Title: Nobody's Fault But Mine
Author: skybound2
Rating: PG-13
Spoiler Warnings: Up through Season 3 Episode 7 (Fresh Blood).
Characters: Mostly Dean, with some Sam, Bobby, and John thrown in for good measure. Mentions of others.
Summary: It's been three years since Sam rescued Dean from hell. All told, Dean only spent four days there, but it might as well have been a lifetime. Future-fic, set three years after Dean is sent to, and released from, hell.
Warnings: Contains some mild descriptions of torture. Character death.
Author's Notes: Holy hell, how did this monster happen? You settle down to write one little exposition story, and the thing just gets a mind of it's own. And before you know it, you aren't getting anything else down before it's finished. Title snagged from the Led Zeppelin song "Nobody's Fault But Mine." Playing in Kripke's universe, please don't sue :-) Also, it's the middle of the night, and this has not yet been beta'ed (gotta get me one of those), so please feel free to point any errors. Or point me in the direction of a beta. Originally written back in 2007.
Word Count: ~5000

Nobody's Fault But Mine

It's been three years since Sam rescued Dean from hell. All told, Dean only spent four days there, but it might as well have been a lifetime. Dean figures that's thanks to all the hellfire cooking you on a slow rotisserie. Chicken hasn't been as appetizing since.

Three years since Sam managed to pull him out of the fire, as it were, and the memories have yet to fade. Dean wonders about that sometimes, how after he brought Sam back, Sam had no recollection of what had happened. Mostly he chalks that up to the deal he made being specific about bringing Sam back the way he was. The Crossroads Demon must have included a nice little memory wipe in the deal. Gave Dean his money's worth, and for that, Dean's grateful. Sam doesn't remember being dead.

Dean does though.

It was hardest in the weeks following Dean's return, he'd had a hard time differentiating reality from delusion. More than once, Sam had found him, legs tucked beneath his chin, staring off at a wall with a dead look in his eyes that nothing but time would snap him out of. Worse were the times when Dean would forget who or where he was, when he'd yell, and curse, and scream into the air; or wander off mumbling to himself. When he'd flinch from everything and everyone, even Sam. Dean never talked about it after, and Sam didn't ask. He would just offer to take Dean out for a bite to eat, or they'd hit a bar and hustle a few games of pool. Nice, simple, easy things, so that they could pretend everything was normal. That everything was fine. Even when it so clearly wasn't.

It's gotten better. Mostly his time in hell is a faded memory. Though there are shadows sometimes, out of the corner of his eyes, that never quite fade. Hellfire dancing on the periphery. But he can make it through most days now without much incident (although the scent of brimstone tickles his nose more often than he would like, and sets him on edge for days afterwards). His nights are a different story. There are two types of nights that Dean has now. The ones that are stark, empty and dreamless. And the ones plagued with visions of eternal damnation. The dreamless nights are too few and far between as far as Dean's concerned. Doesn't talk about it though. Not with Bobby, and certainly not with Sam. There's a lot that he doesn't talk about with Sam anymore.

Like, for instance, what it was exactly that Sam did to get Dean out of hell. Dean had asked him once, and only once, after he'd gained some of his equilibrium back. The answer had been less than satisfactory.

~~~\/~~~

He'd been home for maybe six months when he'd finally confronted Sam. It wasn't that he hadn't wanted to know any sooner, it was just that the reality of the situation was still a bit too much for him to handle, loathe as he was to admit it. He had hoped that Sam would break first, decide to talk to Dean about what went down, bridge the gap that had formed between them. The two of them had come to an easy understanding in the wake of Gordon's death the previous year, and Dean had thought that Sam was waiting for Dean to be ready to talk.

But weeks had turned into months, and while the cold sweats, and racing heart in the middle of the night had slowed to a minimum, the easy camaraderie they shared before Dean's death never returned. Dean hadn't been too keen on getting back to hunting straight away, what with him still having waking nightmares most days. But Sam had insisted that they keep hunting, he thought it would give something for Dean to focus on that wasn't related to hell. He hadn't been entirely wrong. Six months back, and Dean felt as close to human as he thought he ever would again, and still Sam hadn't brought it up.

They'd been out until dawn in a small town in southern California, just this side of Mexico, hunting down a cursed gypsy relic that was literally sealing the mouths shut of anyone who came into contact with it - and told a lie. Any lie. Which was pretty much everyone in the town. The thing had a nasty habit of jumping owners too, which made tracking it down fairly difficult. He'd happily thrown himself on the bed of their motel room when they got back, amazed at how much a simple salt and burn had worn him out. He'd woke up with a start after a particularly vivid dream of hellhounds on his heels, with the twisted, smiling face of a demon so achingly familiar to him leading the pack. He'd grabbed Sam by the collar of his shirt and hauled him upwards from where he had sat, eating a turkey sandwich, as calm as could be.

"What did you do, Sam?" He'd known that his voice was clipped and harsh, and not at all the tone that he usually reserved for Sam. Sam's features had flattened into a mask as Dean had growled at him, the tight lines of his face sharpened into stark relief. "I've been running through every,single scenario I can think of, Sammy. And none of it... none of it is adding up. I need to know, Sam. What exactly did you trade to get me outta hell?" Dean's knuckles had turned pale as he'd tightened his grip on his brother, and waited for Sammy to make sense of the world for him.

But Sam had only looked at him, eyes dark and face set in a grim line, no remorse or pity to be found, and answered: "What I had to, Dean. I did what I had to."

Dean had held Sam's gaze for a beat longer, searching for an answer, any answer, besides the one he'd just received, before he'd finally dropped his hands and backed away. His voice was gravel and dust when he spoke. "Yeah, well. Whatever it was, Sam? You got a bum deal."

He'd gone out alone that night, found an anonymous dive bar, and gotten himself reacquainted with one Jose Cuervo. Not his top choice of companions, but that close to the border it was the best he could find.

~~~\/~~~

Dean hadn't pushed after that. There was a time when he would have. He would have argued with, and berated Sam until he got his answer. But that part of him cooled off in the aftermath of hell. He knew, he knew that whatever it was that Sammy had done to get him out of hell, it wasn't good. It wasn't safe. And it certainly wasn't smart. But how could he argue the outcome?

Dean had thought he'd understood what was in store for him when he'd made that deal. He'd spent the last year of his life (or so he had thought) coming to terms with it; mentally preparing himself for the torture to come. Despite what Sam had thought, he hadn't spent the entire year indulging his vices. Sure, that had been a big part of it. He'd always enjoyed the holy trinity of food, alcohol, and sex. So no way was he going down without an ample helping of all three first. But all that downtime when Sam was pretending not to be researching ways to break Dean's deal? Dean had spent that time doing some research of his own. It's how he knew that no matter what Sam did, he wasn't going to be able to stop Dean from fulfilling his end of the bargain. Not without killing himself in the process. That had taken only about two weeks for Dean to figure out (Sam always had a penchant for over analyzing everything, so Dean hadn't been so worried when it took Sam much longer to reach the same conclusion.)

After that though, Dean had spent a large majority of his time reading up on all the lore regarding hell that he could find. Up to, and including, chatting up the occasional demon pre-exorcism regarding their thoughts on the matter. Most of the time, the information they would provide was stock and usual, or riddled with holes. But occasionally there were demons, like Casey, who were willing to talk to him. Give him an idea what was in store for him where he was going. When the hellhounds came to collect him, he'd gone quietly, thinking he had a fair idea what to expect.

He's not sure he could have been more wrong.

The fact of the matter is, despite what many people seem to think, Dean's not stupid. He plays up the cocky self-assured vibe as much as possible, and it works for him. Gotten more than a few free meals and the pretty waitresses serving them to go with, for his efforts. And people don't expect him to be able to figure things out as quickly as he does, which usually works to his advantage. Sam was never fooled though. He knew his brother had the wits to match his brawn. But he must think that Dean lost some of his sharper edges in hell. And really, who could blame him? There's no other explanation for why he wouldn't give Dean enough credit to see that Sam had changed as well.

One thing Dean learned in hell? Demons? Well, they're a rather chatty bunch. Bit bored too, especially when they're stuck doing time in hell (lot like mall security guards in that respect). And one of their favorite topics of conversation during torture sessions (which weren't so much sessions as never ending episodes) was their Boy-King. Their Anti-Christ. Samuel Winchester. Sam. Sammy. His little brother. At first the conversations were held in mocking tones, talking about how wrong Azazel had been. How he had misplaced his faith in the youngest Winchester. And look were it had gotten him. They'd laughed scornfully as they burned holes into Dean's flesh, or slowly peeled it from the bones, while Dean tried not to scream.

Then the tones started to change. The discussions becoming more clipped, and disturbingly, more fearful. (Dean has a hard time remembering exactly what was said, what with the being tortured and all, but he knows that it was Sam they were discussing.) But in the final few hours (years?) before Dean was released, the conversations took a sharper turn. And more and more, when the demons spoke of Dean's brother it was with reverence and awe.

~~~\/~~~

It's nearly impossible for anyone (both Ellen and Bobby have commented on it to Dean separately, though no accusations have been made out loud) to miss how when they are in a hunting slump, Sammy always manages to find some new demon in some random town in need of exorcising. It's nearly impossible to ignore the dark glint in Sam's eyes when they send those demons packing. And even harder to ignore the flash of recognition and betrayal the demons aim towards Sam before the chanting is done (though they never say a word). Or to ignore how Sam will disappear for days at a time, claiming that he wanted to give Dean his "space," or that he was off scoping out new hunts (nevermind the sulfur stains on his clothes, or the coldness surrounding his demeanor). It's all nearly impossible.

But in the last three years, Dean's made an art form out of doing the impossible. What choice has he had? Dean knows that whatever it was Sam did to get him out of hell, it would have been impossible for anyone else to accomplish. Dean knows what that means. Has a fair idea of what must have taken place. Of exactly what Sam might have agreed to do. But he tells himself that none of that matters. Because Dean? Dean loves his brother. And Dean was willing to sacrificing everything, everything, in order to save him. Even going so far as being sent to hell. But now that he's been there? Well, now Dean knows that he'll never be able to do that again. He can't. He wishes that wasn't the case, he really does. Wishes he was still so blindly brave. Would like to know that if it came down to Sam or him again, that he would be able to chose Sam without thinking twice. But he knows that that's no longer the case. He simply doesn't have it in him anymore. He doesn't. And that makes him feel more guilty than anything else.

In the last few months though, the hunting slumps haven't been so much of a problem. Demons and hunts have been turning up more frequently. It's gotten to the point that they barely need to drive through two or three towns before stopping and dispatching a few. With the influx of activity, Dean's made a point of calling Bobby as often as he can to keep up to speed with the rest of the hunter community, and he knows that things are starting to get bad out there.

"They're organizing, Dean. Any fool can see that. Got a call from Ricky last week..."

"That's Tamara's new partner, right?"

"Not anymore. They got cornered, by a pack of werewolves of all things. Last weekend. She didn't make it."

Dean snorts. "It wasn't a full-moon last weekend, Bobby."

"You think I don't know that, boy? Those things had no business being out, but they were. And they're as liable to rip each other's throats out as someone else's, so what the hell were they doing working together, huh, Dean? You answer me that."

Dean has no answer to that. He pries more details out of Bobby, about hunters that have gone missing, or turned up dead recently. Tries not to notice the pattern connecting his and Sam's hunts with the last known whereabouts of three different hunters. Ignores the sickly feeling working it's way up his spine. He makes his way back to the room, thinking that maybe it's time him and Sam have a talk after all, only to find it empty. "Sorry, Bobby, I gotta call you back." Dean tries to ignore the ringing in his ears after he hangs up. Tries not to worry, and wonder where Sam has been getting off to lately. He fails admirably.

He turns on the TV, and reports of several house fires, and riots in nearby towns filter across the haze in his brain. Yeah, Dean knows that it's getting bad out there. The only real question now is what is he going to do about it? Because, try as he might, Dean can't deny to himself any longer that what is going on out there is his fault.

His fault for failing to protect Sammy in the first place, when that was the only real job he'd ever had.

His fault for making that damned deal to bring Sam (or a close approximation there of) back.

His fault for allowing himself to be yanked out of hell. Although he isn't exactly certain he had a choice in the matter.

His fault for being so focused on his own internal torment these last few years, that he's barely given a thought to what Sam's been doing.

His fault for not dying in that hospital bed four years ago.

He'll be damned again before he adds "destruction of the world" to the list of things that are his fault.

It's hours before Sam arrives back at the room, with the sun just beginning to angle over the horizon. Dean is already long gone.

It takes Dean weeks to gather up everything he needs. Criss-crossing through the country, with Bobby practically on speaker phone the entire time, trying to help him gather the items, and the texts. Bela ends up procuring the last item that Dean needs, gives it to him for free, securing a promise not to fuck things up. Turns out even stone-cold mercenaries don't like the reality of the world going to hell in a hand-basket anymore than average folks.

He calls Sam every couple of days. Tells him that he needs some time. That things have been rough for him lately, and he needs a chance to cope with things on his own. The fact that it's not actually a lie makes the whole thing easier to sell. Sam, for his part, sounds almost relieved that Dean is off gallivanting across the country. Dean's stomach churns when he thinks of all the reasons why Sam would be happier not having Dean around.

~~~\/~~~

Dean visits with Bobby one last time before meeting up with Sam again. The dark circles under Bobby's eyes are mirrored on Dean, and the two of them spend the night with a bottle of whiskey, reminiscing about when life made sense.

"You know, I remember your father showin' up here, butt crack of dawn. Toting you two kids through my door and dropping you off like packages the week before Christmas one year. Swore to hell and highwater that he'd be back soon. Three days max. 'Easy hunt, Bobby. Just a banshee outside of Minneapolis. Piece of cake.' Damned liar. I tell you that bastard didn't show up until the week after New Year's. Brought you some matchbox cars, and a stuffed dog for Sam. Sam had been so upset that your father hadn't come back when he promised, but you would have thought that John had hung the moon the way Sam looked at him when he came back with that damned stuffed toy."

The whiskey is warm going down Dean's throat, and his limbs pleasantly heavy as he watches Bobby down the the rest of his drink. "I was ten. I wanted to be so angry at him for that, but how could I be when Sam wasn't? Had to be a good big brother, and if Sam forgave Dad, that meant I had to. Sam could never hold a grudge when we were kids."

"Yeah, well, he sure as hell has gotten better at it." Bobby grumbles as he refills Dean's and his glasses.

Dean sloshes the amber liquid around the tumbler, staring at it like it holds all the answers. "Yeah, I guess he has."

Long minutes stretch out between them before Bobby speaks again. "You know you don't have to do this, Dean."

"You have a better idea, Bobby? If so, please fill me in, I'm all ears. 'Cause from where I'm sitting? This looks like pretty much the only option left."

Bobby has no answer to that. And so they spend the rest of the night in companionable silence.

When Dean meets with Sam the following evening, it's not at all what he'd expected. He thought that Sam would see through the facade and argue with Dean about where he's been the last six weeks, or what he's been up to, but instead he pulls Dean into a hug. "I missed you man. Next time you go off on a walkabout, can you make it a bit shorter? Hunts are boring without you around." Dean can't help the grin that turns up the corners of his mouth in response to Sam's blinding smile. And he's struck, for not the first time, by how much he loves his brother. And how he wishes that Sam would always have a reason to smile like that.

"Sorry man, lost track of the days. You know how that goes." Sam's smile wavers a bit, but he agrees and the two of them spend the rest of the night pretending to talk about what they've been up to while they've been apart, when they both know that it's nothing but smoke and mirrors. Still the illusion is one they both want to savor, so they don't call each other out on it.

It's towards the end of the night when they are stuffed solid with burgers and fries, and Sam is flipping through the channels on the television, studiously avoiding stopping on any of the news networks, that Dean finally brings up what he's been waiting on the whole time. "Sammy?"

"Yeah, Dean."

"Would you have forgiven Dad?"

Sam's head nearly swivels off his neck with how quickly he turns his attention on Dean. "What?"

"When I was in the hospital, after you totaled my car?"

"I didn't total your car, Dean. A semi driven by a demon totaled your car."

"Same diff, dude. You were driving, ergo, you totaled my car."

"Dean? Did you just use the word 'ergo' in a sentence? Properly?"
"You're avoiding the question, Sam."

"I'm sorry, there was a question in there? I must of missed it what with the random and incorrect observations being thrown my way."

"Would you have forgiven Dad?"

"For what?"

"For letting me die?"

Sam's eyes narrow. "Dean..."

"Hear me out. You said that while I was unconscious that you contacted me with a Ouija board, right? Told me that I told you a reaper was after me?"

"Sounds about right."

"Well, when I woke up, you were pissed at Dad, right? You thought he'd been slacking off while you were saving my ass?"

"Yeah, where are you going with this?"

"Then he died. And later on we found out that he made the deal."

"With Azazel."

Dean couldn't help flinching a little at the sound of the name. Sam doesn't mention it. "Yeah, with him. Made the deal so that he would die and I would live."

"First in the long line of screwed up deals the Winchester family has made."

"Pretty much."

"Why are you bringing this up?"

"Would you have forgiven him, if I'd died, and Dad had lived, would you have forgiven him?"

Sam sighs heavily, running his fingers through his hair. "I don't know, Dean. What kind of question is that?"

"It's a hypothetical one, Sammy. Just answer it."

Sam's mouth gapes open like a fish. "I know that it's hypothetical. But what's the point? I mean Dad did a lot of shitty things to us, there were a lot of things that I could never forgive him for."

Dean watches Sam focus on some far off point in the room as he thinks over Dean's question. "People do a lot of shitty things Sam. Sometimes they think what they're doing is for the best, when in reality, they're making things so much worse. But they do it anyway because the alternative hurts too much, you know?" Dean hopes that Sam can hear what he isn't saying. And he isn't disappointed.

"Are we still talking about Dad, Dean?"

"I'm talking about Dad, Sammy. And you. And me. And hell, even Mom. We've all made mistakes, huge life-altering mistakes. But no one, us included, ever sets out with the intention of making the wrong choice. It just sorta happens, and everything snowballs from there. And you get to the point where you have to ask yourself how many more wrong choices can you make, before you start making the right ones."

Sam looks bone-weary as he looks at Dean, and Dean knows that he is finally making the right choice. "So, question stands, Sam. Would you have forgiven Dad if I died in that hospital?"

"Eventually, yeah, I think I would have. Just would have taken time, you know?"

"Yeah, I know." Dean pauses for a minute in thought, before swinging his legs over the side of the bed. "I'm gonna hit up the snack machine, you want?"

Sam's eyes soften as he regards his brother. "Nah. I'm good." Dean smiles wide at that.

"Yeah, Sammy. I think you are."

~~~\/~~~

Dean makes it out to the Impala, speeding along to his destination in record time; the ritual that he has set up needs to be performed at a crossroads of all places. The irony isn't lost on Dean. Thirty minutes after leaving his brother to get snacks, Dean arrives at the location, ignoring the vibrating phone in his pocket. He quickly sets up his materials, drawing two symbols on the ground at the center of the roads, one a large protective ring, the other the symbol needed for the ritual itself. He settles himself in the center of the smaller of the two, and double checks that he has everything.

Taking a deep breath, he drags the dagger across the palm of his right hand, before picking up the stone he acquired from Bela. He watches as the stone absorbs his blood, a faint glow beginning to emanate from it as he begins to chant. His eyes start to lose focus, as a fog seems to settle across him. Vaguely, he thinks he hears Sam calling his name, but it's drowned out by his own incessant chanting. The fog begins to clear, and down each of the four roads he sees a point in his own life begin to take shape. The research that Bobby and he had done hadn't been exactly clear as to what would happen, only that he needed to focus clearly on the turning points in his own life. Dean was certain that there was only one turning point that mattered though. So as long as he got that one, everything would be fine.

The road to the right shows him, at another crossroads, frozen in the moment before he seals the deal with a kiss. The one to his left shows Sam in greeting, a dark figure frozen in place behind him, with a knife aimed right at Sam's back. The road in front of him shows his mother as he last remembers her, saying goodnight to a four year old Dean. He hesitates at this one, doubting his conviction for a moment, thinking that maybe this is the option he should take. But then he thinks of the Djinn, and how all of those people he and his father and his brother had saved over the years had ended up dead. In the end it isn't so hard to turn his back on that possibility. The final path leads back to that hospital bed, as Dean knew that it would. As he takes the necessary step forward, Dean thinks that he hears a startled cry in the distance.

He doesn't come to in his body, like he thought he might. Instead he is standing in a room with a pretty brunette, who's telling him that it's his time to go.

"You're living on borrowed time already."

"Ain't that the truth. You know I think that this is officially the most surreal experience of my life. So what do I have to do, lady? Is this another one of those seal the deal with a kiss type of thing?"

The woman, who Dean has correctly deduced must be his reaper, stares at him in shock for a moment, before shaking it off. "No, Dean. You just have to let go."

"I can do that."

Turns out that the right thing is surprisingly easy to do.

~~~\/~~~

John stares at his youngest son, who is angrier than he's ever seen him before. "What do you mean, gone? He can't be gone, I just..."

"You just what, Dad! Were off summoning that damned demon while your son was dying! Was it worth it, Dad? Huh? Was getting your revenge worth it? Is he dead now? Along with Dean and this whole freak show you call a family? Is it over now?"

John falls onto the bed, in shock. Swallowing hard against the tightness in his throat. "No, Sam. It's not over, not by a longshot." His voice is steely, but the tears filling his eyes betray his emotions to his youngest son, and that more than anything is what keeps Sam in the room, settling on the bed by his father's side. When the subtle tears morph into all out sobs, John clenches to his younger son's frame, and the story that tumbles past John's lips begins when Dean was four, and ends at the moment Dean died.

Sam feels numb by the time his father has finished. He's just lost his brother, and found out that he's what the demon has been after all these years. The proverbial wool has been pulled from his eyes, and suddenly everything seems so much clearer to him.

"You said that he was coming to collect you?"

John nods. "Probably won't be now though. Must know that the deal was made too late." Sam can't argue that point, but the whole scenario gives him an idea.

"You summoned him once though, no reason you can't do it again."

A bitter smile graces John's face. "Let's finish this."

It takes them two months to get everything in motion, but by the time they call the bastard back, they're ready for him. Home field advantage can be a real plus sometimes. If Sam wasn't still reeling from Dean's death, he would have almost called the kill disappointing. As it was, he got more satisfaction out of it than he cares to admit.

~~~\/~~~

It's five years later, and Sam is driving the Impala while his father rides shotgun, briefing him on the hunt they are heading towards. Led Zeppelin playing on the radio. It's not perfect. They both miss Dean, but Sam can't be sorry that he has gotten to know his father the way that he has, and knowing that he would have lost that if the deal his father made had been honored, tempers the pain he feels at having lost Dean. It's not perfect, but it's enough. And looking at the smile on his father's face, Sam's not sure that he would have it any other way.

~End.