A/N: Chapter title taken from the song Stranger In A Strange Land by Leon Russel.


Epilogue – Stranger In a Strange Land

Bobby stood watch outside for twenty more minutes. After a while Dean rested the back of his head against the Impala's windshield and closed his eyes. Sam held on a few moments longer, then he curled over on his side facing Dean and drifted off.

In the meantime Rumsfeld stretched out on the ground, softly snoring.

"Idjits," Bobby huffed to himself. Even the damn fool dog had the right idea.

Bobby was in bed, half asleep, less than three minutes later. The last thought he had was of Sam and Dean. It was the damndest thing, but he could see it now: the brothers were like a pair of Border collies: each one smart as hell in their own way, but just as likely to get peculiar ideas in those heads of theirs unless they were worked hard and often.

Not a very flattering comparison, but it was a fact, one he'd keep to himself.

Bobby knew whatever Dean did, Sam would follow.

Past time they all got to work.


Breakfast was sausage, hash browns, orange juice and eggs. Dean ate slowly, his eyes locked on his plate, like he was sure that either Sam or Bobby would bitch at him if he didn't eat. He didn't react to the sight of the whiskey bottle on the table; Sam very pointedly ignored it too. He paced himself so that he finished eating when Dean did.

"Need you boys to help me with something." Bobby said quietly. He pushed his plate over to the side and put both elbows on the table.

Both brothers came to attention immediately. Bobby tried not to smile at the image of two alert Border collies sitting side by side. Instead he wordlessly pushed the bottle of Jack across the table towards Dean.

"Uh, Bobby?" Sam instantly went into bitchface mode.

Dean eyed the bottle warily, then looked Bobby directly in the eyes. "What's that for?"

"I want you to drink it."

"All of it?"

"As much as you can."

"Why?" That careful, studied blankness in Dean's face even reached his eyes.

"We need to get a handle on what's going on inside you. You clocked Ellen at the Roadhouse, remember?"

Dean nodded.

"You remember why you hit her?"

"Scissors," Dean said softly. He stared down at his empty plate.

"What?"

"She had those scissors near me." Dean shook his head slowly. "Didn't like that."

"Okay. Your Dad said you looked feverish and your skin was warm to the touch. After you hit Ellen you grabbed a bottle of Jack and headed out. Why?"

"I needed a drink."

Bobby huffed. "Uh huh. You drank the whole bottle. Then what?"

"Woke up in the back lot. Dad told me I was okay. I remember that."

Sam opened his mouth and then very quickly snapped it shut. Dean didn't notice and Bobby pretended not to.

"You got better," Bobby said mildly. "No hang-over, far as I could tell. Stayed that way for a couple of days at least. How'd you feel?"

"Okay."

"Missouri's got a theory that you burned off some of that spirit residue inside you. We need to make that happen again. Won't be exactly the same, but close."

"So you want me to get drunk?" Dean said slowly, as though this was a trap or a test and he didn't quite know how to react.

"Well, yeah. Gotta see if the booze acts as a trigger. Or an accelerant."

"And then what?"

"You two meet me out back after you're done."

Sam nodded in agreement. Dean stared at first Sam and then Bobby in disbelief.

"Don't just sit there gawkin' at me, boy. You got a better idea?"

"Nope."

Sam tried not to stare as Dean reached for the fifth of whiskey. Dean didn't seem very thrilled about any of this.


Yeah, it was just like old times, courtesy of Dean's old friend Jack.

"….back in black…I hit the sack…."

Bump!

"Quit it!" Sam growled.

"…been too long, 'm glad to be back…."

Bump!

"Quit it!"

Dean laughed, a full-throated, happy chuckle. He grinned a little each time his shoulders bumped Sam's as they walked along. That gleam in his eyes said it all: I'm doing this because I know it bugs the hell outta you.

Bump!

"Oh, so you wanna dance, huh?" Sam backpedaled and right-jabbed at Dean's face. "Let's dance!"

Dean slapped Sam's hand away. Sam advanced; Dean backed up. His skin color took on a slight rosy glow that faded almost immediately.

"Stop it, Sam."

Sam ignored him. He was Dean's shadow. He shook his head as he smirked at his brother. "A thirteen year old girl could sideline your ass right about now."

Dean weaved from side to side, right, then left, avoiding each blow Sam snapped at him. Something dark flickered in the moss green depths of Dean's eyes.

He took a step backwards, out of Sam's reach. "Damn it, Sam, I said stop it!"

Sam stopped.

" 'm not sparrin' with you, y'hear me?" The brothers locked eyes for a second. Dean shook his head. "I'm not."

The wooden gate to the back lot swung open.

"Come on, we're burning daylight, ladies," Bobby called out. He turned and walked before them. The lot in back of the salvage yard was just an empty field. A large oak tree sat in the far corner, backed by a tall chain link fence. A blue cooler sat in the grass in the shade near the tree. Both brothers stopped and stared at the object that hung from the lowest, thickest tree branch.

The smile on Sam's face was like a slowly dawning sunrise. "Bobby?"

Bobby ran one hand over the creased brown leather. "Fella passing through years ago traded it to me for parts he needed for his truck. Now why he thought I'd need a heavy punching bag in a salvage yard is anybody's guess, but it was a fair trade, so I took it. You never know when this stuff is gonna come in handy."

Dean stood there blinking owlishly. "This isn't gonna work," he mumbled softly.

"Dean, come on!" Sam sounded excited. He crossed the distance between them and the tree in two strides, brought his hands up, went into a crouch and punched the bag twice. The bag easily took the hits; Bobby nodded in silent approval. There were no thin spots or cracks in the leather as far as Sam could see. He went around to the opposite side of the bag.

"Nope," Dean said a little louder. "Not gonna work." He swayed a little from side to side as he fumbled with his buttons and struggled to pull his shirt down around his shoulders. He was bare-chested. Usually he freckled evenly in the summer, and his hair brightened to blonde highlights. Not this time. The freckles on his back, chest and shoulders were in hiding; that dark brown hair of his made his skin look even paler.

"Uh, Dean?"

"Yeah, Sam?"

"Need some help?"

"Nope. Why?"

" 'cause I think the shirt is winning."

"Oh." Dean's head bobbled as he looked down at himself. His shirt was twisted around his body and both arms.

Dean grinned a little, goofy, carefree. " 's all good. " He rolled his shoulders as he shrugged off the hated shirt, then stepped in closer to peer at the punching bag as though he expected it to move on its own.

"Nope. Isn't gonna work."

Sam put both hands on the bag and pushed it forward. The bottom of the bag connected solidly with Dean's stomach.

He grunted and stumble stepped backwards. Dean's arms windmilled wildly out to the sides, but he couldn't keep his balance. He hit the ground on his ass. "Sonofabitch!"

Damn thing moved after all.

Come on, 'bro. Show me what you got, Sam thought.

Bobby leaned against the fence.

Dean scrambled to his feet. He narrowed his eyes, clenched his fists as he glared at the bag. His first strike was half-hearted.

Sam rolled his eyes. "Dude, you hit like a girl."

The next blow was harder.

"Come on."

Dean scowled. A right combination was next, harder than the last one.

"Come on, Deanna. You afraid you're gonna mess up your manicure?"

"I got your manicure," Dean growled. He struck the bag again and again.

Sam tightened his grip and steadied himself.

"Dude, you're not even trying."

There was no mistaking it this time; Dean's skin immediately pinked up even more.

"Come on, harder!" Sam grated out. "You can do better than this!"

Dean threw his head back and roared. The sound he made was indescribable, a long guttural howl of rage and despair. His eyes glazed over incredibly green and bright. He focused his attention like a gunsight on the bag, not Sam.

That didn't make Sam feel any better.

What if he ignores the bag and comes after me?

The next move Dean made was a one two combo, a left jab, then a cross punch that made Sam and the bag tremble violently.

Oh God, Sam thought, maybe I should've kept my big fat mouth shut.

Dean threw a right jab, then an uppercut. The impact shook Sam all the way down to the soles of his feet. Dean's ease of motion smoothed out; he threw punches with almost machine-like precision. The muscles in his back, arms and shoulders flexed effortlessly underneath his flushed skin.

All Sam could do was lean into the bag and hold on. It was only minutes, but it seemed like hours. Sam couldn't take his eyes off his brother, and that was just as well. He saw the exact moment when the burn-off occurred. The fever in Dean's skin flared up and vanished. His color was normal, healthy again.

Dean was back. Sam could see it in his eyes, the aliveness, the awareness that wasn't there before. Dean staggered sideways, breathing heavily, and his knees buckled. Sam let go of the bag and was there on his knees by Dean's side in a heartbeat.

Dean blinked dazedly at him. "Dude…are you…are you hovering over me or something?"

Crap. Sam couldn't help it; he flicked a quick glance down at Dean's hands. They weren't curled into fists. Not yet, anyway. "Well, yeah…"

"Oh. Okay." Dean's head bobbled slightly as he stared at the punching bag over Sam's shoulder. Incredibly enough, a slow grin spread over his face. "Yeah," he croaked out. He sounded happy.

"Mikey likes it, huh?" Bobby said quietly as he walked over.

Dean nodded. He took the water bottle Bobby offered and downed it all in one gulp.

"Hell yeah." Dean cleared his throat. He stared at the bag and his grin got even wider. "This might work."

Bobby kneeled down in front of the brothers. "All right then. The plan's simple: you don't get lost inside your head anymore. Each time you feel yourself getting like that, you come out here, and you work the bag. If you have to do this every day then, so be it. It is what it is. When your Dad comes back he's taking you and Sam off the grid for a while."

Dean blinked at the mention of John.

"You take the bag and whatever tools you need with you when you go. Set it up at the new place."

"Damn. Bobby, I don't know what to say-"

"You gettin' all girly on me, Winchester?" The older hunter glared at the younger man with mock sternness. "Better not be, because I expect you to pull your own weight. We clear?"

"Yes sir. Crystal."

Bobby stood up. "Well, you're not gonna sit there all day." He rolled his eyes as Sam stood up, leaned down, stuck out his hand and pulled Dean up on his feet. "What some folks won't do to get out of an honest day's work."


"This is John Winchester. I can't be reached. When you hear the beep you know what to do."

"Damn it, John, this is Singer. You call me as soon as you get this message. Idjit."


Hours later Sam and Dean sat on the Impala watching the moon rise.

"Didn't work," Dean said quietly.

"What didn't?"

"Getting drunk." Dean shrugged. "I could feel it coming on when we walked out to the back lot. There's not enough Jack in the world to drown that out."

Sam turned to stare at him. He tried not to smile, because he knew that would cause Dean to shut down completely. Sam didn't want to end this moment, or screw it up in any way, because they were having a chick flick moment right now.

A chick flick moment that Dean, of all people, started. This was something new.

"You wanna know what it was like, right?"

Sam nodded silently.

"Voices yelling at me," Dean murmured softly. "Hands grabbing me. I could feel it in my skin." He sat against the windshield with his hands loose and relaxed in his lap. Dean stared down at the slightly swollen knuckles of both hands. "All I could think of was if I just fought a little harder, a little smarter, I could get out of there, y'know? If I pushed myself a little more, I could bust out of there." Dean laughed, shook his head as if he wondered how he could have been that damn stupid. "Guess we all know how well that worked out, huh?"

"You got out of there. You didn't give in and you didn't give up."

Dean didn't say a word. He turned his face up to the stars and didn't say anything else for the rest of the night.


"We're sorry. You have reached a number that has been disconnected or is no longer in service."


Bobby worked them hard.

The first day set the tone for the next three, and for a while it was good. They ate together, but after each meal each brother had their own chores to do.

Sam surfed the internet for long-term survivors of spirit possession. He stayed on his laptop for hours, poured through all the books in Bobby's library. Sam was relentless, always able to separate the fakers and the posers from the real cases. The hoaxes didn't jibe with what Missouri told him. The real cases were short-term possessions, usually weeks or months. No one had survived as long as Dean had.

And if they had, no one out there would even admit to it.

Dean gave the Impala a tune-up, told her that he was sorry for ditching her for so long. He worked alongside Bobby on some of the cars and trucks in the yard. He snarked and joked around, stripped carburetors, changed oil filters with nimble, talented fingers. When they ran out of work in the yard Dean went back inside and did research on Bobby's desktop while Bobby fixed the next meal.

The days always ended the way they began: out in the yard sitting on the Impala, waiting for Dad. It was the Winchester version of a lighting a candle in a window, something to lead a wayward traveler home.

Dean went first, and Sam always followed him.


On the morning of the fifth day Dean stood underneath the tree next to the punching bag. He was barefoot, and he couldn't remember when he'd stripped down to that black undershirt of his. He was dimly aware that Bobby and Sam were nearby, but they didn't have his full attention.

Hey, Dean. Gabriel smirked. You miss me?

Gabriel was there, standing in the same space as the punching bag. The shifting shadows and light from the tree branches overhead made his image shift and flicker back and forth. One minute he wore blue patient scrubs from Sweetbriar, the next dingy flannel, workboots and worn jeans.

Dean stalked the bag. He moved cat-quick on the balls of his feet.

Gabriel rolled his eyes. He wasn't impressed.

Hmph. Knew you couldn't keep me in. Gabriel rolled his eyes as Dean circled around. You'll never get free of me, you dumb bastard. You enjoyed every damn moment you were with me, and everybody knows it too.

Dean stepped in close. His right jab made the punching bag swing back and forth on its chains. Gabriel shimmered around the edges, his dark green eyes suddenly wide with fear. Dean's right uppercut doubled him over. A left hook to the body, and Gabriel Bender came undone in a burst of dark light.

Dean continued to stalk the bag. He knew he wasn't done. The others hadn't come out to play yet.

Missy stood in Gabriel's place.

A small smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. You'd never hurt me, would ya, Dean? I know y'wouldn't.

Dean uncoiled with a left wheel kick that planted his foot squarely in her face.

Missy's image shifted and trembled with the impact as the bag took the hit. Her mouth formed an O of surprise. She stared up at Dean with this wide-eyed, shocked expression.

I thought…I thought you loved me.

Dean smirked fiercely. Not on your best damn day, bitch.

Another kick and Missy vanished, scratchy silver static scattered in the afternoon breeze.

Two down.

Dean absentmindedly rubbed at the jagged scar on his left shoulder. It was two inches long, and it still bothered him sometimes.

Nathan Beck laughed.

"You still remember that, don't you? Ol' Roark was a piece of work, wasn't he? Bible thumping freak. He took one look at you and said you were hellspawn, and the sweet baby Jesus told him you had to die. Then he stole a pair of scissors from the infirmary and stabbed you with 'em one day. Sweetbriar's the gift that keeps on giving, isn't it, Dean?"

Dean's fist lashed out in a solid right hook. Beck's head snapped backwards; the look of shock on his face made Dean smile a little. Another right to the midsection, and Beck's ghost image crumpled over, dissolved into thin streamers that twisted and faded into open air.

Three down.

Abraham, Lee and Jerry were here. They stood around the punching bag shoulder to shoulder.

Lee and Jerry glared silently.

My brother came back wrong because of you, boy. Abraham's low whisper was filled with bright malice. Should've killed you that night.

Yeah. Maybe you should've, Dean thought. He drilled the bag repeatedly, right in the place where Abraham's face would have been.

Abraham exploded into a fine mist.

Dean kept right on punching. He spun, he kicked, he moved to the rhythm of his breathing, the thunder of his heartbeat inside his head.

Lee and Jerry disappeared not long after Abraham and Beck did.

Dean suddenly found himself standing in front of the bag, his muscles spent, weak, but in a good way. He was the only one inside his head now. Dean stared down at his hands as he flexed his fingers. Something was missing, something else he needed.

As good as the bag was, it couldn't fight back.

He needed to feel flesh under his fists, needed to hear the impact with human skin and muscle. It was fucked up for sure, but he couldn't deny it. He needed to hit and be hit, and that was part of this new need too.

That wasn't something he could tell Sam or Bobby. Sam would volunteer to be Dean's punching bag.

Dean shook his head as he turned away. No way in hell that was gonna happen.

"Well?" Sam said quietly as Dean walked up. "You good?"

Dean nodded. "Oh yeah."

For a while, at least.


Dean woke up and sat there blinking for a moment. He registered everything all at once: Impala, Bobby's yard. Sam curled up asleep on the hood beside him. Nothing had really changed all these nights. Moonlight lined everything out in the yard bright silver. Same yard, same cars.

John Winchester stood five feet away, just as big and dark and imposing as ever.

"Hey, son."

"Hey." Dean didn't remember moving, but he must have. John raised his arms and Dean stepped into them, without hesitation. The hug was lingering, fierce, and when it was over Dean stepped back. He felt the slight tremor in John's right side, the padding of the bandages there, saw the fading bruises on John's face.

"What the hell, Dad?" Dean whispered.

"It's okay." John nodded. They stared at each other for a long moment.

It's okay. You're okay. Beck's gone.

Dean nodded back. John could see the question in his eldest son's eyes. Why didn't you call?

John's chuckle was dark and filled with irony. "Damn battery went out."


From: David Matthews

To: Robert Singer

Subject: Hi

Hey, Bobby.

It's been awhile, huh? Just wanted you to know we're okay. I'm using a proxy to send this to you. Had some help setting it up.

Dad's been here with us for three months. That's a personal best for him. I go to bed and I wake up expecting to see his empty bed and his stuff gone. Hasn't happened yet.

Old habits die hard, I guess. Used to be I'd bitch at him about that. I understand now. I think I do, anyway. I can't tell him I forgive him for being the way he is, so I'll tell you. I do. I finally get Dad. Most days he looks at me like he's expecting me to start bitching about something, anything, like I used to. That makes me laugh sometimes.

Dean's working the bag just like you told him to. He does it once a week now, but I can tell there's something different about him. He goes outside and stands there staring at the horizon, like he sees something that nobody can see. Sometimes it's like he never left. And sometimes I can tell he's seeing the world through Gabriel's eyes.

Dean came back. I won't say he came back wrong. He's changed, but that's okay. Yeah, like I'm the poster boy for normal, huh? He's still my brother, Bobby, no matter what. Nothing that happened to him during those four years is ever going to change that.

We have a home now. Dean has a stable place to work out, but it's not going to last.

I dream about Lim now. I've done that every night for the past two weeks. He's screwing with us. He wants me and Dean out there, wants us to come hunt him.

I'm afraid of what will happen when we do.

Dean knows something is up. Dad does too. I tried to hide it at first, but I never could put anything past them, you know that. I look at Dean, and I think about how I felt the first time when I thought I was healing him. It felt good. I was hurting him, and I didn't care. I asked him once if he was afraid of me, and he looked me in the eyes and snorted like that was so damn funny. I believe him. He's not afraid of me.

Maybe he should be.

Sometimes when it gets too much I go for a long walk. Sometimes I think about not coming back.

Dean follows me. I know he does. Dad does sometimes too.

Thing is, if I leave for good Dean will hunt me down and kick my ass. I'm caught, just like that monkey with his hand in that coconut trap. Hunters drill a hole in a coconut, put some nuts in there. Monkey comes along, sticks his hand inside. He's trapped as long as he holds onto the nuts.

I feel the same way. I can free myself if I let go, just give in to the deal. I can't. I won't hurt Dean. Or Dad. Like you said, leaving's easy. Dealing with the aftermath is hard.

We'll be hitting the road soon. I don't know how this thing is gonna end. Probably bloody. I'll take whatever comes. Winchesters don't just fade away. You and I both know that.

If I don't see you again, thanks for the lecture. I really needed it.

Sam


A/N: Well, this is it. We have come to the end of this road, for now, at least. I want to thank everyone who reviewed, everyone who fav'd this story, everyone who put me on author alert because of it. Thanks to the folks who lurked, and thanks to the trolls too. As Dean said in "The End": "I learned a lesson, all right. It just wasn't the lesson you thought I was going to learn."

Yeah, there will be a sequel. Hope you'll join me for that one. Thanks again!