.-.-. Falling.-.-.-.

Summary:

With the memories of what happened merely two months ago still burning freshly in Dean's mind, he's trying his hardest to make sure his biggest secret remains just that, a secret - from the entire world. But when you're the Devil himself… how long can you keep yourself and your brother safe from a demon with other plans in mind? Sequel to Lucifer.

Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or anything associated with the show.

Quick reminder, this takes place during Season 2 and is an AU.

Author Notes: First off - apologies for the delay in getting this up. Life, work, illness, fear of actually finishing it... But here we go. The final chapter. It is a lot longer than my usual chapters, possibly the longest I've ever done, so I hope that will earn me some forgiveness with the delay in posting this.

And now... I don't even know what to say. I'm actually scared to hit save and post because once I do, that will be it. This story will be complete. I really hope you are satisfied with the ending and enjoy this chapter and hope you have enjoyed the story as a whole! It's been an amazing ride and I have to say a huge thank you to everyone for reading and for the reviews and messages - the ones that asked me if I was ever going to complete it, the ones who encouraged me to get back in the saddle and just get the damn thing done. Thank you.

Thank you for reading!

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

And my eyes are wide awake

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

If Dean thought everything had hurt whilst he was tucked up safe inside his own head, it was nothing compared to the absolute agony that encompassed him as he returned to consciousness. He felt heavy in his broken body; his muscles aching, head pounding. The memories of what Azazel had done were faint, but the longer he was awake and the more his vision cleared to reveal the damage done, the more he remembered each sharpened point and jagged blade. He forced down a groan and winced at the pain in his side as it radiated throughout every time he moved.

But beyond all that, beyond the blurred vision that swam in and out of focus, beyond the flickering candlelight and taste of blood in his mouth, beyond the chaffing metal around his wrists, stringing his arms up high, were the muffled voices and darkened figures of the two other people in the room. With a furrowed brow, he squinted and blinked, straining his ears and forcing himself to focus on the here and now, and not the waves that kept threatening to drag him back under, until finally, everything seemed to slot back into place. Vision clearing, waves receding.

"I have big plans for you, Sam," Azazel was saying, his back to Dean and attention focused solely on the youngest Winchester. "My boy, since before you were even born, I've had my eye on you."

Even from there, Dean could see the way Sam's throat worked, the way his eyes shone, jaw set tight and neck stretched backward, head pressed into the wall. He was afraid, of that Dean was sure, but he was doing his best not to show it, even his words defiant. "I'm not your boy, so your plans can go to hell."

"So much spunk! That's why I like you, Sam." The demon waggled a finger in the air beside his head, and Dean could practically hear the sadistic grin on his voice. "You're special. Out of all the others, you're my favourite. You've won the demonic lottery and I'm here to present you with your prize." He splayed his arms out to the side of him, head cocked to the side like an overly enthusiastic game show host or used car salesman, as if he was offering Sam the world at the low, low cost of his soul. "All you gotta do is say yes. I mean, let's face it – if it wasn't for Dean over there, you'd have been mine from the get go."

Dean let go of a half laugh, half cough, his ribs hurting from the action, his next words like grit tearing up his throat. "Well then, I guess you're out of luck because I'm not going anywhere, you son of a bitch."

At that, Azazel spun on the spot to face him, but he wasn't the one Dean was watching. No, his attention was on Sam and the utter relief that washed so visibly over the youngest, causing Sam to sag, the weight of everything released, smile turning up his lips as a brief and thankful 'Dean' pushed passed them.

"Hey, little brother," Dean answered with a smile in return, exhausted but happy to see his brother reasonably safe. "You shouldn't have come."

"Somebody has to save your sorry ass," Sam retorted, an almost manic chortle slipping out.

"Touching, truly," Azazel interrupted, and the demon stalked across the floor until he was directly in front of Dean. He reached out and gripped Dean's chin tight, fingernails digging into flesh as he twisted and turned Dean's head from side to side, studying him closely. "Interesting."

Nose crinkled up, the demon leaned in closer, yellow eyes searching Dean's. Then, as quick as the grip came, it was gone and the demon pushed away, turning his back on both brothers to head toward the table of tools, leaving Dean to work his aching jaw, wishing his hands were free to help.

Through it all, Dean kept the majority of his attention on the demon but took the brief opportunity to search the room for anything that would aid them, not missing the way Sam's gaze flitted back and forth between the demon and Dean. He tried not to think about what Sam was seeing that made the worry shine so brightly in his eyes.

"This is… interesting," the demon repeated, and he seemed to be thinking things through, which was fine by Dean because it gave him more time to think also. "You're like a cockroach. Every time, every time, I think you're at death's door, you come scurrying back out. I guess I'll just have to keep carving until you stay dead."

"Well, you can try," Dean answered, his gaze moving up toward the cracks in the ceiling and the trickling black smoke that slowly began to seep through them. Ripper. The corner of his mouth ticked upward, and he looked back to the demon just as Azazel picked up a meat cleaver from the table. "But you're forgetting one thing."

"And what's that?" The demon cocked his head to the side as he looked to Dean, oblivious to the black smoke of the hellhound clinging to the shadows and working its way around the shackles. He moved forward, testing the swing of the cleaver with a heavy swish through the air.

"I can still kick your ass."

With a grin, Azazel came to a stop in front of Dean and raised the cleaver, ready to swing it down just as the lock on the shackles went click. Like a lead weight, Dean crashed down to the floor, the edge of the cleaver slicing through empty space instead. The force of the impact jarred him, the hook in his side digging deeper, forcing him onto his back, a cry of pain tearing through his throat like shards of glass.

"Dean!" Sam cried, voice strained and panicked, the youngest still trapped against the wall, held in place by the demon's power.

Dean clung to his side and fought to control his breathing, all the while knowing he had to move before Azazel could strike again, but the pain had him frozen. Gaze rising, he met yellow eyes once more, waiting for the inevitable feel of the cleaver slicing through his skin. But whilst his body betrayed him, Ripper wasn't giving Azazel the chance to take advantage. Thick black smoke wrapped itself around Azazel, dragging him backward and away from Dean until the demon gained the upper hand once more and sent Ripper crashing into the table of tools with a clash and a clatter.

Still, it was enough of a distraction. It allowed Sam to break free and scramble toward the colt, snatching it up into his grip and swinging it around to aim it at Azazel. And Sam was quick. Sam had made the most of the opportunity given to him, he just wasn't quite quick enough and Dean… Dean was weaker than he had been in a long time, and that made him an easy target, as much as he hated to admit it.

"Ah ah, Sammy," Azazel drawled, the demon a half-step ahead. He held Dean up, between himself and the youngest Winchester, like a human shield. One hand wrapped around Dean's throat, the other gripped the metal hook, the threat not needing to be spoken aloud. "I wouldn't do that."

"Take the shot," Dean forced out, meeting Sam's eyes and imploring him, begging him. Finish it.

"You could," the demon mocked, and his grip tightened around Dean's throat, "but then you could always hit your brother."

The hesitation was clear, from the tick in Sam's jaw to the squaring of his shoulders. In another breath, he was lowering the colt, his nostrils flaring and gaze hardening further, frustration showing through. In truth, Dean knew it was coming because he knew, had their roles been reversed, he would have done the exact same thing.

"Atta boy," the demon crooned, letting go of the hook in order to motion for Sam to drop the colt.

"I'm sorry, Dean," Sam said, holding his hands up and out to the side, slowly lowering down to place the colt on the floor, all the while, never taking his eyes off of the demon and Dean.

"Atta boy," the demon continued, "wouldn't want you to hurt yourself now, would we?"

"How about we hurt you instead?" Dean choked out, and in as swift a move as he could manage in his state, he tore the hook free from his side, and jabbed it down hard into the demon's thigh, with as much strength as he had left within him.

Whether it was the shock or the intensity of the pain that did it, Dean didn't care. The demon let go, allowing Dean to fall to the ground once more as the demon pulled back with a sneer on his face to inspect the damage. In the time it took him to do just that, Sam had sent the colt skittering across the floor and into Dean's grasp, eliminating any other chance the demon had of using him as a hostage. By the time the demon looked up once more, Dean had rolled onto his back and righted himself enough to aim the colt directly at Azazel, a snarl already in place, chin held high in defiance.

"You can't shoot, remember?" Azazel growled, attempting to look unconcerned as his gaze wandered over Dean. But there was uncertainty and fear in those yellow eyes. "All that killer instinct belongs to Lucifer. You don't stand a chance. You never did, not with that broken soul of yours."

The corner of Dean's mouth ticked upward and he cocked the colt. "Look into my eyes, you dick, and tell me – does my soul look broken to you?"

He didn't give the demon the chance to truly consider the question. He didn't even wait for the realisation to fully wash over the demon's face. His finger squeezed the trigger and he watched.

The bullet ripped through the demon's chest as easily as paper, sparking as it did so. Dean could see the exact moment that the light went out behind the demon's eyes, the exact moment he died and withered away into nothingness. It took another moment after that for the body to hit the ground, and several more moments for Dean and Sam to be hit with the realisation of what had just happened - that the demon was dead.

"Dean," Sam breathed out, and there was a lightness to his tone as he moved to Dean's side. The name said everything that needed to be said. Did we just kill the demon? Did that just happen?

"Ding dong, the witch is dead…" Dean found himself saying, but the words were faint, partly from pure disbelief at the weight that been lifted, that they were finally free, but mostly from the pure and utter exhaustion that still pushed down on him. He made to stand up, but his body protested, refusing to move from where it was rooted to the floor.

"Careful, Dorothy," Sam teased, but there was worry there, wrapped up in the way he said it and in the way his eyes shone, "I don't think your ruby slippers have enough juice to send us home."

"Shut up," Dean whined, dragging the words out but swallowing his pride and allowing his brother to wrap an arm around his waist to pull him up from the ground. They were part way toward the door before Dean stopped, attempting to turn back into the room. "Woah- wa- wait. Wait."

Sam stopped, shifting Dean slightly in order to bear more of his weight. "What? What is it?"

"The feather. We gotta burn the feather."

"Dean," Sam started, shaking his head, "we've got to get you to a hospital. You're delirious. We don't know how much blood you've lost."

"Listen, Sam, trust me – we got to burn that feather right now, until its nothing but ash." He met Sam's gaze, imploring and waiting for Sam to relent.

After another breath, Sam did just that and gave a solemn nod. "Okay… we'll burn the feather."

Dean didn't need to say anything more than that. He didn't need to explain to Sam what the feather was or what could happen if it fell into the wrong hands. He didn't need to explain that right now he was human, so it shouldn't affect him, but if he was wrong… it was going to hurt like a bitch. He didn't need to say that it was important they do this, that they couldn't leave until it was done.

So Sam propped him up against the wall, and Dean watched with mixed feelings as the feather went up in flames, but unlike before, the fire took hold and engulfed the feather. And as he watched, Dean couldn't help the idle ponderings of fire. How it could end one life and start another. How it could tear everything away from you, but also set you free.

"Right, it's done," Sam said, turning away from the ash and back toward Dean. "Now let's get out of here."

-*-*-666-*-*-

Dean wasn't sure of the exact moment he had fallen asleep. All he knew was that somewhere between being bundled into the Impala and Sam hitting the gas, racing toward the nearest hospital, he must have drifted into unconsciousness, because this… this was not the hospital.

He lay on his back, staring up at the fiery sky above, the sand warm against his back, soft and calming. He felt strangely at peace, in that familiar desert of his dreams that he had grown used to. But it was different to the last time. There was no thunder, no storm brewing, just a strange tranquillity, and a light crackling of dying embers that reminded him of many a time burning bones and watching the fires die out.

He pushed himself up, taking his time dragging himself to his feet, as he looked around him. He expected to see the ever looming tree that had once been bright and full of life, if a little daunting at times – the tree that, ever since his run in with that bullet from the colt, had become a fragile shadow of its previous self. Split down the centre and dying, withering up into a husk of what it had once been.

Neither incarnation of the tree stood before him, or behind him, or anywhere else in that endless desert. His gaze searched, from horizon to horizon, but the tree was gone, replaced by a pile of ash mere feet away from him. A few embers still sparked and glowed, but it was clear to Dean that there was no rekindling the fire. There was nothing to rekindle it with.

Moving forward, he made his way toward the ash. So, that was what was left of the abstract representation of his soul? Burning ash. He lowered himself to his haunches in front of it and held out a hand, the remaining heat still warm against his palm.

"Home," whispered a voice on the breeze.

"Death," sang the chorus of the desert in answer.

And as the voices rang out, the breeze blew through the desert, caressing his skin and brushing against the pile of ash, disturbing it and causing it to crumble. Not much, but just enough to reveal the first hint of green beneath.

"What the…?" he started, brow burrowing, fingers brushing against the ash until he could clearly see the start of a small sapling buried beneath.

"Rebirth," the voices echoed in reply.

"Careful," came another voice, his voice, but not his voice, and Dean looked up to see his reflection looming over him. "Wouldn't want it to break."

"Lucifer," he breathed out, pushing himself to his feet so he was face to face with the fallen angel. Apprehension had him taking a step back, wariness making him wonder if Lucifer would attack him and attempt to bury him once more.

Instead, Lucifer held his hand up, turning it over, scrutinising it as if it was his first time seeing it. "For the most part… but then, neither of us are really fully one or the other, are we?"

"Then what does that make us?"

"Different, and yet the same... all at once." Lucifer lowered his hand and cocked his head to the side, his lava filled eyes meeting Dean's hazel-green. "But you already know that."

Dean scoffed. "So you're like the Yin to my Yang or something?"

"The dark to your light. The Sith to your Jedi." Lucifer snorted and looked up to the sky, his brow burrowed, puzzlement settling across his features and tugging at the corners of his mouth. "You feel it, don't you?"

Dean could have denied it. He could have played ignorant, pretending not to know what Lucifer was referring to. But it would be a lie. Lucifer was right. He could feel it. He could feel himself and Lucifer at the same time. He could see what Lucifer saw, could taste and hear and breathe as Lucifer, Lucifer's thoughts like an echo around his own mind. It was a familiar feeling, one he had felt before, when Lucifer had woken up and broken free. But this time it was different. Peaceful almost.

Instead of warring emotions and conflicting thoughts, he felt in sync. With the desert, with Lucifer, and if he was honest, it scared him.

"Am I dead?" he questioned, forcing the words out past the thick lump in his throat. "Is that what this is?"

"This isn't death," Lucifer answered, and he lowered his gaze to meet Dean's. "This is life." He closed his eyes and breathed in deep. "I should know. I spent so many years, wandering the earth, half-dead, that I forgot what it was like to be alive. My brothers and sisters, they turned their backs on me when He cast me down and all I had was the darkness, this empty void of nothingness. All because of the humans. Oh, how I hated them. But you…"

Dean dropped his gaze, following the train of thought so easily, feeling it as if it was his own, and his mind went to one thing and one thing alone. "Sam…"

"I grew tired, so very tired… and when I finally stopped, I fell into a dream. I was a brother again. I had a reason to live, to fight… and for the first time, I learned how to love." Lucifer smiled, and it was a strange sight to see, serene as his eyes took on a distant look. "I think I liked that dream."

Dean said nothing. There was nothing to say. Nothing to add. He knew the feelings flowing through Lucifer, just as Lucifer knew of his. He knew the memories of Mom, and Dad, and Sammy. The joy of Sammy's first steps. The pride of his learning to ride a bike. The smile that he had just for Dean, the one that said 'you're an idiot, but you're my brother and I love you'. He remembered the feel of each gun in his hand, each blade, each lighter. The memories of each ghost and ghoul, each life saved… each life lost. The memory of him.

"Yes," Lucifer continued, bobbing his head, "I think I would like to go back to sleep and return to it." His red eyes fixed on Dean once more, smile spreading. "What do you say, Dean? Dare to dream a little more?"

-*-*-666-*-*-

The waiting was the hardest part. Each second felt like a decade, each minute like a century. The drive to the hospital had been torture for Sam, but the white walls in the waiting room had been worse. At least during the drive, Sam had been able to convince himself that Dean was just sleeping, that when they reached the hospital his brother would wake up, and when he did, he would be fine.

But he didn't wake up, and no one could give Sam any answers. No one could tell him how the surgery was going or how his brother was doing. And it was taking too long, which made Sam worry more. The heaviness in his chest weighed him down whilst the panic made his head spin. He barely remembered filling in the forms someone had handed him - a nurse most likely, though he had no idea which.

He remembered Bobby calling with an update after staying behind to take care of clean up, and he remembered the occasional flash of red eyes in the shifting shadows every so often as Ripper stayed close. He remembered standing up and staring expectantly as a doctor approached and then passed him by. But he didn't remember sitting down again, and he didn't remember his eyes falling closed from pure exhaustion or the nightmares followed, but it must have happened, because after that, the next thing he did remember was a gentle hand on his shoulder and bright blue eyes trying to wake him.

"Mr Richards?" the owner of the blue eyes questioned, and it took him a moment to think before nodding and pulling himself up to face the woman in front of him. She was smiling. That had to be a good sign.

He cleared his throat and spoke, barely trusting himself to say anything without his voice breaking. "My brother?"

"They've just brought him out of surgery. He's resting but I can take you to him until the doctor comes by to talk to you. He's going to make it, Mr Richards."

The doctor echoed the same sentiment, but most of it washed over Sam. He caught words like 'miracle' and 'fighter' and 'strong willed', and for the first time Sam could breathe a little easier. Dean was still asleep, an after effect of the sedative during surgery, but he was going to be alright, and that was what mattered to Sam.

"How is he?" Bobby asked, several hours later when he entered the room with a Styrofoam cup in each hand. He came to stand beside a bleary eyed Sam and passed one cup over, keeping to other for himself.

"The doctors are saying it's a miracle… by all accounts he should be dead. The extent of his injuries, the blood loss. But… he's going to make it," Sam answered, only briefly glancing down to the cup before returning his attention to Dean.

"Then why do you look so worried, kid?"

"Before, when the demon shot him, not even a day later and the wound was gone. Like it hadn't even been there. And it wasn't the first time something like that happened recently. But now…"

"He's taking longer to heal?"

Sam bobbed his head.

"That ain't a bad thing, Sam. Just means he's his old self again. Gives the hunters less of a reason to go after him. Speaking of which," Bobby continued as he pulled the lid from his cup and dropped it into a nearby trash can, "Ellen's been spreading the word that Harry was possessed and the demon had a vendetta against that idjit brother of yours. She says the hunters are taking to it, but you know how hunters are. Bunch of paranoid bastards, and we should know."

"At least that's one less target off our backs." Sam scrubbed at the back of his neck and let go of a heavy breath.

"Sometimes it's as good as it gets." Bobby's gaze found Dean and it softened. "He's strong, Sam. He'll get through this. You both will."

Sam nodded, knowing it to be truth and accepting it. He would take whatever he could get, no matter how small.

"Now," Bobby started, clearing his throat, "if you've got some time to spare while we wait for your brother to wake up, you can come and help me steal a dead body from the morgue. Harry was a crazy drunk, but he was a hunter, so I'm gonna take him home and give him a hunter's funeral. So what do you say?"

Sam allowed a small smile to spread across his lips and breathed out. "Let's go steal a body."

-*-*-666-*-*-

It was with a sharp gasp that Dean finally woke. The bright white of the hospital hit him immediately and he blinked several times, drawing in each breath of air like it was precious and sacred. Another few moments passed before the dizziness began to fade and the world started to make sense again, and when it did, he dragged himself up, desperate to be free of the machines that monitored him.

He was alone in the room, but the discarded coffee cup on the table told him Sam had been watching over him. The gentle rap at the door told him that Sam was not the only one. He untangled himself from the bed sheets as a nurse entered the room, but Dean didn't even need to look to know the nurse was not herself. He was beginning to learn the feel of Jeremiel's presence, very much the same way he was usually able to feel Sam's presence in a room.

"You look… terrible," Jeremiel said, one eyebrow raised as the angel's eyes wandered over Dean.

"Thanks," Dean grunted in return, scrubbing a hand across his face. "What are you doing here?"

"I thought you would appreciate a visit from a hot nurse, given your current…" He waved an arm in Dean's direction. "…state of being."

"Sure, Grandma." Dean raised an eyebrow at the angel, taking in the white curls and thickly coated lipstick stained lips that no doubt made the nurse look older than she actually was, the wrinkles around her eyes telling of a happy life full of laughter and smiles.

"I'll have you know, Dottie was quite a catch in her heyday. In fact, she was quite a popular go-go dancer in her youth. Broke many a man, and woman's, heart." Jeremiel held up a finger and smiled, head tilted to the side and bobbing for emphasis.

Dean shook his head and grimaced as he pulled himself up from the bed, gaze landing on the chair against the wall and the duffle that sat in it, no doubt placed there by Sam for when he woke up. "Something tells me you're not here to set up Dottie on a blind date, Jeremiel. So again, what are you doing here?"

"I guess you could say I'm just being a good case worker… checking up on my charge."

Dean was halfway through pulling out a fresh pair of jeans when the words hit him and he stilled, Lucifer's memories still fresh in his mind. He cleared his throat, and worked his jaw as he tried to think of the right words for the question in his mind. "You could have taken me out at any time, Jeremiel. After that night, when I stopped being Lucifer and became… me, you could have taken a shot and been rid of me for once and for all. Hell, part of me wonders if maybe you should have." He turned to look Jeremiel up and down. "So why didn't you?"

But Jeremiel shook his head. "That's not how this works, Dean."

"And what is this?" Dean asked, holding the angel's gaze.

The angel smiled, considering the question for a moment before answering. "I guess you could call it absolution."

"Absolution…" Dean repeated, thinking the word over with a burrowed brow.

"You've earned it, I would say." The angel cocked his head to the side. "You are a good man, Dean Winchester."

Dean ignored the compliment, shaking his head at it, and looked down at jeans in his hand, not truly seeing them. "Where do I go from here, Jerry?"

"Well, I suppose anywhere you want to. Of course, you understand, there is no escaping it this time. There is no wiping the slate clean."

"Truth is," Dean answered, "I don't want to."

If he was honest, he preferred it this way. No lying to Sam. No hiding. No waiting around for the wrong demon to come sniffing about. He knew who he was, he understood, and the next time, no matter who it was, they would be prepared.

Jeremiel nodded and smiled. "Then I wish you luck, and no doubt we shall meet again."

He made to turn away, but Dean stopped him, taking a step forward and away from the duffel, holding out a hand. "Wait… Jeremiel?"

The angel paused and turned back. "Yes?"

"Why d'you do it?" Dean asked. "Everyone else, they turned their backs on me- him. Lucifer. But you… Why?"

Instead of answering, Jeremiel asked a question of his own. "Why did you choose Sam? Over all of Lucifer's power. Why choose to live with the pain of humanity, all for one person?"

"He's my brother…"

And at that, Jeremiel simply smiled and inclined his head before heading out once more, leaving Dean alone to his thoughts.

-*-*-666-*-*-

Fresh cup of coffee in hand, Sam made his way back toward Dean's hospital room. Bobby had set off for home a few hours back and Sam looked forward to being on the road, following his tracks, as soon as possible. After everything that had happened, he had no doubt that a brief reprieve at the elder hunter's home would do them good.

In the silence of the hospital room, Sam had had little else to do but think of what had passed in an attempt to make sense of it all. As Dean lay unconscious, the wounds still so visible, so… normal, Ripper was the only physical reminder that Lucifer was buried deep. The hellhound had stayed close, even going to the lengths of following him and Bobby to the morgue and back. One or two heads had turned their way, but by the time they looked, the hulking black smoke had moved on, causing them to frown and look away again.

Sam shook his head as he caught a quick glimpse of red eyes trailing behind him, sticking to the shadowed areas, but in the daylight and openness of the hospital, it was harder for the hellhound to stay inconspicuous. Still, Sam couldn't bring himself to tell Ripper to wait in the car, and even if he could, there was no guarantee the hellhound would listen.

An older nurse smiled brightly at Sam as she passed, bobbing her head in greeting and giving him pause, but she had turned the corner and was gone by the time Sam chanced a glance over his shoulder for a second look. He shook off the feeling of familiarity, putting it down to being in the hospital for longer than he would have liked, and pushed onward until he was entering Dean's hospital room where Dean was fastening the belt to his jeans.

Sam knocked on the door, causing Dean to look up and meet Sam's gaze. Hazel, with a bright shade of green in the hospital lighting. Eyes Sam knew and loved. Not a single trace of lava or malice. "Hey…"

"Heya, Sammy," Dean answered, swallowing hard and looking away to delve into the duffel. Sam didn't miss the hesitation or uncertainty, the way his brother seemed to sink in on himself, the way he usually did when he was feeling guilty.

"How are you feeling?" Sam pushed on, closing the door behind him now Ripper had entered the room and curled up in the shadows by Dean's feet.

"I'm fine." Dean flashed a grin, wide and cocky, but the mask wasn't fooling either of them.

Sam took a seat on the edge of the bed, refusing to tear his gaze away from his brother. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Instead of answering, Dean snorted, fiddling with the shirt in his grip before going to pull it on. Sam didn't miss the way he grimaced, no doubt pulling at the stitches in his side or the numerous bruises littered about his skin.

"Dean," Sam continued on, undeterred, "this isn't the usual hospital trip because some nasty threw you through a window or some ghost beat you up and gave you a few bruised ribs. Your soul was split… and aside from the whole you and Lucifer crap, the demon tortured you. I saw the blood, Dean. So saying 'I'm fine' isn't exactly going to cut it this time."

"What do you want me to say?" Dean questioned, raising his head enough to meet Sam's gaze but no more. "I feel like a train wreck? I feel like my entire head is still spinning and I'm still trying to figure out which parts belong to me and which to Lucifer? I mean, I'm getting there, but it's a mess up here right now. And I get it, Sam. I understand if it's too much, if you need to get away…"

"I'm not going anywhere, Dean. You're my big brother – nothing's going to change that. Ever."

Dean's gaze fell down for a moment, a slow smile forming at the corners of his mouth, before his upper lip curled up into a familiar and playful, "Bitch."

"Jerk," Sam replied with a smile of his own, not missing a beat. He waited another moment before speaking again, seeking Dean's gaze once more and holding it. "But I'm here, for whenever you're ready to talk."

Dean scratched at his head and cleared his throat, turning away from Sam, a clear sign he was eager to avoid delving further into feelings in that moment, and no doubt as ready to escape those hospital walls as Sam was. "Yeah, yeah, now how about we blow this joint before anyone comes to prod and poke at the patient?"

"Well," Sam answered, "Bobby says to swing by when you're up for it."

Dean bobbed his head, eyes falling down to the resting Ripper at his feet, and Sam could practically see the cogs turning. "But first, we've got to make a pit stop."

-*-*-666-*-*-

By the time they reached Bobby's, the front door was wide open and the elder hunter was resting against the doorframe, looking out over his scrap yard with a beer in hand. He raised the bottle to his lips as the Impala pulled up, and Dean watched for a long moment before turning off the engine, feeling at peace for the first time in weeks. He shot his brother a sidelong glance, the smile on Sam's face a soft reflection of the rakish one on his own.

"Heya, Bobby," Dean called as he climbed from the car, resting one hand on the roof as he looked toward the hunter.

Bobby reached inside the doorway and produced two more bottles before making his way across the dirt toward the brothers. "How you feeling, kid?"

"You know me, Bobby," Dean answered, "take more than a demon to put me down."

Bobby raised an eyebrow, obviously not entirely convinced, and held out the beers for the brother's to take, his gaze moving down toward Dean's side as Dean took his bottle. There was no hiding the way he still moved gingerly from the old hunter. Someone like Bobby never missed a trick, but Bobby didn't push the matter, instead focusing on another as he took a step back and looked between the brothers.

"And Lucifer?" he added, taking a swig.

"Locked up again," Dean answered, raising his bottle up to tap against his forehead as he spoke. Though in truth, 'locked up' was the wrong way to describe it. Asleep. Dormant. Those felt more accurate, but he doubted Bobby would understand. "Guess you could say we came to some sort of agreement."

"Which was what, exactly?" Bobby asked, his tone as sceptical as his raised eyebrow.

"I get to keep my body." Dean grinned, spreading his arms out.

"Mmm-hmm. What's the catch, kid?"

"No catch," Dean answered, and he sobered up a little, clearing his throat. "Look, I get it – but you gotta trust me, okay? I'm good, and Lucifer, he's locked up tight."

Sam shrugged and bobbed his head, offering up a half-hearted agreement. "It's like you said, Bobby. He's back to his old self."

There was a sentiment echoed in those words that had Dean frowning, brow burrowing as he looked between both Sam and Bobby and their shared thoughts. He wasn't sure what Sam was referring to, but the way Bobby looked over him with sad eyes that lingered a little too long on the cuts and bruises littered upon his skin, it made him feel a little self-conscious and he found himself shifting under the gaze, clearing his throat awkwardly.

"Well, if we're finished talking about my well-being," Dean said, breaking into the silence that had fallen before anyone else could, "we've got you a gift."

Bobby said nothing, not even when Dean held open the back door of the Impala, allowing a wiry-haired mongrel to jump out and come to stand beside Dean. One ear permanently up, and the other down, it's grey beard matched Bobby's whilst the rest of its sandy fur was a good camouflage against the dirt ground around the scrap yard. It would have blended in perfectly, if not for the black mass of fur atop its head and the way its eyes flashed red for the briefest of moments.

"Your hellhound?" Bobby finally said, staring incredulously at the dog in front of him. "You want to leave your damn hellhound… here?"

Sam looked to Dean, raising his eyebrow and cocking his head to the side just enough to say 'I told you so' without actually having to mutter the words. Dean just waved him off, dismissive of the gesture.

"Hear me out, Bobby," Dean continued, undeterred. "Sam told me about Ellen and the hunters, but that's just one side of the coin here. It's just a matter of time before the whole of Hell know the truth, if they don't already, and when they do…" He paused, taking a breath to steady the thoughts threatening to run rampant around his mind. "Me and Sam, we've got each others' backs, but you – Bobby, you know how demons work. If they can't get to me, they'll go for those close to me. It's what Yellow Eyes did with Dad."

"So you want me to, what? Babysit your hellhound? An actual being of Hell?"

"It's a dangerous world out there, and I'd feel a hell of a lot better knowing Ripper is here with you."

"I hate to admit it, Bobby," Sam piped up, "and I know you don't like it, but Dean's got a point. Besides, once you get past the whole hellhound thing, Ripper's a good dog."

"He won't even take much looking after," Dean added, bobbing his head enthusiastically. "He's already toilet trained, doesn't talk much, and he can spot a demon a mile off…"

Bobby looked down at Ripper, uncertainty still lining his face. "And I suppose he's fine with the 'arrangement', is he?"

Dean scratched at the hellhound behind the ear, Ripper leaning into the touch, relaxed and happy. "He understands it's for the best."

"Then I 'spose I've got no real choice in the matter," Bobby added gruffly before taking a long pull on his beer, emptying the bottle. But there was a look in his eyes, past the wariness, that told Dean the company would be good for the older hunter, even if it was a hellhound. "Wonder if he'll be any good at sniffing out a rugaru."

"Rugaru?" Sam questioned, trying badly to hide the intrigue that his tone and eyes so easily betrayed. He looked between Dean and Bobby and Dean simply shrugged in return.

"Caught wind of a couple of real nasty mutilations a few towns over and it's got rugaru written all over it." Bobby turned away and began making his way back toward the house, patting his leg as he went in a manner that suggested he wasn't happy about the hellhound situation, but maybe he wasn't entirely upset about it either. Ripper hesitated only a moment before obeying the unspoken command, giving Dean once last glance before following Bobby back up toward the house. It was only after a couple more steps that Bobby paused, looking over his shoulder to the brothers. "Well? What you two waiting for, a damn invitation? You coming or not? We've got research to do."

A small smile played across Dean's lips. "Yeah, just give us a minute."

Bobby shook his head, muttering one word only under his breath as he disappeared across the threshold. "Idjits."

Dean closed the doors of the Impala and moved to perch himself against the hood, looking out at Bobby's house and the open door waiting for them. He felt the car shift beneath him as Sam joined him against the hood, hands buried in the pockets of his jacket, his eyes burning a hole through Dean.

"We can sit this one out, if you like, Dean," he offered up, soft and understanding.

"What? And miss out on the opportunity to take down a… what did Bobby call it? A rugaru?" He snorted, a faint memory of the name disappearing through the cobwebs in his mind, like a fleeting shadow from the corner of the eye. There and gone in a blink. If Lucifer knew of the creature, that knowledge was locked up tight and the sleeping angel wasn't giving up the key.

Sam didn't reply, just looked at him with those sorrowful puppy eyes, concern glistening clearly in their depths.

"I'm fine, Sammy, I swear…" Dean shook his head, dismissing his brother's worry, finding his own gaze wandering to his hand, clenching it and unclenching it, turning it over as he did so. "For the first time in a long time, I feel… fine. I know who I am, Sam, and Lucifer is part of that but…"

"But?" Sam questioned.

"It's my choice who plays the lead, and I choose me. I choose Dean Winchester."

Sam said nothing. He didn't need to. He just gave Dean that 'you're an idiot, but you're my brother and I love you' smile of his, and in return, Dean smiled also.

Dean Winchester. His name was Dean Winchester, he was born January 24th 1979, and Sam Winchester was his pain in the ass little brother. He didn't need a mantra to remind him of that. He no longer needed to quieten the voice of doubt at the back of his mind. For better or worse, he was Dean Winchester, and that was the choice he had made and it was the choice he would continue to make.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Authors notes: Thank you for reading. For your patience and love throughout this story. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I have enjoyed writing it.