Back On My Feet

Summary: Sam was right. The crappy luck is kinda in the job description. But that doesn't mean everything goes wrong. And not everything sucks these days. / Amulet!fic! :D Set right after the end of 'Mannequin 3: The Reckoning', season 6 episode 14. Dean's POV.

Disclaimer: I don't own the show or the characters or the amulet or anything... BUT – I share a birthday with Eric Kripke AND the Impala. :D *sticks tongue out* So take that, suckas. Be jealous. :P

Sam is back, he's got a soul again, he doesn't remember all his time in Hell (and it better damn stay that way), and... well, isn't that enough? I've got my brother back to how he was – complete with the guilt-trips and blaming himself for all the crap that Robo-Sam had done (which wasn't his fault), but that's just Sammy. I can deal with that.

And, yeah, okay – life would be a bit peachier if this job hadn't been so screwed to hell, and if that 'Mother of All' bitch would just go screw herself, and if all these fuglies would get the memo and stop popping up everywhere, and if... You get the drift. And I'm not even being a pessimist here, believe me – it sucks that bad. 'Cause that's just the way our luck goes – if shit happens, it happens with a colossal blast, or it doesn't happen at all. And the latter's rare enough.

But Sam was right. The crappy luck is kinda in the job description. But that doesn't mean everything goes wrong.

And not everything sucks these days.

Getting Sam's soul back was the biggest perk yet. And probably the biggest one in a while, with the way things are going – but it's fine. I can deal with that, 'cause having my little brother around after a year and a half of him not being here (I don't care what he says, that Robocop version of Sam was not him) is... well, pretty damn awesome.

And I wasn't even counting on—well, you can see for yourself...

-x-

"For what it's worth, I've got your back."

"I know."

And I do, but hearing it from Sam's mouth with those earnest wide eyes that I haven't seen in too long makes it better. It's worth a lot, knowing that, 'cause for the last half year, I've been around a Sam who I couldn't get myself to trust even if I wanted to – and I did, because having a soulless brother was better than having no brother at all, no matter how much he didn't act like Sammy - or even just Sam – and having that knowledge that the one person I trust with everything and know more than anyone is back again is worth a lot more than I can say. And I won't say it anyway, even if I could, 'cause that would lead to a whole chick-flick moment that I so don't need.

Anyway, I'd fixed what I could in the Impala – which was just about everything, 'cause I take care of my baby almost as much as I take care of my brother, and I know them both inside out and enough to know how to fix them when something's broken. Sam's soul was gone, so I got it back. The 'pala had been hijacked by some spirit, so I fixed her. Just doing my job here.

So I shut the engine lid and take a swig of my beer, watching as Sam does the same. He seems to be lost in thought, eyes still fixed on the glinting metal of the car, eyebrows furrowed and a corner of his lips turned down in the way that meant he'd done something and regretted it. I nudge him lightly.

"Hey, man, you don't get to give me some inspiring speech then go all broody and emo."

Sam startles out of his thoughts and looks up at me for a second – enough for me to catch a glimpse of the sorrowful conflict going on in that freakish head of his – before turning away with a shrug. "It's nothing, Dean, I was just..." but he trails off and before I can ask him what the hell is wrong, marches off.

I stare at him with what I'm positive is a comically bewildered expression – not that anyone was there to see it. Then it changes to puzzled curiosity because Sam isn't marching away, he's going to the trunk. I follow him a couple of steps, then stop, and cross my arms lightly on the hood of the car, watching him. Sam pulls out his duffel and rummages inside.

He looks panicked when he can't find what he's looking for and I don't know whether I should be panicking with him or – I don't know what, but his expression is almost exactly like the look he had on his face when he was five and he'd realised he had forgotten his favourite teddy bear behind at some motel. (Took me a while to calm him down, then, too. I'd never liked that teddy... it was creepy and had beady black eyes and Sammy had insisted on cuddling it every night so he could sleep. Do you know how off-putting it is to be rejected by your baby brother for a stuffed animal?)**

So I throw out a casual, "What's wrong?"

Sam doesn't look up as he digs deeper, more harried now, and mutters his reply with barely-concealed horror. "Can't find it... no way I threw it away, it was right here... god, no-" And then he holds his bag upside down and tips everything out into the trunk. I stare, speechless. What exactly has Sam lost that's got him this panicked? It's not like either of us has anything really personal these days – Dad's journal, a few pictures, maybe a couple of old presents from before, but nothing I can think of that would get this big of a reaction from Sam.

I try to think of anything I have that would make me panicked if I'd lost it, but – well, there isn't much. (Not including the Impala, 'cause losing her really isn't something likely to happen.) Not anymore, anyway, not these days. Maybe before-

Stop it.

Not going back there, not to those memories, not to that moment when I-

I clench the bottle in my hand so tight I'm surprised there aren't cracks in the glass, and when I raise it to my lips this time, I don't take a sip, I down half the bottle in one. And then I wish it's something stronger, 'cause thinking about- about that isn't fun, and the feelings of regret and hurt and remorse that the memory wells up are not things I want to deal with right now.

It's really, truly ironic, though – or maybe just cruel fate – about what happens next.

When I look up, I notice Sam holding something in his fist – he's obviously found what he was searching for – and looking at me through bangs that had fallen over his forehead while he'd been busy throwing out the things in his bag. And the look on his face is – I don't know what it is. It's hesitant, and slightly afraid, and tentative – but there's a glimmer of hope too.

What the hell...

So I push off the Impala and take a few more steps closer, glancing at the mess his clothes and stuff are in inside the trunk, before focusing my attention back on my brother. "What is it, Sammy?"

He takes a breath and drops his gaze back to his hand, still shut. He holds it up for me, still not meeting my gaze, and mumbles so quietly I almost don't catch all the words, "Wanted to give it back before..." before Stull Cemetery, were the unspoken words – "but... I didn't... we weren't..." His voice is shaking just a little and I'm pretty certain that if the beating in my chest is any faster or harder, blood would come gushing out. My eyes are transfixed on his fist but I'm hearing his words – the ones spoken out loud and not – and everything else besides that is a blur, my mind's going blank because I refuse to even think about what I think this is, but-

Sam reaches for my hand with his other one, lifts it palm-up under his fist and slowly – really, really, slowly, or maybe my brain's stopped processing things normally, because I'm not breathing now and it's like watching this from someone else's eyes in slow-motion, waiting for the moment you know is coming but don't dare to hope for and-

He opens his fist. My fingers automatically curl up around the small, cold, metallic object and I don't even need to see it because I know what this is, I know what it feels like – have known since I was ten – and I need to remember how to breathe right now 'cause I'm about ready to stagger to my knees from the overwhelming emotion-

The amulet. My amulet. My amulet, that Sammy gave to me that Christmas instead of Dad. The amulet I wore every day since then, even when Sam left for Stanford. The amulet that was a reminder of the little brother who never gave up on me.

The amulet I had dropped into the trash bin right in front of Sammy to get back at him for Zachariah's sick mind games.

The amulet I had carefully put all thoughts of in a box way at the back of my head and locked it and didn't go near it. Yet, I still couldn't stop myself from thinking about it.

The amulet I'd thought I'd never see again.

But I am. I'm seeing it. It's right here in my hand, solid and real and-

This better not be a dream.

I pinch my arm. And feel it sting. And don't wake up. So it's-

"Not a dream," Sam said softly, still not meeting my eyes.

I tear my gaze away from my amulet (and, yeah, it's mine again now, and this time I won't throw it away, whatever happens) and stare at him. Throat's dry, so I clear it and try to ask 'How?'

My mouth doesn't seem to co-operate though, and what comes out is "Why now?"

And the little amount of hope in Sam's eyes disappears in a flash. The shutters are up, and dammit, he's drawing away.

Awesome job there, Dean. Just finish it off and ask him how much he hates you for chucking it in the first place, why don't you?

I fight off the scowl so that Sam doesn't think I'm mad at him now and I really have to say something to fix that because – he just gave me my amulet back and I ask him 'why now'? Knowing Sam, he heard it as "Why didn't I get it back before?"and god dammit all, that was not what I meant.

"Crap- Sam, I didn't mean that, I just-"

"I know, Dean," he cuts me off lowly, staring at the ground and carefully not at me. "Why didn't I just give it back to you ages ago? Why did I have it with me and not say anything?"

"No!" My vehement rebuff makes him look up in surprise and he looks almost startled when he sees my face. I don't know what he sees, but if it shows the turmoil of guilt and self-blame and horror that he would think that, and the million other things going on in my head, then I understand his reaction. "Sam, that's not what I meant! Hell, if you kept it and never gave it back, I'd understand that. I'm the one who threw it away, Sam, I'm the one who let those dickheads' tricks get to me and do that – I'm not blaming you for anything and I'll be damned if I let you blame yourself." I'm not shouting, but it feels like I am, and all the anger in my voice is aimed at myself, not at Sam.

Sammy, who's rocking the eyes now, looks like he's about to proclaim what an awesome brother I am and the doubt and hesitancy's all gone from his eyes, and damn it, what I did to deserve the awe that's been in the kids eyes every time he looked at me since he was in diapers is beyond me.

And just in case the idiot didn't get it, I add, "We clear on that?"

He nods once with a grin and a "Yes, sir." I grin back and then he sobers up, eyes trailing down to rest on the amulet still cradled in my hand.

I look down at it, too, then cautiously lift it up and, with a quick look at Sammy, put it on. And stare at it in wonder. The feeling of that years-familiar metal resting on my chest again is like I've had a mouthful of the strongest alcohol out there. I look back up at my little brother, who smiles tentatively. "Thanks, Sammy," I say sincerely. It's not just for the amulet, but I don't have to elaborate. He knows what I mean.

"Least I could do," he says with half a smile; and it's not the least he could do, 'cause returning my amulet says so freaking much I don't know where to start, I trust you and I love you and You deserve it back and about a hundred more.

And I can't say all that without turning into a girl so I grip his arm and pull him in instead, arms going around, grasping my younger brother's back instead in a man-hug that's definitely not girly or a chick-flick-induced moment. Sammy wavers for about half a second before reaching up to clutch the back of my jacket tight, and I can feel the little horned guy on my amulet digging into my chest between us. I don't have to say anything else, though. The gesture says it all, and then some.

Maybe things could be better, but I have my brother, and I have my amulet. And that's enough for me, for now.

** Reference to dodo.123's super totally adorable awesomesauce weechesters fic called "Big Bro Knows Best". If you haven't read it, then you should so totally do that now. And if you have, then reread it. It's that epic. :P

A/N: Okay, so, I so totally blame this one on reruns of the first three seasons, cuz that amulet was taunting me every single time I looked at Deano. And I miss it. A lot. So I wrote this. And it's not perfect, but if I didn't write something about the amulet I woulda gone mad. And I shall now pretend happily that Dean does, in fact, have the amulet back, he just keeps it somewhere safe, like in his bag or his pocket, 'cause... well, for some reason. And also 'cause Jensen said in an interview that it got in the way a lot, especially when he was doing some stunt, because sometimes he forgot to wear the light plastic one or something and he'd get bruised from it or chip his teeth off it. *wince* yeah, ouch. Still. Wasn't a reason to get rid of it. *huffs*

Ooh, wait, I also blame Jedi Sapphire, who has the awesomest bromance fics EVER. And like almost all of them have something to do with the amulet, and I read them and I was all "Dammit, that's it, I'm writing an amulet!fic." So I did. And here it is.

Special thanks to dodo.123 for beta'ing this and fixing up mah errors in American lingo ('boot' = 'trunk'. got it. :P). I haven't actually sent you any one-shots to beta in a while, dude, so yeah, thanks. :D

Review, dudes. And while you're at it, sign our petition to BRING BACK THE IMPALA.

Peace out~

iz.