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No Going Home

Chapter 2

Sam got as far away from Bobby's as he could the first night. He felt like his insides were being twisted and crushed, but…it was better like this. Dean deserved a chance to be free of him, to drop the burdens their father and Heaven had laid on him. Dean wouldn't have to stop him anymore…he'd take himself out of the game.

For the first time in a long time, it felt like he was doing the right thing, even if it hurt like Hell. Dean would be relieved he was gone, would be able to have the life he wanted. One better than Sam could ever give him. It wasn't fair for Sam to stay, to lock Dean into guarding over him forever, just so Sam could pretend they still---

"So, you never told me your name, kid...."

The driver's voice jolted Sam out of his morose thoughts. He blinked, trying to get his bearings. "John. John Campbell."

"You wantin' to go far?"

Sam looked out the windshield. The highway stretched out beyond the range of the semi's headlights. There was nothing in front of them as far as Sam could see.

It was a good metaphor.

He doubted the truck driver would understand. "What's your next stop?"

"Topeka, then Lawrence."

"Perfect," Sam nodded. "Lawrence, if you don't mind. I can pay."

The old man shook his head. "Don't worry about it. It'll be nice to have someone to talk to on this run for a change."

Sam doubted he'd be very good for conversation. He'd probably end up paying anyway, if that was the measure.

Hitchhiking was the last thing John Winchester ever recommended. Better to steal a car. Stolen cars weren't usually crazy, and wouldn't leave you dead in some ditch. Many humans weren't as reliable on those terms. Given how deeply ingrained that lesson was in them, Sam should never have considered traveling like this.

Then again, he had little money, and it wasn't like he had been thinking all that clearly. His brain was tangled in the words he'd heard earlier. He'd really started to think everything could be okay, been stupid enough to think he could escape his past, and the shock of reality checking him left him reeling. He'd stumbled into a truck stop a few miles from Bobby's, and hopped a ride with the first trucker he found.

Sam wasn't completely stupid, though. He kept his right hand curled around the .45 in his jacket pocket the whole ride, and a flask of holy water was in his left pocket, just in case.

"You got family in Lawrence?" The old man asked, drawing Sam's attention back to the cold, bouncing truck cab.

Sam shook his head. "No. Not for a long time."

The driver frowned slightly. "So, why there?"

And…yeah, why? The answer slowly dawned on Sam as the road rushed by. Redemption. He'd hurt so many people. Wrecked his brother's life. Drove away the one person he would have died for…and there was nothing he could do to fix that. The damage was too great. The only thing left was to see if his soul was still salvageable, something he truly doubted.

And the truth was, if that was the case, he didn't want Dean to have to see that. He'd burdened his brother enough for one lifetime. This last mission was his alone.

"To start over," Sam replied softly. "And maybe not hurt anybody this time."

If the driver wondered what that meant, he didn't ask.

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Dean's supposed retirement fell by the wayside as soon as he realized Sam wasn't just a pick-up ride away. He hit the road running, chasing every lead he could find to bring him to his brother. Sometimes alone, sometimes with company; always hunting. But this time, though he took random jobs here and there as he came upon them, his quarry was singular. Sam.

He couldn't let Sam just slip through the cracks, not with everything that had happened. Not when he knew, from the few sentences Sam had scrawled, that his little brother was out there, lost and broken. Alone, and thinking Dean wanted him that way. Wanted Sam away from him.

It was hard to understand how things had become so bad between them, right under Dean's nose. He'd known Sam was a mess, but he'd thought he was at least helping a little. And he'd had a plan, if only Sam had trusted him enough to let him put it into action.

Then again, how could Sam trust him, really? It wasn't like he'd actually discussed the plan with Sam as it developed. It wasn't like he'd asked for input. And it sure as Hell wasn't like Dean had trusted Sam before. Not even when Sam had begged.

Dean was still kicking himself over that part. Of all the mistakes he'd made—and there'd been plenty, for all that he'd had his share of extenuating circumstances—probably the worst was not going with Sam when he'd asked. Being part of Ruby's plan—seeing Sam and Ruby working together—had made Dean sick. But in the time since, Dean realized that going might have been the best thing he could have done.

If he had, Zachariah might not have been able to pull him out into that angels-be-damned green room. Sam might not have bled that nurse. Dean might have found a way to take Ruby out long before it came down to killing Lilith and breaking the final seal.

He'd never know for sure. All he knew was that he had to find Sam. Had to be with him again. Had to make it better.

But it proved to be no simple task. Days rolled into weeks, which rolled into months, and he was still no closer. And the trail grew steadily colder.

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Sam opened his fist and relaxed as the last of the black smoke left the girl's body and vaporized against the floor of the factory. He moved forward cautiously to check her pulse. She was alive, but pretty bad off. He'd have to call the paramedics once he was outside.

It had taken half a dozen more exorcisms for Sam to finally re-train himself, to figure out what he was doing wrong. Most of them were easy, feel out the demon, where it was, how deep it hid, and pull it out. Simple. They usually died in the struggle and the victims were none worse for wear. But, some demons were stronger than others.

Exorcising those was a more like a chess game than a wrestling match. Brute force wasn't the best approach, especially if the host was still alive. Sam had to untangle the person from the demon, and gently ease it out of the body. Like that Operation game he'd had when he was six. Those demons just went back to Hell. Killing them inside a person was too dangerous.

Heading downstairs to the factory floor, Sam let his mind wander. He was surprised, in hindsight, that he'd ever made it this far. In fact, he nearly hadn't.

That first few days after fleeing Bobby's had been the hardest. After the uncomfortable eight hour ride in the semi, he'd found a secluded, condemned house in the outskirts of Lawrence and barricaded himself in the basement. He was so far off the radar that no one would find him, but he had found that without the distraction of the Apocalypse, or doing chores around the salvage yard, he had nothing to keep his mind off what he'd lost.

Everything. His old life was gone. His few remaining friends. Dean.

Hell, even his humanity was gone, eroded away by blood and lies.

Lonely and hopeless didn't begin to describe that feeling. By the end of the first twenty-four hours, Sam already had the barrel of his .45 against his chin. He couldn't pull the trigger, though. His brain froze on him as he knelt on the cold concrete, stuck on one repetitious thought.

No Heaven awaited him. No reunion with mom and dad, or Jess, or anyone. Hell. Fire and blood and pain. Hell waited for him.

It wasn't really all that different from what he had already, but it scared him so damned much. He wondered if that had been what Dean had felt that night in Indiana. Wondered if Dean had been so completely paralyzed by fear before the hounds reached him.

Sam doubted it. Dean was a better man than he'd ever been. A hero. Heroes didn't sob in terror like little boys, then back down from pulling the trigger. They didn't drop their guns and curl into balls, wondering when their lives had gone so completely wrong.

Dean certainly hadn't. Sam had been there.

He'd stayed on the floor that way until dawn, and it was in those first rays of light through the ground-level window that Sam realized he was going about it all wrong. Again. His death wouldn't balance the books. His life was worthless; the crossroads demon had already told him that. There would have to be another way.

His curse. His own freakish, tainted body. The abilities which had made him the perfect weapon for Ruby and Zachariah. That had helped Dean, even minutely, halt the Apocalypse.

He'd tried before, with Ruby, to turn his curse into a gift, but his attempts had failed miserably. That had been selfish, a foolhardy attempt to get into God's good graces, and prove something to Dean. Plus, Ruby hadn't really been helping him, anyway, just using him. Like one would use any weapon.

What Sam needed to do was turn the curse against the enemy. Not for his own sake, but for others'. Nothing could save his soul from damnation. Nothing could repair his broken life. But, he could save as many people as he could. Like he'd tried to before Cold Oak and Jake, back during his first chance at life.

Not for revenge or obsession. Not for any self-serving goal. There was no Light waiting for him, except Hellfire. He would take out as many demons as he could before the end. Mop up the last remnants of Lucifer's army, the ones that had gone to ground after the final battle. Make the world safe for normal people…for Dean. It would be his penance.

Sam stepped out into the night air, pushing aside his memories and dialing 9-1-1. He told the operator about the five victims and where to find them, neatly skirting the details, and hung up before they could trace the call.

He had nearly reached the Volkswagen Corrado he'd commandeered in Kentucky when something slammed into him from behind. Sam didn't have time to bring up his arms, and his head smashed right into the back window, shattering it. He slid backward, dazed. His left eye blacked out a bit, and when he touched his face, he realized why. His hand came away bloody. He looked up with his right eye, finding a burly security guard, easily twice his size, leering down at him.

Wait…the two firemen, the secretary, the janitor, the factory foreman…. He thought there'd only been five.

"Sammy Winchester…" it sneered. "I heard you'd gone off the reservation. What happened? Big bro finally kick you out? Or did you just run out of ways to send him to Hell for you?"

Sam bristled, but calmed himself. The demon was just needling him. He didn't bother interacting with them anymore. No demon had anything to say that he wanted to hear. He'd learned that lesson the hard way.

His adversary stared at him, hesitating. "What? No whining? No tearful protests? 'Don't talk about the almighty Dean that way!' Wah, wah!"

Sam pushed himself to his feet, fighting off a wave of dizziness and nausea, and raised his hand toward the possessed man. This demon, despite its bravado, was inexperienced. It didn't know how to intertwine itself in a host effectively; it just pulled the human's strings like a puppet. The exorcism went quickly.

Sam rarely spoke to them anymore. In fact, he couldn't remember the last time he'd spoken to anyone. Regardless, he wasn't going to waste his breath on demons. They were running scared, desperate. After a very long time, now with Lucifer and the higher-level ones gone, they were on the endangered species list.

The guard survived. Sam used his sleeve to wipe the blood out of his eyes and checked himself in the mirror. His face was a mess. A long, bloody gash ran up his forehead ending somewhere in his hair. It hurt like a bitch, and he was certain he had a concussion. He went fuzzy for several seconds, or minutes, before he shook himself. The ambulance and police would be there any moment now. He had to leave.

Sam had to take a moment to think, but then he remembered he was in South Carolina. Just a few miles from Rock Hill, in fact…where he'd rescued a doctor a few months before.

Pediatrician. Whatever. Doctor was a doctor. Normally, he'd stitch up his own wounds, like usual, but he was already getting woozy and he doubted he'd stay conscious long enough to do the work, if he even could.

He slammed the car into drive and got on the road. The flashing lights of the emergency vehicles could be seen just over the hill behind the factory, but Sam was around the corner and away before anyone noticed him. He stopped a few miles down the road, just long enough to tear a strip of his sleeve to wrap around his bleeding forehead.

The doctor wasn't far. He just needed to stay conscious long enough to get there. Easier said than done.

It was like old times, on the run from the law. Sam almost smiled at the similarities. He tried not to think about the past any more than he had to. Trying now only brought memories of Dean and meatball surgery in any number of ramshackle motels. Only brought old pain to the surface. His brother was gone, hopefully living a happy life somewhere, far away from his screwed up sibling, if there was any justice.

Sam missed him. So badly sometimes, he couldn't even think straight. He would give anything to be at Dean's side again. Happy---

He pushed the thought aside and focused on getting to the doctor's place before the bandage soaked through. Sam couldn't slow down. His penance could never be over. Not after what he'd unleashed on the world. On his family.

Monsters didn't get happy endings.

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Dean silently nursed his beer, leaning on the bar, trying to tune out the crappy country music and pay attention to the hushed words being spoken right behind him.

The run-down bar in Springfield was not a worthy successor to Harvelle's, but it was a heavily trafficked crossroads for a lot of hunters, and a decent source of information.

So long as you kept your head down and your ears open.

The two older men had come in an hour before, and Dean made them as hunters immediately. The bearing, the way they kept their hands close to pockets and concealed weapons---it wasn't hard to deduce. From the conversation so far, they specialized in demons and hellspawn-types, but it wasn't their hunting preferences that had caught Dean's attention. One was a local, the other an occasional partner who'd just come into town from somewhere.

"I don't know. From what I heard it wasn't any exorcism. The demon died. The guy was fine, though, just spent the night in the hospital."

"Sounds like that psychic freak again. That's the fifth or sixth one I've heard about this year."

"Well, you ask me, he's a blessing in disguise, whoever he is. Running demons down and being able to kill 'em? More power to him, I say."

"Please, it's a monster, just like the rest. Just because it kills demons doesn't change anything. It's not human. Besides, what makes you think it's a 'he?' I heard it was female."

"Friend of mine talked to the last guy, a lawyer or something. He said the person that got the demon out of him was a man. Tall guy, long hair, kinda scary lookin', but a normal man."

Dean tried to lean closer as casually as he could, even though his heart was racing. The person they described certainly sounded like Sam. It was the first lead he'd had in two months. If his luck held, maybe he'd get a direction.

"I found some signs over near Clarkstown. Omens. You think this psychic, whoever it is, will turn up there?"

The other man took his time answering, but Dean didn't dare turn to see why.

"Who knows? I hope he does. The enemy of my enemy, you know?"

Mr. Pessimism didn't sound convinced. "Hm. You know we're never that lucky, right? Maybe we should check this guy out."

"I'm old Willie, I'll take my chances." They laughed at that. "Besides, Curtis needs us down south, remember?"

The conversation faded after that, both men turning their attention to their food and whatever their buddy Curtis wanted from them. Dean silently paid his tab and left the bar. He stepped out into the chilly night air and pulled his coat closed.

Clarkstown. Only twenty miles away. Dean cast a glance back at the bar as he unlocked the car door. Something bothered him about what he'd heard. He couldn't place it. The facts seemed plain enough. The person they described certainly sounded a lot like Sam. It was the best lead he'd had in months; he had to follow it.

The Impala's door opened with a deep metallic groan. Dean frowned. She really needed a good overhaul---had for a while now---but he didn't have the heart for it for some reason. His baby was getting old. Worn out. She didn't purr for him the way she once did. She felt less and less like home every day.

One look at the cold, empty passenger seat told him why. The car wasn't complete. Dean knew how that felt…he wasn't whole either. Maybe the Impala was missing Sam as badly as he was. Maybe she was breaking apart at the seams now that her family was broken.

Dean smirked and shook his head in disgust. "Writing poetry about an old car, now, Dean?"

He couldn't stop staring at that empty seat, though. It finally clicked what had bothered him about the two hunters in the bar. The banter. The easy way they spoke to each other, bounced ideas. He'd felt the camaraderie even just listening in, and it had made him sick to his stomach.

It reminded him of Sam. Before Ruby. Before Lucifer and angels and all the crap they'd had to deal with. Before Cold Oak. Before all of Azazel's and Lilith's schemes had driven a wedge between them.

Dean would do anything to take another trip back in time. Maybe he could warn himself, or Sammy.

But, then, that hadn't worked with his mother, so it probably wouldn't work this way, either. Castiel had told him destiny couldn't be changed. Dean hadn't understood then, but maybe he just meant that the past couldn't be changed. What was done was done. Nothing he had said to Mary Campbell had mattered, in the end.

That was the worst part. His words, his actions, had driven Sam to run away. Bobby was right about that. Dean had to fix it; he was the only one who could. Sam wasn't innocent. He'd screwed up, made huge mistakes, hurt himself and others and cut himself off from everyone who cared about him. Ruby made sure of that.

The difference between Sam and Dean had been that Sam tried to atone for his sins---still was trying---where Dean buried his, too afraid to face them, and too afraid to face Sam's. But, he'd never hated Sam. He wasn't wired to hate his little brother. He'd just been angry and stupid enough to speak without thinking. Without remembering that Sam took everything he said as gospel, always had. Sam had never outgrown that. So, when he heard Dean say that he was going to send him away because of the demon blood, he'd believed every word he was hearing, and had drawn completely the wrong conclusion.

Maybe Dean could time-travel back to that day. Punch himself in the mouth before Sam heard anything.

Yeah, Dean had mistakes to fix, and he had to fix them if he ever wanted to put his family back together.

It all hinged on finding Sam, though. The kid was good. So far, he'd covered his trail like the pro. Dean was always two steps behind. He wondered if Sam knew he was being followed, or if he thought he was alone, and just being careful. Every place Dean searched was spotless, devoid of any trace of Sam's existence. Trail as cold as dad's had so frequently been, a lifetime before.

Part of Dean was positive that if Sam knew Dean was chasing him, he'd turn and face him. Sam had always been that way. Fearless, just like their dad. Sam never backed down from a fight, whether he was right or wrong. Cold Spring proved that.

Another part of him, a frightened part, wasn't so sure. Maybe Sam left no traces behind because he simply wasn't there. Sam could be dead, killed by some monster's hand…or his own. Rumors that passed through the hunting community often stayed in circulation long after the source was dust.

Dean shook the thought away. No. Sam was alive. Sam was out there, atoning for sins he'd more than made up for already. Dean would find him. Find him and apologize and force him to stop this crazy penance. Beg him to come home.

He flexed his hands on the steering wheel, sitting and letting the engine warm up in the cool weather. His eyes drifted to the highway and the distant horizon where Clarkstown waited.

"Slow down, Sammy. Let me catch up. Please."

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Sam didn't slow down. Dean didn't catch up.

Instead, the hunting life, in all its lack of glory, caught up with Dean the way he'd always kind of figured it would.

A simple poltergeist in an old hotel; should have been an in-and-out job. Castiel had even offered to go with him, but it didn't feel right. They'd hunted a few times together—not the focused, Sam-might-be-here-this-time hunts, but the bigger ones: wendigos and shapeshifters, ones that could get him killed if he was alone—but Dean had never been comfortable with it. And these days, Castiel was harder to track down, busy rebuilding the ranks of the angels who'd been loyal, establishing new priorities.

Dean had a niggling suspicion the angel had been part of the problem, anyway. He figured how things must have looked to Sam, Castiel usurping his place as Dean's partner…as if anyone ever could. But even more than that, it seemed wrong to have anyone in the passenger seat when Sam should be there, giving himself a headache reading while Dean drove, singing along—badly—to whatever songs he knew, sleeping the way he usually did, head flopped in a way that always looked painful, body sprawled across the seat.

No one belonged there but Sam.

Unfortunately, that didn't change the fact that Dean really could have used some backup on this case. Getting slammed into walls was nothing new…or mirrors…or pushed down a flight of stairs. But when the massive china hutch wobbled, crashing before he could scramble out of the way, he had time to think, "Well, that's never happened before," just as the lights went out.

He found out later—days later, fresh from a splenectomy and trussed up in traction with a fractured pelvis, broken leg, and a grade 3 concussion—that the hotel owner had watched everything happen from the safety of the front lawn, which meant she was able to call for an ambulance. When Dean finally was able to reach her on his cell, she let him know she'd boarded up the windows and locked the doors and the historic Fair Acres Inn was no longer open for business. Meaning the poltergeist could wait. Indefinitely.

One small relief, at least.

It didn't help the pain in his head though…or chest or back or leg or Hell, his fingers, which weren't even bruised but ached anyway in sympathy. Bobby swore at him long and loudly when he called, telling Dean he'd be there the next day at latest with one breath and that if he died of a heart attack on the way it would be all Dean's fault with the next.

Dean drifted after that, phone lax in his hands and thinking he heard his brother's voice between the steady beeps of the cardiac monitor, telling him everything would be okay.

He woke to someone changing out his IV. The guy didn't notice he was being stared at, at first, and jumped about a foot when Dean cleared his throat and raised an eyebrow at him. "You'd better not be the one giving me my sponge bath."

Things sort of went downhill, after that.

In TV shows, people always bounced back from massive injuries like they were nothing. Knocked out? Groan a little bit when you come to and then keep on chasing the bad guys. Break a bone? The cast is off by the next episode. Emergency surgery? Smile when you wake up, have some ice cream, and you're back on the beat the next day.

In reality, things were much, much harder. The main issue was how long Dean had to stay in the hospital. Bobby got an earful when he walked in on the doctor telling Dean it would be a week at minimum, and that was if he didn't need further surgery on his leg. Dean railed against it, but there was no give, not if you want to walk again. And, of course, for the first time since he was a kid, his real name was on his ID, which made a clandestine escape trickier, even if Bobby had been supportive. Which he most definitely was not.

The other issue tied right back into the doctor's warning. Walking again was not a given, either way. At least, not without a limp and plenty of residual pain. Physical therapy was a must, no negotiation. Which didn't seem so bad until it actually came time to do it.

Liz, his physical therapist, was a sadist. There was no other word for it. He'd thought, upon seeing her in all her five-foot-nothing wonder, mouse-brown hair and librarian glasses making her look like some shy school marm, his Winchester charm would be enough to have her wrapped around his finger before he even knew her name.

Such was not the case. She didn't talk much, wouldn't let him distract her with jokes or rambling, sort-of, maybe-a-little true stories. She pushed him and pulled him and worked him until the sweat was running down his face and he was half a breath from either crying or punching her in the face. He'd never been in a situation where his body betrayed him so completely before. It sucked. It sucked a lot.

He broke down at one point. Not the tears that had threatened a time or two, but a…well, there was really no word for it but tantrum. Two weeks into what was supposed to be a one-week stint, and a setback with the pins in his leg had put him back to square one with his walking. And he was furious. And so damned scared. What did a hunter do who couldn't walk? What did a person do? He wouldn't be able to go back to working at a garage. Hell, he wouldn't be able to drive. And forget about finding Sam…

The PT room had exploded then. Flying crutches, kicked therapy balls, a hurled weight set that had shattered a corner of the room's long mirrored wall. Dean felt like he had when he'd taken a crowbar to the Impala all those years ago, full of rage and frustration and confusion and fear. By the time it was over, he was spent, limp in his wheelchair, wanting nothing more than to go back to his room, fall asleep, and maybe never wake up.

He'd forgotten Liz was even there by then, grateful that no other patients were in the room when he was, that no one had been witness to his utter loss of control.

"Feel better?"

Her voice shocked him. Dean turned to look at her, embarrassed and still angry and ready to pounce if she said anything to him about what he'd just done.

But she didn't. She gathered the crutches, straightened the weights, returned the balls to their rightful place. And then put her hands gently on his bad leg, warm and strong. "How about we just start with a couple of stretches?"

For reasons he was never sure of, even long after, Dean agreed.

She started taking him back to his room after that instead of letting the orderly do it, watching TV when he was in the mood for company and just sitting with him, next to his bed, when he wasn't. They started talking, eventually, sharing little pieces of themselves; the ones—for Dean at least—that didn't give too much away. There was so much he thought she'd never understand.

By the time he'd graduated to outpatient status, they'd taken to eating lunch together before his session. He changed his PT schedule so they could keep up with it, even about when he was back at Bobby's and the commute alone could have warranted finding another clinic. Bobby never grumbled, even though he had to play chauffeur; in fact, Dean caught him grinning once or twice on the drives home, for no explicable reason.

Liz took him out for a celebratory dinner the night after his last appointment, when he'd finally been given a mostly clean bill of health and his walking-running-driving status was back to go.

It surprised him when he found himself telling her about Sam. And, over the course of more dinners, his parents and hunting and even, in carefully worded language, demon blood and Hell and the Apocalypse. She'd taken a few days to absorb those, but hadn't run screaming. Had asked him questions, instead, and offered sympathy, and, most shockingly of all, believed.

And maybe that's when he started to let Sam go. It wasn't a conscious choice, at least initially, but more a product of the three years that had gone by with no contact, without even coming close to pinning Sam down. Dean had been knocked to the ground and rebuilt himself—with Liz's help—and he couldn't help but think that maybe Sam had done the same thing.

Dean had always teased Sam for wearing his heart on his sleeve, but the opposite was closer to the truth: Sam buried things deep, especially guilt and doubt in himself, and he had a hard time letting things go, even when he had every reason to. Sam shoved things down where they couldn't hurt him, couldn't interfere…but they never went away. Dean used to be able to help with that. But in Sam's mind, at least, Dean didn't want to help anymore. Blamed Sam. Didn't want them to be brothers anymore.

As much as Dean wanted, needed, to make his peace with Sam, he couldn't force it. Maybe Sam had found a way to survive that left him better off than rattling around Bobby's place, a ghost of himself. Maybe Dean shouldn't try to take that away from him.

Not comfortable thoughts, by a long shot. But, over time, thoughts that started to grow.

It didn't surprise anyone when Dean asked Liz, five months later, if she'd marry him. And it surprised them even less when she said yes.

With a wedding to plan and a future to forge—a real future, one with the possibility of kids and old age, and if nothing else, a home—Dean took the final step. Said goodbye to his brother, hoped in his heart their paths would one day cross again, and moved on.

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I don't want to fight.

The words rang in Dean's ears for a moment. He and Sam had fought a lot in the last two years they'd been together. First as Sam let Ruby manipulate him, and later after Sam had unleashed the Apocalypse and almost destroyed everything.

Dean had had a lot of time to think back over those times. Too much time. He knew he could have handled it better.

And he knew that Bobby was right: he could have treated Sam better, too.

Over the last few years, on the road searching, and finally meeting Liz, Dean had thought more than once that if he'd controlled his mouth a little better, Sam might not have left. He knew Sam had overheard that argument with Bobby about sending Sam away.

God, how Dean wished he could do that day over again.

Liz had always been confident that Dean would get another chance. Like Sam had once, she had faith. Hope. Dean always nodded along whenever she talked about it, but found he had little trust in either.

Now's your second chance, Dean. He took another step forward, realizing that the silence was stretching and sensing that Sam was about to resume walking.

"I've missed you."

Dean blinked. Not what he'd meant to say. Not the way he'd envisioned this moment.

Sam seemed to be thinking the same thing, judging by the way he tensed and barely stopped himself from turning around. Dean decided to let the comment hang and press on.

"You, uh…you look good." Another unrehearsed remark…and pretty stupid, considering that all Dean could see was a dark silhouette. Still, Sam was in one piece. That was good. He waited for Sam to say something, hoping the conversation would get less awkward. Sam didn't disappoint.

"You, too."

It wasn't much. But, Sam hadn't bolted yet. Dean wasn't sure he could run fast enough in his dress shoes, so he hoped it stayed that way. "Sammy…where've you been?"

Three years was a long period to cover with such a vague question, but they had to start somewhere. Sam didn't comment on that, just shrugged slightly. "All over."

Dean stepped closer again, now within arm's reach. He couldn't take the suspense anymore. "Jesus, Sammy…aren't you even going to look at me?"

That got a small sigh. Not exasperation, Dean could tell, but resignation. Sam slowly pivoted so that he was turned halfway toward Dean, but not so much that he couldn't still escape. The skittishness bothered Dean, but he had learned a few things on his own.

Like how to take what he could get.

In the faint light, he could make out Sam's face, which looked more or less the way he remembered. Somewhat pinched, older. Harder. The eyes were sad, though, more than Dean had ever seen them, even after Jessica. So much that it gave his brother an utterly hopeless expression.

A scar ran along Sam's forehead. Dean could see it disappeared into his hairline. It made him wince. Sam had been hurt---apparently badly. Had he been alone? Had some stranger helped him in Dean's absence? The thought sickened him.

"Liz is beautiful." Sam said quietly, clearly uncomfortable under the scrutiny. He avoided Dean's eyes.

"Thanks." Dean frowned at the formality the conversation was creeping toward. "She's great."

Sam glanced uneasily at the brick wall beside them, vaguely in the direction of the ball room. "She knows a lot of people."

Dean couldn't help but huff a laugh. "I know. I think I'm totally out of my league in there."

"You're doing fine, so far." Sam replied softly, a hint of pride in his tone.

Smile fading, Dean nodded at the compliment. He couldn't keep up the small talk anymore. "Why'd you leave?"

Might as well get to the point.

Sam visibly flinched. Apparently, he hadn't been prepared for Final Jeopardy. His mouth moved, silently, like a drowning fish, for a few long moments. Almost comical, if there had been anything funny about it.

Finally, Sam's head dropped. The whisper that came out was almost lost in the night breeze. "I had to."

Dean grimaced. He was trying to take it easy, but years of anger and loneliness were hard to repress for long. "You gotta do better than that."

Sam glanced up at him, but didn't pull back the way Dean feared he might. He just nodded mournfully.

"I…couldn't drag you down with me, anymore, Dean," Sam spoke quietly, eyes unfocussed, staring unseeingly at some point on Dean's chest. "You were going to send me away, anyway. It was easier to just--- I didn't want to add another burden to---"

Sam broke off and stared at Dean for a moment, searching, and then glanced away, defeat showing on his face. Apparently, he'd expected…something else.

Dean's patience suddenly ran out. He'd run this moment over and over in his head, all those empty months on the road. All that silence in the Impala. This wasn't the way he'd imagined it, and Sam looked ready to give up and leave.

So, Dean went off script, and did what he should have done four years earlier. He moved forward and slammed Sam into the wall, hard, pinning him. Confronting his brother the way he'd been too afraid to when it counted.

"No, Sam. No. I didn't wait this long for cryptic." Sam looked back at him with dull eyes, clearly expecting this, and surrendering to his fate---whatever he thought that would be.

"We both know what I did," Sam sighed. "What I was responsible for. You deserved better than to have to watch after a freak. You still do."

"You're not a freak, Sam." Dean said forcefully. Sam looked surprised for a moment, then grateful. Still hopeless, but grateful, as though Dean was just offering a platitude. When Sam didn't continue, Dean pressed ahead.

"I found the note." Dean had it in his pocket. He still read it every now and then. Over and over. The ink was smeared from handling. The last words Sam had ever said to him.

Sam's face grew impossibly sadder. "I'm sorry, Dean. I couldn't let you keep living like that."

"Like what?"

"You wanted to move on. You deserved to move on. No one earned it more than you," Sam said, a hint of his old passionate nature showing. Adamant in his beliefs. Dean had almost forgotten what that Sam was like. "But, I was holding you back. Nothing could make up for what I did, and I wasn't going to force you to give up anything else."

"Sam---"

"You were right to want me gone. I scared you. I was scared of me, too. And, I was so tired of hurting you, Dean. I knew you wouldn't have the future you wanted if you got dragged along with me, if you had to keep paying for my mistakes."

"Sam, damn it---"

"So, when I heard you and Bobby arguing, I knew---"

"Sam!" Dean cut him off, pushing him against the wall to get his attention. "I never wanted you to go."

Sam just stared at him a moment, expression shifting from confusion to disbelief and back again. When he spoke, his voice was quiet, broken again. "What?"

"That day…the argument, it was—I just wanted you to get better. I was going to take you to Missouri, see if she could help you. I knew I wasn't getting through. I thought—I thought if I left you with her for a while, she could help you get past everything."

Dean watched Sam process that, watched him look away and frown, reviewing the memories, maybe. Sam liked to put everything under a microscope. Most important, though, he could tell Sam believed him. Sam always believed him.

His brother considered the revelation for a few long moments, but when he looked back, Dean only saw more resignation in his eyes.

"It doesn't matter. I was right." Sam chuckled at that. It wasn't a pleasant sound. "I was finally right about something. Look at you. You're happy. You're finally getting what you want. No chasing me around anymore."

Dean snarled, the old resentment resurfacing again unwillingly. "I chased you for three years, Sam. I was never fast enough to catch up."

Sam gaped at him, appalled…which answered another old question Dean had, actually. Sam hadn't known he was being followed. He'd thought he was alone all that time. Dean didn't like thinking about that, Sam on his own, following some lonely mission of redemption he'd sentenced himself to.

"Why?" Sam breathed. He looked honestly confused, as if the notion that someone would want to follow him was so unusual. Dean didn't have words for how that made him feel. How he'd let his brother fall so far.

"Because you're my brother, Sam."

Sam shook his head slowly. "I'm just another monster, Dean. You're better off without me."

Dean sagged in defeat, letting his arms drop. He wasn't getting through. Maybe Sam was too far gone. Maybe Dean had missed his opportunity years ago. Too little, too late.

Sam seemed to agree. He straightened, and moved slowly away. "I just—I just wanted to see Liz once. To see you happy. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to screw this up, too."

His brother waited a moment, then slowly turned to walk away. Dean couldn't move. He didn't know what to say. He never had.

The last thing Dean expected then was to hear a voice inside his head. Tell him, baby. Tell him NOW. This is your last chance.

Missouri. Despite the odd sensation of her intruding into his thoughts, he wasn't surprised. Or ungrateful. Just at a loss.

He looked up. Sam was walking away, looking like a condemned man. Dean looked back at the ground where his brother had just stood. What could he say? How was he supposed to fix things? He thought about Sam's note. He thought about the emotion he'd seen beneath the self-loathing words. He remembered how it ended.

Desperation crept up on him, and he said something he couldn't remember ever saying out loud. Something he should have said long ago. He called out to the retreating shadow.

"I love you, Sammy. Please…don't go."

It was his last card.

A long moment passed. He heard no response, and tears suddenly slipped from his eyes. His last chance had come and gone and he'd blown it. Again.

Another moment went by, and Dean looked up at the empty walkway…which wasn't so empty. Sam was standing, frozen, a dozen feet away. His head was turned, and Dean could see his eyes were wet, but he wasn't moving.

Dean took his chance. He moved over in front of his brother and embraced him, scooping him up before he could retreat again. "I missed you, so much."

Sam didn't seem able to move for a while, but Dean didn't let go. Slowly, after what seemed like an eternity, Dean felt Sam's arms wrap around his back, tight.

"Dean…."

They were breaking the Winchester rule about chick-flicks, but Dean didn't care. He'd discarded those rules a long time back, anyway. He held on to Sam as hard as he could. Not because one of them was hurt, not because one of them was back from the dead, just because they were brothers who'd been apart far too long. Sam was crying, but Dean couldn't exactly make any cracks about that right then. "You don't have to run anymore, little brother. Come home."

Dean realized with astonishment that for once home wasn't referring to a car, or a motel, or even Bobby's. He was talking about this. Just him and Sam. For the first time in three years, Dean felt like they could both come home.

Sam sniffled against Dean's tuxedo jacket. "I don't know what to do. I can't make anything up to you."

"You don't owe me anything. We'll figure it out…the rest."

He assumed Sam still had his powers, that he was still hunting. It was long past time for him to join Dean in retirement.

"You don't have to do this, Dean…."

Dean didn't let go. "I want to. But…do you?"

They just held onto each other for a while, silent. It seemed neither knew what else to say. Dean wasn't going to rush it. Eventually, Sam shifted in his arms, pressing his forehead into Dean's shoulder and huffed. It came out in a sob. "You're such a girl, man."

Dean didn't miss a beat. "You better not tell anybody about this, bitch."

Sam laughed, honest to God laughed. Dean hadn't heard that in a long, long time. He patted Sam's back and pulled away, keeping his hands on Sam's arms. "Will you stay?"

Sam nodded with a shrug. "If--- If you want."

Dean nodded. It took Sam a moment to decide, but he nodded back. Dean grinned and gently guided Sam around. They walked slowly down the path, toward the building this time. His brother walked at his side, slowly, still uncertain. Dean knew they had a lot of work ahead of them. A lot of bridges to rebuild. Things wouldn't return to the way they were overnight, but Sam was here. He seemed to be honest about staying. That's all Dean could ask.

For now, Dean decided to go slow. "I've got to introduce you to Liz."

Sam hesitated, looking wary. That skittish posture returned. "I—She…doesn't know anything about me. I wouldn't want to have to lie—"

"She knows everything." Dean returned, putting confidence in his voice. He hoped it would sound reassuring. "She's wanted to meet you for a long time."

Sam looked at him, surprised. "Everything?"

Dean nodded. "Hunting, demons, Mom and Dad. Everything."

The look on Sam's face faded to incredulity, with a touch of his old sarcasm glinting in his eyes. "You're such a rotten secret-keeper, Dean. First Cassie, now Liz!"

Dean had missed that sense of humor. He took up the gauntlet. "You should have seen the look on her face when she met Castiel. She didn't run for the hills when I told her all this, either. That was really something."

"She must not know about you keeping your socks in the sink, yet."

"Nah, she loves it. It's part of my charm." He shot back smugly.

"You found a very forgiving woman, Dean."

As they neared the door to the ballroom, they slowed to a stop. Sam looked about a terrified as Dean had ever seen him.

"Dean, I don't think I can do this…."

Dean regarded his brother, drinking in the sight of him after so long. There were people in there Sam hadn't seen in years. People he wasn't sure would forgive him. Dean knew otherwise. He kept his arm across Sam's back and nudged him forward gently. "I've got your back, bro. We can do this together."

He'd let Sam forget that once. Dean didn't plan on letting that happen again. He opened the door and went through with Sam. "Welcome home, Sammy."

END