Title: Finding Home

Rating: PG-13/R for language, mostly

Disclaimer: Nothing you recognize is mine. I gain nothing of materialistic value from this.

Pairings: Gen.

Notes: So...er...this is it.

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Epilogue:

A Place To Call Home

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They needed somewhere to stay. Not just to clean up and have a cheap bed for the night—although that was their first problem, with Sam staring at his bloody arms as if surprised to see them, then rubbing absently at the rust-colored stains every few seconds. Dean thought it was a good thing Sam couldn't see his face, because there was blood splattered there, as well, although Dean wasn't sure how much was his and how much was from the other guy. Dean didn't know what his own face looked like and thought that was probably a good thing, too.

They didn't know what to do about Dad. Dean knew his injury wasn't critically serious, nor was the weeping wound on Sam's good hand. But they were both bleeding and in pain and exhausted, and they had to take care of the body because there was no way they were going to leave him lying there.

Dean had had to leave Sam sitting by himself, staring blankly at their father's body now, so that he could stagger to the Impala to pull two extra sheets from the back. Sam did seem to wake up and help bundle the body into the sheets—which wasn't easy because their father was so tall.

John Winchester had been so tall. Taller than Dean and taller than Sammy even though Sammy had outgrown them all in inches.

Sam had seemed so dazed that Dean was surprised to find the ground before him suddenly empty and his father gone. He jerked to his feet and found Sam's hand on his arm.

"Dean," his brother said, his voice rough and hoarse. "You blanked out for a minute. I put him in the car. Bobby says to go to him."

Dean thought it had to be past midnight now, and he remembered Bobby saying--a long time ago--there'd be hell to pay the next time they called at such an obscene hour. That made him remember that hell had just broken loose and that they'd be paying for a long time.

And because they needed somewhere to stay—a place they could call home, even for a little while, not just a room where they could clean up and have a bed for the night—Dean let his little brother lead him to the car. But once they were there, Sam seemed to forget how to open the door, and Dean had to prod him into the passenger seat before he took his usual seat behind the wheel.

"What about...the truck?" Sam asked in a small voice.

Dean had to swallow hard as he stared at the vehicle that Bobby had tried so hard to get rid of only because John had loved it so much. "We could each drive one and meet back a Bobby's," he said, not really meaning it.

"We could," Sam agreed, but he didn't open his door or move to get out. A minute later, Dean turned the key and they drove to South Dakota.

Sam made him stop an hour later and pull over. Dean didn't argue when his brother made him sit sideways on the passenger seat, pulling up his shirt to clean the cut along his stomach. He did argue when the needle and thread came out, because Sam was right-handed and could barely close that fist properly, much less sew up a wound, and Dean wasn't about to test Sam's ambidexterity now. Sam settled for taping butterfly bandages along the gash and padding it with so much gauze that Dean knew no amount of bleeding would soak it through. Then he stood and pushed his brother down onto the seat he'd just vacated, rinsing some of the blood away so he could see where exactly Sam was bleeding. When he was sure it was mostly just the one cut, he knelt to sew up the hand where it looked as if Sam had grabbed the wrong end of a knife or something.

"I did," Sam told him. "I missed and caught the wrong end." Dean didn't ask.

The second time Dean nodded off at the wheel, the car swerved abruptly enough to knock Sam out of his daze, and they switched places, Sam driving one-handed and gingerly using his right hand only to change gears. Ten minutes later, the car swerved again, and they parked at the side of the road, agreeing to rest for just an hour or so.

"You haven't slept at all," Dean said a half-hour later.

"Neither have you," Sam replied.

Dean drove for the next three hours without falling asleep. Then they switched again, so Sam was driving when they arrived at the auto shop that doubled as Bobby Singer's home.

Bobby was opening his door even before Rumsfeld started barking. Sam turned off the ignition but didn't move to get out of the car. Dean opened his door and met Bobby, who probably said some words about something but he wasn't quite sure what. Then he said, "...Sam..." and Dean shook his head to clear it.

"What?"

Bobby gave him a long look, then laid a hand on his cheek. "Hell, boy. You two need some sleep. Go look after your brother. I'll take your daddy." An odd panic started to rise at that.

"No." Dean looked up at Sam's voice and saw that he had stepped out after all, and the same alarm that Dean felt was reflected back in his brother's eyes. "No, we have to do it."

Bobby sighed. "I know you do. I'll bring him out of the car for you. Go up to the spare room, get yourselves cleaned up, and we'll take care of everything tomorrow. Or tonight. Whenever you're ready." Frowning, Dean looked up and saw that it was mid-morning now.

"But..."

"Sammy," Dean said, and Sam stopped.

They were almost in the door when Sam turned around and said, "Dean needs stitches."

Dean was too bemused by the abruptness of it, and he didn't argue when Bobby glanced at Sam's wrapped hand and then herded them both into the kitchen, making them sit while he left to find his first aid kit.

Sam was staring at nothing while they sat alone. Dean didn't try to say anything, but he jumped when Sam leaned back in the chair, suddenly nervous Sam was about to stand up and leave, except that was stupid because Sam didn't look like he was up to going anywhere. He always knew what to say, even if it was a lie. Not knowing now—it was so screwed up, how he felt at once so far from his brother and so scared of being more than a few feet away from him. It was screwed up.

They were screwed up. And that wasn't even considering whatever they'd just let out of Hell.

"You didn't let them out of Hell," Sam said dully. Dean hadn't realized he'd spoken out loud and wondered how much he'd said.

Bobby came in then, and Sam's unfocused eyes were suddenly sharp and alert, watching every movement that the older man made as he peeled back the carefully taped on gauze and stitched the wound. It was disconcerting to Dean, until Bobby went to change the dressing on Sam's hand, and he returned the favor, Sam's eyes still locked on his head as Dean's eyes fixed on the bandaged hand.

Dean didn't really remember cleaning up, but somehow he was in clean clothes when he found the pallet of blankets Bobby had left on the ground next to the camp bed. He sat down on them, but Sam turned to him after checking the window sill for salt (dammit, why hadn't Dean thought to do that himself, even if they were at Bobby's?) and said, "We can share the bed."

Okay, he thought. "We can't," he said aloud. "It's not big enough for both of us anymore." Not like when they'd been little and stayed here when Uncle Bobby was helping their dad with a hunt...

Dean heard a tentative, "Jerk," offered above him. He took several moments too long, wondering which part of this situation Sam had pulled that out of, and by the time he realized what his response was supposed to be, the moment had passed.

He lay down and listened to Sam getting into the bed.

Some time later, he woke up with the words, 'You shoot me, son' ringing in his ears. It wasn't long before he heard Sam's whimpering, "I didn't know, I swear..."

He lay still, breathing and pretending to be asleep and listening to his brother, who was lying still and breathing and pretending to be asleep. Finally, the rusty springs of the camp bed creaked and Dean shifted back a few inches without opening his eyes, holding the corner of the blanket out. With Sam's back facing him, he only knew his brother was crying because the lean form began to tremble.

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Sam knew Dean was crying because he could feel the wetness falling into his hair. He wasn't sure whose tears were the ones that soaked into the pillow beneath them.

He was awake when Bobby came to check on them around nightfall but didn't move because it would have jostled Dean, who was still asleep.

As if sensing he was awake, Dean's breathing changed within a few minutes, and eventually, they both rose by silent agreement, dressed, and went downstairs to find their host.

Bobby clearly had no idea what to say, so he kept quiet, mostly, microwaving some dinner for both of them that Dean, for once, barely touched and Sam didn't even try. He did say, "Thanks, Uncle Bobby," though, in an attempt at finding something normal. That only made Bobby look sideways at him, and Sam realized that was the wrong thing to say, because he hadn't called the man "Uncle Bobby" in years.

There was a pyre built out back already, and Bobby had laid their father on the wood, still wrapped in sheets, though more neatly than the two of them had managed between them earlier. Dean was lingering in the doorway of the house, as if unsure whether he really wanted to come out. Bobby was behind him, though, and squeezed his shoulder with a calloused hand. Sam looked away.

They were about the light the pyre when Sam said, "Salt."

Bobby turned to stare at him.

"He was shot," Sam explained, looking down at his left hand, a little surprised when he didn't see the Colt there. "Twice .And suicide and murder and patricide are violent deaths."

The older man was looking at him like he wasn't sure what to do with him, and were those tears in his eyes? Sam had never seen Bobby cry before, though, so he figured he must be wrong. Then again, he'd rarely seen Dean cry, too, and he almost wished it would happen now, because that would have been better than the lost confusion in his older brother's face.

Bobby eventually cleared his throat and said, "It's taken care of, Sam."

Afterward, Sam didn't really remember watching his father burn—nothing except the fire and the heat, which made him think of Mom and Monica and his last day at Stanford and the demon and everything he'd never want to think of again. He felt guilty, like that pyre should have been burned permanently into his brain. He accepted that guilt, though, because it was really a small thing to feel guilty about after he'd stabbed a man (he wondered if anyone had ever—or would ever—find Jake's body), opened a door to Hell, and helped his father shoot himself in the heart. And then there was the demon blood, too, which was so far away from anything he knew how to deal with that he hoped it just never came up again. He knew better than to think he might get that lucky.

What Sam did remember was Dean's face, because his brother's eyes were so intent that he knew Dean would remember every second of that night. Sometimes he wondered if he didn't remember watching his father burn because he'd been too busy watching his brother watch their father burn.

And then...they'd burned a lot of bodies before, but they'd never had to think about the ashes.

"What do you want to do with them?" Bobby asked.

Sam looked at Dean, but Dean seemed just as much at a loss as he was. There was nowhere they'd ever stayed long enough to call special.

Eventually, Bobby said, "Why don't I put them in a box, and we can bury them at your mother's grave."

It was such an obvious answer that Sam almost laughed at not having thought of it himself, but he stopped himself in time, because Bobby was already giving him—both of them—odd looks. Also, because Dean didn't look like he wanted to hear a laugh right then, and because he wasn't completely sure it was actually a laugh that was trying to claw its way out of his throat.

"Sure," Dean said."Okay." And then, "His truck's still in Wyoming. I should go bring it back here."

Bobby's uncertain look was directed at Dean this time, but he only said, " Jefferson's around there. I'll tell him to bring it by. Or Caleb, if Jefferson's tied up."

They stayed with Bobby for a week—to regroup, they said, but he wasn't sure what there was left to regroup to.

Occasionally, Sam saw the emptiness in Dean's eyes and was furiously, unaccountably jealous. Sometimes he thought it was because that emptiness could only arise from the kind of devotion and unconditional love that had never completely existed between Sam and their father. He had to turn away each time he thought that in order to hide the shame in his eyes, because he knew intellectually that the lack of devotion had only been one-sided, and because, in the end, he'd been the one who'd destroyed all chance of changing that between them.

Sometimes he thought he was jealous because that emptiness meant there was nothing left for Dean, and he then he hated himself for wanting to step into the gaping hole their father had left.

"I forgot about the Colt," Dean said one day while inventorying the trunk.

"I didn't," Sam answered. It was unnerving to be unable to read the look Dean was fixing on him. "It's in my duffel bag."

"Well, help me with this stuff. Bitch," he added, a beat too late.

Sam spent too long thinking about how the tone was so unsure and so unlike Dean's usual cocky confidence, and when he remembered his line, Dean had already slammed the trunk shut and was heading back into the house. Sam sighed and followed.

He hadn't forgotten the Colt because he'd let out an army of demons and who knew what else, and the Colt might be the only thing that could help them.

It didn't stop him from asking Bobby, "Can I look at some of your books?"

"You've never asked before, boy," Bobby said. Sam shrugged, because it was true—he usually simply pulled the books out for himself when he wanted to read, and the older man had never complained.

"I want to make sure I know what I'm doing," he explained. "Especially now."

"There's a storm coming," Bobby said in grim agreement. "I've never seen anything like it before."

"Can't afford to mess up anymore."

Bobby showed him which books might be more helpful, and before he left, he said, "Your daddy went out the way he wanted. You boys were everything he was living for. He was real proud of you, Sam."

Sam opened the first book and didn't look at the man. He didn't want to be praised for helping his father die, and he knew he and Dean were only part of what their father had been living for. He thought sometimes about how it could have gone differently, if their father had lived; but, with the demon gone, he wondered, sometimes, if he and Dean would have been enough.

"I opened the Devil's Gate," he said, hearing the words out loud for the first time. "I let an army of demons out of Hell."

Bobby was standing awkwardly at the doorway. "You didn't know," he said finally.

"Not exactly," Sam agreed."But I knew it would be pretty bad." He grimaced. "Even if I had known what it was...I think I might have done it anyway." He met Bobby's eyes then, looking for condemnation in them. "What's that say about me?"

The older man snorted. "Means you're a goddamn Winchester, boy."

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"Do you blame him?" Bobby asked Dean one day. Sam had found a stack of ancient books that Dean didn't even want to try opening and was currently buried in one of them.

"Dad did what he had to," Dean said automatically, because that was what he'd been telling himself.

"I don't mean your dad, Dean."

Dean's jaw tightened. "I don't blame Sam, either."

Bobby pushed a beer toward him, letting him take a few sips before he asked, "You sure?"

Dean rubbed at his eyes. "I don't want to." Then, "No, I don't."

The older man nodded."What's happening now...it's gonna be big."

"Really? But it was just one itty bitty Devil's Gate," Dean joked weakly, but he really wanted to know the answer when he asked, "How bad can it be?"

Bobby was silent for a few moments, and he didn't exactly answer the question when he said, "You boys are stronger as a family, you know. You and your brother...you need to stay together. I ain't never seen a pair like you two."

Dean's snort was halfhearted. "Well, that's 'cause most people don't let a billion demons out of Hell."

"Don't get smart with me," Bobby told him sharply.

Dean met Bobby's gaze, then dropped his and didn't speak.

"I don't know where to start, Bobby."

As if satisfied, Bobby nodded and rose from the table. "You can start by washing the dishes. When your brother decides to stop memorizing all my exorcisms, you can go talk to him. You boys haven't said more'n five words to each other since you got here."

He sighed and stood. "Yeah."

He stopped halfway to the sink when Bobby added, "Dean." Dean stopped but didn't turn around. "You don't get to blame yourself, either. Only thing to blame is dead, forever."

And he had meant to find Sam, later, but it ended up happening the other way around.

It was when he'd been about to bring the tire iron down on the hood of the Impala that a strong hand wrapped itself around his wrist. He stopped, panting with frustration, and didn't turn when he heard Sam say, "Don't."

Dean almost didn't recognize his own voice when he growled, "Why not?"

Sam didn't answer at first. Finally, he said, "Dad gave you this car."

"What kind of answer is that?" He dropped the tire iron and faced his brother.

Sam shook his head. "I wasn't answering your question; just mine."

Pacing restlessly, Dean ground out, "Well, she's my car now."

"I know," Sam said.Dean gritted his teeth and wished his brother would just talk in complete fucking thoughts instead of this enigmatic crap.

Finally, when the annoyance boiled into rage, he found himself yelling, "We grew up in that car, Sam! You and me and Dad...the three of us! And then when you left, when it stopped being all of us together..." Everything had started to fall apart then--they just hadn't realized it at the time. "It's always been the three of us, Sam, and he's gone. What'm I supposed to do now?"

"It could be worse." Dean glared at him, because he couldn't think of a way it could possibly have gone worse than it had. "We made it," Sam clarified, his voice quieter and less sure now. "You and me, Dean... and maybe we're all that's left, but we're still here. We've gotta pick up where he left off. Where we left off."

The anger drained away, leaving him tired and empty. He leaned back against the car. "I don't know if I want to keep going. I'm tired of this." He didn't specify whether he meant just hunting or something else, and Sam didn't ask.

"I can't do this on my own." The thickness in Sam's voice made Dean study his face more closely, and the tears just beneath the surface reminded him that Sam's father had just died, too.

"You could go back to school. Meet a girl and marry her and have the life you've always wanted."

Sam's laugh was tinged with hopelessness. "I don't know if I ever really did want that. And even if I did...I can't, Dean. Not now, of all times."

"There're lots of demon hunters, Sam. You don't have to be in this fight." It was a lie, and they both knew it—all the hunters in the world probably wouldn't be enough to stave off full-blown war. He wondered if maybe Sam had been right all those nights ago, if the world really was coming to an end. He wasn't sure he'd care if it did.

"I can't forget who I am. I tried that once," Sam said, the edge of bitterness barely noticeable anymore when he said it. "And even if I tried again...I'm not sure what to believe anymore. Azazel said I had demon blood in me. And after the way I...killed Jake... I have to know. I have to fight it. And...Dean. I can't go on without you." He didn't specify, either, whether he meant the hunting or something else. Dean noticed but didn't ask, either.

Sam hadn't talked about what happened with Jake. Only that they'd fought and Jake had died.

Bone-weary of everything that had happened, Dean made himself ask, "Have you done anything since...since the demon? Anything psychic, I mean."

Uncertainty shadowed Sam's face. "No."

"Have you tried?" Sam shook his head. "Why not?"

Sam swallowed. "At the end, when Jake and I were fighting...I wanted it so bad, Dean. That power in me, and I didn't even care when it started getting out of control... I knocked him out cold and then almost went in and slit his throat while he was out and helpless on the ground."

A little disturbed at the image, Dean said nonetheless, "That's defense, Sam. It's allowed."

"That's not what I was thinking. It was just automatic, like I wasn't even stopping to make the choice. I just wanted to kill him. And it felt..."

"What?"

He choked out a laugh. "Comforting. Isn't that twisted? Like it was the one thing I could control. Made me feel strong."

Cocking his head, Dean looked harder at Sam and realized, "You're scared."

Sam glanced up at him, not denying, then said, "It could be gone now that Azazel's gone." It took Dean a moment to realize that 'Azazel' was the Grigori demon, and it made him wonder just what the demon had told his brother while they were apart, if they were on first-name terms. "Even if it's not...I'm not sure I wanna risk trying it."

"Well, okay, then. We'll leave it alone unless something comes up again."

Sam snuck another look at him. " 'We'?" he repeated hopefully.

His eyes fixed on the ground, Dean admitted, "I can't do it on my own, either." They both knew, that time, that he was talking about more than just the hunt.

The car rocked gently as Sam boosted himself up to sit on the hood, his hip an inch from Dean's arm, close enough to touch but not really touching.

"Thanks," he said.

Dean forced a chuckle. "For what?"

"For coming with me." Sam looked straight ahead, squinting at the setting sun. "For bringing me home."

For several minutes, neither of them said anything. Then Dean leaned to the side, just enough to make brief contact with his brother's leg, and stood. "We'll fight this thing together, Sammy. You know that, right?"

Sam nodded and smiled, small and sad but genuine. "Yeah," he said softly. "I know."

FIN

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Final Notes:

Whoa...I originally started this as a writing exercise, which was supposed to be about Sam at Stanford, with Dean and Dad coming and meeting him and his friends. There was supposed to be a werewolf attack, which turned into a shapeshifter attack after I'd started writing the beginning. It was also supposed to be resolved there, with Sam staying at Stanford and reconciling with his family, but it didn't sit right with me...so it changed, and changed, and grew, and grew...until my little one-shot turned into a 21-chapter semi-rewrite of seasons 1 and 2, with a little more exploration of the characters' relationships and a little bit of a twist on the lore. Perhaps because of the way it kept changing, parts of this felt less smooth and less connected than I'd have liked, but I really did enjoy it overall. More importantly, I hope I've gotten a better feel for the universe and the characters for future stories.

Thank you so much to everyone who has read and reviewed—I hope you had as much fun as I did!