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"One, two, three. One, two, three," Sam mutters, hunched down and practically duck-walking around the map room. He would have rock-paper-scissored Dean for the Lead, if Dean hadn't been very clear on who would infiltrate the vampire deb ball.
"Stop testing the damn mike," Dean says, because Dean. "It's not even on yet."
"If you'd just let me show you -"
"In your dreams." Dean's pointy toe trips; keels him forward, clutching his six-foot cavalière's flannels before he can stumble to a fall. "Son of a bitch! You're supposed to step back!"
"Left foot change, Rhett Butler."
"When did you even learn to waltz?" Dean gripes, wiping his brow with his white silk scarf. The tux came courtesy of Ketch, who at some (least said soonest mended) point had made a point of knowing not only how many ratty duds Dean owned, but his complete set of measures, crotch included.
Silence answers, but Sam's hand turns rigid on his shoulder.
"...Sammy?"
"Long ago," says Sam, quiet, above and past Dean's questing gaze. "Still a customary first dance... at a..."
Dean lets the voice peter out, but stresses his embrace of Sam's waist.
"One, two, three," he says, and the words glow meaningful, a blazon of their lives ever since he took that first step towards Stanford.
"One, two, three," Sam whispers, and lets Dean swing him impeccably round the room.
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"So," Dean said, the Oktoberfest a mote in Baby's windshield. Somehow, he'd talked Jamie into topping their best thermos with her beer, and was compounding his felony by slurping, smirking and smearing foam over his upper lip, all in one fell swoop. "Here's to numero uno.""Come again?"Dean half turned to him and amped his smile. "Scars, man. Remember what I said about my new smooth hide? Old news, Sammy my boy. Jamie there ran her nails all the way down my spine while she kissed me. Mmmm, Beauty and the Beast, two for one, lucky me. I'm gonna treasure that -""Huh," Sam said. Forcefully. "Spare me the visual, okay? And keep your eyes to the road -" for Dean was twisting his neck and shoulders away from his seat, seemingly intent on procuring ocular evidence for his co-pilot. "You got beer and a love scratch to go, hurrah. Next pit stop, let's make sure you get your hair pulled along with that extra side of fries." "Whoa, whoa. When did we get all monogamous?" Sam did not answer, and Dean, puzzled at the lack of response to his four-syllable feat, pushed his new smooth luck."If you don't like me being plurigamous, fine. It was nothing, Sam. Just a goodbye kiss.""Not the kiss," Sam said through hard teeth. Dean did some quick reckoning."The... the numero uno?""Look," Sam said with an outburst of Sam-fervour, and, god, Dean had missed it. Had missed the way Sam's voice delivered each plosive and fricative with an extra side of emphasis when upset. "I know there's not a chance in... I know you'll get knocked about, again, hard. Ours is a bruising job, yeah. But - I'm the one who cleaned up your gashes, Dean, and they... they kept giving, even after you... because, yeah, Hell likes its bloodplay up and coming. Who knew?""Sammy...""I tried salt and holy water. When it failed, I tried my tears. Nothing like home remedies, right?""Sam. Jesus God, Sam, shut up.""So don't expect me to gape at your next crop reverently, Dean. Because, if it was up to me -'Dean slammed the brakes home. Which proved good enough to silence Sam, while Dean swerved Baby to the side and, one-armedly, groped for his plosive boy. He had one foot down and one hand gripping the wheel when he brought their mouths together, hard, looking to bruise. The kiss burst into pain, but then Sam unlocked his mouth and the pain melted into warmth - bitter, like the ghost of ale on Dean's tongue, but bittersoft, and, when Sam's hand spanned across their cheeks, sheer soft. (God, but he'd missed that, too.)"...Hey," he said at last, mostly to let Sam's breath catch up with his tingling lips. "Wanna hear something smooth?"Sam shook a mute head, and Dean laughed, a gentle puff of air."I packed those lederhosen just for you, Sammy."
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"It would help," Castiel says obstinately, "if you could talk with Sam.""Nope." Dean glowers; takes the four mini-burgers off the stray and shoves them straight into his mouth. They're the size of macarons, because Dean has been on a baker's dozen high all morning, reviewing sauce and cheese varieties. So far they've tried pepperoni pizza burger, blue cheese and sauce verde, barbecued cheddar, garlic and pepper, caramelized onions and Brie, and Dean's favorite "cowboy" iteration, bacon and Monterey Jack both over and under the meat. To no avail.It's a good thing Castiel is here temper the heat. Well, the oven's heat."Your brother is adamant that it is not his fault.""He is the one who dealt with Rowena, not I. Damnit!" Dean pushes the tray away. "Why does the beef keep tasting like beet?""It doesn't sound that diff -" Castiel tilts his head in time to avoid the spoon. "I'm sure that Sam only had your best interests at heart. The White Grimoire is an honorable book, Dean. Its rhymes were devised aeons ago to help mankind - and if anyone deserves a long life...""A long and healthy life," Dean grits out, before he desperate-measures a nearby cannoli into his mouth, then spits it out. "Mother -!"Cas, long versed in white magic, hazards a guess. "Brocoli?""I swear, I'mma kill him." "Again, not his doing. Technically." Cas waits out a beat. "And he did bring you pie. It appears that the pie gets a pass.""But not the beer.""Pear juice is filled with vitamin K." Another looming, ominous beat. "... Or I could change the molecules back for you.""Yeah." Dean exhales heavily. "Yeah, you... do that little thing, and Sammy lives to see another healthy day."
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Side to side they lie, the little black book lying open between them. Billy's omen, more cruel than the grave.Dean thinks he can hear Sam's heart even with the distance between them. It beats like an ember, no less fiery than Michael's thumps, its anger equally harsh for being on Dean's behalf. If Dean listened to himself, he would bend his head and tuck the gesture against Sam's chest.Instead, he listens to Sam."Or we could -""And gank this world. Plus ça change, man.""Chuck -''Signed it away to us, for a millenium mini-break with his sister."Sam's large hand falls on the open book, becomes a fist that bunches up the last page, as if Sam's grip could squeeze the ink out of it. "Just for once," he says. "Just so you know. I wish I knew how to choose wrong again."He is crying, and Dean just can't keep away. The tears are salt, iron and Sam, Dean's three blessings in his line of trade, and ain't that a bitch. But he takes them into his mouth; takes his mouth to Sam's cheek, running with grief, and swallows the corrosive pain. It's like Sam's powers are back and Dean gets a share in the vision: hot-white, an entire planet roaring up as it ends. It's both beyond scary and yet oddly abstract, a pixellated map of destruction, cross-fading into enough ash for Michael to leave his thumbprint in for Chuck to find. "But you and I in Heaven," Sam murmurs, "in that field again, launching our fireworks." The words are a trailed kiss, raw as salt. "Or maybe Hell. My throne, my treat.""Sweetheart," says Dean, the name he once used for his girls, then his car, until he ran out of surrogates. "You should know by now," Sam whispers, not dark, just despairing. "You're worth the entire world, Dean.""I'm worth a size A fire dumpster?" Dean asks, and when Sam's mouth stills, kisses it back. "Yeah, didn't think so."They're body to body now, the book dangling over the edge of the bed, half-forgotten. "I'm not choosing," Sam repeats, and Dean keeps silent. Let the choice wait upon morning; for now, let him turn his head towards Sam's beat, Sam's heart, Sam's primal rhythm - strong enough to give the world and Dean Winchester a night's sanctuary.
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"Well, we tried," Sam says, and to his wonder hears Dean's chuckle, Dean's breath, still pumped faithfully from lungs to mouth and nostrils, tickling his ear."Ain't nobody can deny that. Hey. Remember what Dad used to say? Success is never final....""Failure's never fatal." Sam tautens the circle of his arms, keeps his eyes to the starry sky. It was nice of Chuck to give them a night of advanced notice. No pain, He'd promised. No angst. Just, Amara and He had finally agreed it was time to close this chapter and turn a new, Heavenly page together. "You made sure it wasn't."Dean doesn't answer at once, but the breath at Sam's ear thickens. Then..."What now?""You're asking me?" Sam says, half jocular, and when Dean grunts "You're the faith nerd, you tell me", ponders a bit."No idea. But I can give you Saint Louis de Gonzague's answer.""Bring it on, Gonzo.""So get this. Louis was eleven or twelve, I think, top of his class, loved to play soccer -""Only ate his pancakes with carrots shredded in them.""Shut up, I was eight. And one day, while he and his pals were at half-time, the cleric who coached them...""The cloach?""If you like. The cloach asked, what would you do if I told you the world will be ending in ten minutes, tops.""Dude. My lifetime's prayer quota is vastly overd -.""And Louis said, I'd kick that ball in the ass.""...""Damn right, too.""Damn right.""Want another beer?""Looking at you, kid."
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"SAMUEL!" John Winchester's bellow shook the rusty, rickety motel's foundation. "Where do you think you're going?"Sam met him eye to steadfast eye."Told you, dad. To Slash Law School. Full ride, Stan/Ford Pines scholarship - I'm taking Brothercest as my major." He smiled tightly. "Still in the family business, sir. To the boner.""You're a disgrace to -""Sure." Sam gave a Kansan Gallic shrug and reached for his duffel. He then turned to the third party, still blocking the doorway. "Dean. Wanna hear my take on the Plant v. Page divorce case?"Dean's eyes were a little tearful. "Don't want them to divorce, Sammy.""They won't,' Sam said generously. "Not under the new RPF amendment, pending on the Fictional Justice Reform bill.""Son, you walk out that door, I swear to God -"But Dean had taken a sidestep and was busy hoisting Sam's backpack on his own shoulder. "I'll drive you," he offered. "You sure about that bill?""Positive - and it comes with a restricting order on Decaf Shop AUs.""Awesome!" Dean beamed. "So, have you chosen a major yet?""Oh yeah. No objection there." Sam waved to an uncharacteristically silent John and slipped his arm under Dean's. "Let's get going, and I'll tell you all about it in the car."
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11 p.m. in the Fortress of Jerkitude. O silent night? You wish.Like, you might think him being the big boss dude re: the night’s leisure would be enough, but no. Licorice buffet? Rings in bitch o’clock. Crumbs on his recliner? Sin supremo. Eurovision on tv? Send in the hunters!"You quite done here, Moe?"One killer peep, right under his frown lines. God, but you love those lines. Could write odes to them. Bright new Ph.D., if required. Let him hit forty unsoothed but uninjured, you’ll be worshipping his lion’s wrinkle, to your mouth’s delight.Right now, though, your tongue is unwished for. Not when he’s stuffing his mouth full while singing "Rey, ouch, hey, hm" with conviction.(Oh well. Why bother with precision, off the field?)(Why bother with tune, if he’s still got the voice?)(The lungs, the vim, the life?)" …hey, hm… hm… hrmmm? Huh? Popcorn up my nose?""…Shut up, sing on."
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Sam hadn't been wrong about the supercalifragilisticexpialidocious tech at St. Alonso's Academy.It came with two cams, set high enough to record the musical and escape the mauve goo shower. Parts of the recording ended up on Youtube (by kind permission of Carver Edlund), others on Maeve's blog when majoring in theatre tech. The blog was visited by various habitués of the Winchesters' playground dates, though Lucifer gave it a pass. At least, that's what he told Chuck on their reunion meeting - adding that his father's Word was bad enough without the extra razzle-dazzle. Gabriel and Rowena were less picky. They managed to string the entire show together during the former's convalescence, and could be heard singing "A Single Man Tear", the Act 1 money shot, again, and again, and again, and once more with feeling, until Dean threatened to tear them a single new one.Michael's opinion remains unknown, though Youtube user EditYourDraftsDamnit did leave a searing review.As for Sam and Dean, they remained blissfully ignorant of the whole caboodle for three years. That is, until Sam Googled "man without sin" during his most-holy-wild-goose-chase, and..."Clowns or brunettes?" Dean asked (because Dean) from the doorway. Then - "Huh. Nice to know I'm taller than you in the public eye."It was almost criminal, how easy Dean made it for him. "Yeah," Sam agreed. "And the public ear obviously thinks you're a soprano.""Oh yeah," Dean said, blithely missing the point. He'd dragged a chair next to Sam's while his screen counterpart was trilling her tale of woe. "That Tony was ace. He had a horse named Pie-O-My!"Sam refrained from further comment, catching up instead with the part he'd missed."Did you just... friendzone Cas?""Other Me did." Dean frowned. "Odd. From what I recall, she and Other Cas had a thing. Another thing?""You're wasted on logic, man."They watched, as "A Single Man Tear" carried on bravely, if a little waywardly. Sam expected Dean to up and leave the room at this point, but Dean's eyes were glued to the screen. Sam kept his voice gentle."Other Me... is carrying quite the torch for you.""It's the subtext." Dean uncrossed his legs; crossed them again, counter-clock-wise. He cleared his throat. "It's complicated.""It is," Sam said, as the Youtube excerpt came to a halt, and the countdown to the next snippet began. He sat very still. So did Dean. The curtain began to part on each side of the Impala. "Or is it?"His brother leant forward to turn off the volume."That part I know," he said, and wriggled with wanna-be nonchalance until their hips were touching. "It starts with Just the two of us.""Theatre kid," Sam reminded him while they waited for their stand-ins to mouth their lines. "I won't need a cue, Dean."
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Sam’s eyes give up on him the moment he’s seated next to Dean.Dean’s dream of two nights ago might have been a doozy, but Sam saw the blood and the lacerated wall too, and his next night was a wake, a pre-posthumous replay of Dean’s fate in Sam’s mind, more vicious than any IT remake. The scare is now exorcized, partly, but the grief remains; the tears (never a relief) still chafing his cheeks even as his breaths lengthen and he vaguely hears Dean browsing the radio channels until Johnny Cash is humming them along.When he wakes up, Baby’s windows are filled with light, as clear as any watercolor, and Cas is gone.“Hey,” Sam mumbles - then, stupidly, “Is it day? How long did you -”The resonant crush of wave to sand answers him, jolting his senses alert. They’re parked on a little country lane looking over a beach, still deserted, still pristine under the white-gold light.“...We’re still in Delaware,” Sam says, officially hitting the clear-minded mark.“Huh, yeah. Thought of a new end to this trip.” Dean sounds... self-conscious, like whenever he feels he owes Sam one. But strong, too, like whenever Dean looks his heart and his gut in the face, an anatomic feat he's got better at with the years.“See, Billie’s happy end. There’s something about it really ticks me off.”“You don’t say.”“No, not the dying part. Or the life sentence with Michael. That’s plain scary” - and Dean speaks the word so simply that Sam unbuckles himself and leans sideways, thirsty for any warm touch, take or give. Dean lets him, either not caring that they’re busting the Winchester hug quota for the year, or grateful that Sam is smooshing his good profile. “Just... I always wanted to take you to the sea.”And Sam remembers now. The memory is pungent, poignant - making him nod his yes into Dean’s cheek.“The Pacific, too. Nicer. Warmer. You in a plaid muumuu.”“Actually, the Atlantic is warmer,” Sam says, and watches Dean’s ear prick at the news. “Though maybe not at crack of dawn.”Ten minutes later they’re both barefoot and splashing, while the sunlight nets the little waves around their toes and the scent is of salt and morning. The crash of the waves is everywhere, and Sam inspects Dean’s face anxiously but Dean only shakes his no. The bruise on his jaw has turned a steady purple.“Kiss it,” Dean says, and when Sam wavers, repeats it, tar-voiced. “Remember that gash? On your hand? Remember what I told you when that bastard was busting your hinges?""Dean...""Make this my stone, Sammy.”Sam puts his lips to the bruise and presses once, hard, twice, loose, trails them across Dean's jaw.“I’ll remember,” Dean mumbles. They’re standing in the sea, sort of, and Sam thinks of past miracles and a god treading the stormy waters of Galilee, but that’s neither here nor there. Here, pain is hope; sin and salvation hold their hands out to each other.“Good,” he says, and takes his brother’s hand, still bandaged, in his own. “Now, about those Atlantic perks. You up to a crab breakfast?”
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"Forgive me, Father, for I am - nnnnngh - sinning!" They're locked in a confessional that's well below the minimum size required to host Sam in a cassock, to say nothing of his sacrilegious plus-one. Who has no business being there. But currently suffers from self-diagnosed PMSD (Post-Ma'lak Screwed-up Dean), for which the only lore-approved cure - says Dean - is a bracing, life-affirming quickie in another dark and narrow box. Conveniently enough, he remembered the cure the moment they located the confessional where the preta - the Indian demon with an insatiable hunger for sin narratives - has sucked four priests dry so far."Nnngh," Sam echoes, gasping for air. Good thing this box comes with a latticed opening.There's a muffled thud, meaning that Dean has either fainted or dropped to his knees to the floor. Sam tries a sweaty prayer. Dear Chuck, if you could kindly not smite us. Dear Chuck, he's been through so much, and it's not like we have the Milky Way at hand unlike you and Amara. Dear Chuck - Sam leaps to his feet, banging his head to the low roof."What the heck are you -"(He is never returning that cassock again.)"Man, preta," comes Dean's muffled -but-earnest voice. "Just lettin' her know somebody else is on the job.""Nnnnnnngh!"This is not Sam, who dabbles in five languages if you count ASL and is the articulate brother, even at climax peak. It's the preta, and Sam pulls the cassock down and over Dean's head even as he pulls the lattice open with his other hand. There's a horrible face behind it, both outraged and sort of licking its lips, and Sam only says "Bon appétit" before he flings the blend of salt, incense and copper dust into the face. The preta's roar is cut short by the insta-exorcism. Not so Dean's raucous coughing."She... gone?" he wheezes at last, his head popping out of the black folds."She gone. You quite cured here, Houdini?"Dean struggles up to his feet, wipes his mouth. "... Sort of. Michael, he... he's stopped banging.""Huh." Sam stores the info into a corner of his pentagram brain. Who knew? Maybe this is all they need to keep Michael well and truly contained. Out-banging his vessel. Offence is the best fence."... Intriguing. You might need another dose, though." "Oh." And now Dean's eyes are level with his, two shiny lords of misrule. "Hey, Baby totally counts as a dark and self-locked place, right?""Lead on," Sam says with a flourish, and thinks he can hear the softest, breeziest chuckle in the quieted church.
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Clean and dry. Another tag-team chore for them - the earliest in Dad's long career as a serial driller, and the only one Sam can think he never resented.There was something about the warm water, or the suds, that might have been a callback to happy bath times. (Dad hadn't been the type to invest in a ducky, but Dean could voice one to perfection, just as Dean could whip the flattest, droopiest bar of motel soap into a bubble craze.) Or maybe it was the cleansing. Water, not holy but lustral, letting each immersed plate rise and shine, each glass's round cheek catch the bunker's vintage lights. Whatever. They've done it hundreds of times, and Sam still loves it. A sliver of normal. The mundane side of heal. Until heal once again crashes into real, and Sam puts down the spoon he's been wiping. Something in his chest is giving, is overspilling. As if the gash in his heart, still tender from Dean's latest hit - planning to leave for an eternity of life in death - has been revived. Sam had cried then, and will cry again; he's long past giving a damn as to what that makes him, a thirty-six year old veteran. Crying means letting the salt water out of the gash rather than keeping it inside, a terrifying parallel to the ocean swell in Dean's nightmares. (Dean still has them. Sam invaded his room on their first night home, a vigil for Dean's rattling breath, so he could haul the sleeper to a vertical recovery position in his arms.) He's put every effort in being there for Dean, but right now, with the warmth of reunion, with Dad's rough-spoken laughter in his ears and Mom's clearer joy, like a vein of freshwater in a strong sea-tide, all to be gone in the next hour... he's alone. Dean says "I'm good with who you are", but Sam only feels the emptiness stretching out before and behind and between them.And then he is enveloped - well, his hand is - in warm presence. "What we are," Dean says, slowly. "What we're gonna be. I'm good with that."It's the most dedicated he's been yet to his future self, and Sam looks down at their twined - it's conjoined twins! - hands."Hey," Dean says. "Anybody told me, ten years ago, we'd be having this, and Mom, and even Dad at one point, I'd have kissed his psychic ass. But we did. So, who knows. Who knows how things will be, Sammy, ten years ahead. Hell - I mean, Heaven, Chuck still owes us big. But right now I have you. I got you, my Sam, my man, and I'm letting no Bejezus pearl gank our time together.""It's a Be -""Which it couldn't, anyway, because... fuck. You really gonna make me say it?"Slowly, Sam's lips curl up, a lopsided take on his rare grin."Nah. C'm'on, let's go say good-bye." They catch up Cas, who looks mournful and offers a hug, which Mary, to their surprise, takes. It's obvious that she, too, is in need of a little Heaven talk, so Sam and Dean yield over the ground floor and climb the stairs to Dean's room.The foam mattress is happy to remember Sam and mould itself to his long form, once he lies down. Dean steps out of the bathroom, his mouth freshly rinsed, wavering."So," he says. "Didn't have any time to tell you, but... before he left, Dad and I had a talk.""Oh," Sam says, dully. It's been a hard day's night, and he's not sure he can muster any more tears or smiles on demand."Yeah," Dean says. "He, huh, he felt he'd done me wrong, letting ol'Yellow Eyes colour so much of our lives. Thought he should have let me off his quest, let me to grow one of my own. Make a family, like he and Mom."Sam's saliva turns bittersweet at the back of his mouth. "Yeah," he manages."So I told him, been there," Dean says, slipping under the covers. "Done that."Sam's mouth opens a little, but no sound goes out."Don't think he got my drift," Dean says, more amused than he has any call to be. "Only you would. But - I'm a man of my word, Sam."Sometimes, only is the opposite of alone. Sam waits until Dean's arm is lying across his chest, slack and warm, to cover his brother's hand."Yeah," he says, bending his head so Dean can tuck his against his cheek. The foam cradles them, two shapes at one, like a benevolent surge. "Yeah, I get it. And I got you too."
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Contrary to the rumours that will be vastly exaggerated - on Angel Radio, in the Secret Lebanon Monster Fight Club 'zine, among psychics, djinns and crocrottas, in the exclusive Gentlemen of Letters' Who is Who - the manticore is Sam's gift to Dean."I..." and there he is, speechless now Sam has stopped babbling about the manticore being a three-tier metaphor for Dean's courage (lion), humanity (face) and zinger expertise (porcupine quills on the creature's rump). "I love it, Sammy."Because this is Sam, who declared his love at eight with a horned creature thingy. Sam, who at thirty-six has trained one of the deadliest monsters on the face of Earth to carry Dean's dead-man slippers in its mouth. It’s as close to "Come live with me and be my love" as Sam will dare, and Dean feels his eyes fogging up at the thought.(That they already live together - have done so for more than a decade, give or take a hundred years- is a moot point. Dean isn’t the type to look a gift metaphor in the mouth, not when it has a triple row of teeth.)Having retrieved his slippers from the manticore ("Good bo... beast"), Dean reaches behind him."Great minds alike, Sammy. Um. I had Cas fix this for you."Two pairs of eyes light up - one with unapologetic "CHEWTIME!" glee - when Dean hands over the yellow teddy bear. Its mouth is no longer stitched, and the ring in its back has been gilded to a lovely shine. Sam slips a finger into the ring and looks up, three parts hope, one part caution."Oh yeah, you can pull it," Dean says, holding the manticore back for dear life. "Once,” he adds quickly. “Twice is when it swells to a ten-foot size and, um, I'm not really sure what happens next."Sam give the string a good firm tug. The gift opens its mouth and squeaks out "Bear with me till death do us part?""Let it try," Sam says, then hugs the bear to his king-size chest, nodding his yes over the yellow ears. He can feel Dean's own joy ripple out to him, as fierce as the manticore's growl - until the latter amps it up, a loud memo about breakfast."Okay then," said Dean, and turns on his slippered heel, followed by a clatter of lion claws on their terrazzo floor. At the door he stops; looks fondly back to where Sam stands, the bear flopped over his shoulder in perfect burping position; and adds, "Make it to our silver wedding, in true hunter fashion, you're getting Bigfoot."“You’re getting a Mogwai,” Sam says, and ain’t that the best coda to the first day of the rest of their restless lives.
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1) 1989:
“Kiddo, what the heck?”“Badda Badda.”“What? No, you’re supposed to starve a fever. Dean!”“Badda Badda! ”“He doesn’t want a banana, dad. He wants school - his class is putting on that kids' show, remember? Dopey, I know, but Sammy’s the crazy Muppet with a beard, and... ummm... got it, sir.”“Lebbe go! Dean, leggo, I hafto be Addibal!”“Shhh. Tell you what, shorty. You go be Addibal in Bed, and I’ll be the, er, other two.”“De pink ladies?”“The chromatically challenged chicks, yeah, and if you breathe one germy word of it at school, I’ll ice you. Figuratively. Not like now.”“It’s god you in it.”“What?”“De song. It goes Badass Dee, badass Dee. Preddy.”“...Pretty sure it was Ba dee debede on your last hundred home rehearsals.”“Huh… uh… and it’s like you... it's... ebbic.”“Oh. I… uh. Um. Tell you what, kiddo - you can sing it to me first thing when you wake up next mahna. Okay?""...Kay.""Good. Sleep tight, Sammy-Sam.” (The original Mahna Mahna song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cCqkR5qioD4 )
2) 2001.
“Dude, stop wrigglin'! Just doin' my job here.”“No. Oh no, you don’t get the hero meme, not when you’re giving me holy water shots.”“Well, you’re still under 21.”“In my stomach, you freakin' sadist. Aaaah!”“Yeah, well, next time you wanna rescue a doggie that’s pitch black and full-on Baskerville, think twice. I told you to stay inside!”“Whatever. It’s not like I’m here to st - ““What?”“.. Nothing. Fuck, Dean! It's four shots in fourteen days, not vice versa”“For your garden variety rabies, sure. But this? Better sore than sorry, like Dad always -”“Don’t.”“Come on, belly up. For me? Hmm? Just one more, and then you can go ace your SAT, Ventura. Drive you there myself.”“Dean…”"Aaaand we're done. Stay put, and I’ll call Dad and get you on hooky. Tell him it’s your time of the month or something.”“... I am sorry, Dean.”
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3) 2013.
“I don’t believe this. I don’t believe this. It’s fu… it’s fudging witches that make you spit out blood, not - do you even - motherf - d'you know this kid's been down on his knees to pray you every night, every night? When he’s not fighting your fudgin’ crusade? I swear to G- er, to you -Yeah, fat lot of no-good.So. How much more, huh? How long, till you take his call? Because, I swear, if you’re waiting for him to die trying, I’ll... What happened to Jesus mild and meek, I wanna know. Come on! It’s the millennium reddux, man. In case you missed the newsletter. You don’t want a comeback flop, okay, I hear you. Didn’t work so well for Swayze either. But…Look, I been there with my dad. Been there, done that, got the deaf ear. Only I wasn’t watching a one-man Love Story and, fudge! I knew there was a reason I hate those fudgin' flicks!No, I’m not - I’m fudgin’ not, okay? Just, just, you heal my Sam. You hear me? You want him to crush your to-do list, then here’s mine for you!… uh. Right here, Sammy. Nah, just checking out the floor tiles. You get vintage, you get wobbly. How d'you feel -?Oh….Nah, no biggie. Just, I didn’t wanna to crowd you, you know? Not when you’re a bit underwater. But - you need me, you got me. 'Course you do. It’s why I’m here. It’s why I ’m here, baby, and I ’m not going anywhere.”
4) 2019.
“... Where am I?”“Bed. Mine. You really can’t tell?”“Hmmrm... Soft. My head... hurts.”“That’s on you, not the foam. You kinda passed out - head first. I caught most of you, but you still went bump in the night.”“Oh... yeah... it, uh, it’s been a hard month’s night.”“No shit, Chief. When did you last eat somethin' that came from a proper cow?”“Define an improper cow.”“Jesus H., Sam! You don’t think it was bad enough, losing you to those bloodsuckers? I’m putting you on a steakin’ diet first thing tomorrow, see if I don’t. What? Stop laughing, it’s a thing.”“Yeah. Yeah, it is. Only, it’s called the Atkins diet.""... Shut up, nerd. Close your eyes and count the lamb chops.""Dean. Jesus, Dean. I’ve really, really, really, really missed you.”“And a few meals, to boot. Hush, darlin'. I’m gonna make it all better.”“In sickness… and in health... to love...”“Shhh. Yeah. Yeah. Promise, Sammy.”
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Old, yes, lean, yes, stooped - hold on. Aren’t these guys supposed to be ramrod straight? And this one’s smiling, too. A mild, enlightened smile, that tugs his goatee upward as he takes his gold-rimmed glasses off and polishes them on a pocket square handkerchief.“Ah, young man,” he says, the poster Reaper for avuncular kindness. Okay, so Limbo’s gone out on a limb and dusted off the scholarly model to ensure Sam’s cooperation. Huh. “I’m late, and I do apologize. Very muddy, Cold Oak. Half rain, half dirt. My kind... does not do well with neither-this-nor-that terrains.”Sam nods; turns away, his eyes already spoken for. Dean’s face - rigid, raving, ravaged. “No,” he says, in synch with Dean. Each of them the other’s unconsoled echo.“We could… maybe …,” Bobby mouthes, his voice distorted as if the Reaper’s presence had turned the air between them into an acoustic mirror maze, every living sound bitched and warped. “... reach an understanding?” the Reaper finishes, a dab hand at takeover. “No, no. You know the drill, Mr Winchester. Your time is up.”Sam’s “Not yet” slots into Dean’s.The Reaper holds up a gloved hand, and the entire scene turns dim, then too bright, then dim again, flickering until Sam has no choice but to blink away.“Sam. You may think your love is what makes you stay -”“I want you to come with me,” Bobby’s ghost voice slips in.“ - but don't you think ghost wrath and a Hell-brand DNA will get the better of your love?”“I know,” Sam says, still watching Dean’s face convulse with a resolution in the making. Cold Oak has made Sam privy to every damnable choice a soul can rush, and it’s lost him Andy, and Ava, and Jake too, but he’ll be damned if he loses Dean. He looks at Dean’s still-breathing mouth and grabs his cue, moving his lips to Dean’s “I’m not going anywhere...”“...yet,” Sam adds for the Reaper’s whiskered ear.“A muddy answer. Not worth your wit, Sam Winchester. Go forth or stay on: the choice is yours. But you know as I do that I won’t barter.”Sam is shaking his head, and the jolt kind of flicks them forward, because now Dean is babbling - starved out of hope and options - and somehow barter weaves itself into Dean’s fevered loop of words - kindling a truth with no light in it, only darkness visible...“What am I supposed to do?” Dean roars, and Sam turns to the Reaper; gives him his full height and his heart flung open, bared, pitted against the Reaper’s ruthless compassion. “What am I to do?”“Sam -”“This! This! Just - let me stop him, and I'll go, I swear to God, or Death, or you! Anywhere you want! Just, what do I do?”"What can you do, Sam?”They’re in the car, the Reaper in the backseat. It doesn’t startle Sam that they are. Dean has obviously spent a night and a day in grief; has cleaned Sam with a mother’s slow-gestured care, Sam’s body ragdolled across his lap while Dean combed the dust off every strand hair and sewed up the hole in his spine, but did not wash himself. There’s enough of Sam’s blood on Dean for his ghost to cop a ride.He has no illusion that he can touch Dean yet, not when he’s a ghost noob and only time is of the essence. But he can feel Baby’s purr all around him - she knows him, he thinks dimly, and... maybe…“He can't hear you,” the Reaper says, not unkindly.Baby's roaring, tearing sound is all Dean’s, but her silent yes is meant for Sam. He dives into that open channel and finds that it holds a thousand ghost tunes: pale, shimmering shreds of I’m rolling thunder and Hey brother, do you still believe in us, once heard and chorused by two living brothers. Baby’s hoard of faith, made over to Sam, who sends an arrow of love after her while he aligns his mind to a tune; coaxes her knobs and her dials as he did in his lost teen years, a chubby kid techie, until her radio is crackling alert.If he can get through to Dean...But Dean doesn’t hear. Dean’s ears are drumming with the roar, hers and his, and by the time the crossroads looms up before them, Sam has not risen above the noise and confusion.
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“Hell no, oh please, no,” he says, even as Dean buries Sam’s heart along with that box. They’re both out of the car, only one passenger left, his gaze infinitely old and absolutely, helplessly blank. Sam holds it nonetheless, while his knees hit the dirt for the second time in twenty-four hours.“Please,” he starts again, and he’s sobbing from the heart. Sam once spent four bright years learning how to do things with words: why can't none of them help now? “God, ah God, I’m begging you. He’s going to the hounds, and I can’t, I can’t -.”He stops. There she is - the very model of a model temptress, red in claw and eyes, with a dress to match.“Hmmm,” the Reaper says. His face, as he considers the demon, has a pensive cast to it. “Do you know” - casually, as if this were a chit-chat session in the Dean of Studies’ office - “that your brother was almost ready to go?”It takes Sam’s sum of will to follow his drift.“...Yeah?”“In the hospital,” the Reaper adds. “He’d come to his senses, you see. Far from a fool, your brother is, notwithstanding that smoke screen of dumb blond he loves to feed. And then...” The glasses’ glitter hardens. Reapers, it appears, are on a par with Winchesters when it comes to holding a grudge. “And then, a demon had the audacity to possess my kin.”“..Yeah?” Sam repeats, half of him still focusing on another exchange. The lady’s not for buying, or rather she’s playing hard to get. And Dean, Sam's bright, cherished, idiotic Dean, is gulping her bait down.“An interesting trick,” the Reaper muses aloud, “possession. Goes all the way in, so to speak.. and round.”Sam’s feet are pushing him up before he’s aware of it. “The other way round,” he says slowly, just as the demon warns, "If you try to weasel your way out, the deal is off".“What if I weasel my way in,” Sam calls out. She turns sharply, and he takes a step to her - through her - slotting himself into the pale-faced girl, her vessel. She shrieks at being fed her own medicine; shrieks at Sam's ice-cold will, dousing her inner fire. And then, Sam finds that it’s the easiest thing to silence her.The next second will stay with him forever.Her soul is like the abyss part of the sea, the stuff of nightmares. It sparrs with Sam's soul, a breath away from Dean’s lips. But Dean's breath is still on, is still Dean incarnate, and that breath becomes Sam's vicarious pulse - timing his exorcism as he burns her down, down, down, her scorched self resisting him every step of the way. Only to grow in terror as the next step shrinks her, and the next. Meet your match, Sam tells the demon, squeezing her into one last atom before nil, and as he does, and a pale dead girl slips down to the ground, he feels a counter-move.The girl’s soul made free, at long last.It’s like a cool wind eddying up Sam's own air-form, giving him thanks. And a memory, added to his own, of what weight and volume felt like. Briefly, beautifully, it tips Sam past the material gate - long enough for the second to elapse, and for Dean to grab his neck and push their mouths together.And Sam’s lips are there to meet his; to have and hold them. The kiss... the kiss ought to taste like a day and a night of grief; unwashed and acrid. It doesn’t. If anything, it tastes of Dean’s uh? layered over a sun, a sea-swell and the strong pure sound of a Metallica riff. Sam archives the taste while he kisses - and kisses - and still kisses away, his grip unfaltering on Dean’s neck. It helps that Dean is clutching at him for dear life.They release each other more or less in phase.“Sammy?” Dean whispers, touching his own lips. (It has been six years since their last, a novice peck in a Greyhound station, blotched by Sam’s tears. They never spoke of it again.)“Congratulations.” Sam presses a finger to the kissed mouth. “You got yourself a deal.”“But… she..."“She never got to you. And I swear, Dean, if that's buyer’s remorse -”Dean’s breath spills over too quickly, betraying his daze. “Sammy,” he says. “Sam, Sammy, ah, Sam. I sensed it, I - when we kissed, I heard it - man... Like Jimmy Page’s best blues riff, only better.”“My soul,” Sam enlightens him. “Yours is more of a pentatonic. Strong stuff.”“Strong stuff?”“Strong stuff. And I’m taking custody of it, Dean, not her. And I’m not giving it back.”Dean’s eyes are filling with more of the moon's pure brilliance.“I couldn’t leave you dead…”“I know. But I’ll be damned before you are. Dean... don’t. If you want this again, if you want us again, then don’t go where I’ll follow you down without a second thought. And it’s where they want me - Yellow Eyes and his crew. Hell wants me, love. Don’t take me there.”Dean is crying openly, without a noise, as Dean learnt to do much too early in his life.“You’re not losing me,” Sam tells him. “You're letting me go so I can find us a place and wait there for you.” He takes a step forward and soothes Dean’s face, the long, firm downstroke that Dean showed him a night ago. “With the sun and a beach, and an all-you-can-drink keg, and Jimmy Page round the clock. I promise, Dean.”“Sam.” Dean closes his eyes, letting his cheeks run down with Sam’s promise. “Sammy, I.”“I know,” Sam murmurs, and kisses him long, kisses him last. When Dean opens his eyes and turns his head this way and that, obviously looking for him, Sam sighs, but takes a step back.There is a non-committal cough at his side.“I have to say, young man, you are a fast learner. In fact, we might be amenable to an interview, should you consider -”“Later,” Sam says. He watches Dean raise a hand and wave uncertainly, and he answers in kind, before Dean enters the Impala again and drives off at a much more sedate pace. Bobby will still be there, Sam thinks. Bobby, who loves Dean like a son and will give him a home. Meanwhile…“You have my word,” he tells the Reaper, still standing with exemplary patience at his side. “But - forgive me if I’m mistaken - I think I have a more open choice as for my final destination.”The Reaper sighs. “As do all of our hybrid charges. And if you had any idea of the paperwork complications - ““Sorry,” Sam says, insincerely. “Very well, then. Hell, if you will be so kind.”“... Is this your last answer, young man?”“I told Dean I should not follow him there, and I meant it. John Winchester, though? Whole other kettle. I've got work to do, and the sooner the better.”(And then they’ll look for that Heavenly room, Dad and he, where Mom is already, and Sam will book the next and make sure it has a strong thick separating wall, but that's another tale.)“So lead the way, Mr…?”“Virgilio,” the Reaper says. When he extends his gloved hand, his smile is back. It gives Sam an odd sense of comfort. “Mi piace, Mr Winchester. My pleasure.”
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"Hmm," Joss says on the phone, clicking his tongue to his palate twice quickly in a way he's been told is fetching. "What's that name again?...Ooookay. Well, Bitch, I'm not exactly in the BDSM biz, but -"He is cut short, rather heatedly. The kid on the other end of the phone is neat-spoken, bit emphatic on word stress, currently very emphatic on the fact that he, too, is not in the biz.A pause."And college dorms are a hard no," Joss says, all smooth tones, because the kid can't be a day over eighteen.The mystery speaker falters a bit, but discharges himself honourably of his next sentence."You... oh. Yeah. Um, yeah, you did, but roleplay is usually less Barbie-rated in my line of - hey, don't hang up. Sorry, kid. I'm a sassy one. Oh, that's what Brady said, is it? So what, you want an hour of distinguished conversation?" Joss laughs; listens a bit more. The kid is being less neat-spoken - is sounding younger, which triggers an uneasy bell, but if Brady's a school peer... "Um. Um, sure, I can do this." One hand has groped a pen and is already jotting down items, tumbled down his ear by the prospective trick.
beer
popcorn
rent movie
leather jacket
“awesome”
"Sorry, didn't catch that... I might have to do what? Hold you tight?"But Bitch's breath only answers, brusquely thicker - not the quickly-does-it, there-we-are thick that signals a close end to business and zipping-up time for Joss. No, but Joss still recognizes it. Felt it in his own throat, those first few times, before he got used to business."Hey. Hey, kid. You all right there?"He listens again; nods his head, and wisely deters from further comments. " IT it is, then. Yup, got the coordinates. Keep yourself safe, Bitch - I'll see you soon."
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Cas to Sam: “Yes. I told him all about the cardigan.”
Sam: “Great. Thanks.”
Dean: “And the wife.” (Pause.) “He said you were, er, really happy.”
14x15, Peace of Mind
“Nothing happened with the wife.”“Huh?” Dean says, because he might have caught up on his forty winks last night, but that hardly means he’s up for a conjugial debrief at 1 a.m., after he pushed his door open to find a forlorn Sam sitting on his bed.“It wasn’t Friday night,” Sam explains, like that’s supposed to make sense. “As I recall, I gave her a peck.” Pause. “Small one. She had cold cream slapped all over her face.”“Oh.”“Slept in curlers, too. For her poodle clip." (Pause.) "I wore a night cardy.”“Jesus God, Sam. You do realize you’re giving me ammo for the next -” Dean stops, struck by a Damas-size flash of enlightenment. Of course Sam’s giving him ammo. Even if nothing happened, Sam thinks Dean thinks Sam cheated on him with Mrs Martini. This? Is Sam atoning. And it’s all Dean’s fault for tripping once more over the Hurdle of Hell, the notion of Sam away from him and happy, and sulking up his room instead of staying and thrashing it out with Sammy.Of course Sam needs time. Grief needs time. Mourning needs time. Making peace with his final Chief’s order, that Jack be not asked to revive the hunters since there’s no knowing how they’d come back, now that Jack’s grace has been… compromised, that’s gonna take a lifetime of time.What Sam has no time for was Dean’s curt pat on his shoulder, followed by Dean pointedly moving away. Damnit, Dean should know better.“Hey,” he says, and envelops Sam’s frame with one arm the best he can. “The night cardy’s a nice touch. You know. Kinda like that wrap-yourself-in-cellophane shtick, only less... transparent."Sam’s laughter is three parts air, one part effort. Still, it’s a start.“Yeah, like you’d fall for that.”“Test me? And the glasses. Oh yeah. That’s your stern, but sexy, look.”He can feel how Sam’s shoulders give in first, how they captain the rest of him out of tension and into Dean’s care. Dean turns sideways, offering more of himself to the hug. “So, whaddya say we try it tomorrow - the whole kit and caboodle?”“Tomorrow? Sir, are you telling me you intend to flub the dub?”Oh god, there's that oldster slang Cas mentioned. Sparking a tiny, wobbly tickle in Dean’s throat, that grows into a smile.“Honey, it’s been a hard day’s night.”“Don’t you sell me a pup, young man! Lying will not be tolerated in my home."(Sam’s home, Sam’s safe place. Not yet, but they’ll get there again - making silliness their guide, if required. Dean is good with that.)“Our home, Sammy, our home. Where I get to be a bad-mouthed..." (a theatrical whisper) "bad-assed... bad-all-over boy.”“Oh, you do, do you? Golly, I ought to put you across my knee!”And Sam’s laughter shakes Sam a bit in his arms, a merry shake, even as Dean moans - to his own surprise. They’ve never tried that, although the idea did tiptoe across Dean's mind, and now the visual of Sam’s lap, Sam’s glasses, Sam’s stern but sexy hand reconnecting them, is sparking another tickle. Scratch that: is sparking a good, strong, excited ripple of hell yeah.“Tomorrow?” he offers, half unsure.But Sam’s answering “Tomorrow” is hope, dawning at 1 a.m., is a brittle ceasefire with trauma, even as Sam turns off the bedside lamp. And that’s good enough for Dean and tonight.
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"Let me guess," Castiel told Jack over milk and a PB & J double-decker. (Jack had taken to those cautiously - then, once Cas switched the PB for turrón, with a fervour that made Cas right happy.) "Dean is the mouse?"Jack squinted to where the mouse sat on the kitchen table, his back turned to the company. "I... think so," he ventured. "He sneezes when the cat tries to come near."As if to prove him right, the long-haired Birman pushed his paw mouse-ward, tentatively. The mouse made a "frrrt!" sound, then lifted its own forefoot, obviously so it could curl its first and third claws inwards."Ah, so it was Sam who found the curse.""Yes, but it's okay, I found the antidote." Jack, setting a crumb before the mouse, lit up. Then clouded down. "Only, it's a Partim Contrariis."The Partim Contrariis, for once a well-meaning curse, had been devised long ago to change enemy kings into panthers and capybaras, and keep them in that less-than-enviable state until they exchanged the Kiss of Peace. Having failed to achieve world peace, the curse had then been watered down and used mostly in witches' divorce courts. The Men of Letters must have acquired a latter-day variant."But they won't kiss," Jack added forlornly. "I've given them a pep-talk all afternoon, and - ""No, as a species, they don't. They hug." Cas frowned, rerouting his mind to the behavioural issue at stake. "We could try rubbing pie on Sam's whiskers."Firm meowing from Sam's corner."It's all right," Jack was quick to reassure him. "Dean always says a nip counts as a kiss.""Or," Cas went on, his eyes a manic shade of blue, "we could have Sam groom Dean."Dean's hiss was more of a lisp, but a feral lisp."Oh, for Father's sake," said Cas, and picked him up. He barely blinked at the nip to his thumb, before he moved his charge closer to his cobalt gaze. "You kissed him a thousand four hundred sixty-two good nights, until the baby-sitter called you cute and created a diversion. Tonight is no different. Now go and save your brother."Dean nose-dived; landed on all fours; skidded a nifty trail between the crumbs until he could leap on Sam's tail and jog up to the plateau between Sam's triangular ears. Once there he wheezed twice, pointedly, and made a show of rubbing his snout to the furry, furrowed brow.There was a flash, there was a crash, and Cas caught the sandwich plate on the fly."Next time," Dean told Sam, his voice still on the squeaky end of pitch, "you can kiss my - ""Butter?" Jack said, prompting the jar back to his palm.Sam laughed, the sound vibrant in his throat, and when Dean paused to listen to Sam's joy, Cas smiled. It was still a long way to world peace, but tonight at least all would be well in the world of men, mice and angels.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Watching you loop a brother's loop
Rouses a pang that shouldn’t be:
Am I not the trick, you the dupe?
Bucko, you may well jump that hoop,
But the next will grieve you and me
Watching you loop a brother’s loop
If I shed the mask, would you stoop
And beg from the heart for your De?
In vain, in vain, you nincompoop.
There he dies again. With a whoop,
Asia claims you in heartless glee,
Watching you loop a brother’s loop.
You do love him - hardly a scoop.
Once I told mine, I shall save thee
In vain, in vain, you nincompoop.
Oh, screw it – you - that maple goop!
Next time, I’ll switch to strawberry…
In vain, in vain, you nincompoop,
Watching you loop a brother’s loop
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Sam: You used to read to me when I was little, I— I mean, really little, from that— from that old, uh... Classics Illustrated comic book. You remember that?
Dean: No.
Sam: Knights of the Round Table. Had all of King Arthur's knights, and they were all on the quest for the Holy Grail. And I remember looking at this picture of Sir Galahad, and, and, and he was kneeling, and— and light streaming over his face, and— I remember... thinking, uh, I could never go on a quest like that. Because I'm not clean. I mean, I w— I was just a little kid. You think... maybe I knew? I mean, deep down, that— I had... demon blood in me, and about the evil of it, and that I'm— wasn't pure?
8.21, "The Great Escapist"
Sam's fever blows hot and cold; keeps him awake. He is drenched and parched in turn; made restless, a twister-and-turner in the Two Rivers' bedsheets, until they make the hotel's name good, every pore in Sam's back and front running under the heat."Whoa," the penumbra says, familiar-like, and there's a glass before him. Sam leans into its hard coolness. "Easy there, Ren McCormick."A Footloose reference. Ergo, a concerned Dean. "I'm all fine," Sam croaks back."Man, you sound like a cheesegrater trying out its voice." A pause, and Sam waits for the next tell - the crinkly sound of Dean's hair when he tugs at it. But instead..."You know, you got that story all wrong.""What?"The bed springs, not even trying, surrender with a creak. The creak has Sam fumble horizontally to make room for Dean. He is met with an arm, wrapping his exhausted head and shoulders, then lifting them so Dean can flip over Sam's pillow to its (mostly) dry verso. When Sam sighs in relief, Dean stretches out his still-clothed form next to him."That Galahad dude? He sucked. Big time.""...What?""Come on! The man was practically a robot. Never kissed a chick, or Frenched a bong, or indulged in some me time with the hypocras. You know who does that sort of thing? Angels. Self-righteous dicks.""...You may have a point.""So let's forget about him. And let me tell you about my favorite, Sir Bors.""Wow. You actually remember Bors?""Sure do. He's the one with the awesome brother.""Lionel," Sam whispers. The fever burns his face like a blush, but when he lays his cheek against Dean's arm, its firm cool flesh, the fever hums lower. Shadows pass before Sam's eyes, dreamy, one of them baring his chest to show him a lion-shaped mark. "Hot-headed. Brave. Beautiful.""And he loved Bors," Dean confides to the dark, his tones soft-edged. "Because Bors... Bors messed up, okay? But he messed from the heart. Galahad never did, because he was Heaven's good little zombie, but Bors...""... failed to save his brother," Sam says, letting the tale call the shots."What? No, no, no, no. Okay, story time. Once upon a day, while all the knights were on their horsies, minding their Grail business, Sir Bors came to a crossroads.""Never a good idea.""Shhh. Listener shuts his cake hole. So. Crossroads. Hell must have liked its little fun even then, unless Heaven was feeling extra dickish, because Bors got to make a choice.""A girl in distress," Sam whispers. "Or his brother, in need of rescue. And he chose the girl over him. And he hasn't forgiven himself, Dean, he still repents -"Dean's lips are on him, a placating shh-shh, pushing Sam's penance back inside."Bors saw Lionel," Dean carries on, "and he saw that Lionel had been taken prisoner and stripped naked. What? It's in the lore."It is, but it certainly didn't feature in their child-friendly book, and Sam is at a loss as to where or when Dean got hold of the adult-rated version. But this is Dean, who thinks nothing of reading Aesop, or Homer, or Vonnegut as part of his recreational me time. You never know with Dean, and Sam, smiling in the dark, waves him on."And he turned his eyes away, because..." Here, Dean falters."Because he wanted this, more than anything under the sun," Sam says, eyes still closed. "Not his brother suffering, no. Only his brother's strong, vulnerable body gleaming in the sun, the lion flaming red over his heart. He wanted to put his mouth to that mark, you know? And feel it. Every raised line of it." "There was another knight behind Lionel," Dean tells the warm air between their mouths. "And he, uh. If I recall, he was thrashing Lionel's butt with a branch. Which, mind you, really not his thing, as he'd had occasion to mention. Ahem. But... there was Bors, standing across the road, watching the show, and that made the entire spanked-with-thorns shtick kind of. Uh. Kind of hot."Too late, Sam remembers to close his mouth."So there he was," Dean carries on at full pelt, "freaking out on account of his class A boner. Little bro did the honourable thing. Went after the girl to spare his blushes. Didn't bang her, because he was a gentle -""Because he could barely get it up," Sam breaks in, "unless I thought - that is, unless he thought of Lionel. It... wasn't fair on the girl.""And when they met again," Dean says after a pause, his hand stroking across Sam's chest, "Lionel fought him. 'Cause he was mad at Bors, yeah. But mad comes in layers for a Win... for a warrior knight. Like flannel.""That would be worsted yarn, Dean.""Shhh, Sir Nerd. What I mean is, the fight - it bridged the gap. Locked'em in each other's arms, fist to cheek, up and at it. And when I say up..."Dean coughs knowingly."Yeah, Dean. I get the visual.""Good! So, they fought. And then, they kissed and made.""Made what?""Made up," Dean says, his grin palpable.(He's taking a few liberties here. As Sam recalls, Heaven sent down a lightning bolt to tug the brotherly knights apart. But he feels good enough that he can grant Dean his alternate ending.)"Twice in a row," he says generously. "And twice more, once they reached the nearest hostelry.""And never went apart again, hell yeah, verily," Dean concludes. "You, ah, up for some sleep?"Sam laughs; kisses the lion's wrinkle between his brother's eyes. He can feel his own close again, this time of their own volition."For now," he says, putting his renewed faith in the next morning - and the strong body flanking his side, his back, his arms, Sam Winchester's sword and shield.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
The needle-induced sting is nothing. Old faithful, freakin' thorn in the flesh even after all these years, but nothing Dean cannot take if it's Sam who gives it. “Want me to turn the other cheek?” he asks, faux-cocky, and feels Sam’s imperceptible flinch. Okay, then. Needle’s in, Bible’s out. Sam’s hand cradles his cheek easily, and then Sam tips his head back and places his lips on Dean’s, waiting for Dean to open up and take in the mouthful of whisky from Sam’s mouth. Gross? Yeah. But… warm-gross. Human-gross. Sam-gross, meaning Dean sucks the liquor in willingly.“What I don’t get...” his brother begins, the words an extra tingle.“A li’l hurry if you please,” Dean says, because there’s a time for musing and there’s a time for cross-stitching him. He spent the short drive being adamant that he did not want a scar on his cheek. (They were all the rage in the elite Romantic Europe, Sam tried to reassure him, so much that students made doctor appointments to be sliced up just so they could score mensch points. That's Sam for you. Turned into Chuck’s little snuff movie theatre, and still looks on the bright side.)“Dean, I have to be careful. The odds of infection…”“Hey, you heard Lilith. Bacteria it ain’t, not for us.”Sam laughs, a half-wet, half-raucous snort. He pulls back; pulls the last thread, and ties it up with an ingrained flick of wrist. “Yeah,” he says, reaching for a cotton swab. “You know, that’s one thing I don’t get.”“One thing? Man, if I had a quarter for every why in my cabeza -”But Sam is still cradling his head. One Mississipi, goes Dean’s heart. Two Mississipis.“The thing is,” Sam says, “I’ve read them.”“What, Chuck’s books?”“Yeah. Remember the batch I told you was the complete collection of Esoterica and you said, 'Asian Beauties for me'? All Shurley.”“Dude. That's, like, the least sexy preview ever.”“It’s Esoteri… you know what, never mind. Anyway. I ordered the entire series when Mom came back so she could catch us up. And then I thought I’d better exert some, uh, parent control, and so I read them.”"What, all of them?"“All in a night’s work,” Sam says modestly. “And it doesn’t make sense.”“What doesn’t?”Sam dabs the blood away; turns Dean’s chin this way and that, and only then, satisfied with his petit point, kisses it.“That he’d want this ending. You killing me. Me killing you. Each of his books gets the same coda - that we choose family in the last stand, freely choose it, and that it makes us heroes. Even when… even when I’m ridden by Lucifer, and, and he’s pummeling you” - Sam is talking too fast, his old demons clocking in - “there’s that sunray falling on the plastic soldier, and Chuck, he…”“Sam. Sammy. Shhh, slow down. I’m the one due for aftershock.”But Sam is shaking his head, fast enough to jolt his stupid beautiful hair into horizontal riot. “No! No, listen to me! Chuck explains, the plastic soldier is what I was to be, Lucifer’s insensate war toy, only the light made it into a token of our bond, and the sign got through to me, empowered me to write my own script. My own ending. Me. And when I re-read it, I thought - that light, that sunray - it had to have been God, right?”“So what? So he sneaked in, tricked the game…”“But that’s just it! He did it so I wouldn’t kill you! So why didn’t he say so, when you ripped into him - accused him of playing voyeur and doin' nothing?”“Okay, so maybe he changed his -”“E-ve-ry book,” Sam says, making it a three-syllable omen. “I've read them all, and, Dean, the prose is atrocious but the message is anything but. The entire series is about Faith. Free will. Family.”“Fuck.”“Actually, no,” Sam says, his lips wry. “His editor must have drawn the line somewhere.”“So he’s retconning the franchise, big deal. Happens to the best of’em. Take the Star Trek movies…”“No,” Sam repeats. “Not unless the retcon is Spock offing Kirk with Mr Sulu’s sword, then blowing up Vulcan in the post-credit scene.”Dean nearly crosses himself before he remembers that’s off the cards, too.Or is it?“So you’re telling me… that now-Chuck isn’t our Chuck? Isn't Carver Edlund Chuck?”“I’m telling you that if this is where his magnum opus was headed from the first, then it's nonsense. Either that, or he's a fake. And if he is, then familycide is not the Ineffable Plan. At all.”“The what, now?”“Pratchett, Dean.”“Gesundheit,” says Dean, being Dean. “But if this is not Chuck… we still stand a chance?”“I need proof. And I may have an idea on how to get it. But I’m afraid it means another night’s driving. For me.”“But…”“Not negotiable. Not while you’re looking like a wannabe Styne.”“Bitch,” Dean says, but tosses him the keys all the same. “My name is totally Inigo Montoya.” It’s no longer the same publisher, which, good. Sam has no idea how he’d sell the sudden urge to interview Mr Shurley all over again after eleven years. No, the woman facing him is the jaded sort, the sort who couldn’t care less if he cries or not - which Sam finds oddly soothing.She's also pretty blasé about the Shurley sales, only shrugging when Sam pops the question.“Knew that cat would flee the bag sooner than later. Yeah, he did. Sent us the final story for keeps, for now, all under wraps and seals. It’s a common thing among genre writers. Write a sonnet, start with the couplet. Write a detective story, plot the end first. Write a detective series, kill Hercule Poirot while you’re not gaga yet and have your publisher lock Curtain in a safe. He did just that.”Sam’s heart sinks itself, the pain bitterer than he'd expected.“He… killed Sam and Dean?”“What? N…” She catches herself just in time. “Look, if you’re angling for a spoiler, you're losing your time. I don’t care if they replace me with a software in fifteen or fifty years. This house made a deal with Mr Shurley to keep his final opus under the bushel until a certain date, and we honour our contracts. My lips are sealed.” Fifteen or fifty years, Sam thinks, and nearly blacks out from the joy. Dean, he thinks. Dean in the car, waiting. But before Sam goes to him, there’s one last question he needs to ask.“No spoiler,” he says. And then he leans forward until both his elbows are resting on her desk and he is targeting the pure, soulful, undistilled Sammy™ gaze at her. The one that gets him anything, from carrots to a Bunuel marathon to Dean conditioning Sam's hair with love and egg yolk. “See, as a longtime Shurley fan, I have a fear that only you can assuage. That is, if you've managed a peep under the wraps.”A candid smile, the innuendo all hers if she wishes to make it so.Hers is a knowing smile.“Of course I did. No manuscript enters our vault unpeeped.”“Well, then. Some authors… change their tune in time. Change their message - moral - the very marrow of their work. There’s only so much narrative continuity we can count on, when a series totals too many numbers. So...” Sam waits his pang out, braces himself on the desk. “Does the Song remains the Song? Broadly speaking?”“Mr Page...” There is a softening in her eyes: a complicit glint, as if his name hit a fond note. Probably does, given her line of trade. “Trust me. In this very last issue, the Song... will be a frickin' five-act opera. And that is all I’m authorized to say.”Dean is checking out his best profile in the rearview mirror when Sam shows up at the door - paws it open - hauls him out, and kisses him in full public view. (Dean only smacks his arm as an afterthought.)“Okay, all right,” he says once repossessed of a mouth. “I’m guessing fake.”“You guessed right.” And Sam kisses him again. Dips him until Dean's back is laid against the car trunk. Thankfully, the great American public consists mostly in pigeons, that don’t seem any worse for the sight. “Family business? Back in the game, with no expiry date that I can see. And no murder-suicide, thank Chuck.”“But wait, where's he? And does that mean we're dealing with an Anti-God? A Krampus God? A Chucky Chuck?”“Yeah, but He'll have to wait. First things first. I’m taking you to Biggerson’s to celebrate, and then I’m taking you to see Jesus Christ, Superstar.”“Wow,” Dean says, baffled, but born ready. “You've really got your faith back, fanboy. A five-act rock opera?”“A freakin' five-act rock opera,” Sam says, and grins all the way to the local theatre.
Let love and faithfulness never leave you,
bind them around your neck,
write them on the tablet of your heart.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Zachariah would have tugged at his hair if his pitiful vessel, a man in the purple rather than the pink of life, had kept any. Instead he groaned.
"And still I don't see you enlightening them," his co-watcher remarked.
Together, they stood and stared as Dean "Smith", at the wheel of his deluxe car, took off his tie. Off came the suspenders, off the striped shirt that made him look like a literal humbug in Zachariah's opinion. Clad only in a nondescript tee and his pants, Dean padded out of his car and into the fly-by-night hotel .
"I'm giving them one last chance, Castiel. One chance for the worms to turn, and guess who they truly are."
"Perhaps another case -"
"We've thrown every potential hunt under their nose. Corporate ghost? Check. Budgeting vampire? Ditto. New siren boss. One very naked coven trying to summon Bernard Madoff. And did it work? Did the Winchesters get even a sniff of their true calling? Their vesselitude? Divinely ordained purpose? No. And why? Because they were too busy fornicating in the janitor's locker."
"Well, give them tonight," Castiel pleaded. "Who knows? They might still surprise us."
Zachariah pointed a wrathful index to Dean, currently entering the hotel room where Sam, who had kept on his yellow polo shirt but stripped down to briefs and socks, sat on the bed watching a nature documentary. When he heard the door crack, he quickly turned it off and curled in on himself, burying his face into a stocky forearm.
"Sammy!" Dean cooed gaily, stepping into the room. He paused to take in the scene, then strode up to the bed. "Oh, baby boy. Did Dad give you a hard time again?"
Dad? Castiel mouthed over to Zachariah, who motioned him still.
Sam's lower lip jutted up, while his eyes acquired a humid, plaintive sheen. "He's just so - demanding, Dean. It's like, whatever I do, it's never enough. I'm never good enough to meet the family standards."
Castiel, overwhelmed, raised his eyes in thanksgiving. There! There it was! The Remembering!
"Shhh, little brother," Dean was coo-ing meanwhile, hoisting himself up on the bed and between Sam's legs, one eager hand bunching up the yellow cotton of his tee. "Of course you're enough, more than enough."
"But Dad -"
"Dad's an Adler, Sam. He's a bit obsessed with the company - you know. Big things. Good stuff." In his back, Castiel could hear Zachariah choke, or as near to choking as could be achieved by a breath-free being.
"Big thing," Sam said reverently, as Dean slowly pulled down his pants.
"Good stuff," Dean matched huskily, crawling up to cover Sam's mouth with his. "See? You're a natural when it comes to the family bizz."
Castiel frowned. "I don't understand," he said. "They think they're... your nephilims?"
"No, you dimwitted hummingbird! What in the words sex game eludes you?"
Aeon after aeon, he had watched His father's grand opus. And still it eluded him. Castiel let his gaze take in his supervisor from toes to tip, and back again, and shook his head. Humans. They fascinated him, but he didn't get them. Not even when Dean threw his head back, yelled "Brother!"and came like Vesuvius.
In the front row, Zachariah sighed the sigh of the defeated.
"So much for calling him son. All right, let's review the ghost script once again..."
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Sam, Sam. Stay with me.
“Hello? Hello, is that - shh, Dean, I’m here.”
Please, stay with me, please.
“Shhh, don’t speak. Lean on me. 911? I need an ambulance, man in his late thirties, impaled -”
Impala. Impala-ed. Hell of a ride, eh Sammy?
“Sir? I can't quite hear you - there appears to be a disturbance on your side. Where are you calling from?” Nuh-uh, you listen to me. You get those boys someplace safe - “Dean, for the love of... pie, shut up. Yes, my brother, he got impaled on, uh, some sort of jutting nail, a rebar, I think -.”
A hunter walks into a rebar. Good one, eh? Eh, Sammy? Sam? Baby brother?
“Can you give me a location, sir?”
Sam-I-am?
“Yeah, I'm. Uh, I'm sorry. It’s a barn.”
I love you somuch.
“I'm going to need a little more detail, sir.”
Detail? 'kay, I'll give you detail. That night in Stanford, when I came to your dorm because it was you, it’s always been you -
“A barn, Stanford. Should I direct the ambulance to the School of Earth and Environmental Sciences, sir?”“What? No!”
- the minute you were born. Hey, if I’m taken out by a rebar in a barn, do I get to be rebarn? So I can have you again, Sammy, have and hold you, and not leave you, ever?
“Dean. You have me forever, but you are letting me go through this call, or, I swear to Jack, I’m baking a mud pie on your rebirthday.”"If I may recapitulate, sir: one man -"
WOM'N! That’s right. Wom’n'n'white.
“We have located you and are sending an ambulance for a man, a woman, two boys and, while we’re at it, sir, can you tell me who is the current President of the United States? Oh wait.” When the ambulance arrived, Dean was still standing, his voice true-to-husk but still and valiantly enunciating the Winchester ethos, the right kibble regimen for Miracle, and how he (Dean, though he was willing to make a case for the dog) had always wanted to push his nose into Sam’s hair post-blow-dry and take a deep breath.The medics, spotting their cue, leapt into action and sawed the rebar off with all due caution. They praised Sam for not losing his head and then proceeded to hook Dean again - to an IV line - prior to the required thoracotomy. Dean bore it all graciously. Not so Sam. He sobbed with raucous, unbridled abandon, then again upon noticing that those who had lost a head this day had also vanished from the scene (Jack’s principle of non-interference must have come with a grace period) and the rescued kids were being taken care of. But through all of his tears, he kept his promise and never once left Dean's side until it was sewn up and bandaged. I love everyone in this barn, Dean said, happily, and these were his last words - for the day.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Chuck was a chicken-livered chickenshit. So Dean informed Sam, who bobbed his neck in approval. As if it hadn't been enough for God to torment them with dreams, portents and visions, he had locked them in one of his botched worlds and it wasn't even the one Strictly For Squirrels. No, it was the one Strictly For... "So all we gotta do is pull a Chicken Run.""Yeah, but..." And Sam gave a frantic look around. The moment they had been spotted as newroosters, the other chickens had crowded in around them. Sam and Dean had been pecked, flapped, pushed and generally gangpressed into a small and bare arena surrounded with perches. Now the locals stood in massed ranks around the perimeter, peeping at them avidly with their little beady eyes. "They're not gonna let us through. Not until we, ah. Give'em a show.""What, like fight to the death?" Dean threw his comb back. "Hey! This ain't Mexico, you frickin' Chantecleers!"But the front-row chickens only crowed impatiently. When Sam stared back in utter confusion, the largest rooster hopped onto the stage, waddled up to him, and pushed him willy-nilly to where Dean stood, his primary feathers ruffled and spoiling for a fight. The rooster gave Dean's beak a quick peck, turned to Sam, issued a Do you get it now? cluck and hopped back to its seat."I...what?""Jesus God," said Dean, frozen in epiphany. "Sammy, they don't want us to fight. They want us to mate.""Oh." And Sam took a closer peep at the audience. "That would explain why they're all Bantams. Statistically speaking, the Bantam cockerel..."Dean glared at him, clawing the soil, his comb a bright scarlet. "That's your takeaway?""Well..." Sam cocked his head to the side, weighing his options. "Maybe we can... pretend?"Slowly, with every precaution, he began to stretch his neck invitingly. Dean bore it with manly fortitude until Sam's beak was a mere cluck away from his, then flapped wildly back."Dude," Sam said, exasperated. "How worse can it be than a game of...""Don't. Don't you dare." A beat. The audience showed no sign to move. "All right, I'll close my eyes and think of Texas. Now get over here and get it over."Sam sighed and circled his brother once more, leaning forward to brush their combs. The audience leant forward as one poultry. Dean squawked and leant back.It was going to be a long, very long Winchester game night.