Stone Number 389
K Hanna Korossy

"Mit akartok velem? Menyetek a frászba!"

Dean, eyebrows raised, looked from the fiery little homeless guy glaring at him to Sam, who was frowning at his phone. "Well? Doesn't sound like any ancient language I've heard."

Sam's forehead smoothed out and he looked up with a sigh. "It's Hungarian."

The guy, who'd had just about enough of them, waved them away with both hands. "Hagyatok békén!" he announced, and stomped away.

Dean watched him go a touch of admiration in his frustration. "So, not Cas, and not a demon."

Sam made a face. "To be fair, his eyes are really blue. And his voice is deep."

"Yeah, but not Cas-deep." Dean shook his head. "I can't believe we drove two states over for an old homeless guy speaking some Slavic language."

"Hungarian isn't Slavic."

It was Dean's turn to glare. Sam just sheepishly shrugged.

They'd known it was a long shot, a hunter's report about the blue-eyed guy spouting an unfamiliar language. But since Amara had disappeared with the Lucifer-possessed Castiel, Dean was getting more desperate every day and they were grabbing at straws. But of course it wasn't Cas. Amara probably wouldn't just let her toy go, nephew or no.

They'd been so close. Crowley had gotten into Cas's head and actually talked to him, at least until Lucifer intervened. And while the King of Hell wasn't exactly the first person Dean would have thought of to play ambassador, he knew they were on the same side of this one. So Cas hadn't responded because he…didn't want to. He was happy taking a backseat, letting Lucifer drive. Giving up on Dean, and that just… That was something Dean didn't want to think about. Nor how Cas was now caught in the middle between Lucifer and a frustrated Amara.

So they kept looking, and Sam side-eyed him sometimes but was a good little brother and didn't say a word, and Dean was… Well, he was busy not thinking about what was happening to his friend and about Amara wanting to be best buddies and Cas not, which didn't leave a whole lot of thinking about anything else.

Sam was watching him again, his whole stupid face creased with compassion, and Dean had had just about enough of that. "I'm gonna go buy the guy dinner, at least," Dean announced spontaneously.

"Uh, okay."

"Maybe practice some of my Hungarian on him." The smirk was automatic, so engrained that he could do it without an ounce of thought or feeling.

And, yeah, Sam saw right through him, but he played along. Skeptically, "You know Hungarian?"

"Couple words. Did you know Hungarian has more curse words than any other language?"

The long-suffering sigh, also part of their act. It was comforting in its own way. "Of course you'd know that."

Dean grinned at him, actually feeling it a little this time, and turned to go. "Find us a room for the night, bitch."

"Jerk," Sam muttered back, and headed in the opposite direction.

It would be two days before Dean saw him again.

00000

It was disturbing how common it was for them to wake up tied to a chair. Sam jerked once as he realized he was restrained yet again, tested each limb carefully, surprised to find himself not only uninjured, but his head not even aching. Then he looked up, eyes already narrowing.

Angels. He knew it the moment he saw them. While demons didn't seem to have any kind of dress code, angels were meticulous, suit-wearing, polished. It added to their inhumanity, the way most of them looked at the Winchesters like they were interesting bugs.

"Hello, Samuel."

There were three of them, at least one vaguely familiar. The one in the lead was a woman with red hair, and Sam was momentarily reminded of Abaddon. Except this angel had green eyes and freckles, and Sam wondered fleetingly if the vessel had an Irish accent.

"No response? That's not very nice."

"Neither is tying people to chairs," Sam countered coolly.

"That's true. And I'd be happy to let you out, if you agree to cooperate."

He twisted a little but the ropes were thick and tied well, across the chest and legs, each limb individually bound. There'd be no getting out of this without help. "Cooperate with what?"

The angel held out a hand, and a chair slid across the room into her grip. She sat down across from Sam, putting her a good six inches below him. The power imbalance didn't appear to faze her. "We'd like to ask for your help."

Sam glanced around the room. It looked like a…storeroom of some kind. The one box he could read said "Sugar Cones," so maybe it was an ice cream shop? That was a new one; usually the bad guys liked empty warehouses to do their thing. No one around to hear the screams. He refocused on the angel, who seemed relaxed and patient in front of him. "We are trying to help you. We're looking for a way to take down Amara, and put Lucifer back in his cage. What else do you want?"

Her nose had wrinkled a little at the mention of Amara, a little more at Lucifer. They were clearly on the same page about both. So, what…? "Yes, well. It will take more than human effort to defeat two of the mightiest beings in Creation. We need to limit their power."

"Okay," Sam said warily. "What do you need me for, for that?"

She crossed her legs, leaning back with confidence. "You need to finish the Trials and close the Gates of Hell."

Sam's mouth opened, but no words came out. And…he should have expected this, really. Of course Heaven would want that. Even if it didn't suck Lucifer back in or affect Amara, it meant no more demons, no reinforcements. Maybe it would even weaken Amara, who knew? She hadn't sought demonic help that Sam knew of, but she was Darkness. Like called to like.

It made sense. And part of him even agreed. But, "No."

The angel blinked. She hadn't expected that, Sam was surprised to see. "Why not?"

"Because. I don't know if you know, but the Trials almost killed me last time. If Gadreel hadn't helped heal me…" Her expression definitely curdled at that name. "…I'd be dead."

"Isn't your life worth the closure of Hell?"

"Yes," Sam answered honestly, and saw that surprised her a little, too. "It is. And I would've done it. But we don't even know what that would entail, do we? I mean, would the damned still be able to go down there after death, or would they linger in the Veil? Would the demons on Earth be sucked back down, or just cut off? What about people like Dean who were trapped down there?" He didn't bother to mention that it would also leave only angels on the chessboard, and that wasn't necessarily a good thing, either.

For the first time, the angel's calm broke to show the disdain underneath. "Your brother," she spat. "Of course."

And if Sam hadn't been sure she wasn't on his side, that would have cemented it. Because Dean had given everything for the fight against Evil, and if the angels didn't see and respect that, screw them. And the Trials. Which, for all the good reasons Sam had given, he'd ultimately quit because of Dean.

The angel stood, the two heavies behind her shifting their weight. Right, negotiations over. Sam braced himself for the persuasion that was sure to follow.

"You would only need to say three words to finish this. To close Hell forever. And you refuse?" She was no longer trying to hide her anger.

"Yes," Sam said simply. He didn't bother telling her how he'd asked Cas to remove those words from his mind so he couldn't even say them by accident, under duress or manipulation or even in a dream.

"We'll see," the angel responded, and glanced back at one of her colleagues.

Sam almost laughed. He was scared—of course he was scared, he wasn't an idiot—but at the moment he felt more amusement at how predictable this all was. "You know they tortured me in Hell for a century, right?" Or, well, Crowley had explained once that Hell time wasn't different so much as it felt different. Part of the torture, probably. A month could feel like a decade if the suffering was exquisite enough. But the effect was the same. "You think you're going to change my mind?"

"We're not going to torture you, Samuel." Her amusement made his unease skyrocket. "But it is ironic you should talk about 'changing your mind.'"

His head was beginning to hurt. "What?"

"Oh, you think we're really just sitting here talking? That we haven't already begun?" She smiled slowly, like a predator playing with its prey. "You humans are so limited."

She snapped her fingers, and suddenly the ice cream shop was gone, replaced by a bright light, icy cold. Sam's eyes snapped shut. His head was searing, and he tried to pull away from the pressure. What…?

Cracking his eyes, he saw one of the other two angels was standing in front of him now. Two of his fingers bore down against Sam's forehead, glowing brilliantly.

"I think you'll soon find that you want to help us." The lead angel's voice was distant now but echoed in his head. The light started to dim. "You won't even know why you shouldn't." A pervasive darkness crept in, and cold. "Or what's real." The smell of rot, the taste of despair, of terror. Hell.

Sam's eyes opened wide to see the place of his nightmares. Not the medieval court Crowley liked to work in, or the dark void where Rowena had summoned the Cage. This was the Pit, the place where souls suffered and wept, the place where just being was soul-deep agony and desolation.

"Where've you been, Sammy?"

Sam froze. Dean's voice? But he'd never…not with Sam. With rising horror, Sam turned his head.

His brother grinned at him, eyes black. "You ready to start?"

Sam squeezed his eyes shut again and quietly started to panic.

00000

He was buying a leash for Sam.

It was a thought he had every time Sam disappeared on him. The joke wasn't really funny, though, not as Dean whipped past another pointless speed limit sign. It didn't cheer him even a little, but any distraction was welcome from the fears circling in his head.

The homeless guy had taken the food Dean had offered with a curt nod and scuttled off. Not much of a talker, Dean thought with a little regret: he hadn't been able to practice his treasury of curse words at all. But he'd shrugged and, good deed for the day done, called Sam to see where they'd landed for the night.

Sam didn't answer. And kept not answering.

Irritation quickly turned to worry, then fear. Heaven was out to get them because of Lucifer. Hell didn't exactly love them because, well, it was Hell, nor were they too happy about Amara. Literally everyone was against them these days, Cas had become enemy territory, and all their allies were gone. It was only him and Sam. And with Sam gone…

Dean's phone had a Find My Phone link to Sam's. In a pancake house parking lot, he pulled it up, bracing himself for Sam's phone to be off.

The good news was, it was on, pinging steadily away in one spot.

The bad news? It was in freakin' Canada, in some place called…Chibougamau, which sounded totally made up. Worse, it was about 40 hours away, and across the Canadian border. Where they checked cars for things like hidden weapons. There was a reason hunters rarely hunted in Alaska, despite its wealth of ancestral horrors.

It was also 40 hours away, and Sam had been gone for a little over two. Which meant he hadn't just gotten lost on the way to finding a motel; something had taken him. Something that could teleport. Something that probably wasn't just borrowing Sam for a friendly visit.

Yet again Dean cursed Cas's stupidity in offering himself to Lucifer. Angels couldn't fly anymore, but they had spells, powers, allies they could tap in an emergency. And…Dean wouldn't have to be going it alone. No back-up, no one to share his freak-out over Sam.

Cursing everything under his breath that had taken all his people from him—it was a lengthy list—Dean had set out for Canada.

He'd taken a nap in a rest stop somewhere in Michigan, because even Dean Winchester couldn't drive more than a day and a half straight, adrenalin or no. Maybe when he'd been in his twenties, but he was pushing forty now—plus Hell-time, minus Cas's healings, plus time-travel time…Dean was good with numbers but that was math he just couldn't do—and joints locked up, reflexes slowed, drowsiness set in. He stopped a few times just to do jumping jacks and push-ups besides empty roads to keep limber for what lay ahead, and drank a lot of coffee and Red Bull, or coffee laced with Red Bull.

A few miles shy of the border, Dean pulled off into woods and got out the tarp. Everything remotely illegal went into it, minus a handgun and a machete stashed in Baby where no one would find them. The rest Dean made a hole for, buried carefully, and tagged so he could find it later. Then he returned to the car and, feeling naked, drove on.

He passed the border without Customs even glancing into the trunk.

Calls to Sam's phone went to voicemail, but the ping on the map hadn't moved. Dean hoped desperately it wasn't just picking up an abandoned phone, Sam a continent away. If it was, if Sam wasn't there…Dean would just have to burn that bridge when he got to it.

It was approaching dusk when Dean finally reached his destination. Chibougamau was a decent-sized town, with mountains, water, and fields surrounding it. The phone wasn't showing up in the wilds, though: the app led Dean nearly to the center of town. To an…ice cream shop? Seriously? What kind of being grabbed people and transported them across the continent to have ice cream?

The shop was closed for winter, however: good call in April in north Québec. Dean peered into the dark storefront and saw nothing…except a door that led into the back. The settling dark helped camouflage him as he made his way to the rear of the shop, along an alley of dumpsters and delivery doors. He found the right door and pressed an ear against it.

Yeah, that didn't usually work, unlike in the movies. Certainly not against doors meant to keep Canada cold outside.

Dean chewed on his lip. It was stupid going in blind, but he wasn't seeing a lot of options. Storerooms didn't usually have windows, and he didn't spot one here. He doubted the roof had anything to offer. He could try a diversion, get someone inside to come out to see what was happening, but that still gave him little time to figure out whatever it was and how to take it down.

Okay, Dean took a breath, Plan B. On his way up, he'd had plenty of time to think through what supernatural beings could teleport. Barring something really bizarre like a random god or an obscure creature from the other side of the world, the list was pretty short, topped by demons and souped-up angels. A call to Crowley on the way had elicited a mostly trustworthy promise that he hadn't sent any of "his people" after Sam, so angels were the most likely candidates. Dean still had the demon blade just in case, though. And if it was a shapeshifter that turned into an eagle or a dragon or a Big Bird, then he had his machete and gun and wits. It wasn't much, but it would have to do.

A little prep work, and he was as ready as he'd ever be. Dean took a deep breath, then turned the doorknob.

Locked. Right. He quickly picked the lock, then slammed one boot against the door.

Thanks to the angelic dress code, Dean knew immediately he was right. There were three of them, one beefy suit's hand pressed shining against Sam's forehead while the other two watched.

And then there was Sam.

There was no blood at least, not even when the startled angel pulled away from Sam and his head dropped. He was restrained, but that wasn't anything new. No bruises, no tears in his clothes, no weapons in anyone's hands. Nothing except Sam slumped there, hair hanging in his face, unmoving.

"Get away from him." Dean lined every word with steel and hate.

The big guy took a step back, but the girl angel—pretty red hair, killer eyes—moved forward with a smile. "Dean. Nice of you to join us."

He just wasn't in the mood for clichéd banter, not with Sam there stirring at the sound of Dean's voice but seeming to have trouble lifting his head. "Step. Back."

She spread her hands and dramatically backed off, a smile still at the corner of her mouth.

Dean didn't like this, not any of it. "Sam?"

Sam had managed to hoist that heavy bowling ball of a head up, and he peered uncertainly at Dean through sweaty strands of hair. His eyes were bloodshot and sunken, lips dry and cracking. But it was his anguished expression that cut through Dean's bravado. Maybe he wasn't hurt physically, but he was hurting.

"What did you do to him?" Dean barked. He moved closer with careful steps, quickly sweeping left and right to make sure they were alone, no one would blindside him.

"We just asked him to do us a favor." The woman was apparently the spokesangel. "Do yourselves a favor. And showed him the consequences if he didn't."

"Yeah, like how you'd mess him up if he didn't do what you wanted?" Dean was close enough to reach Sam now, and he couldn't resist skimming the sweaty head. Sam trembled at his touch, and Dean cursed under his breath. Giving up on communicating Sam for the moment, he instead dug into his pocket with his free hand and pulled out his switchblade to saw the ropes free. His gun and his gaze never wavered.

"It wasn't a threat, Dean," the woman said, sounding all reasonable and non-cruel. "It was a warning."

"Right." He sawed through the main rope, then quickly flattened a hand against Sam's chest when he would've sprawled forward. Heat radiated through Sam's shirt, and sweat and a pounding heartbeat. Crap, what had they done to him?
"She's righ'," Sam stunned him by slurring almost against his wrist. "I…I should finish'it."

Disquiet rose in a slow wave in Dean. "Finish what, Sammy?"

"The…the Trials. Close Hell. Save…save'veryone…"

Dean's jaw clenched as he finally got what this was about. Warily, he lowered his gun with its angel-killing bullets—Sam would not approve of offing the host—and, as he expected, the angels kept their distance. Their work was done. Dean crouched by his brother's chair, keeping an eye on the bad guys while he worked now at the ropes with two hands. "We talked about this, remember? In the church? You picked living, dude. You picked me."

"Dean?" Sam's forehead pinched between his eyes. "No…you're not…"

Awesome. Sam wasn't even sure he was real, Dean realized. This just kept getting better. The angels were great at messing with reality; Dean still didn't know if the "future" Zachariah once showed him had been a possibility or just an act. It was a great way to tear down a person's defenses, but in this case, Sam had once already made half their arguments for them. Dean was guessing it hadn't taken much to make him second-guess himself, again.

"It's me, Sam." He'd undone Sam's left wrist and lifted his hand into his lap, but before Dean freed the other hand, he pressed his thumb into Sam's palm, the long-healed scar there. Stone Number One, a code that was theirs alone.

Sam swallowed with what looked like considerable effort. Angels sometimes forgot that humans needed things like water and food and, Dean winced, bathrooms. His brother's eyes were a little clearer now as they searched Dean's face, but his expression was still twisted, miserable. "This's…it's important. Dean. We should…we should end this. S'best…"

"No." Dean said it forcefully enough that Sam flinched. "No," he repeated more gently, as he cut Sam's other hand loose and also lowered it into his lap. There, he massaged blood into the swollen fingers, hands that had once fit in his but now dwarfed his own. But still his little brother. "No. We don't know what it would do—it might screw things up even more. Remember? We agreed on this. You and me, come whatever. So this? It's not worth it, Sammy. Plus it'll probably kill you, and I am not okay with that. We'll find another way—we've been finding another way, right? Don't give up on that, man, don't give up on me."

Sam's eyes were swimming, and Dean was thrown back to that barren church, to Sam confessing all the ways he'd let down his brother, but really all the ways Dean had let him down. That wasn't happening again. Dean would not let it happen again.

He grabbed Sam's hand hard, thumb pressed between them, little finger stretching down to trace Sam's galloping pulse. "It's your choice, man, okay? I get that. But I also know what you told me in that church. I know you don't really want to do this—you know this isn't the right thing to do. So this choice, I'm not respecting. I'm not letting you go. Feel that, Sammy?" He squeezed tighter. "I am not letting you go."

Sam's breathe sawed out of him, the edge of a sob. Dean could feel it when he gave in, when he weakly clutched back and toppled sideways toward Dean.

Dean accepted the load, dropping an arm around Sam's shaking shoulders. He swallowed hard with relief and emotion.

The angels knew Sam had decided, too, and from Red's expression, they weren't happy about it. Her lip curled as she stepped forward. "This is not—"

"Oh, yes, it is," Dean said, and ripped off with his teeth the bandage half-hidden on his wrist. The nicked artery dribbled a little fresh blood, and before the angel could take two more steps, Dean had let it drip over his hand, then stuck the wet hand under his loose shirt, onto the sigil he'd drawn on his chest before he'd come inside. With a flare of light, the three angels were sucked out of the room, leaving only the Winchesters.

"M'sorry." Sam was shaking against him, physical and emotional exhaustion stripping him bare. "Dean, m'sorry."

"Sorry mess is more like it," Dean chided gently, but he was wrestling his jacket off, draping it around Sam's shoulders. "Take it easy, huh? Let's get you out of here." It took a moment to find a position in which he could reach Sam's bound feet without Sam toppling over onto him, but he finally did, his brother sort of wedged into his shoulder. Sweaty hair brushed against Dean's chin with every saw of his blade, sweeping away the fear and desperation that clung to them both. Cleansing. He could breathe again.

Sam's legs free, Dean stowed the knife, that wrapped both hands around Sam. Sam had finally gotten enough muscle control back that he'd hung an arm around Dean's waist, just letting himself rest and steady for a moment. Dean didn't rush him, hooking a chin over Sam's broad shoulder and letting himself be a battery, recharging his little brother. Pulling him up from the abyss of suicidal options.

"Not respectin' my choices again, huh?" Sam's muffled words finally came out from somewhere between them.

"Nope," Dean said unrepentantly. "Cas doesn't get to decide to let Lucifer take the wheel, and you don't get to choose to give your life away. Deal with that."

Sam thumped his back. "Yeah, okay."

Dean closed his eyes and smiled.

00000

He slept. A lot. Or at least dozed.

Sam could remember Dean hustling him to the car and helping him change clothes and drink a bottle of water. Stopping to answer questions from someone in a uniform, hopefully coherently. Stopping again and Dean leaving with a shovel, returning sweaty and dirty. If he was burying a body, Sam didn't care enough to inquire. He barely roused for soup in a cup, for more water and peeing and some kind of pill. And then stumbling into a motel room he didn't even look at. Sam was pretty sure he passed out as soon as he hit the mattress.

And he could remember the nightmares.

The only way he could separate the real from the unreal was Dean. Sometimes his brother's eyes turned black, or yellow, or once he shoved Sam from the moving car and another time gave him something to drink that squirmed and bubbled. But there was also the Dean who wiped his chin of soup, and felt carefully for a bump when Sam startled and slammed his head against the door, and held his hand over many miles, thumb pressed into the crease of Sam's palm, to keep him grounded. They couldn't both be real, and even Sam's reeling brain knew it made far more sense that the bad moments were the hallucinations, not the good ones.

Not that he remembered any of that when he woke to find Dean standing over him, bloody machete in one hand and Jody's severed head in the other.

Sam wrenched back with a cry of horror. There was an edge; he fell over, tangled in blankets. His stomach lost the fight against the emotional and physical upheaval, and Sam found himself trying to scuttle back and seek a weapon even as he threw up on the sheet that pinned him.

"Sam!"

The shout was so loud, so near his ear, it snapped him free of the phantasm. He blinked hard, still choking on bile, and looked around.

Motel room. No blood, just vomit. Dean kneeling next to him, his hands propping Sam up back and front. Eyes muddy with worry but not black, not murderous, just Dean.

"You with me?"

He rubbed at his mouth with a shaky hand. "Yeah…yeah. Sorry."

"Stop saying that," Dean grumbled, and got to work gingerly unwinding soiled bedding. "Was it demon-me again?"

"Not a memory," Sam whispered. It felt like picking apart twisted threads: the futures that angel had shown him, the real now, the different pasts he'd seen and lived. Time in Hell and time on Earth and demons and loss. It felt…impossibly scrambled and heavy.

"Okay." Dean tossed the sheet free and squeezed Sam's shoulder before getting up. Seconds later he was back with a cup of water and a washcloth, cleaning Sam up yet again. It was humiliating and comforting at the same time. "C'mon, let's get you up." He dug hands into Sam's armpits and helped him up onto the edge of the bed.

Sam propped his arms on his thighs and washed his hands over his face.

The mattress dipped beside him, Dean warm against Sam's bare arm. "You ready to tell me what those asswings showed you?"

He didn't bother to lift his head, speaking through his fingers. "You becoming a demon. Jody and the girls possessed, Cas dead. The world overrun with demons." Sam tipped his head to the side. "Dean…did I do the right thing?"

"Yes. Absolutely." Dean's hand settled at the top of Sam's T-shirt. "I don't want you sacrificing yourself again." He probably didn't notice he was pressing harder. "Obviously. But…if we were sure, like, guaranteed this would stop all those evil sons-of-bitches…I would've let you go. But we didn't. We don't. For all we know, every black-eyed bastard down below would just be trapped topside with the rest of us. We don't know why the Trials were created, right? It could've just been another end-of-the-world play."

There was no doubt in Dean's voice, no I'll believe it if you will bravado. Sam let his brother's certainty seep into him, settling the churning uncertainty. He took a slow breath. "You'd let me go, huh?"

The rub of his back was pure affection this time. "Probably. Maybe. Okay, I'd think about it."

"Uh-huh." But Dean had let him dive into the Cage, start the Trials. Fight the…no, that had been one of the hallucinations. But he'd let Sam go when Sam made the decision freely, when he wasn't acting out of despair or self-punishment. It wasn't exactly what Sam had meant by respecting his choices, but…it was close enough.

Dean moved beside him, and a blanket tugged up over his shoulders. Sam hadn't even realized he'd been shivering.

"Hey."

"Yeah?" Dean looked at him.

Sam hesitated. "You were a demon once, right?" he asked in a small voice.

Surprise, rage, sorrow chased across Dean's face. He'd probably hoped Sam was all put back together now, but sometimes Sam felt he never would be, not with half the world gunning for them, the other half relying on them. Not with all the scenes and memories, real and false, fluttering around in his brain. He had no doubt he'd be a broken shell in some sanitarium if not for the guy sitting next to him who…huh, Sam hadn't even realized Dean had his hand again, thumb massaging his palm, Sam's fingers curled around it.

With his other hand, Dean gave him a nudge toward his pillow.

"Lie down."

"But Cas…"

"Cas made his own bed—he can lie in it a little longer. Lie down."

Sam did, feeling the momentary flutter of his upset stomach, but mostly relief at being horizontal. The headache he hadn't noticed receded immediately, tight muscles loosening.

Dean covered him with the remaining clean blankets and settled by his hip. "Been a long time since I told you a bedtime story."

Like some old reflex, Sam yawned and knuckled his eyes. He didn't want to fall asleep on this.

"Okay, so, once upon a time, there were two brothers. One was devastatingly handsome, smart, and drove a kickass car, and the other was…freakishly tall and nerdy. That first year they—we—hit the road again, you had those visions, and Yellow Eyes killed Dad, after almost killing all of us. Then you got possessed by Meg, and knifed by that son-of-a-bitch soldier super kid. I made my deal, which you bitched about all year. I died, like, a hundred times in friggin' Florida, died again for real, and then really for real, and came back. We met Cas. I got ghost sickness," Dean counted on his fingers, "turned into a douche in suit, and almost took your head off when that siren got to me. Wait, was that before the suit? Anyway…"

He went on and Sam listened to all the highlights—well, lowlights—of their story and the themes of perseverance and love in their life and the promise in his brother's voice.

And slowly healed once again.

The End