings.

Sam, give me strength, he thinks.

Back at the house, Samson meets him at the door. He's got a quilt over his shoulders that he clings to like he's frozen solid under it, but there's something easy about the wrinkled, concerned brow and the thinned lips. Not scared, but worried. His chapped lips thin out into something of a smile and his gray-rimmed eyes light up just a little, like he's reuniting with an old friend. "Hey, Dean," he breathes. "I was worried. I thought... Doesn't matter. You're all okay?"

He rubs a hand over Samson's forehead, smoothing back unkempt hair, while Samson looks expectantly at him for an answer.

"We will be. Let's eat; I'm starving."

Later in the night, restless and complaining, Samuel finally gets his way; they help haul him up off the couch where he'd been dozing unhappily and watching novellas on Telemundo and, with Dean on one side and Sammy on the other, they take a seat on the back porch bundled up and enjoying the sky. No beer allowed for Samuel, but none of 'em end up drinking anyway. They sit in silence and breathe in the chilly air, and everything feels peaceful for once. Samuel doesn't smile — he rarely ever does — but he looks completely taken by the scene.

"This was always my favorite thing," he says. "The universe is crazy big. Looking at it, it makes everything seem manageable by comparison."

"Huh?" Sam looks over, passive, blue in the moonlight. "That's our favorite? I thought it was all about the colors? It's all — y'know. Soothing." He clears his throat. "... Calming. And all that."

"What, you don't like to just have a nice moment with your favorite big brother?" Dean huffs.

Sammy laughs from behind them, stepping out with Samson in tow close behind him, the latter bundled up heavily in winter gear. "Sure it is, but it's also all about being glad not to be six foot under, isn't it? We get to celebrate being alive another day. Especially clumsy ol' Samuel here, who just loves to run headlong into hell hound claws." He holds up his mug of hot coffee, a salute to the round, beaming moon. The stars twinkle and look like silver glitter scattered across the endless expanse. They find an easy silence for a while.

"... This is my favorite thing," Samson says quietly, and he smiles fully. "I get to remember I'm free. It's good — to be topside."

Dean smirks slowly, ruffling his hair. "You got that right. What a fucking hallmark moment we've got here. We're just missing some piano music and a dog."

They all turn expectantly at him with owlish eyes, intense, eager, and Dean's left to decipher just what horrible fate he's given himself.

"... What're you all — ... Ahhhh, shit."

... He's never gonna hear the end of this one now.

Especially when there's four of them.

Fuck.

Everything's fan-friggin-tastic, but fuck.

... the end.