whitereflection | you'll get yours and I'll get mine (Reply)

Title: There and Back Again
Author:

whitereflection (Di)
Rating: PG-13 (Gen)
Word Count: 8138
Summary: It's a long road home, but for Sam, there's only one destination that matters.
A/N: Written for the Summer Of Sam Love Celebration 2010, for the episode 5.22/Swan Song. Set post-5.22, but will obviously be AU soon, and there are no spoilers for season 6. Thanks to the

summer_sam_love community for letting me participate in such an incredible project. ♥ Thanks most of all to

akintay for betaing, and to all my friends list for putting up with me. The title is borrowed from J.R.R. Tolkien, and the name J. Alfred Prufrock is borrowed from T.S. Eliot. One section was inspired by an image shared by

paxlux. Cut text is from the song "It's An Ugly Life" by Electric President.
Disclaimer: Supernatural is owned by E. Kripke and the CW. Included music is property of the listed artists/bands and their labels.

There and Back Again

The first time Sam came back to himself was in a little gift shop somewhere in Colorado. He was standing in an aisle between shelves laden with kitsch: pewter figures standing on chunks of fools' gold, agates and hematite carved into the shapes of animals, shot glasses, kids' coin banks in the form of rabbits with antlers. Sam was holding a candle in his hands, a glass globe filled with layers of pastel-colored sand forming a cheerful, cartoonish picture of a mountain scene. It was the sort of thing that would make Dean elbow him in the side and say how it was just the sort of thing any girl would love in her room, so of course Sam was buying it, right?

Except that Dean wasn't there.

Sam set the candle back down with the others. As he walked out past the register, he realized the shop was dim, the only light that which was spilling in from the front windows. The cashier was apologizing to an older woman for having to write out a receipt and grumbling how it was such a pain to do everything manually with the power out.

Postcards in the rotating stands by the door were splashed with bright photos of somewhere called Garden of the Gods. Outside, it was bright, almost painfully so, and he found he could do little more than squint. But he raised his face to the sun anyway, letting his eyes fall closed. It was hot as an oven, and the light and the heat felt good.

In a newspaper stand on the curb, the Gazette from Colorado Springs was dated August 29th. It had been just over three months. Sam paused, his moment of basking in the sun forgotten. Only three months. It had felt like lifetimes. It had felt like moments. It had felt like...

Sam turned away from the newspaper stand, from the shop, and started walking.

*

There wasn't darkness. There wasn't light. There wasn't fire or ice or blood or tortured souls or anything he'd been told or had nightmares about.

There was just...nothing. The nothing of the semi-arid desert of the southwest, when a person stopped by the side of a never-traveled two-lane highway in the middle of nowhere and there was only vast, flat, empty scrubland as far as the eye could see. Sam was walking in that nothing, and he'd always been walking, forever and ever, and he couldn't (wasn't allowed to) stop. The sound of his footsteps against hard earth, gravel, and dust was the only noise--there was no buzz of insects, no rustle of wind, no calling of any animal, no deep, rumbling growl of an engine. Above him the sky was endless, unending dusk, never getting any lighter or darker; the stars were streaks instead of points, like someone had grasped the celestial sphere and twisted it, then frozen it all in place.

*

Sometimes, many times, it occurred to Sam that, for a Winchester, being completely alone was the true Hell.

*

Sam saw a building in the distance. It wasn't that it had become visible on the horizon as he drew nearer; one moment there was absolutely nothing there other than the sparse brush and short, dry grasses, and the next moment, there it was.

It was run-down, a ruined shell of cement or adobe, or cement faking that it was adobe, and as he got closer Sam could see that much of the paint was worn away, only a little of white remaining. "Bar & Grill" was mostly still there, yellow text over orange, but nothing was left of whose bar and grill it had been. The windows were simply open holes in the wall, as was the door, and eventually Sam could see through them to the skeletons of old, abandoned, upturned furniture inside.

He found himself drawn toward the building, feet veering toward it without him consciously thinking about going there. But then as Sam neared, the windows and door suddenly glowed with an intense, red light--a bright, cherry red (like the Kool-Aid Dean made for him when he was a boy, like the popsicles Dean would sometimes bring home to him during those childhood summers before he was taken along on Dad and Dean's hunts)--and Sam stopped. Standing there before the building as it glowed, he felt his breath quicken, his palms grow damp, his heart skip faster until all but racing. He wanted to go in that building. The feeling had come upon him from out of nowhere, but now he knew for certain that he absolutely, more than anything, wanted to go in.

Yet at the same time, he feared it more than anything he'd ever feared before; feared entering that building more than anything he'd faced in life, Heaven, or Hell, more even than risking death again and again. He feared going in more than he had the gaping, swirling black hole in the ground at Stull Cemetery.

Sam swallowed hard, breathed deeply, one long breath and then another. He wiped damp palms against his jeans, flexed his hands slowly, and then drew them into fists. His jaw clenched, and he stared at the abandoned ruins of the bar and grill, as resolute and determined as when he'd stared down Lucifer in the reflection of that cracked mirror so long, not that long, ago.

Sam was done being ruled by fear, just as much as he was done being ruled by anger.

One step, two steps, another and another--and then he walked through the door, into the red.

*

He stumbled, not expecting flat pavement where there had been uneven gravel and scrub before. For a moment, inside had been the Roadhouse but at the same time had been every diner he'd walked into with Dad and Dean, with Dean, without Dean, then it wasn't any of those things at all. And Sam instead found himself standing in the middle of a night-quiet suburban street, and he knew that house in front of him with the black car in the driveway. He knew it.

Drawn like a child to the window of a toy store despite himself, Sam took careful steps closer, closer, until he could see inside, a nearby streetlight popping and going out as he passed. There was Dean, with Lisa and Ben, and oh god, there was Dean. Something ached in his chest, something happy and lost and needing and overjoyed all at once, and he felt his throat tighten and his eyes fill--and he knew then what he had to do.

He turned away. Dean...Dean was where he needed to be right now. And Sam....

Sam felt himself stumble again, staggered, found his footing--then all the lights in the neighborhood went out. Streetlights, houselights, everything flickered dark.

And Sam lost himself for awhile.

It would be months before he found himself again, but years before he remembered any of this first time he'd returned to the house in Cicero, Indiana.

*

It happened a lot, after that time in Colorado--coming back to himself, never really quite sure where he'd ended up that time. There was a Wal-Mart in Arkansas, a Flying J Travel Plaza near Billings, a Casey's in Iowa, a 7-Eleven in Texas. And at each place, when his head cleared and Sam realized he was himself again, power was out or at least flickering, with people always muttering to themselves, "Isn't it the damnedest thing? No storms.... The taxes we pay you'd think they could put some money into the infrastructure! What's it gonna take before they fix things up in this town, the end of the world or something?"

Sometimes he hitched rides for short distances, when he could between episodes, but often he walked. There was no way he was going to try driving with him being...however, whatever he was these days. Sometimes he hustled, pool or poker, for money, but only just enough to get by. Too often he'd come back to himself with nothing, and no idea if what cash he'd had had been stolen, or if he'd already spent it, or if he'd been so out of it that he'd just left it somewhere.

Sam never stayed very long in one place. There definitely wasn't any point to that either.

*

Whatever was happening to Sam didn't seem to be getting any worse, and at times he thought it might be getting better--longer periods of lucidity in between, less confusion when he found his way back to himself again, and sometimes only just blinks in the power wherever he ended up. Maybe it was all finally going away.

The entire time he was traveling, drifting, he kept feeling the pull to go to Cicero, even though he always resisted it, and was always thankful (and a bit guilty to be feeling thankful) when he came to in some town that wasn't Cicero. But when several months stretched out and he still hadn't lost time, hadn't caused any freakish power outages, Sam started to think that he could finally, finally see Dean again. Just for a visit. Not to disturb the life Dean had no doubt finally established for himself, but just...just so they could finally see each other. So Dean wouldn't be left thinking Sam was in Hell, and so Sam could ease the feeling of missing Dean he always carried with him (that he swore he could feel even when he had been lost and not aware of anything else at all).

It was dark when he arrived, a warm spring night near the end of May, and he hadn't meant to be coming back nearly a year after the day they'd sent Lucifer back to Hell. But Sam had waited so long, and he just couldn't bring himself to put it off any more just to avoid seeming like he was marking an anniversary.

Walking up to the house, Sam ignored the slight feeling of déjà vu that prickled over him, instead feeling almost reassured that the streetlight above him remained on, shining solidly, without a flicker. The lamplight spilling out of the Braeden--Braeden and Winchester, that was--home was warm and welcoming, and Sam felt a tightness in his heart he hadn't even known was there ease. He reached out to knock, then paused for a long moment, knuckles resting against the wood of the front door. One steadying breath later, Sam went to rap the pattern he had always used when returning to his and Dean's motel room...and then things just went wrong.

*

It was the worst episode Sam had ever had.

This time, he felt like he was out of it only shallowly, weaving in and out of consciousness and awareness like someone breaking the surface of water only to be pulled back under, over and over. There were voices shouting, and in one moment of perfect, beautiful clarity, Sam could hear Dean swearing, could hear Lisa's shout of "Oh, my god!" and "Ben, get back!", and Sam could see again, he was there, with them. It was black, pitch black dark--the room they were in, maybe the whole house, the street and as far as he could see of the city in that deep-gasping moment he caught a glance out of the living room window (out of, oh god, he was inside, he was with them, with Dean). But then there was blue light--bright, arcing, electric blue light--snapping and crackling like lightning, and it was all over him, covering him, lashing out to every corner of the room, and oh god, it had never happened like that before.... Distantly, he heard boyish laughter, heard Ben say, "Whoa, cool!" even as Lisa yelled, "Damn it, Ben, I said get back!" He wasn't sure if it made him want to laugh or maybe cry, or maybe a bit of both.

But then there were arms around him, not holding him down, but holding him, wrapped tight around him as if to anchor Sam. And there was Dean's voice again, "It's okay. It's okay, dude. Everything's fine, you're gonna be okay now, Sammy. I'm here." Sam reached up with shaking, tremoring, trembling hands and grabbed onto those arms; and even as the power surged and snapped and sparked out of him, Sam held on to where Dean held him, and he held on, and he held on, and he held on.

*

The next time Sam came back to himself, he was riding shotgun in the Impala. A weak drizzle misted the windshield as Skynyrd played quietly on the radio, and there was Dean, thumbs lightly drumming against the steering wheel. For a moment, Sam wondered if something had happened during the gap in his memory, if the power going out of control had finally been too much for his body to handle, and if this was Heaven. He stared unabashedly. Dean looked...Dean looked calm. Sam tried to remember the last time he'd seen him look like that.

A series of billboards flashed by along the right, patriotism and commercialism bright against the flat, gray sky: fireworks of all kinds for sale in Rock Port, Missouri, last chance to buy. Sam's head twitched as he turned to look out of reflex, mind suddenly flashing back decades to that time he and Dean had stopped in Rock Port for what had seemed like the biggest box of fireworks ever, on their way to meet up with Dad in Joplin. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of motion as Dean shifted, and Sam huffed a horse laugh despite himself as Dean then did the most amazing, almost full-body double take.

"Jesus, Sam. Welcome back to the land of the living."

Sam had to swallow against a sudden tightness in his throat at words that carried so much meaning--as well as a bit of an edge. The calmness that Dean had shown moments before had disappeared into muscles gone coiled, his expression intense, though mixed with a bit--a lot--of older-sibling exasperation and maybe even something like eagerness. Sam stumbled over words, too many things that wanted to be said tangling in his mind, not the least of which was Thank you and I'm sorry, until he finally stammered, "I'm so glad to be home."

Just like that, they were pulling off onto the shoulder, and Dean was up and out of the car, half-jogging around the front of the Impala. He pulled up on the door's handle even as Sam pushed it open from inside, and then Dean's hands were twisted in the cloth of Sam's coat and his flannel shirt beneath, pulling him up out of the car and....

It'd been a long, long time since they'd hugged each other after Dean had returned from Hell. Sam supposed they were finally due. Wrapping his arms around Dean, he returned the tight embrace there under the light, spitting rain, and let himself lean on his older brother.

*

It happened one last time; but this time it was weak and over quickly, like hearing one final, quiet grumble of thunder in the distance after a storm raged and then moved on. Sam felt sort of like he'd dozed off only to blink awake moments later, though when he checked his watch, it was dead, as was usual after these things. Sam hadn't bothered with a watch that was more than bottom-of-the-barrel-dollar-store since he'd come back, not even when he'd been all but destitute and had had to resort to shoplifting one.

But it couldn't have been that long, he supposed. They were pulled over to the side of the road, and Dean lounged against the front fender of the Impala, relaxed, seemingly no different than any other time he'd needed a short break from driving and basked under the afternoon sun to unwind. The passenger door creaked as Sam unfolded himself, stretching muscles and joints gone stiff from sitting too long. A few steps and he settled back against the Impala's hood next to Dean, nodding his thanks as Dean passed him over a bottle of beer from the cooler next to him. It dripped condensation, as did the one Dean had mostly finished. Sam's eyebrows arched a bit, and he shrugged to himself as he popped off the cap. It would be a bit longer of a break then, and they'd obviously been there a while already.

"So...," he finally said after taking a deep draw from the bottle.

"Yeah," Dean answered, voice wry. "You got the battery. Alternator, too. Lucked out and was referred to a guy over in Moline that's got the parts and a flatbed truck if switching those ends up not being enough. But it'll be a couple hours 'til he can get here."

Sam winced, felt his shoulders hunch up slightly. "Huh. Um, sorry about that." Dean gave a loose shrug.

"Eh, whatever. It's nothing to get your pants in a twist about." He swirled the remaining beer in his bottle, then drained the last of it. "Lisa's still got me listed on her AAA membership anyway, so we might as well make use of it." Then Dean scowled, slugging Sam in the shoulder as Sam snorted a short laugh into his drink. "Shut up, dumbass. She insisted."

"What's next, Dean? The AARP?" Sam couldn't help the dumb grin on his face as Dean shoved him, rolling his eyes.

"Fine, whatever, dude. See if I do anything nice for you again, if you sassing me is the reward I get. Shoulda just left you to do your sparky plasma lamp routine out on the curb with a sign saying 'Free Puppy' taped to your back."

Sam felt his expression go soft, which didn't help refute the stupid puppy wisecrack, but damn it, he felt so grateful. Dean should by all rights have done something like that, but of course he hadn't, simply because he was Dean, and that's the way he always had been and always would be about Sam.

"Aw, jeez," Dean muttered, "don't start the teary thank you thing again. We've already been over that."

And they had been. After the time Sam's head had cleared and he'd discovered himself once again riding with Dean, they'd had all the time in the world to talk--or rather, for Dean to grill him over anything and everything that Sam could remember since he'd gotten out of Hell. There were so many blank spots, so many gaps, that Sam couldn't fill in, but he'd done the best he could--after all, he'd owed Dean, so much. He'd interspersed explanation with thanks, time and again, until Dean had finally threatened to shove him out of the car, and no, he didn't mean after stopping.

Maybe Sam hadn't been fully in control of himself, hadn't known where he was or where he was going from one moment to the next, but now that Dean knew he was back, had seen what was happening to him, no way, absolutely no way was Dean going to allow Sam to go through it alone. He was going to be there to watch over Sam, and that was that. When he'd said that to Sam on the roadside, after the hug had given way to just hands firmly, solidly grasping Sam's shoulders, it was stated with such challenge, such finality, that he hadn't even tried to protest.

"Yeah, well," Sam shrugged, slowly rolling his half-full bottle of beer between his palms. He skirted away from words like thanks, appreciate, grateful. Dean had obviously had more than his preferred recommended daily allowance. He finally settled on, "It's been nice being out on the road again."

Turning his gaze out to where the two-lane highway disappeared into a bend far at the horizon, Dean hummed his assent. Sam had known he wouldn't complain at Sam saying something like that.

"Certainly beat the alternative of letting you keep wreaking havoc in suburbia," he eventually replied, and Sam couldn't help but agree.

They fell into a comfortable silence as they continued to wait in the mellow, humid midsummer warmth. As he finished off his beer, Sam pondered. The one thing Dean hadn't said, not back when he'd told Sam he was going to watch over him, and not now, was "until this stops happening to you". He hadn't said that, or "until you get better", or anything similar. Yet Sam didn't feel like Dean thought it would go on forever. When they'd discussed what was happening to Sam, both agreed that it seemed like something that would eventually fade. Like static electricity or the charge in the air during a lightning storm, it would most likely eventually bleed away, discharge whatever had overloaded Sam until there was nothing left.

But the word until simply never came up at all. It occurred to Sam that the word after was never mentioned either.

*

Once upon a time, he used to say that he was on a road trip with his brother, and in time, it became the truth. They played tourist as days passed into weeks and weeks passed into months. They saw twine balls and replicas of Stonehenge made out of cars; went to the Four Corners--where Colorado, Utah, New Mexico, and Arizona met up in one spot--and to The Wall; they saw a windmill and a giant (frighteningly anatomically correct) cement statue of a bull in Iowa; they went to Graceland, to Jimmy Hendrix's grave, to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame museum; they went to the Grand Canyon. They still stayed at run-down motels, still hung out in dive bars and hustled pool, never running out of big-talking egos that deserved to lose their cash. But they always went from place to place without any particular destination in mind, no task planned beyond seeing the sights and experiencing America.

Sam wondered how to tell his brother that he missed hunting.

Not that he intended to drag Dean back into it, definitely not that. But over six months had gone by since that last...flicker, or whatever it was, in the Impala, and Sam was fine. There was no doubt about it this time. He felt clear-headed and lucid, in control, and the only restlessness that crept over him any more was the itch to search newspaper headlines, go to libraries, interview people, get back to business.

It was ironic: all his life, Sam had fought to do something else, to live another way, and now...now he felt called to choose to hunt again. Not because he had to, because someone told him he should; not because he needed to, because rage and vengeance or even the end of the world demanded it--but simply because he wanted to. And that meant making sure Dean went back to Cicero, back to Lisa, back to Ben. It was time for Dean to go home.

They were driving through Kentucky, sticking to southern states because the weather didn't suck as much there (Dean had pondered seeing that one parade on Thanksgiving Day, but when the blizzard had hit New York, they'd both said screw it--though Dean still kept mentioning going to Time Square for the ball drop on New Year's Eve). It was already halfway through December, but when Sam saw the interstate sign for the junction with I-65 north, it hit him how quickly they could be in Cicero. Dean could easily be home and settled back in in time for Christmas.

He claimed hunger, and Dean pulled off at the next exit where there was a diner named--cleverly enough--EAT combined with a gas station. As they lingered over surprisingly good coffee afterwards and Sam tried to think of the right way to bring up what he'd been thinking about, opportunity presented itself as perfectly as a slice of pie on a plate. Dean's cell rang, and his face brightened when he saw the caller ID. "Lisa! Hey!"

Sam smiled to himself and subtly gestured to their waitress to refill their coffee. From Dean's relaxed sprawl in the booth across from him, and the cheerful, easygoing nature of at least his side of the conversation, it seemed that all was well, and she was calling just to socialize. They called each other fairly often, and if Sam didn't hear Dean say "I love you" or anything like that, it wasn't a surprise. That was just how Dean was. But Sam would often excuse himself for the restroom, or leave whatever motel room they were in to grab something from the pop or snack machine, to give Dean the privacy to say those sorts of things if he wanted. And after he finished his coffee, Sam did just that, first heading for the restroom, then picking up the check and going to the register to pay.

By the time he returned, Dean seemed to be wrapping up the call, and Sam gave a half-wave, grinning when Dean said, "Oh yeah, and Sam says hi," into the phone. Dean said his goodbyes, seeming to agree to something as he did, flipping the phone closed as Sam carefully placed the money for the tip under his empty mug.

"Sounds like things are going well. You think we should stop by for a visit soon?"

"Actually, yeah." Dean drank his coffee, throat working as he quickly finished it. "She harassed me for not coming by for Thanksgiving, made me promise that we'd drop by in a week so she could at least have us there for Christmas dinner."

"Sounds awesome." He knew he was smiling wide, but it really did. Sam could barely remember anything from the last time he had been there, and he very much wanted to spend some time with the two people that were so important to his brother. Then he mentally braced himself, fidgeting just a little as he adjusted his coffee mug on top of the tip. "I was thinking that actually might be a good time...." He looked up and trailed off at Dean's frown.

"What?" Dean's expression smoothed and he arched his eyebrows, becoming instantly the perfect picture of a good listener.

"Well. I just figured. I mean, I thought both of you might know some people up there who could maybe give me a good deal on a car. And I could find a place nearby, use it as a home base so I could keep in touch easily and visit whenever I was back in the area, make it easy for you to keep tabs on me so you knew I was okay, and god, this is really coming out sounding wrong, I can tell." Dean's eager listener expression had gone as flat as an annoyed cat's, and Sam rubbed his hands over his face then through his hair, brushing his thick bangs back with a deep sigh.

"Sick of me or something, Sammy?"

"No! No, hell no, Dean. I--"

"Sure seems like it."

"No, Dean, I...I just...this thing I've been dealing with, I'm really sure it's gone this time. I think I'm okay now, and I know you've got to miss Lisa like crazy, and she must really miss you, too. I know you left everything behind--her, Ben, your job. And I...I'm not trying to abandon you, Dean. I just thought you might want to finally go home."

There was a beat of silence, and then Dean blinked. "You dumbass," he drawled, reaching across the table to cuff Sam lightly on the side of the head, "I am home."

Sam glanced around the EAT diner before he could stop himself, and Dean reached over to smack him again, Sam swatting his hand away as he did, reflexes ready for it this time. "Don't be stupid, stupid. Of course I don't mean right here. I mean with you. On the road, with you, in the Impala, that's home. I don't need to go home. I'm already there."

"But...but I don't understand." Sam's face scrunched in confusion. "I thought you'd want to get back to Lisa. You haven't seen her in...it's been months, Dean."

Realization suddenly dawned on Dean's face, and he grimaced slightly, looking chagrined. "You thought...Sam, Lisa and I aren't, you know, together."

"You're not?"

"Ah, no. Well, we were, at first. But that was a long time ago, and we're not now. We haven't been involved for a while, even before you showed up."

Sam shook his head, befuddled. "But you were there, with her and Ben, at her house. That's why I went there...."

"Well, yeah. I had my own place by then, but I visited a lot." He shrugged. "We're good friends, Sam, of course I hung out with her and Ben. It gave me something to do other than just stew in my own juices and think about you. Even got me to eventually focus on them instead of on drinking myself numb and dumb every night."

"Oh. I guess I just always assumed, I mean, I thought..."

"Yeah," Dean gave a crooked smile, "me, too. That's one of those funny things about normal life, when you spend more than a day or few around someone. Sometimes you discover you actually make better friends than a couple."

"Huh."

"Exactly." Dean quieted, looking thoughtful as he gazed out of the diner's streaky windows. "I guess," he started again, after a few long moments, "it's just cool to have another friend, you know? Someone that cares, that'll have our backs, even if just for regular life stuff."

That took Sam aback, and he paused to think--he couldn't remember the last time Dean had had a friend, a normal, regular friend who wasn't connected to hunting or to their Dad. Sam had had all of his friends at Stanford, and sure he'd lost contact with pretty much all of them, but it had been his choice to eventually let them all go. Dean...Dean hadn't had anyone like that for such a long time. He'd eventually at least had Bobby and Castiel, but then he'd lost them, and then he'd lost Sam.... So Lisa hadn't worked out--he definitely could understand why Dean would be so glad to still have her as a good friend, despite not getting what he'd so hoped for and dreamed about.

Something about his thoughts must have reflected on his face, because when he looked back up Dean was arching an eyebrow at him. "You're going all watery-eyed. What's going on in that huge skull of yours?"

His skin prickled as he flushed, and Sam looked away, swallowing back the emotion that tightened his throat. "I just...I'm really glad she was there for you, you know, after. And I'm really happy that you still have her for a friend, especially since, I mean, I'd, god, I'd forgotten about Bobby and Cas, I don't even know how I could have done that. But it's cool that you've gained someone in your life instead...instead of the opposite."

Across from him, Dean had gone very, very still. He looked like he'd frozen, eyes wide, and for a moment Sam wondered if he was even breathing.

"Um. Dean?" Was it something he'd said?

"Son of a--" Dean bit off a curse, then proceeded to swear a storm under his breath. Then he was up on his feet, all but dragging Sam out of the booth and through the diner's doors.

"Dean?" Sam dug in his heels, forcing his brother to stop. "What-what the hell, man?"

"I. Am. A dead man."

"Jesus, don't joke like that, Dean."

"No, seriously. He's going to kill me. You're going to kill me. You two are gonna get together and kick my ass so freaking hard!"

"Dean! Dean!" Sam finally grabbed his brother, manhandling him to pull Dean's hands away from where they were clutching his head, holding him by the biceps to still his sudden, frantic pacing. "Start making sense. Who's going to kill you?"

Dean closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When he looked back up at Sam, his expression was so openly apologetic that Sam drew back, startled. "Bobby's alive, Sam. Cas, too." And he said something more, but Sam couldn't really hear right for the almost wind-rushing noise in his ears.

He must have looked as wobbly as he felt, because suddenly Dean's hands were grasping his arms instead of the reverse and he was being led somewhere. A creak and the smell of leather, the feeling of a familiar seat beneath him, and Sam felt anchored, steadied. He looked up from where he was leaning over, elbows on his knees and feet on the parking lot's asphalt, into Dean's concerned gaze.

"You're not...?" Dean made an incomprehensible gesture that he guessed somehow related to his old "power surge" problems.

"No. No, I'm-I'm fine. Just...stunned, I guess." Sam rubbed at his temples, trying to clear the last of the dizziness. "They're alive? They're okay?"

"Doing dandy. Cas is wrangling the angels until they all fall back in line, and Bobby's...he's great, he's still walking. Last I heard he was even hunting again. Someone fixed everything, I dunno, God maybe, after...after the gate closed. Them, me, everything. Except you. And Adam."

Sam shook his head, "No, they fixed Adam, too, I think. And Michael. I remember there was a flash of light just after everything went dark. Then it was just me. And I don't remember much else after that point."

"Well then, I guess it was literally everything except you." Dean broke off, hand rubbing the back of his neck as he turned away. "And I meant it. He is going to so kick my ass when he finds out you've been back all this time. I was...I let myself get caught up in you being back again, and taking care of you, and trying to decide if your...your thing was something that was gonna go away or if it was permanent. And I didn't want to take you to his place in case you thought we were going to try to put you back in the panic room or something. Not to mention I didn't want to risk you taking out his generator. But...."

"You've talked to him, right?" Dean wouldn't meet Sam's eyes. "Dean?"

"I've talked with him." He looked cagey, then outright winced when Sam raised his eyebrows inquiringly. "A few days before you came to Cicero."

"Dude."

"Yeah."

"And he didn't call you?"

There was another wince. "There may have been a message or two. You kinda fried my phone a few times, and by the time I replaced the battery, I, uh, might've forgotten to return the calls."

"He's so going to kick your ass."

"Yeah."

*

They'd started driving towards South Dakota even before Dean got hold of Bobby. And when he finally did.... Sam timed it at thirty-seven minutes, fourteen seconds before he stopped hearing the sound of tinny yelling from the other side of the Impala while Dean occasionally said, "I know. I know." (it was nice to have a decent watch again, and be able to rely on it remaining functional for a good, long time).

Eventually Dean passed him the cell phone, saying, "Here, someone wants to talk to you." He then proceeded to rub his ear (which he claimed for the next two days to be deaf in) while Sam got to hear their old friend's voice for the first time since Stull Cemetery. Which was fine, because it meant Dean was somewhat distracted and didn't see the couple of times Sam had to surreptitiously dry his eyes.

Lisa was extremely understanding when Dean phoned and explained he and Sam had someone they needed to see before they came to Cicero. By the face Dean made, Sam wondered if she maybe laughed at him a bit when she heard the reason why. But they spent Christmas and the week after at Bobby's place and were able to make it to Cicero just after New Year's.

And Sam still had the picture of when Bobby smacked Dean so hard upside the head that it'd snapped Dean's head sharp to the right--and left him complaining about whiplash for almost a week--saved as the wallpaper on his new smartphone. (He'd needed a replacement cell anyway, now that he trusted himself not to kill the battery and hard drive. Plus, Bobby said between the two of them, maybe he'd actually be able to get in contact with an idjit once in a while.)

*

A month and a half later, a hunt all but fell right in their laps. They'd driven south again to avoid February doing its usual thing to most of the north and stumbled into reading about it on someone's discarded newspaper at a rest stop in Oklahoma. It was so easy--a simple salt and burn that barely even required research, where everyone they talked to was friendly and gave information freely, and their first hunts when they'd been kids had been more difficult--that there was no way they could turn their backs on it and claim to be just road tripping.

And so there they were, digging up a grave in a pioneer cemetery. The soil gave easily, the spirit involved didn't bother to show up, and there was only a bit of a breeze so Sam knew the fire would start quickly and last as long as they needed it to with no problems. Down in the hole, he could hear Dean start to whistle--The Allman Brothers' Rambling Man--and when Sam looked up, the night sky was so clear he could see stars out to forever.

Which was exactly when Dean nailed him in the face with a shovelful of dirt, then crowed triumphantly about a "three-pointer". Sam sputtered and shouted, "Jerk!", but couldn't stop himself from laughing.

Without missing a beat, Dean retorted, "Bitch!" And some last remaining piece inside of Sam clicked right into place. He was grinning ear to ear when he reached down to help his brother out of the hole, and Dean looked at him like maybe Sam was a bit of a lunatic, or simple, or both, but that didn't make Sam grin any less. Then there was the hiss of salt pouring, the acrid smell of lighter fluid and smoke, the flare of firelight, and Sam felt like he finally fit right in his own skin again.

"Doing the tourist thing's fun," he said. "But...sometimes it feels good for the vacation to end and to get back to your job."

"I was wondering when you were finally gonna man up and say something," Dean smirked back at him.

"What, you knew?"

"It was only a little obvious when you kept making eyes at the laptop. Thought I was gonna have to leave it on your pillow and let you two have some 'alone time'." Waggling his eyebrows, he bumped Sam's shoulder with his. Which meant that Sam had to shoulderbump him back, laughing as Dean staggered several steps, swearing about sasquatches and overgrown little brothers.

Yeah. This was what he wanted. This was the life Sam chose for himself.

*

Spring came and went, as did summer and most of fall. Mid-October found them at a pumpkin patch in southeast Nebraska, where a cheesy but family-friendly haunted house managed to somehow become haunted for real. Dealing with the situation resulted in only minor bruising (both of them), a splinter in an unfortunate finger (Dean, and how he loved showing said finger to Sam before finally removing it), and a twisted knee (Sam). And since J. Alfred Prufrock's credit card had already paid their rather steep entrance fees into the attraction--seriously, ten dollars (each!) to see kitsch and pumpkins?--they figured they might as well wander around the place afterward. The fact that there was stand after stand of food for sale was, okay, probably a contributing factor.

They'd already stopped by the smoked turkey leg vendor, had gotten kettle corn and homemade fudge, and then checked out the funnel cake stand where Dean bought some monstrosity with everything they allowed to be glopped onto it plus a dusting of powdered sugar. Then after watching--no lie--pig races, Dean had nudged him over to the barn with its café that offered chili in bread bowls, pumpkin pie, and the root beer in brown glass bottles that Sam never admitted to liking but really did.

The lines out of the barn were long and slow-moving, so in deference to his complaining knee, Sam had been left to wait at a battered, worn picnic table outside. It'd been awhile, but Dean finally made it inside, and Sam relaxed as he waited, sitting on a bench as he leaned against the table, one leg stretched out before him.

The air was crisp and chilled just enough to feel like almost Halloween without being uncomfortably cold, and was hazy with bonfire smoke. Inhaling the scent of it, Sam pondered how fragrant burning wood could be when it didn't carry the tang of anything else. The babble of voices surrounded him, kids and parents and couples and friends all trying to be heard over each other, and Sam nearly missed the one voice speaking to him until it addressed him by name.

"I said, how are you, Sam Winchester?"

He startled slightly, turning to see a young girl standing a few feet away. She looked to be elementary school-aged, eight or nine at most, with a Spongebob t-shirt visible through her unzipped jacket, grass stains on her jeans, and tousled brown hair pulled back into a messy pony-tail. Tensing, Sam pushed himself fluidly to his feet, one hand going to the handle of the knife hidden in its belt-sheath beneath his coat.

But then she giggled, saying, "Fear not," and Sam felt his eyebrows raise. She tilted her head as she smiled at him, just so, and he wondered-- "No, I'm not Castiel. But I've been sent by him."

"Wow. Okay. Um, hi." Sam sat back down, coming down to her eye-level instinctively, even though it occurred to him belatedly that an angel probably didn't care how tall he was compared to her (or him). "How is he?"

"He's well, thank you. Very busy, as I'm sure you're aware, which is why he's asked me to speak with you instead of doing so himself. He sends his regards, and wishes to know how you and Dean are faring."

"We're good. We're doing fine. We've been hunting, but I suppose you all know that." Sticking his hands in his pockets, Sam tried to think of something meaningful to pass along to Castiel, wishing angels that weren't Cas didn't still leave him feeling intimidated and insignificant--even when they were only about four feet tall. He let out a gusting breath, "I, uh, had some issues when I got back from Hell, but I'm doing okay now. No relapsing or anything. And we're both healthy, pretty much, so yeah, we're good."

"Is Dean happy?" She bounced on her heels as she asked, as if full of too much energy like any typical child.

Sam nodded emphatically. "He is. And I am, too." That he could answer with sureness and certainty.

"That's exactly the question I was to ask next, and exactly the answers we were hoping to hear." With a kid's exaggerated wink, she turned away, and Sam called out to her quickly, before she could go.

"Wait! Please." He stood again, stepping closer to her when she paused and turned back to face him. "I don't know if you can answer this, but I have to ask."

The girl looked up at him expectantly, nodding as if to prompt him.

"When...when Dean was in Hell, Castiel pulled him out. And after we sent Lucifer back to Hell, after I jumped in, someone brought Bobby and Castiel back to life and healed Dean. And someone took Adam and Michael from Hell while we were falling, but...." Sam trailed off. Asking the question, just...now that he was finally saying out loud the thought that had whispered in the back of his mind for so long, it seemed so self-centered, so petulant.

"But why not you?" Her voice was calm and gentle, and when he looked in her eyes, he saw none of the judgment he was sure he deserved. She reached her hands up, and at her look he placed his hands in hers. She grasped his fingers firmly. "Samuel Winchester, you are beloved of our Father, and even when you were most lost, He always heard you. And so He knows better than anyone else that, in your heart, you feel you are always needing to be rescued--even from yourself. So while it was fine to rescue others like your brothers, Robert Singer, even Castiel and Michael, He knew it would be of most value to you for you to be able to save yourself."

Sam stared down at her. "So, in Hell...?"

"We gave you a doorway. But He knew what you needed was to walk through it on your own." With that, the girl let go of one of his hands, using his other to twirl a pirouette. Then she darted away, giggling, once again more child than angel. Abruptly she stopped and ran a few steps back, calling, "Tell Dean that Castiel said it doesn't have to be or! There can be both peace and freedom!" Finally, after waving wildly and yelling "Bye!", she bounded away, pony-tail bouncing as she ran. He saw her slow as she caught up to a red-haired woman in the distance, the girl reaching up for the woman's hand before Sam lost sight of them both in the crowd.

"Found yourself a girlfriend?" A plastic tray overloaded with food clattered as Dean set it on the picnic table. "Sammy, you swinger, you!" He ruffled Sam's hair and made a goofy, toothy grin.

"Yes, Dean. Because I totally like hitting on grade school girls." Taking his share of the food off the tray, he grabbed Dean's slice of pie as well as his own in retaliation, smirking at Dean's outraged squawk.

His brother glowered at him, snatching back his slice of pie. "Well, I figured it was either that or you were comparing your Barbie doll collections. But I was trying to give you the benefit of the doubt that you'd outgrown that sort of thing." The glower changed to an outright scowl when Sam popped the cap off his root beer bottle at just the right angle to bounce off Dean's forehead, and Sam cackled.

"No really," Sam continued as he started to eat, "Cas wanted to check on us."

Dean's jaw dropped, and Sam really hadn't wanted to see chili in quite that state. Dean gulped hard, muttering, "Damn, that's a new look for him."

Sam snorted, shaking his head. "He's really busy, so he sent someone to see how we were doing."

"What, angels get personal assistants now?"

"When you're Cas, I guess you do." They both made Who knew? faces at each other before returning to their food. "Anyway. She said that he said hi, and wanted to know how we were doing. So I told her we were fine. Then she said he wanted to know if we were happy." Sam skipped a certain part of the conversation, but he had a feeling that was something Dean wouldn't begrudge him keeping close to his heart.

"And what'd you say to that?"

"Yes." His brother smiled the way Sam liked best: the small but real one that deepened the crinkling lines at the corner of his eyes. Sam found himself smiling the same way back, even has he took a drink to hide it. Like he needed to give his brother more ammunition for his Sam's-a-girl teasing. "Oh, and he asked her to give you a message, too. Something about how it's not 'or.' That there can be both peace and freedom."

"I caught that last bit, when I was coming back." Dean grew quiet, looking thoughtful. He toyed with the corner of the label on his water bottle, peeling it back where it was curling away from the plastic. "I think I agree with him," he said finally.

Sam regarded his brother for a moment. He thought back on his life, on both of their lives; considered how things used to be, and how they were now. "Yeah. Me, too."

Dean held out his water bottle, eyes crinkling at the corners again, and Sam lifted his own bottle to tap against it, glass against plastic. Raising them in salute to each other, they drank a silent toast before returning their attention to their food as the crowds of people continued to bustle noisily around them.

*

And just a little something extra for you all:

There and Back Again: a mini-soundtrack
tabafic music postcard