Oh gosh, I think--I think this is it. I've finally finished this monster of a fic.

And yes, just like the rest of my story, this last chapter is three times longer than it needs to be. In fact, I'm fairly certain the first and last scenes are completely unnecessary, and there's just way too much dialogue - and yet despite all that, I'm sure I've still managed toforget some things. All errors are mine.

Thank you all for reading! I feel like popping open a bottle of champaign for everyone who's made it to the end. And please review, let me know what you think - even if you're reading this months or even years after I've finished posting. Your comments - whatever they are -mean so much to me! Who knows, maybe one day I'll rewrite this thing, because lord knows there are a lot of things I want to revise.

But for now, I hope this is enough.

Disclaimer: Supernatural and everything associated belong to Eric Kripke and the WB/CW network. I've only borrowed them.

---

Sam knew this wasn't the first time he'd woken up. He remembered some time earlier a disorienting mix of Dean and brightness and voices that were or were not familiar. But this time, this slow ease into consciousness, he was fully aware of himself and, after a few halting moments, his surroundings.

Sam came awake to Dean's voice. To him, it almost seemed an unbroken train of thought that wasn't his. It had been the last thing to slip in before darkness overtook him, and it was still there when he came back to consciousness, a low tone that overrode every other sound and even Sam's own thoughts.

But something was wrong, something was off. His hand was given a squeeze and his shoulder was patted, and then there was nothing, and in a sudden panic, he struggled to force his eyes open. But he must have been too slow, and by the time he could see, Dean's back was turned to him and he was already halfway to the door.

Sam reacted instantly, surging forward in blind desperation, propelling himself with an arm stretched towards his departing brother, but he was held back, hooked up to more tubes than he'd realized. He tried to roll away, to jerk free, but a sudden, blazing pain in his shoulder stopped him short, ripping a cry of pain from deep in his throat.

Dean stopped and turned, his eyes widening. "Sam!" he cried in alarm, immediately rushing back to him. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"You can't leave me," Sam gasped at him, trying to ignore the throbbing in his shoulder that seemed to suck the air from his lungs.

Dean froze. Then he shook his head slowly, looking slightly ill. "I'm not leaving you," he said. But Sam didn't stop glaring at him, even though Dean seemed to ignore it as he pushed him back gently into bed. "I'm not," he repeated firmly when Sam opened his mouth to argue.

"But I heard you, just now," Sam protested. His position lying down frustrated him, so he scrambled for the bed controls, raising himself up so he was almost sitting. Now he was more level with his brother, a little less vulnerable.

A confused frown crossed Dean's face as he helped Sam readjust his position. "Then you heard me say I was going for coffee..."

Startled, Sam faltered at that, tearing his gaze away so he could concentrate. As soon as Dean said those words, it yanked the memory out, almost as if it were a dream he suddenly remembered, and Sam realized that was what he'd heard. "But..." he fumbled, instantly feeling foolish, "You sounded—bad."

"Bad? Did they teach you that word in college?"

Sam scowled as he relaxed against the mattress. "Fine then. You sounded despondent. Dejected. Remorseful, penitent, sullen-" Dean held up a hand, cutting him off—which, thank God, because Sam's still-fuzzy mind fought against coming up with even those words.

"Yeah, well, I needed a cup of coffee to stay awake - but I didn't want to leave because I knew, the minute I walked out that door, you'd wake up." He looked down at Sam with a dry smirk. "Looks like I was only half wrong."

Sam blinked a couple of times, feeling his body settle as the situation sunk in. "Sorry," he apologized with a shrug. "Next time I'll have a schedule ready. Who told you you needed to stay awake, anyway?" Just looking at the dark circles underneath Dean's eyes made Sam tired.

Then again, everything was making Sam tired. He felt like he hadn't completely woken up yet.

Dean didn't answer him, instead glancing down to guide himself into a chair next to Sam's bed. As he sat there, his eyes skimmed across the room and along Sam's body, as if he wasn't sure where to rest his gaze. For a brief instant he met Sam's eyes, but he quickly looked away.

"Goddammit, Sam," he suddenly cursed. "You almost died."

"Did I?" Sam asked, immediately curious. He glanced down at his chest, although the angle was bad and his wound was too high and hidden underneath tight bandages. He knew the injury had been serious, but..."Didn't seem to hit anything vital."

Dean shook his head with a jerk. "You were in surgery for over three hours, Sam. There was no exit wound--they had to dig it out from your ribs. It just barely missed a lung. They barely missed the lung."

Sam raised his eyebrows at the information. "Wow, really? Huh." He was pretty lucky, it seemed. Not too shabby for his first gunshot wound. He wondered if they'd let him keep the bullet as a souvenir.

Without any warning, Dean slammed a hand against the cheap wooden arm of the chair. "Dammit, Sam! This is serious!"

"Dean," he said slowly, with a patience he was surprised he had. "We face death all the time, in every hunt. I survived, everything's okay – we've done this all before."

The corners of Dean's jaw twitched. "But that part of your life was supposed to be over," he said.

Sam snorted humorlessly. "The last time I thought that part was over was the moment right before you broke through my front door and told me Dad was missing. And then Jessica died."

Dean shifted and gave a couple of false starts, licking his lips before starting hesitantly. Even before he started speaking, Sam knew what he was about to say. "But...this whole past year, you-"

"The hunt couldn't be over if I didn't know the hunt existed."

"What does that matter? It was over, whether you knew it or not."

Sam had hoped he wouldn't be asked to explain because he wasn't sure how to, not even to himself. "Look, I am who I am today because of the way I was raised, because of the hunt," he began, pushing through his weariness. "It's a part of me now. Even this whole year, I felt it--but I couldn't identify it, and I--I didn't know how to ignore it, like I could before. It was there, and I couldn't turn my back on it because I didn't know what it was."

He couldn't tell if Dean understood or not. His brother was staring at the far wall, but then he turned his gaze to Sam, his eyes crinkled just slightly as if he were in thought, or maybe in pain. "Forgetting the circumstances," he started with a strained force, "Forgetting that I put you there--you gotta admit, that was better. Wasn't it?"

Sam shifted his gaze away, unwilling to look at him. Dean went on anyway, dogged despite Sam's reaction. "You had a new life, Sam, you had innocence again. You were safe and free and happy."

Sam was silent for a moment. "How's Alice?"

"She's fine," Dean replied with a frown. "Sam--"

Sam turned to him and tilted his head. "Do you know if she's talked to her husband?" he asked. "I think George put some ugly thoughts into her head, left her feeling pretty bad about herself."

Dean shook his head distractedly. "I don't know—I mean, they both stopped by to see you—Looked fine to me, I guess." He gestured at the window. "They brought you those flowers."

Startled, Sam looked over and felt a smile stretch his face. Sitting on the wide windowsill was a large, glass vase bursting with flowers—daisies, Sam thought, though he wasn't sure. "Oh, wow, that was nice of them," he said, pushing himself up a couple of inches. "You know, I don't think I've ever gotten flowers before."

"Dude, you took a bullet for her. I think the least-"

Sam pursed his lips thoughtfully and cut his brother off. "I don't even know what I'm supposed to do. Should I send her a thank you card, some kind of acknowledgment? Let her know I got them?"

Frustration was plain on Dean's face. "Who cares?" he grunted, waving a hand through the air. "They're just flowers."

Sam stared at the daisies for a moment before he replied. "It's just--I'm not used to being in the hospital. At least, not from this angle."

He looked back up at Dean, suddenly remembering how tired he was. "I've seen you here. Twice in one year—too many." He suppressed a shudder and forced those thoughts away. "But the last time I was in the hospital was--man..." He trailed off into thought, letting his mind separate emergency room visits and on-site treatment from actual stays, trying to remember the last time he spent the night in a hospital bed.

"You were seventeen," Dean told him. "A ghost threw you down a set of stairs."

"Ah, that's right," Sam said with a nod, suddenly feeling phantom pains from that time. "Funny, I was just thinking about the chupacabra." Was that yesterday, or just this morning, that he shared a car ride with Lt. Stevens? "I remembered I was so mad because I had to miss a couple of extra days of school. And then bam, I ended up spending the whole next week in the hospital."

"You really freaked Dad out."

"I freaked you out, too."

Dean shrugged, trying to be casual, but it looked more as if he were trying to get out from under a heavy weight. "Those first 24 hours--Doctors told us your, um, survival depended on how hard you were willing to fight for it. " He hesitated for a moment. "I was so—I thought you might just give up and leave us."

Sam frowned as he thought of that time. "And then a few weeks later, I did leave you." He graduated two months after getting out of the hospital, and the very next day told his family he was going to Stanford. It took another three years before he saw his brother again.

"Yeah, well, at least you were alive." Dean shrugged again and leaned back in the chair. "Turns out you did have something to live for."

Sam frowned, feeling a sudden wave of exhaustion sweep over him. "And now?" he asked Dean after a moment, letting his eyelids slide shut.

"What?"

Sam reopened his eyes and turned his head to look at him. "Do you think I have something to live for now?"

"Jesus, Sammy," he said, sucking in a breath. "What do you want me to say?"

It turned out he didn't have to say anything, because just then a nurse walked in to check up on Sam. Sam lied back passively, taking the chance to rest as he let her do what she needed to do. Dean ignored her, though Sam couldn't tell whether it was because he was too upset, or if she was a couple of years too old for him. Probably the former, he thought vaguely as he was poked and prodded, since age never seemed to be a problem for him before.

It wasn't until the nurse asked that Sam realized how much his chest hurt. A large yawn overcame him as she fiddled with the settings somewhere next to him, and he wondered if it were too soon to take another nap. Dean, still in the chair next to him, kept moving his hands around, as if he weren't sure what to do with them.

Then the nurse left after only a few minutes, leaving the two brothers alone again. Sam rubbed his face tiredly, running a hand across his scratchy, unshaven cheeks. The air in the room seemed to have stilled, and a long moment passed before Dean finally broke the silence. "You look like hell," he told Sam.

Sam pursed his lips into a kind-of smile as he met Dean's gaze. "Like looking into a mirror, I bet."

"Just go to sleep, man," Dean replied, giving his shoulder a pat. "You're practically there already."

But Sam shook his head. "Nah, I'm good." The last syllable was swallowed by another yawn.

"Ha, that's a good one," Dean said with a snort.

"Thanks."

Dean seemed to be waiting for Sam to act, but Sam didn't do anything more than keep a half smile on his face. "What's up with you?" Dean asked him after a moment. "You're not acting like Sam."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you're being awfully..."

"Awfully what?" Sam asked when he trailed off.

"I don't know. Blasé?"

Did they teach you that word in college? Sam wanted to say, but it wasn't worth it. Instead, he shrugged and said, "Guess I'm just relaxed."

"You're relaxed?"

"Yeah, I am." For now.

"But—you're Sam," Dean protested with furrowed eyebrows. "You're never relaxed. How can you be relaxed now? In a hospital. With—with me, here, like this. After all that's--"

Sam shook his head suddenly, quickly, needing him to stop. "No, not now. Please." It surprised him how much effort it took to keep his voice steady. "I'm not ready for that yet." He let his head fall back, sinking into the pillow. Exhaustion crept through his muscles, and he had to struggle to keep his eyelids open.

Dean stared at him for a long time before he nodded stiltedly. "Yeah. Yeah, you're right. Right now, you need to go back to sleep." He grinned suddenly, the same grin he used whenever he was about to say something stupid. "Hey, you think if I told them my arms hurt, they'll give me some of that stuff they're shooting you up with?" Sam was rolling his eyes before he even finished, but he felt a relieved smile tugging at his lips.

Dean stood up then, but it took Sam a moment to realize he was reaching for the thin bed sheet Sam had pushed aside when he'd first woken up. Dean's hands fumbled with the edges, his movements hesitant and uncertain as he dug around for the corners.

"I already told you, I'm good," Sam said as Dean drew the sheet up to his chest.

"You're exhausted," Dean told him firmly.

"I'm not going to sleep."

Dean stared into his eyes then as if he could command Sam's attention just by looking at him. "Sam, I'll be here when you wake up. All right? Just go to sleep."

Sam calmly looked back at him. "You first," he replied.

"Huh?"

"I'm not going to sleep until you do."

Dean frowned. "Is that what this is about?"

"Yep," Sam replied simply. "You need it just as much as I do."

He saw Dean roll his eyes, "Dude, I'm fine. You're the one in the hospital."

"Actually, now that I think about it--I'm fine too. In fact, I think I'll go take a run around the block, just for the hell of it...Really get the blood pumping, you know?" He even moved to push himself up, but he didn't get very far before Dean's arm shot out, stopping him with a hand on his chest.

"All right, all right, I get it. Jeez." He plopped back down on the chair and shot Sam a harmless glare as Sam settled triumphantly back into the bed.

"I'll ask for a cot," Sam offered. "Maybe they could--" But Dean stopped him.

"Nah, I'm good right here," he said. He lifted himself up and started scooting his chair backwards until it sat a few inches from the wall. Then, settling back into the chair, he crossed his arms over his chest and leaned his head back until it rested against the sky-colored paint. "See?" he said in demonstration, letting his eyes slide close.

Sam wanted to tell him he would sleep better if he'd only let them bring in a cot, but his mouth didn't want to bother with moving. So instead he lay there and watched his brother, propped up against the wall. If Dean wanted to be stubborn, that was fine with Sam. He wouldn't be the one waking up with a crick in the neck.

After a moment, one of Dean's eyes popped open. "I told you," Sam immediately said, ready for it. "I'm not falling asleep until you do." Dean grumbled something under his breath and closed his eye.

Sam watched him as he waited, thoughts from the day swirling around him in a murky, unreadable mess. His shoulder throbbed dully, and he was eager to sink into consciousness. But, in the stillness of the hospital room, far from the shifter, far from the basement where Dean had been handcuffed, Sam couldn't take his eyes off of his brother.

"I didn't even know your favorite color," Sam said suddenly.

"Yeah, I know," Dean complained without opening his eyes, his voice indignant and hurt. "What kind of sister are you?"

Sam smiled and sank back in the bed. It didn't take long for Dean to fall asleep, only a few minutes passing before his breath finally evened out. Satisfied, Sam closed his eyes and let the rhythm of his soft snores lull him to sleep. He was out in less time than it took Dean.

OoOOoo

Sam woke first. Or at least, when he woke up, Dean was fast asleep. His brother had apparently shifted at one point though, because when Sam opened his eyes, he found himself staring at the top of Dean's head, resting against the mattress near Sam's elbow. His body was hunched forward now, one arm hanging in his lap and the other cradled around his head, and Sam almost woke him because he was leaving a small puddle of drool on Sam's sheets.

But he didn't. He waited until Dean awoke on his own, almost twenty minutes later. His head shifted first, slowly, and then he jerked and his green eyes popped open. It only took a second of searching before his eyes found Sam's, and once they did, he seemed to gather himself together and pushed himself up from the bed.

"I'm ready to talk," Sam told him.

Dean straightened and scrubbed his face with a low groan. Sam waited as his words sunk in, watching as Dean seemed to prepare himself. "Yeah...okay..." he muttered to himself, squaring his shoulder. Sam could almost hear him pray for a sudden ghost attack. Dean had always been more comfortable with hunting.

They lapsed into silence, regarding each other. Sam knew Dean was expecting him to speak first, but Sam made no move to start. It took Dean a moment to realize Sam was waiting for him—or maybe he'd just gotten too uncomfortable with the silent tension that stretched between them.

"I'm not going anywhere, you know," he said.

Sam nodded, slowly because his chest was still on fire. "Yeah, I know."

"You keep staring," Dean told him, looking unsettled by Sam's response. "You haven't stopped watching me since you first woke up."

Sam gave him a tight smile. "Beats looking at the wall, doesn't it?"

"Yeah, but man, you--"

Sam sighed and then he did look away. "It's just...It's weird, Dean," he said. "The last time I knew you as my brother, you were barely recovering from almost dying. Dad was gone, we were falling apart, and my last memory of you, you were in so much pain you could barely move."

He swallowed, feeling a headache coming on from the tense way he was pushing his eyebrows together. "And then...all of that was completely gone—missing—from...from me. But now suddenly here you are again, just as sudden as I lost you."

A moment passed before Dean answered. "Well, at least I'm back in top physical shape," he said wryly.

Sam shook his head and snorted. "Sure you are," he said, deciding not to bring up the scars he'd seen littering his brother's body, or the wounds still fresh on his arms. "But you're still screwed up. Just as screwed as I am."

As hard as his brother tried to suppress it, Sam still saw Dean flinch. He jerked a hand up to rub his face, as if trying to cover for it.

"Why did you come back, Sam?" he asked wearily, his voice sounding almost pained.

"For this. What we're doing right now."

"What, talking? We could have talked on the phone," Dean shot back. "Would have been helluva lot less dangerous. No deranged shifters, no gunshot wounds…"

"I think this goes beyond a phone call," Sam replied. "Don't know why you're complaining though—Saved your butt."

"I had a plan," Dean told him indignantly.

"The hell you did," Sam remarked, thinking of the envelopes that should still be in his pocket. He couldn't shake the image of Dean handcuffed to the pole, refusing to let Sam anywhere near him. "Why didn't you come with me back there in the basement? Even if I were the shapeshifter, at least you'd have the chance to fight."

Dean blinked and glanced briefly down at the floor. Wetting his lips, he looked back up at Sam. "If--If you had been anyone else, even Dad, I would have," he said. "But…" He broke off, shifting his stance. Sam wasn't sure if he'd ever seen Dean shuffle his feet in such an obvious sign of nervousness. He'd always been adept at hiding his anxiety, his uneasiness.

"I wanted it to really be you too much," Dean finally admitted. "I was scared that I would screw things up--that I would actually try to believe it was you. You saw it, that guy was sadistic, had a psychological fetish. I just--I didn't want to get to that point…even if I knew it wasn't you."

Maybe Sam could understand that. At least being handcuffed would have helped keep Dean grounded, the same way the gun in Jessica's hand shattered the illusion the shifter tried to force on Sam.

And he could understand the pain in facing the shifter. In St. Louis, it had been hell for Sam, hearing the things the shifter said coming from Dean's mouth. It hadn't even pretended to be Dean, only looked like him--but that was enough. It knew what to say, what nerves to strike. It knew how to bury him in guilt and shame.

But Sam, at least, never stopped fighting.

His whole life, he'd never seen Dean stopped fighting either, not ever, not as long as there was a monster of some sort running around. "That doesn't sound like you," he said after a moment. "Giving up like that." As he spoke, he studied his brother, wondering how much his brother had changed in the past year.

In St. Louis, Sam suddenly realized, his guilt had been small. He never really regretted going to Stanford, only that he had to leave his brother behind – and yet, the shifter's words had still been nearly unbearable.

How would it have been if he'd carried around as much guilt as his brother now did?

Dean, though, seemed to have other concerns. "Yeah, well, at least I was smart enough to not jump in front of a freakin' bullet," he growled.

At first, Sam almost dismissed it as an obvious deflection, but then he saw that his brother was seriously upset. "I had to," Sam explained.

Dean shook his head and leaned forward. "Whatever the hell you thought you were doing, it wasn't worth it," he hissed.

"I saved her life."

"And you almost got yourself killed!"

Sam didn't hide his annoyance. "How many times in our long and illustrious career have we risked our lives to save people's lives?" he pointed out. "At least this time, you didn't erase my memory afterwards," he added, almost as an afterthought.

Dean stiffened and looked away, and Sam wondered if he should have saved that remark for later. But Dean eventually nodded to himself. "What?" Sam asked.

"Just…go on."

Sam realized he was waiting for him to continue, but he didn't know what to say. "You really thought I was trying to kill myself?" he finally asked. "During the goatman attack?" He'd been wondering that ever since he got his memories back, and he needed to straighten the jumbled pieces of the past just so he could start to make sense out of Dean's actions.

Dean seemed to be surprised by Sam's question, and he shrugged, his movements stilted and tense. "Maybe not trying--but you didn't care."

As much as he wanted to deny it, Sam wondered if there was a bit of truth in Dean's statement. It wasn't that he hadn't care, but he remembered feeling so hopeless back then that he almost gave up. "And I couldn't protect you," Dean continued gruffly, "and it scared me because I couldn't protect you and you didn't care. I mean, how could I trust you on your own when you didn't even care about protecting yourself?"

Sam didn't have an answer for that. "But the other night, back in the hotel when you were explaining...Why didn't you just tell me you thought you were saving my life?"

Dean's eyes, looking tired, rolled back to face Sam. "C'mon Sam, you know I don't make excuses," he said. "That wasn't the only reason I did what I did. I don't even think it was the main reason. And even if it was, Sam--would that have made it any easier to accept?"

Sam frowned and slowly shook his head. No, it wouldn't. But... "I just need to know—I'm trying to understand." He needed something, anything that let him know things could be fixed. His eyes started to sting, and he had to blink away the sudden moisture.

"What do you want me to say?" Dean cried angrily, almost desperately. He jumped to his feet, towering over Sam. "That I was hopped up on painkillers? That I'd gone temporarily insane? Hell, that I heard voices telling me to? Would any of that make you feel better?"

"Just tell me the truth," Sam asked in a voice so low he wasn't even sure Dean would hear him.

But Dean did. He ran a hand through his hair and started pacing the room. "What does that matter?" he railed. "It doesn't change anything! What does it matter that my chest hurt so bad I couldn't think straight? That I never stopped being scared since the moment that bastard threw me to the ceiling and no one was there?"

Dean, now at the foot of Sam's bed, spun around to face Sam. "Are you going to suddenly forgive me because I was chickenshit, scared that I would wake up one day and you wouldn't be there anymore? Because that's why I did it. That's why."

Sam looked back at him, feeling his chest restrict painfully. "I wasn't going to leave you."

"Yeah, you already said that yesterday—you know, when you were dying," Dean replied, his voice thin and bitter.

"It's still the truth."

Dean sighed and set a hand against Sam's bedrail. "Look, Sam, I know you believe that," he said, his expression dangerously calm all of the sudden. "But you were so damn miserable. The only reason you weren't already on your way was because of guilt. The only reason, and you know it."

His hand tightened around the railing, and the pressure seemed to shoot up his arm and into his shoulders. "It'd only be a matter of time before that wasn't enough anymore," he continued as his voice suddenly trembled. "And that's not how I wanted my brother beside me."

"So, what are you saying?" Sam asked, feeling impatient and out of control. "You were scared that I'd leave you, so you decided to make sure that happened?"

Dean closed his eyes briefly. "Dammit, Sam, I was scared you'd decide to leave me without looking back," he said. "I was scared because I knew you had to leave. And--I was scared that you wouldn't leave."

Sam looked at him sharply.

Dean met his gaze. "I needed you, Sam, but not as much as you needed out."

"Out?" Sam echoed cautiously, thinking he already knew the answer.

"Out of hunting! Out of our life!" Dean cried, throwing his hands into the air. "Dammit, Sam, I don't understand what you're doing here! I mean, if you're going to yell at me, just start already! Come on and give it to me!"

Sam was stunned for a moment by his outburst, and he wasn't sure how to respond. He'd meant to yell at Dean—the whole ride to Tulsa, he assumed there would be lots of yelling once he'd finally confronted his brother. But suddenly, lying there in bed, he didn't have the energy.

He turned to look out the window, but the vase of daisies obstructed his view. The flowers offered an improvement, he realized, seeing nothing past them but cloudy gray sky.

"Why did you come back, Sam?" Dean asked again, after Sam hadn't said anything.

Sam kept his eyes on the daisies as he considered his answer. "For this past year, I didn't know I hated hunting," he said.

"You can't hate what you didn't know existed," Dean remarked. "You were blissfully ignorant, at least until I pushed myself back into your life." Bitterness laced the latter part of his sentence.

Of course Dean missed the point. He'd always been good at that. Sam tore his gaze from the flowers and looked down at his lap.

"You made me forget everything, Dean. You know I can never excuse what you did," he told his older brother. Dean nodded in acceptance, not arguing. "But it helped me realize something."

"Yeah, what's that?" Dean asked tiredly.

"You've always told me how noble our job is, saving lives and fighting evil, and I couldn't exactly argue with that," Sam told him. "But I never really believed it. Or even really cared..."

Dean rolled his head, exasperated. "Aw, hell, Sam, you know I'm no saint," he complained roughly, scrubbing his jaw with a hand. "I just say crap like that to make myself feel better, you know, make what we do easier. To reassure myself that it's all worth it."

"But the thing it...it is."

Dean was silent for a moment. "Well, you're really making sense here. I practice some nasty voodoo on you, and you suddenly realize just how wonderful the supernatural really is."

Sam sighed and glared at him. Dean noticed, and with lips twitching, he lifted his hands and took a step backwards in a sign of surrender. Satisfied his brother would lay off the sarcasm, Sam relaxed and tried to explain. It took him a moment to figure out how to start.

"I know you were checking up on me," he said at last. "I saw you – even though you were in the background, I saw you...and I couldn't look away."

Dean started, shooting Sam a confused look.

"I didn't know what it was, just something about the way you carried yourself, the look in your eyes, or—gah, I don't know," Sam broke off, shaking off his frustration. "But when I first met you—when I knew you as John—I started to realize what that something was." He paused and wet his lips.

"You know I love Rebecca, right?" he asked. Dean blinked and nodded uncertainly, obviously startled by the sudden change of subject. "Zach, too. I mean, they were just good friends at first, but —I was so lost, and they took me in, practically made me family. It meant so much to me."

As he listened to Sam speak, Dean came over to the wall and leaned back against it, keeping his face in a careful mask. Sam glanced at him out of the corner of his eye before continuing. "And they did all of this, even though Zach had just lost his girlfriend, and Becky was almost tortured to death. They were the last people to deserve the hell they'd gone through. And I kept thinking, what if things had gone differently, and they hadn't survived?"

Dean shook his head, lost. He let out a little puff of air, sounding like he was trying to speak but wasn't sure what to say. Sam went on before he had the chance. "Then you come along, and I find out you're the one who saved them."

"Now, wait," Dean rushed to protest. "You-"

Sam waved him off, and Dean fell silent. "Then you exorcised my room, and the very next day, you went right after the next hunt." Sam shook his head at the memory. "Just like that."

"So what? It was no big deal, Sam, you know that," Dean replied.

"Yeah, I know it's not a big deal," Sam quickly agreed, and Dean gave him an exasperated, then-what's-the-problem? kind of look. Sam leaned towards him earnestly. "But to Becky and Zach, and to that guy at the lighthouse, and to everyone else we've saved, it is a big deal."

Dean drew in a long, tired breath. "And you got the flowers to prove it, right?"

"Dammit, Dean!" Sam cried, his upper body lurching forward, and a wide-eyed Dean quickly muttered an apology.

"Look, you took away my memories," Sam went on, "And that was absolutely the wrong thing to do--by far the worst thing you have ever done, ever. But..."

Dean listened to Sam without moving, and sometimes Sam hated talking to Dean when he was like that. It made it harder to say things when Dean refused to give any reaction. Sam tried anyway, feeling a desperate need to explain the feelings rushing inside him. "Dean, it gave me a different perspective. I got to see what we do, without all that crap I grew up with, without the anger at Dad, and all the resentment."

Sam was forced to wait as Dean considered his words. "So, what, you liked what you saw? Is that what you're saying?" Dean asked him dubiously.

Sam nodded. "You were right, Dean, we save a lot of lives doing what we do. It is worth it."

Dean let out a dry bark of a laugh as he peeled himself from the wall. "Okay, so what does that mean? You gonna take off, start up a Sam chapter of the Winchester Hunting Association?"

Sam raised his eyebrows, but he didn't get a chance to respond.

"So you boys are hunters?" a new voice asked, and they both turned to see a middle-aged doctor walk into the room. They had to put their conversation on hold, and Sam had to admit, he was relieved for the break.

"Yeah, we are," Sam replied before Dean could.

The doctor nodded and smiled and made small talk before asking Sam questions about his health and well-being. Sam answered dutifully, eager to keep the check-up smooth and quick. The doctor seemed pleased with his progress, giving him bits of information Sam had mostly heard already during previous hospital visits.

As the doctor looked him over, Dean stood in the corner, quietly gazing out of the window. Sam glanced at him once but otherwise gave the doctor his full attention. He couldn't risk disrupting the delicate balance he'd forced his thoughts into.

The doctor soon slipped back out, but Dean didn't move from the window.

Sam studied him for a moment and realized his brother had aged much more than the year they'd been apart.

Watching him, Sam felt his mouth go dry. "Do you regret what you did?" he asked him.

Dean turned to him with a jerk. "Yes. Of course I do," he said thickly. As he moved, the light from the window framed his form and at first Sam couldn't see his face. But then he stepped away and came to Sam's side.

"But I don't regret the results," he admitted, looking down at Sam.

Stung, Sam's eyes flickered and he had to swallow before he could speak. "What do you mean?" he slowly asked, his voice hardening.

"Look, Sam, I know what I did was wrong. It wasn't fair to you, and I had no right," Dean said. "And I know you think you've rediscovered yourself, or hunting, or whatever, but Sam..." He ran a hand through his hair and then let his arm drop to the side. "You were actually happy."

Sam almost snorted, but he managed to stop himself. "How would you know?"

"I saw you," Dean replied. "At the bar. You were with friends, and you were laughing." His face twisted strangely, and his whole body seemed to sag before he let himself drop down into the chair. "I mean, dammit Sam, my whole life I've never heard you laugh like that."

Sam frowned, startled by Dean's words. He had to think back to that night he thought Dean was referring to, when Sam had found him outside throwing up—but that night hadn't been anything special. He thought of that night, and every other night he'd gone out with Becky and her friends, and it took him a while before he figured out what Dean meant.

"Dean, whenever I laughed with my friends..." he trailed off, trying to put his explanation into words. "I was mostly just laughing because I wanted to laugh. I needed to laugh. But it wasn't real, not exactly."

Dean seemed to study him. "But it kinda was, wasn't it?" he pointed out. "I mean, you never even laugh at my jokes. You just roll your eyes and groan."

Sam smiled then. "Dean, I roll my eyes and groan because you're my stupid older brother." Dean huffed with indignation, causing Sam's grin to widen before he turned more serious. "And I do too laugh when I'm with you," he went on. "And when I do, that's real. I don't need to laugh to tell myself I'm fitting in, or that I'm adjusting to life, I laugh because something was honestly funny."

"Oh, come on, Sam," Dean replied, sounding incredulous. "If that were true, you'd laugh every time you looked in the mirror and saw that stupid, shaggy haircut."

Just as he'd said, Sam rolled his eyes, although this time also threw his pillow at him. "You're such a jerk," he said.

Dean grinned and waggled his eyebrows. "Yep. Bet you're glad now, huh?"

"Glad about what?"

"That you didn't have to spend the past year with your big brother."

Sam's good mood instantly vanished. "Dean..." he warned.

"You were happier, weren't you," Dean pressed. stubbornly "You don't owe me anything, especially not now, so just admit it."

"Dean, even if I were-"

Dean held up a hand, cutting him off. "Don't worry, I won't take it as a sign of forgiveness or approval or anything like that. Just admit you were better off."

"No," Sam firmly replied.

He could tell Dean was growing frustrated by the way he lurched forward. "But--just look at yourself!" he exclaimed, gesturing with a wave of his arm.

Sam glanced down and raised his hands helplessly. "What?"

"You're a college graduate now. You can do whatever the hell you want!" Dean told him. "You have choices now, real, honest-to-God options."

Sam shrugged him off irritably, knowing Dean wouldn't let him get by without answering. "Okay, Dean, yes, it helps," he admitted with exasperation. "All right? Having a choice helps."

"See?" Dean cried in triumphant, shoving a finger into the air at Sam. "You got what you wanted! You're halfway to being a lawyer--to having that life you've always dreamed of!"

"That was before-" Sam started to argue, but Dean cut him off.

"Stop being stupid, Sam—just stop being so stubborn. Dammit, you earned this, you deserve to be finally happy! That's all I ever wanted for you!"

Sam stared mutely as Dean railed at him. He felt his jaw clench, and he swallowed forcefully. "No, Dean, you're wrong," he said, steeling his voice. Dean stopped and looked at him, his expression unprepared.

"I wasn't happier," Sam told him.

As his words sunk in, Dean's face suddenly became stricken. "Dammit Sam, you woke up from a nightmare crying!" he burst out.

Sam felt his breath catch, and the memory rushed at him out of control.

"You never cried from nightmares before," Dean went on with a force that pierced through Sam's chest. "Not even over Jessica."

Sam blinked rapidly, holding back the emotions rising recklessly inside him as he forced himself to think. No, he never did wake up crying over Jessica. He didn't cry when he had nightmares of Jessica before her death because he didn't believe they were true. He didn't cry over the nightmares after her death because he'd already mourned her. But he cried that night because he didn't want to mourn Dean as well.

With that realization, he looked back at his brother, keeping his breathing deep and slow. His shoulder was throbbing again and his chest was tight, and he felt like he had to be careful, or else he'd fall apart completely. Dean was watching him, silent and still in his chair, his face now impassive, unmoving.

"Did you like being alone?" Sam asked him.

Dean stiffened at Sam's sudden question, but he quickly composed himself. "That doesn't matter," he said, and his voice was rough but insistent.

"I hated being alone," Sam told him.

Dean's eyes shot towards him in an instant of wild panic.

And then without warning, his face crumpled as he suddenly lost whatever hold he had. And Sam watched, stunned, as his walls collapsed completely right before his eyes, and then Dean ducked from his gaze, his head dropping down with a jerk. His whole upper body curled over his lap, his back hunched and his head hanging almost limply from his shoulders. On the top of his thighs, his hands curled into tight fists, and they slowly came up to press against his eyes. And Sam couldn't see his face, but he could see his shoulders as they started to shake.

"Dean..." Sam said softly, startled to hear the tremble in his voice.

Dean shook his head, refusing to look up. "I hated it, Sam," he admitted with a choke. "I hated what I did to you. I don't-I don't know how much further I could've gone."

"Dean, listen to me."

"I'm so sorry," Dean whispered, struggling between gasps. "I'm so, so sorry..."

"Just listen to me," Sam forced out. His own vision swam, but he managed to keep the tears from falling. And he knew Dean was listening to him, even as he wrestled with the silent sobs his shoulders couldn't seem to restrain. "Everything's going to be all right, Dean," Sam told him, wishing Dean would just look up.

"I'm not going to leave," Sam went on, and his voice finally cracked on him. "I need my big brother, okay?"

That's what he had to live for, and he hated that Dean hadn't been able to see that.

And then Dean did look up at him, his eyes red and wet and swollen, and Sam could see he was struggling to keep his face from crumpling again. Sam sucked in his breath, trying to ignore the pain in his shoulder and chest, deathly afraid he'd miss whatever Dean had to say.

"We really are screwed up, aren't we?" Dean asked.

Sam sagged, his shoulders dropping, and he let out the breath he'd been holding. "Well," he said after a moment, feeling a weak smile tugging at his lips. "General consensus does say we're freaks..."

And just like that, the tension seemed to break around them. Dean snorted wetly, and to Sam's relief, he returned his smile, even if it were only a shadow of Dean's usual smirk. "Well, some things you just can't help," he remarked.

Sam let out a laugh--a wet, shaky sound, but without a doubt a real laugh—and Dean, though he looked slightly stunned, quickly joined in.

It didn't last long, and as soon as it ended, Sam felt a wave of exhaustion flood in its place. He was drained, as tired as he'd ever felt, and that laugh took the last bit of strength he had. But even so, it sparked something inside him. After a year of searching, Sam realized he could finally be Sam again.

OoOOoo

Sam was soon released from the hospital, and the two Winchesters checked into a roadside motel a few miles outside of town. This time it was Sam who was brushing off his brother's help, and Dean was just as stubborn as Sam had been about helping anyway.

They waited for Sam to recover, and Dean remained painstakingly patient as Sam took his time easing back into his former life. They even took a long, slow drive all the way to California to visit the Warrens, at Dean's suggestion.

After a few days at Stanford, Sam found a werewolf sighting in Wyoming. Dean was immediately eager to start, practically bouncing on his heels as they packed up their things - but unlike before, there was a definite lack of desperation in his actions.

As they drove past the city limits, Dean looked over at Sam, hunched over in the passenger side as he studied the articles he'd printed from the Internet. Sam stopped reading, feeling his brother's eyes on him.

"So what about your white picket fence and two-and-a-half kids? Are you really giving that up?" Dean asked him.

Sam shrugged, leaning back against the long-familiar passenger seat. "Who says I have to?" he replied.

Dean cocked an eyebrow at him.

"The future's wide open, Dean," Sam explained easily. He was confident about the road stretching before them. If one day he decided to make hunting a part time gig, or even retire from it completely, he knew that unlike before, he'd make sure his brother was a part of his life in one way or another.

He turned to grin at his Dean. "Heck, who knows--maybe one day I'll find my Buffy."

Dean laughed. "Dude. You could never get a Buffy."

"Sure I could," Sam replied.

"No."

"I'm sorry, did you meet Jessica?"

"Yeah, and she was out of your league, too."

"Yeah, she was," Sam admitted. "But I still got her, didn't I?"

Dean didn't answer, but Sam saw the smile he tried to hide. Sam turned back to the printouts, but after a moment, he found Dean giving him another long look. "What?" Sam asked.

But his brother just shook his head. "Nothing," he said.

And though Sam couldn't read his exact expression, he thought he knew what Dean was thinking.

Things were finally starting to feel all right.

Ramifications from Dean's actions still lingered over them, issues still needed to be hammered out, and Sam knew it would only be a matter of time before they found themselves into another new mess – that was their luck, their style even.

--But as they raced from the sun setting behind them, Sam wasn't worried.

The End.