Archive of Our Own

For a moment, everything is so dark Dean thinks the last couple of months have been a dream. Nothing more than a delusion from his exhausted mind and body that has been running from the danger for as long as he can remember; always in a constant vigil from what hides in the cold dark. He's still in Purgatory, and as soon he finishes waking up and getting his bearings, he'll hear the oh-so-familiar growls in the deadly silence.

Sam is not here. Sam never got him back.

As awareness creeps on him, the first thing to hit him is the smell. Something familiar and overwhelming but he can't quite identify yet. Opening his eyes is a bit of a task, they feel as if they were glued shut and became led while they were closed.

The image that comes to focus after the blur of green and black has Dean confused for a moment. He follows the up and down rhythm of the neon green line surrounded by numbers and symbols he can barely make sense of. A continuous sound of beeping seems to come from the screen-like object, in compass with the moving line. There is a pole holding a half-empty bag of clear liquid, and behind there is another smaller bag similar in its contents with the other.

His eyes focus next on the window, curtain flowing softly by the whisper of the warm wind. Far away, the sky shines with the bright rays of the sun, turning the blue into a vibrant contrast against the white of the clouds.

Not in Purgatory, then.

Dean follows his inspection to the already familiar white walls with the random painting. The door waits past the far end of his bed, where he can see his feet making a tent on the also white blanket. Nothing on the other wall, but a table holding what he recognizes as medical supplies and a trash can from where he can see the plastic disposable coffee cups. And then he sees the chair near his bed, empty except for the tan coat hugging the back of it.

Sam's coat.

Okay, he's in a hospital that much is obvious. Now it would be awesome if he could remember why he's in one this time.

Dean starts assessing his own body. It's painfully stiff, yet also so familiar with being in bed for too long that makes him wonder how long exactly has he been unconscious. He wiggles his toes, then moves both legs lightly. All good down there. Next, he moves his right hand, then his arms to scan his torso. All seems all right until he goes up nearing his left shoulder, shooting pain makes him stop moving until he takes a couple of deep breaths and the pain fades to a slow thumbing. Touching carefully this time, his fingers grace the Ace bandage covering part of his chest; moving down his upper arm, and probably would be going down to the rest of his arm. Except, there isn't anything else past where his elbow should be. Emptiness meets his fingers, and when he goes back up, he feels the end of his upper arm and the bandage padded with gauze.

Dean moves his hand away as if the bandage just burned him. He closes his eyes tightly, trying to control his now rapid breathing. His shaking hand, now clamping on the white sheet covering his chest. Calm down, he thinks over and over again. Distantly he can hear the beeping going erratic, and he knows somebody will show up soon if he doesn't take a hold of himself. That's the last thing Dean wants right at the moment. So he forces his heartbeat to slow down by taking deep breaths. He tries to remember their last hunt, but everything is a blur of confusing images... not enough to make sense of it.

He opens his eyes, now that he's not losing his shit, and forces himself to look down his arm. What he sees it's enough to almost send him to another panic attack, but he swallows down the rising bile threatening to take him down and detaches himself from the image of half his arm gone.

Fuck.

 2.

There was this time after he came back from Hell when he would look at the mirror and not recognize himself. Broken and haunted eyes staring right back looking for an answer that got lost way back in the pit. After that, for a long time that was all he saw. Some days dimmed down by the normality that made him feel at ease, and others with so much power threatened to choke him until he will look away and avoid mirrors for a while.

 But Purgatory changed that. Somehow, defending your life every single day was the best therapy he could ever have. He became a true fearless hunter because he refused to be the hunted. He refused to give up, not after all the crap in his life he had gone through. No fugly creature was going to take him down that easily; he would not give them that satisfaction. With that set of mind, then came the realization that he'd had after living with Lisa for a year and falling so easily back to hunting. That this is who he is and will always be until the day he dies with no miracle returns in sight, just settled down deeper and he became in peace with it.

There was no greater purpose to this hunting like it had always been since his mother died. Only staying alive. Instinct took over, and everything else became secondary. There was no sense of time to waste on counting the days, only the next monster getting a sniff of their scents to catch and kill. There were the quiet moments when he had no other choice but to deal with his own issues, and get past them because they all seemed so ordinary and weightless in the face of surviving another day.

When he came back, the first time he looked in the mirror, he liked for the first time what he saw. Someone with a purpose of his own. Not dad, not Sammy, not the demonic son of a bitch, or angels. All he had been before transformed him into what he wanted. What made him happy enough there was no need to wish for another kind of life anymore. It was enough to bury deep down all the screwed up things he'd lived in Purgatory, and even Hell. This was him, Dean Winchester finally accepting his own self.

But now, staring at himself in the mirror, he can see how that Dean has started to dissipate under his typical self-loathing body each day after being released from the hospital.

He's lost again.

As he looks, the sparkle of light goes off from his eyes in the mirror. He can't be sure he will make it back this time.

 3.

The worst thing is Sam.

Sam, who threats him like he isn't a waste of space in the motel room.

Sam, that for all the times that he has ran away, is still here patiently helping him with shit that a three year old could do better than him. It makes Dean's anger and despair grow faster. It's ridiculous how much missing a limb can fuck up your life even in the simplest things like brushing your own goddamn teeth. Even walking was an issue the first days, because Dean couldn't find his balance and now Sam walks next to him tensed, ready to catch his gimp brother.

No adult should need help to go to the bathroom, that's just...no.

There is also the way Sam looks at Dean sometimes, with his sad puppy eyes when he thinks Dean doesn't notices. Making him want to take his gun out of the trunk and just end it all, but he's not that much a coward, and Sam would never forgive him for it.

Most of all, he can't deal with the normality of all. How Sam keeps track of Crowley's where abouts, like they were doing before the black dog hunt gone wrong, and asks Dean for his input on what they should do to stop him before he manages to repopulate their realm with demons.

Dean doesn't give a fuck about Crowley, and he tells Sam exactly that. The subsequent slam of the front door that comes after used to make Dean panic that Sam will leave and never comeback. Funny how he actually wishes Sam will stop pretending and just leave him alone for good this time.

He knows he's not being fair to his brother, and that Sam is trying to make the best of it, but he doesn't care.

He doesn't care about anything anymore.

4.

“What exactly is it that you want, Dean?” Sam asks the next morning. He came back three hours later with a dinner that neither of them bothered to even eat, and went to bed without so much as saying a word obviously still pissed off at him.

Dean stares at his untouched cup of coffee, going lukewarm with every minute he spends inside his head. When he looks up, Sam is looking back sternly, waiting for an answer that won't come because Dean is looking but at the same time it's like he can't really see him.

“Dean, talk to me.”

There is nothing to talk about.

“Please, don't do this.” Sam begs, and it says how far gone Dean is that the broken tone on his brother's voice makes him feel nothing.

He doesn't care for feelings. He just wants to be a big pile of nothing.

“You need to leave.”

The words come out of his mouth, with this strange sensation of detachment, like he's not the one saying it. Like he has no control over his own mind.

“What?” Sam croaks, surprised. “You want me to leave?”

“Yes.”

“You're kidding right?”

“Why are you still here, Sammy?” Dean asks, voice soft and barely audible as he looks back down to the little waves forming in his cup every time the table moves.

Sam inhales loudly. “Why am I still here?” He growls, affronted.

Dean barely flinches, when the chair scrapes back and fall loudly on the wooden floor. The next thing he knows, he's being hauled from his chair until he's on his feet, Sam's hands fisted on his t-shirt.

“Stop it.” Sam shakes him. “Are you listening to me? You gotta stop this now.”

Dull eyes meet the pained and sad expression straight on. “Stop what? Being a gimp? Useless? Stop what, Sam?”

“Stop feeling sorry for yourself,” Sam shouts.

It would be so much easier if Sam would just let it all be. If he would stop fighting for the both of them. If he will stop trying to make Dean feel.

Dean lowers his gaze again, saying nothing.

“No, look. At. Me.” Sam pleads, and shakes him again when Dean ignores him. “You don't get to do that. You can't just check out. Not now, of all the times you could have-”

“Sam,”

“This wasn't your fault, neither was mine. It happened, and we deal with it just like we always do.”

That gets Dean's attention. “There is no dealing with it this time around.” He's surprised at the amount of anger he conveys in his voice, and he holds on to it like a lifeline because it's better than the void consuming him most of the day.

“We can find a solution.”

Dean snorts derisively. “Sorry to break it to you, but there is none. I can't hunt anymore Sam. That's the reality of it, and without hunting there is nothing worth keep going. I'm a hunter, that's what I'll always be. But now, I'm a sorry excuse of it.” He says motioning at his half arm. “I'm just baggage that no one should deal with. Not even you. All I will do out there is slow you down, and you well damn know that.”

Sam unfists his hands from the t-shirt and takes a step back. “So you're just going to spend the rest of your life like this? Lying on a motel room bed, sleeping and barely eating. Disconnected from everything surrounding you, because it's easier to just escape your reality?” Sam grinds out. “Is that what you want?”

Dean chuckles humorlessly, passing his hand over his face as he gives his back to Sam.

“You don't, and you know it. Because that's not you. The Dean I know, my brother, would find a way to make this work. Hell! You would be taking this proudly as a battle wound. Where is that Dean? And when this ghost took his place, huh?”

Dean turns back, jaw setting tight at the disappointment in his brother's face. It hurts more than he's willing to admit. “Fuck you ,  Sam.” He snarls, pushing pass the six-foot four tall fortress of muscle.

This time, he's the one that leaves, slamming the door for good measure. Running away from Sam and his words hitting so close to home. The truth that Dean has avoided so hard to think about since the incident.

Screw him, Sam doesn't know shit.

5.

It takes him a minute in the stew of his anger to realize the mistake he's made. He's outside, in plain view of anyone passing by. Dean hasn't been out since they drove to the motel from the hospital, and those few steps between the car and the motel room door had left him feeling exposed, vulnerable and weak.

He feels all that coming back, creeping over his skin like ants were running under it. Cold sweat breaks on his neck, and he can feel his hand shaking. But he refuses to go back inside, and deal with yet another down fall of his relationship with his brother. He walks fast, tensely looking around and pretending he doesn't see the red eyes between each corner until he finds the blind alley at the end of the motel building. He goes inside, passing the blue trashcan container to the end wall, and sits against it. Hidden from any intruder, Sam, and that old Dean screaming at him to stop being a pussy already.

Dean takes deep breaths, his hammering heart beating as if it will break through his ribcage and escape. He rubs idly at his hurting arm, massaging away the phantom pains that sometimes attack him during the day. He can feel a familiar tingly sensation in his tongue, he hasn't taken a drink since he came back, well except for the beer or two for recreation, but never to get drunk. All with the intentions of trying to start anew and be a better man that he has been the last few years. But right now he wished he had a bottle or two of whiskey to swallow down until he could forget what emotions are. If he had the whiskey at his reach the bottle would be empty already.

6.

Dean doesn't know how long he sits there, but it's long enough for the bright sunlight to dim and cast bigger and longer shadows over the alley. For the wind to become a frequent chill to soak through his bones, and his recovering arm to start protesting with real pain. He still doesn't move because he's not ready to confront the alternative.

But, he should have known his reprieve could only last for so long.

He hears a door slam shut, them some steps walking down to the parking lot. Sam's steps; Dean doesn't need to see him to recognize him. Sam slides down next to him a few minutes later, leaving enough personal space and somehow still managing to be close to Dean as possible. He doesn't say anything, and Dean stays quiet. Listening to the cars passing by on the road and the constant croak of birds- he saw a crow fly by earlier- on the park across the same road. It kind of lulls him to sleep, the familiar scent of his little brother and his body heat with the soft sounds of their surrounding. And for a minute, he can pretend everything is fine again. That they're not sitting on the cold concrete trying to come up with the right words to say and they're somewhere else less depressing than this.

“When you disappeared in that lab,” Sam voice startles Dean back to reality and he blinks the daze away trying to pay attention.

“I didn't know what I was going to do.” Sam keeps saying, his voice clipped with emotions he doesn't allow to take control and looking intently at the wall. “I didn't even knew if you were alive.” Sam shrugs non-comically, as if that possibility wouldn't be everything but. “So, I started looking for answers. Somebody had to know what the side effects of using that bone on Dick would cause.”

Dean nods, listening. Sam hadn't talked about the months he'd spent alone just as Dean hadn't talked about his time in Purgatory, as in mutual agreement that there were more important things to deal with at the moment than touchy-feely stuff.

“It took me some time, but I found this old shaman in some lost place in Arizona that told me everything I needed to know about what happened to you. Including the spell to bring you back.”

Almost a year, that's how much it had taken him. Dean had been surprised that so much time had passed because in Purgatory there was no sense of time. There was no sun and moon to count out the days passing by, only eternal darkness.

“What did he want in exchange?” Dean dares to ask, not fearing that it would be something to endanger Sam's life in the future because that was the first thing he had asked after waking up in a motel room bed, bloody and dirty, with his brothers eyes looking at him with relieve. And he had trusted Sam, to not do such a stupid thing. T hey promised each other: no deals and no bad mojo ever again. So, he let it go for the time being, because sooner or later they would be talking about it anyways.

“Nothing. Isn't that weird?” Sam laughs humorlessly. “At first, I though he was screwing with me, you know? 'Cause in our experience nothing comes for free. But when he explained to me what it would require to bring you back, I understood why he was so willing to give the information. I think he thought I wasn't going to try it. He obviously hasn't heard how crazy we Winchester's can be.” Sam snorts.

“What did you do?”

“I had to wait until the next New moon, so that gave me another month to find all the ingredients. It was only some herbs and stuff we use all the time.” Sam wiggles uncomfortable, scrubbing his palm over his jean clad thighs nervously. Dean guts twist. “There was only one thing I needed, and it was the most important. The spell could only be effective if there was something tying the person in Purgatory to the person doing the spell on this realm. The closer and unique the better for the spell to work.”

Dean definitively didn't like the sound of that. He braced himself for what was about to come, whatever his brother says from now on was going to stir shit to make him lash out one way or another.

“I used my blood.”

Dean side-eyes him. “How much blood?”

Sam clears his throat apprehensively. “Almost a gallon.”

Dean fists his hand over his shirt, taking a deep breath to drown the reproach hanging at the tip of his tongue. Sam eyes him, expression stern and waiting for it, but he's too tired to start another fight so soon. Besides what's done it's done, a yelling match isn't going to help any.

“Luckily, it didn't need to be fresh out of the body.” Sam continues, face relaxing a little and Dean congrats himself for having some self-control. “So I just bled out little by little for the last week before the ritual and kept it inside one of those portable iceboxes hospitals use and the coagulant so it would stay liquid enough.” Sam turns to look at Dean defiantly. “It worked.”

“Sam-”

“Don't. I'm telling you only for a reason, and it's not to make you feel guilty. I'm telling you, because I need you to stop believing that I'll walk away again. I know it's my fault, I've ran away so many times before, but Dean, I won't run ever again. Not going to happen. I'm not leaving you, and you're not a burden to me. Can you please believe me this time?” he says it looking at Dean straight to the eyes, baring his soul open to make him see that he means it.

Dean wants to believe him, and some part of him already does. That comfortable trust he thought he was never going to be able to feel with Sam again after the whole apocalypse shenanigan. But some part of him, will always fear the abandonment. Even if it's such a tiny part of him. Even when sometimes he tells himself that it doesn't matter, he can deal with it if it happens, he knows it will still hurt him until he numbs the pain.

Dean nods, because he can't manage to say anything without breaking down, swallowing down the new branch of emotions flowering inside his chest. He's had enough of that for today.

Sam smiles shyly, moving to face Dean completely with his body. “And about what you said, that you can't hunt anymore. That's not necessarily true.”

Dean stares at Sam, like he lost his mind because really, how is he supposed to keep hunting with a missing arm when he can't even clean a gun.

“You can hunt. Just because you are wounded doesn't mean you stop being a soldier, right?”

The air escapes Dean from the deep of his chest and his eyes go wide.

“Yeah, I heard that part.” Sam side-smirks, dimple showing. “You can hunt. If that what you want, because in all my life there is nothing you haven't aimed for that you have failed. You are that pig headed.”

“Well, there was this time with a really kinky waitress...” Dean shrugs, a smile tugging his features at Sam's snort-laugh.

“All I'm saying is, that if anybody can do it. That's you.”

Dean lower his gaze to his broken arm, almost completely covered by the sleeve of his t-shirt, and moves it, testing it can still at least do that. He sighs heavily. “I don't see how this is going to work.”

Sam, who had been following the movement glances back at Dean's face. “We start slow and basic.”

“Okay,” Dean agrees, scrubbing absently his ginger beard.

“It's going to be hard and very frustrating, but you gotta have patience on this. No pushing it. The last thing we need is to make matters worse.”

Dean winces. “We're starting with the mother henning already?” He grouses annoyed.

Sam pats him on the shoulder. “Get used to it.”

Dean rolls his eyes, but the grin in his face pales the annoyed of the gesture.

They start with the daily basic things. Dean's first priority is everything that has to do with the bathroom. It takes some trying, mild accidents that leave him with some new bruises, and down days when depression tries to take a hold again. But by the end of the week, and with Sam continual support he can brush his teeth, take a shower, and go to the bathroom without help or his brother hovering close just in case Dean wants to meet the end of the tub again with his face.

The only bathroom related activity that Dean hadn't mastered is shaving. Mostly because they haven't try it and that will have to wait for when his beard isn't full grown, because there is no way he's using a razor on his face yet. It falls on to Sam's hands, and Dean accepts reluctantly, to shave off the beard because the bastard itches like a fucker.

That's how they end up starting their morning of the new week, in another motel room. Both in pajamas, Dean sitting on the toilet seat, shaving cream spread all over his cheeks, jaw and neck. Sam standing in front of him getting the blade ready to start.

“Don't move.”

Dean peeks at Sam with one eye. “I ain't moving.”

“Just saying.”

“This is not the first time we've done this, get a move on already Sam.” Dean grunts, closing his eye again.

Sam smiles, shaking his head, and gets to work. Moving smoothly and taking his time. Dean doesn't twitch, even when Sam moves to do his exposed neck. Dean remembers when he was fifteen and he had to help his dad shaving because he had burned his hand on his last hunt, and how Sam had taken a chair and sat down by the open door to watch. As if taking notes mentally, because even back then he was a friggin' nerdy dude. Then just a year before Sam left to Stanford, it was his turn to help Dean out after a witch cursed him with having no use of his hands. And years later, when Sam broke his wrist, Dean did the same thing for him.

By the time they're done and Dean no longer looks like a hobo, they are both more than ready for breakfast, stomachs growling with anticipation. Sam changes quickly to go out and get them some food. He comes back with burgers and fries, which Dean has no problem eating. They haven't tackled things that involve using utensils, but since all Dean mostly eats are foods you can eat with your hands, it isn't something they're too worried about. Sam does makes sure the burger is cut in half, to Dean's eternal mortification because “It's a burger, not a sandwich, Sam!,” but he can't complain too much because holding a burger with one hand is kind of messy, and there is so many showers a man should take in the day.

“What?” Sam asks, swallowing the last of his fries and following Dean's gaze to the duffel bag resting on the end of the bed.

“I wanna try changing my clothes by myself today.” Dean says, scratching his neck embarrassed.

“Hey, that's a good idea.” Sam admits. “How about we go with one piece of clothing by day?”

“I can do more than that.” Dean glares, unamused, as he stands up and walks to his duffel.

Sam sighs, following his brother. “Try one first, and if you can keep going then you do. Deal?”

“Yeah, alright. Whatever.”

“T-shirt?” Sam asks peering inside Dean's duffel.

Dean shrugs, taking one t-shirt out of the pile of clothes. He hesitates, deciding if he wants to go to the bathroom where he can be alone and Sam won't see how many times it takes him to put a friggin' shirt on, or stay in the room. He's getting worked out already, and he hasn't even started changing his shirt.

“Alright, I'll stay out of your way and only help if you need me to.” Sam says, walking to the bathroom.

Dean nods and when the door closes shut after the retreating form of his brother, he feels the tension leave a little. He looks down at the t-shirt fisted on his hand. He can do this. He sits down on his bed, and exhales, preparing himself. Taking the pajama t-shirt off is fairly easier than he expected, the clothing getting caught on his head just a second before he finally pulls it out. More confident, he takes the other t-shirt and starts putting it on. Except he most have done something wrong along the way because he ends up with his head and good arm stuck, and he can't get out.

“Uh, a little bit of help here!” He muffled shouts, after trying to get the t-shirt off again but failing. He's starting to get a bit claustrophobic when Sam's hands are there disentangling the shirt and pulling it down. “Shit.” Dean breathes out.

“You okay?” Sam crotches down, to stay eye leveled with Dean.

“Yeah,” he grumbles. “Except that I can put a stupid t-shirt on.”

“Hey, you gotta have patience, remember?” Sam's reassuring hand on his shoulder feels like pins and needles stabbing all the way through his soul, and Dean recoils.

He doesn't want Sam's pity, or anybody pity. He's a grown man; he should be able to do this by himself. He has defeated things people can't even imagine they exist. He fought against the Devil for fuck's sake. A stupid shirt shouldn't be such a hazard. A simple black dog hunt shouldn't have ended up with him like this. It should have been like sleep walking in the night. He should have been concentrated on raising his gun as soon he saw the dog, not trying to get the people in danger our of the way. He should had seen the dog getting closer. He should have shot it. What the hell is wrong with him? He should have just- “OW!” Dean shouts, rubbing the side of his head and glaring at Sam. “Why the hell did you hit me for?”

“To stop you from thinking nonsense.” Sam bites back. “Are you going to try this again, or do you prefer to keep going with your unhelpful internal monologue?”

“Your bedside manners suck ass, has anybody told you that?” Dean grouses, yanking the shirt out of Sam's hands.

Sam snorts, stepping back to give his brother space. He watches as Dean tangles himself within the t-shirt and then rips it off annoyed. “Okay, how about you try to put through your head first and then go for you good arm?”

Dean sighs heavily, but tries to go that way. A couple of attempts later, and a few modifications he's able to put the t-shirt on by himself. “Well, that was so much fun,” he comments sarcastically. Sam gives him a pointed look. “Yeah, yeah, patience. I know.” Sam and his stupid Zen crap.

“We can try with your jeans later.” Sam suggest eagerly.

Dean rubs his hand over his face. That one is going to be a bitch for sure.

8.

If Dean had to choose one part of the day that he hates the most, he'll say without doubt that it's night time. During the daylight, he's busy getting his life back in order. There is the noise of the animals moving around in the forest surrounding the cabin they're currently hiding in. He has the sound of the Impala and the radio when they are cruising back roads to their next destination, because the busy roads are too much of a risk. He finds comfort in the creaking noises the wood makes when sasquatch over there is getting the place safe and demon proof, or the tack-tack of the laptop's keyboard when he's surfing the Internet. Even when Sam insist on babbling for hours about possibilities to take down Crowley, or comments about something he saw at the store down the mountain, because he spent so much time without hearing his brother's voice it's an every day reminder that he's back. It's familiar. It makes him feel safe and protected, and that's something he never thought he would yearn so much for.

But at night, everything comes to a stop as if the whole world has come into an agreement to take a break at the same time. The silence is so oppressive that Dean tenses, waiting for the growling and yelling that's part of the darkness, each one more terrifying and dangerous than the last. Then, when his body can't take it anymore and he finally falls asleep, that's when the nightmares start. Nightmares that have enough ammo to haunt him for the rest of his life. Sometimes it's Purgatory, and other times Hell creeps up when his defenses are too low to fight; the worst nights are a mix of both. Sometimes he dreams about Cas and the last time he saw him; the white light left behind as he vanished still burns bright even in his memory. Sometimes he dreams about blue skies with screams in the background, Sam hovering over him with his bloody shirt and with such a terrified facial expression that Dean has never seen him wear before.

Every night, he wakes up with a scream logged in his throat but that will never come out because it's so ingrained in him to not make a single noise, because it means you'll be dead before the scream comes to an end. He lies on his makeshift bed gasping quietly for breath, then looks at the other side where he can see Sam asleep to convince himself it was all a nightmare. But it takes more than that because the truth is; none of it is just a nightmare. He lived through it and it's something he'll carry with him no matter how much he tries to escape. So he gets up the making sure not to wake up Sam and goes out to sit on the hood of the Impala. Avoiding thinking as soon he's outside about how similar the shadows of the trees are from his memories (it doesn't stop him from taking a knife with him thought). He sits there, watching the stars until they start disappearing one by one and the rays of sunshine replace the moonlight. Then he goes back inside, ready to start another day. It's his routing every night, and if Sam has noticed, he hasn't mentioned Dean's lack of sleep. Probably because Dean makes sure to catch some Zs during the day when he dreams less.

Except tonight when Dean's still reeling from the lingering effects of a nightmare and taking his solace in the feel of the Impala under him, Sam comes out of the cabin, hair tousled, wearing his jeans and the same t-shirt he went to sleep in and sits on the hood, then slides back to rest his back against the windshield imitating Dean's position, bare feet resting on the front bumper.

Dean watches him get comfortable, perking an eyebrow. “Can't sleep?”

“Nope.” Sam answers matter-of-factly without looking at him.

Dean doesn't comment on how obvious he is, and goes back to staring at the stars.

“Hey, look it's Ursa Major.” Sam points out.

Dean follows Sam's finger, smirking when he finds the group of stars pretty quickly.

They used to do this when they were little. As they waited for their dad to come back from a hunt and they could indulge on going late to bed because they were on school vacation. Sam used to have this big book about the universe and the stars and they spent hours pointing out constellations visible through the motel windows, until they could name each one from memory. After their father died, they started to park in some open field between jobs to take a moment to appreciate the things everybody takes for granted. Some nights they would talk about nothing important, avoiding bringing up whatever was fucking up their lives at the moment. But most of those nights, there wouldn't be anything to say and the silence, instead of being awkward was nice and welcomed because the world around them was full of so much noise already.

Sam points out another star, and it's easy to fall back into the game. The tense line of Dean's shoulders starts vanishing as they keep going, and he falls sleep right there on top of the Impala with Sam's warming body heat under the cool breeze of the summer. And the next morning, when he wakes up feeling less tired than previous days neither mentions it, they just go back inside the cabin to get ready to start another day.

After breakfast, Sam collects the empty cups of coffee to put them next to the line of bottles and cups he's been saving to use later, while Dean goes back to re-learning cleaning some of the guns without the support of both hands.

“Thank you, Sammy.” Dean whispers, still loud enough that Sam will hear him in the tight confinement of the cabin. Somehow, it isn't enough to let Sam know how much Dean appreciates everything he has done for him these weeks. For not giving up on him, and letting him come to terms with himself at his own pace, and still managing at the same time to be that support he can turn into when it gets too hard to even breathe.

Sam stops on his way to the door, turning around to give Dean a shy smile. “Don't mention it.”

But it really doesn't matter that Dean doesn't has the words, because Sam always understands, and that at the end what truly matters.

9.

As week pass, Dean gets stronger and agile. His arm barely hurts anymore, except for those days when it rains and not even the fire on the chimney can take the cold in his broken bone away. He runs every morning along side Sam, his balance finally back in line after many failed attempts to make his body stay centered and not lean to one side. Right after that he does push ups, adding reps as his useful arm becomes stronger and stops hurting from over use.

It's a hard learning process reacquainting himself with his body, with its new weakness and strength. Turning the weakness into advantage is even harder. That's something Dean comes face to face when they decide to do some sparring.

Sam obviously has one freakishly long limb advantage over him, but he also knows his body. Dean's body has become a stranger to him. So, of course, he ends up face first too many times. Sam doesn't go easy on him, which Dean's appreciates because if he's going to do this, go back to hunting, no monster is going to stop to give him a minute before killing him.

“C'mon, is that all you got?” Sam pants, taunting. “Getting slow at your age, old man.”

Dean glares at him. “I'll show old, you little shit.”

Sam smirks, confident, and then he's barging towards Dean who braces himself. He avoids the hits easily, accustomed to Sam's movements. But as soon he tries to attack, without the other arm to defend him, Sam stops his fist and swings him over his shoulder. The wood protests when his body hits the floor, knocking the wind out of him.

Dean stays splayed there gasping for air, and cursing internally.

“You're really making this too easy.” Sam jokes, hovering over him with his hands resting on his thighs. “Maybe this is too much for you yet.” He perks an eyebrow. “You don't seem to have your head in the game either.”

Dean grunts, getting back up. “Let's go again.”

Sam scrutinizes him. “You sure your back is up for another kiss with the floor? I don't want to be responsible for you popping something. Old bones and all that.” He derides, open palms waving in the air.

There is the taunting again, but Dean isn't falling for that one. He's been going at this the wrong way, forgetting that he needs to turn his weakness into his advantage. “Are you going to quit yapping, or are you ready for a good kick in the ass?”

Sam scoffs. “Sure thing grandpa.”

They circle around the open space, calculating each other movements. Dean disadvantage is his upper body, the missing limb making it difficult to attack and defend at the same time. But his lower body is just as fast and strong as it was before, if not more so, because his legs are compensating for that lack. Now, it's his turn to smirk.

When Sam flips him over his shoulder again, this time Dean takes the force of it to land on his feet and drag Sam over his own shoulder. Sam yelps, surprised, but recovers quickly and goes into knocking Dean down with a leg slide. They wrestle on the floor, Sam trying to get Dean into an arm lock, but he's in the zone now. The same instinct that kept him alive in Purgatory is taking place in every single cell of his body. He moves fast and deadly, changing the dynamics and using his legs as it they were his arms to attack, and his arm for movement. He gets Sam into a headlock with his thighs, and squeezes until Sam stops trying to escape.

“Alright, you win!” he wheezes, trying to open Dean's thighs.

“Pardon? I can't really hear you.” Dean mocks, bringing his hand behind his ear.

“You win asshat, let me go!”

Dean rolls over, freeing Sam who rolls to his side, and coughs as the air rushes back inside. They sit, letting the adrenaline drain off.

“Dude, did you just friggin' Black Widow me?” Sam exclaims, when he's done panting.

There are not many things Dean finds funny these days, but the bare indignation in Sam's face is enough to make the amusement bubble deep in his chest and to grow until he's laughing so much his ribs start protesting.

“That's what you get for poking the bear, bitch.” He chuckles, poking Sam's chest.

Sam chortles, and pushes him playfully. “Shut up, you jerk.”

10.

The amount of progress he's done so far makes him believe, somewhat, that he can do this. When he looks himself in the bathroom mirror he doesn't look so haunted anymore, but the shadows and doubt are still in his eyes, threatening to come back. Dean fights it, because he promised he would not give up, and he doesn't want to disappoint Sam.

“Hey, check this out.” Dean says, calling for Sam's attention.

Sam stop rummaging in his duffel bag and looks back at him. Dean props the mouth of the beer bottle against the corner of the table, and then pushes up, taking the cap off.

“Ha!” He cheers triumphantly.

Sam snorts, shaking his head amused, and Dean salutes him with the beer and a playful wink.

“How's it going with the books over there?” Sam asks turning his attention back to his duffel.

“Well, we can totally agree now that finding where Crowley is hiding is going to be a pain in the ass.” Dean sneers. “Dude's probably protecting himself with every single spell he knows.”

“There has to be something we can use.”

“I don't know Sam, we have looked everywhere.” Dean taps the table absently. “We could find some demons, kick their asses for information and go after him. Or kill enough of them it will catch his attention and wait until he comes for us.” He proposes, and waits for Sam to call him an idiot even thought that's the only thing that have left to do. But Sam doesn't say anything, and Dean looks up from the books spread on the table. Sam is looking at something on his hand that Dean can't see from the angle he's siting, and he's gone really still. “Sam?”

“Uh?”

“You okay there?”

“Yeah.” Comes the quiet reply, and he puts whatever was in his hand back inside his duffel.

Dean doesn't believe that for a second. He frowns, and says mockingly. “You sure, 'cause you sound like I broke your laptop or something.”

Sam clears his throat, and drops his duffel bag back on the end of the bed. “Yeah, I'm sure,” he rubs his palms over his jeans. “Are you ready?”

Dean tilts his head, considering if to push the issue, but he let's it go for now. “Yeah, let's do this.”

He stands up and follows Sam outside, to the back of the cabin where some of their guns wait for them resting over a blanket in the floor. Few feet away from them, the empty beer bottles and coffee cups line up over a stony fence.

Sam hands him the Colt M1911A1 . 45, and moves back to observe. Dean weights it in his hand, as he takes position. He cocks the hammer before raising his arm to point. It's not like he hasn't shoot with one hand before, but he often preferred using his other arm to have a better aim and ride out the energy wave the gun spells after each shot. He can't do that anymore. Eyes squinting in concentration, until the bottle he's aiming for is all he can see, he exhales just as his dad taught him, and pulls the trigger.

He misses by an inch, and the recoil sends exploding pain all up to his right shoulder, neck and even his left shoulder protests. Dean barely strangles the groan, lowering the gun automatically before it slips from his hand to the floor as he bends over ridding out the pain. Sam is right there, holding him up until the pained expression smooths out from his face.

Sam regards him with concern. “You okay?”

Dean nods, taking a deep breath. “Holy shit,” he straightens, rolling his shoulders. “ Wasn't expecting that,” he complains bitterly.

“It's only been a month Dean,” Sam says, reproachful.

Dean grimaces. “Still,”

Sam grabs his shoulders softly, thumbs rubbing absently over the bones as if to take the pain away. “I know. But you gotta let your body heal completely first. There is no rush. You have come really far already. There are things that can be controlled. We will try later on.” He smiles reassuringly. Dean stares at him. “What?”

“Did you grow a vagina while I was gone?” Dean deadpans.

Sam rolls his eyes, dropping his hands. “Whatever,” he rolls the blanket, tucking the guns inside. “Let's go back inside asshole,” he sneers with no heat in his voice.

Dean watches his retreating back with a small smile on his face, before he follows.

11.

Purgatory is not only the home of every single monster that dies, but also a monster itself. It crawls inside you. Finds your weakness. Eats you alive little by little and leaves you defenseless. Stays with you forever, like a scar that never heals completely and you can't help but scratch the itching. It's blood, fear, and murder.

It turns the white walls into melting black goo, tainting them until there is no white paint left. Dean looks around, because somebody must be seeing this too, but everybody else keeps going through their business. But the stands with products in front of and behind him have turned into big dark trees splashed with the blood of the monster that was hunting him. There is no cereal in his hand, just a bloody knife. He drops the knife and shakes his head, trying to clear up his mind. This is not real; it's all in his head. Dean takes a shaky exhale, scrubbing his sweaty face for clearance. He can hear then, the breathy growls behind the trees, every twig snapping every step they get closer.

Shit.

Some guy with a red apron is staring at him. And a nametag. Because he's in a store, that's right, and, and Sam is somewhere in the next isle. He tries to focus on that. Tries to calm his heart beat, the rush of adrenaline that has his body trembling with anticipation.

But they guy is now close to him, glancing at him with concern and talking words Dean can't comprehend. And all Dean sees is the wicked glim in the guy's eyes, how he's sizing him up, how he looks at Dean's missing limb and smiles knowingly. He has found Dean's weakness.

The guy raises his hand to touch him, and Dean snaps. He stares at the blood on his knuckles, opening his fingers to chase away the throbbing pain. The guy is holding his hands to his face, blood trickling from within his fingers down to his arm.

People are whispering and staring at them now. Some are rushing towards the guy. But Dean doesn't stay to see what they are doing because they are coming for him, for his blood and meat. He has nothing else but running, fighting; surviving against an army so much powerful than you.

He can hear Sam's voice, echoing in the wind like a whisper too far away to reach. He has lost count of how many times he heard his brother talking to him, pushing him to keep going. Promising he will get out of this place. Even when everything is in his head, he uses it to grasp that little flame of hope inside him.

Keep running, Dean.

The whisper distracts him, and that's something you can't afford in this place. He pays the price when something big tackles him down, knocking the wind out of him. He can't see the monster holding from behind, but the fucker is strong. Long arms pinning Dean's useful one against the chest. Warm breath tickles Dean's neck, sending a shiver of fear down his back. The monster is too close to his objective. But Dean Winchester isn't going down without a fight. He snaps his head back, smiling when the monster groans in pain and his grips loosens up. Dean takes the chance to turn the cards, and flips, pinning the monster down on its back. The knife he keeps hidden inside his boot is on the monster's throat in a second.

The monster has gone completely still, hands raised over his head in a non-threatening way. It says something; Dean can feel the vibration of its voice under his deathly grip. Dean takes a minute to recoup, and that's when he glances at the monster's pleading eyes. Same eyes he has been staring back into since he was four years old.

“Dean,” Sam's shaky voice stabs right through his heart.

Dean jolts, clarity fighting to come back slowly. He contemplates Sam; still not sure what's real and what isn't. Takes in the blood streaming down Sam's throat and cheek from somewhere in his mouth. How the blood dances with the sweat covering his skin, and curling his hair at the base of his neck where Dean still holds the knife. Sam says his name again, bringing Dean's attention back to the scared and worried expression glancing back at him.

Sam would never be scared of him, would he?

Is this real?

Sam, the monster, chances a move and doesn't stop even when Dean's grip tenses over his throat enough to hurt; never moving his gaze away. Dean slightly flinches when the clammy hand fists over his wrist. It's not a tight hold, not like how somebody that's trying to get the knife away would grab him. Instead, it's just a thumb over his pulse point rubbing soothingly.

“Come back,” Sam, the monster, pleads. And Dean wants him to shut up. To stop using the image of his brother to trick him. He wants so slice his throat open for even daring to do such a thing.

But there is doubt inside him. What if this is Sam? What if he goes through it and turns out he hurt his own brother? Not even Hell would be punishment enough for what living with that weight would be.

“Hey, man. It's just me.”

Dean wants to believe him.

“You're not there anymore. Got you out, remember?”

He doesn't remember, and maybe he does. It's all too confusing in his memory. He can't even trust himself. All that Dean has is his hunter's gut, telling him he's in danger. The grip on his knife tightens.

Sam inhales, his own grip tensing, but still doesn't push away. He could push away; Dean is actually waiting for him to do it because then his decision will be made. Part of his uneasiness is that the monster isn't defending himself. It could be a trap, so Dean will trust him and then gain advantage again. But he let's Dean's wrist go, surrendering.

Dean stares at his eyes confused, the sunlight gleaming over the unshed tears.

Sunlight.

Dean blinks, and glances at their surroundings. The side of an empty road, green trees, sun high on the sky. This is the road they take to go to the cabin. This isn't purgatory. “Sammy?” he breaths out, voice breaking at the last minute.

Sam grins wistful. “You with me now?”

Son of a bitch...

Dean bolts off, falling on his butt next to Sam. The knife falling somewhere in the grass.

He almost killed Sam. Jesuschrist. What the hell is wrong with him? Is he that fucked up in the head that he can't recognize his own brother? Forget about missing an arm, if can't even keep his mind in check how is he supposed to keep Sam save. How will he protect him when he's a danger himself?

“Dean, stop.” Sam grabs him by the lapel of his jacket, shaking him softly.

But Dean smacks his hand away. He can't bear Sam's touch, trying to help and console him when he should be running, escaping from someone that will hurt him. He screams, begs at Sam to have some self-preservation. To avoid the tragedy bound to happen. But it's all in his head, because his throat doesn't open enough to even let air inside.

“Shit, Dean, you gotta breathe.” Sam hauls him closer, and doesn't let Dean break the contact. “Dammit stop fighting me. We've had enough of this already,” he grunts panting while manages to trap Dean chest to chest. “You're freaking out. C'mon breathe for me, okay?” He coaches, hugging Dean tight enough too keep him in place when he tries to flee again. Dean tries to listen to him, but his mind is reeling with the monster he has become with the things he has done, with what he was about to do. “Breathe, man. You don't wanna faint do ya? Because I'll tease you to no end for that one and you know it.”

Everything is going out of focus, shapes and color wavering behind his eyes but Dean hears the teasing tone, and underlining panic on Sam's voice and adds that to the pile of things he's guilty of. He doesn't want to keep causing Sam more pain.

“I'm okay.” Sam whispers. “You're okay,” he takes Dean's hand trapped between them and makes his brother's palm rest open over the thumbing of his heart. “We're okay.”

Dean's hand closes, holding the fabric of Sam's shirt tight enough his knuckles whiten. Sam's is still alive, and that's all it matters isn't it? Dean can keep him save, even from himself. Dean inhales loudly, letting the air bathe his deprived lungs. The sob that's escapes his mouth is barely muffled by Sam's shoulder. But Dean doesn't care, because he's too busy crumbling down in his brother's arms. Letting the overwhelming emotions flood his body. Because if he doesn't he'll explode, drown on them and they will make him more of a mess than he already is. He can't afford it. Dean could attack Sam like that again, knowing that if there is a next time it could be the last.

He let's himself fall into this moment of weakness for both their sakes. He cries until there are no more tears left. Until the sky is dark again and the singing of the crickets reaches their ears and their legs go numb. Sam never lets go, and he doesn't say anything. Dean's grateful he doesn't.

When they finally walk back to the store parking lot, the Impala is still where they left her. Sam makes quick to clean up the blood on his face with a bottle of water, and pretends he doesn't see it. They don't speak all the way to their next destination. Sam drives concentrated on the road, fingers tapping idly over the steering wheel. Dean rests his head over the cold window, tired, both physically and mentally. It doesn't take long before he falls sleep to the notes of Led Zeppelin's Stairway to Heaven.

12.

Going to that store was a bad idea. Mind you, Dean has had pretty bad and crazy ideas before. But this time, the consequences leaves such a sour taste in his mouth, it pulls him back to those first days he came back from Purgatory. One step forward, two steps back. That's how it seems his life has been lately.

His stomach curls when he catches sight of the split lips and bruises Sam is carrying. Yeah, they had hurt each other before, in the mist of too many avoided emotions and sometimes alcohol. But Dean always felt guilty after. He doesn't like to see Sam hurt. Never has, and it's obvious at this point he never will. They are in the worst line of work to be such a worrywart, and he realizes he is in the wrong train of thought. It's irrational, and probably overprotective, but he doesn't give a shit. Sam's the only family he has. He has been for a long time the only tangible thing that keeps Dean sane. So, sue him for trying to keep that. Or for feeling like the lowest of douche bags for hurting his brother. Unintentionally or not, it doesn't change the guilt rising like bile to his throat.

Sam sits at the end of the bed, where Dean has been sitting with his back against the wall lost on his thoughts. He combs his fingers through his hair, and takes a deep breath.

Aw, crap here we go.

“Are we going to talk about what happened at the store?” Sam asks, somewhat more interested in the hole on his jeans.

Dean side-glances him, exhales and looks up to the ceiling thumping his head with the wall. “Like there is any other option. Either I talk or you become a pest.” He says cynical.

Sam scowls him. “Don't start bitching at me.”

“Leave it alone.” Dean warns.

“Because that works so well doesn't it?” Sam bites back.

“Goddammit, Sam.” Dean snarls. “There is nothing you can do about it!” He yells, getting off from the bed. “Stop trying to fix everything. I can't be fucking fixed, get it in your head!”

“Don't say that,”

“I'm sorry but it's the truth. You either deal with it, or you leave. But I can't do this. I can't keep trying to be uplifting and hopeful when all I want to do is take my gun and put a bullet in my skull.”

“Christ, Dean,”

Sam looks so pained, as if Dean's words are stabbing him from the inside. And Dean wants to shut up, he needs to stop saying these things, but he can't. It's as if there is no lid for the place where he buries his emotions, the tank overflowing and too difficult to contain anymore.

“You wanted me to talk, didn't you? Not my fault you aren't hearing what you want to hear.”

Sam purses his lips, shoulders slump down. Dejected.

Dammit, Dean wants to apologize for doing that. Because his intentions aren't to hurt him, only to open his eyes to the truth. But when he's about to talk the lights in the room flicker. His gaze falls immediately to the door, the line of salt still neatly crossing over the threshold.

Sam has his shotgun in hand, as Dean gets the knife from under the pillow, and the both stand in the middle of the room in a fighting stance waiting. The lights stop flickering for a second before they explode one by one, leaving them in the dark. The door flies open, and they barely have time to see what's behind before they are propelled back by an invisible force and crash into the far end's wall.

Dean really hates when that happens.

He looks longingly to their weapons lying in the floor, where they fell. Wind peeks up, and starts erasing the line of salt completely. Three people enter the room: one chick with black hair cascading to her midsection, and two big dudes that would be trouble enough to take down without the added bonus of demonic powers.

It seems Crowley found them first.

“Well, well, what do we have here?” The chick drawls cockily. “But if it isn't the Winchester brothers.” She gets closer, walking with a predatory sway that resembles a cat. “I really thought it was all rumors when I caught whiff of your presence in this town. But I'm so glad to be the one to bring you to our King.”

Dean chuckles, “Good luck with that one sweetheart.”

The chick smiles condescendingly, “Dean, Dean,” she tsk moving closer to Sam. Dean tenses. “I don't see how you guys can come on top of this situation.” The demon pouts mockingly, and traces a finger over Sam's chest, who tries to get away from the touch with a disgusted expression. “You might as well stop all that bravado of yours, it won't make a difference.”

“Stop touching him,” Dean growls warningly. His blood boiling with the need to shut her up.

She smiles again, managing to look overly creepy. “Ah, but I want to have a little bit of fun before I deliver you both.”

Sam groans when her fingers dig into his chest, pain etched on his face and the tense posture of his body.

“Sam!”

“Don't worry, you'll get your turn.”

Dean fights against the hold pinning him into the wall, but it's useless. They are trapped, and truly screwed if they can't fight back.

She lets Sam go after what it feels like decades to Dean. Sam crumbles unconscious to the floor, no longer under the influence of the demon. Blood is dripping from his mouth, and the front of his shirt is tainted by it. The demons kicks his leg, checking her job is well done.

Dean is seeing red, panting with a rage begging to lash out and made them regret their existence.

“Bring the car around,” she orders one her baboons, and the guy leaves the room. The other one walks toward Dean. When the force stops holding him against the wall, Dean stumbles a little but has no time to do anything because guy's hand is quickly around his neck.

Dean's hand flies over the guys wrist instinctively, his pained groan dying as the demon crushes his windpipe.

“Easy there boy,” she-demon pats the guy over the arm. “We need him alive too.” guy-demon loosens his hold, and Dean can breathe a little bit. “So, Dean, I heard you had an awesome party with a black dog. Tell me, how does it feel to be dismembered?” She says with fake curiosity. “I see you let the dog keep a souvenir,” she jokes, poking what's left of his left arm. “How thoughtful of you. I bet that black dog had lots of fun with it.”

Dean bares his teeth. “Keep talking bitch, we'll see how much you like it when I stab you in your face.”

She-demon cackles. “Sure thing popsicle. Got a knife for that?”

“I do!”

Guy-demon suddenly jolts, light flickering inside his body, then Sam draws out the demon-killing knife from his back before he goes limp and falls on the floor. Dean staggers at the freedom, taking just a second to exhale. Then he's charging toward the she-demon like a bulldozer before she has any chance to attack Sam. They go down. She punches him, and he punches back. When Sam tries to help, the other guy-demon is back in the room and Sam has no choice than to fight him back.

She-demon is a strong motherfucker, Dean will give her that. She uses that strength to send him flying out of the room. He lands on the Impala's windshield, the glass cracking under his weight. Dean slides down to the side of the car, body painfully protesting the movement. She-demon kicks him sending him sprawling over the ground.

Always the goddamn ribs. Dean coughs, blood splatting the dirt on the ground as he gets up to his knees and hand.

When she-demon goes to drag him up he stabs her in the middle of her chest with the knife he hides inside his boot. She looks down, offended and pissed off. “I liked this body, asshole.”

“Too bad, you could have gone for something more easy in the eyes,” Dean sneers.

“I'm going to truly enjoy ripping your heart out.”

“Don't think your boss will like that.”

She growls, frustrated because he's right, and knees him in the gut as retaliation. Dean goes down, choking on air.

“Bring Sam out already!” She yells in the direction of the room. There is no answer. She-demon scowls, and looks down to Dean, who seems to be down for the count, before she walks back to the room.

Dean immediately opens his eyes, and struggles to get up to his knees. There is the sound of struggling inside the room, but that can't distract him. He takes out the paper clip from inside his jeans, and proceeds to tamper with the lock of the Impala's trunk.

“Sorry baby,” he murmurs. When the lock opens, he searches for the Colt, hidden under the books and arsenal. Gun in hand, he stands up. There is no sound coming from the room anymore, and that can only mean two things, one very good or very bad.

He gets to the entrance, being as quiet as possible, gun raised. His blood runs cold at what he's faced with.

“C'mon in, Dean.” she-demon taunts. She's holding the demon-killing knife to Sam's throat, keeping him on his knees using his hair for leverage.

“Now, will you cut that damn hair?” Dean tells Sam, as if the demon wasn't in the room threatening his brother's life.

Sam gives him one of those bitch-faces that could smite him if looks could kill.

“Drop the gun, Dean,” she-demon orders.

Dean looks down to the Colt, and shrugs. “Nah, think I'll keep it.”

Sam yelps when the knife cuts his skin. “I won't ask you again. Do you really want to test who's faster?”

No, he doesn't, because he isn't sure he can make the shot. He's going to lower the gun, and pray she doesn't slit Sam's throat anyway. Then he glances at Sam, who's staring right back at him with determination. He's looking at Dean with so much trust, and he can hear him clearly in his head.

Do it.

It's a quick decision with too much at stake. But Dean can't fail Sam now. He lowers his arm slowly. The demon relaxes her hold on Sam as soon she sees him giving up. She doesn't move fast enough to do any damage when the bullet hits her between her eyes, and her body lights up and jerks for a few second before she falls on the floor, face frozen in eternal surprise.

Dean's heart is beating so fast he doesn't registers the aftershock waves of pain. He runs toward Sam, who has bend over himself and catches him before he face plants in the floor. The Colt dropped and forgotten next him.

“Sammy?” Dean shouts worried.

“I'm okay.” He slurs, pawing Dean's hand. Sam peeks at the cadaver of the demon, then up to Dean with a silly smile. “Great shot,” there is a proud tone in his voice.

Dean smirks. “Okay, woozy, we gotta hide-tail outta here.”

He helps Sam out to the car, depositing him on the passenger seat, and ignoring Sam's protects. Then does quick work of getting their duffels into the back seat of the car. He turns the engine on and backs the car out of the parking lot. He hasn't driven much lately, but he can drive enough to take them away from the three bodies in the motel room.

They are both beat to hell and surer than ever that Crowley is after them. But somehow, the events of tonight bring a new better insight into his life. They survived another day, and Dean was able to save Sam when he needed him. And he decides that a fucked up mind, and a missing limb isn't going to stop him from fighting back.

Go down swinging or die trying.

13.

They manage to lay low without demons tracing them until their injuries are healed. All the while coming up with plans to take Crowley down. It's all like the old times. Falling on the easy rhythm of working together side by side as partners. Like before Heaven, Hell, and Purgatory happened but much easier and wiser than when they were too young to know any better.

Dean sips his coffee, the hot beverage warming him up against the chill of the wind. He keeps watchful eyes on the park in front of the empty parking lot, as he sits on the Impala waiting for Sam to finish ordering their food from the ambulant food truck across the street. This time is different; he's not waiting for monsters too come out from behind the trees or the sky to turn dark. He's just being a hunter, always alert to his surroundings. There is no tense set on his shoulders; actually anybody passing by will think he's just guy taking some time to enjoy nature. The noises around him don't chill his skin with apprehension anymore.

It's an improvement Dean plans to keep. He still has nightmares, but they are spread to four or three nights a week instead of every single night and day. There hasn't been any new flashback, which Dean is more than grateful for. But he doesn't lower his defenses, because they could be back when he less expects it. And when he paces out, when he's getting lost in Purgatory, Sam is right there to snap him back to reality. Sometimes Dean won't get more than a glimpse of those days because Sam already knows the symptoms and pulls him out before he's deep in it.

“Are we having a moment?” Sam asks, suddenly next to him. He's holding the white bag with the donuts inside in one hand and his own coffee in the other. He's staring at Dean with a perked eyebrow, fake amusement hiding the underlining concern.

“Only chicks have moments, Sam” Dean starts very serious, putting his coffee down between his thighs to hold it there, “and you of course.” He finishes jokingly.

“Ha-ha, you are hilarious,” Sam answers sardonic, sitting on the empty side of the hood.

“Damn right, I am.” Dean bites back proudly.

“I'll eat your donuts,” Sam warns.

Dean yanks the paper bag from him, “The hell you will!”

Sam chuckles, and then takes a sip from his coffee. Dean drops the bag on his lap, and grabs a donut, which he passes to Sam, and then one for himself.

Dean has also become better at handling things with just one arm. He's pretty good with the daily things, his brain now accustomed to sending the signals for a one-arm job instead of two. Only sometimes when things are new, Dean struggles a bit. But he has always being good to adapt quickly, and it doesn't become a problem. It also helps that Sam let's him deal it with, he never ask or tries to help even when he's obviously itching to do so. He understands that Dean needs to learn how to deal without him, not because Dean doesn't want the help, well yeah maybe little bit, but mostly because it's a necessity that he can be self-sufficient if they want to stay alive.

“I wouldn't do it, you know?”

“Wouldn't do what?” Sam asks, furrowed expression.

Dean looks him in the eyes. “Kill myself.”

Sam's eyes go soft. “Why not?”

“Because I couldn't do that to you.” Dean half smirks.

Sam swallows, gaze lowering for a second. He sniffs, and clears his throat. “I wouldn't either.” He confesses looking back at Dean with small smile.

“Good. 'Cause I would hunt your ass if you do.” Dean declares, punching Sam playfully on the shoulder.

“Right back at you.”

They finish keep eating in comfortable silence for a while, but then Dean stops mid bite and side-eyes Sam, who's staring at him pensive. “What?”

“Hmm?” Sam squints.

“Do I have something on my face?”

“Nope.” He says hopping off the hood.

“Where are you going?”

Sam doesn't answer. Instead he walks to the back of the car and opens the trunk. Dean watches from where he's sitting quizzically, as Sam seems to rummage for something inside. Then he's closing the trunk again, and walking back until he's in front of his brother.

“Sam?” Dean asks uncertain of what's happening.

“I've been meaning to give something to you.”

Dean eyebrow perks. “Like a gift?”

“Yeah, well no. It was already yours.”

Okay, now Dean is really lost. “I ain't following you.”

Sam sighs. “This is ridiculous,” he mutters.

“Sammy? I'm starting to worry here.” Dean chuckles nervously.

“I don't know if you will want it back...”

Dean stares at him still confused. Sam isn't making any sense.

“You threw it away.”

“Why?”

Sam shrugs. “We were in a bad place during that time. I don't blame you for it, just so you know. But I couldn't leave it on the trashcan.” He scratches the back of his neck with the hand that's not holding into a fist whatever it is he's talking about. “A big part of me always had the hope that some day it would mean something again.”

“Okay...” Dean drawls.

“And I think... maybe it will now.” Sam raises his fisted hand.

Dean raises his hand; palm open to catch what Sam is giving him. When Sam drops the object, he closes his hand to stop it from falling. And when he opens his hand again, the air leaves his lungs. The last time he saw the golden face tied on the black string he was thinking how useless everything he did and believed was and Azazel's words about his family never needing him as much as he needs them ringing in a constant echo on his ears. He had been defeated and tired of fighting his destiny. He had been choking on the despair that his and Sam's relationship would never be the same, and there was nothing he could do to fix it. So, he threw the amulet away, because everything that it stood for was a vile lie.

Part of him had regretted doing that, later on, when Sam showed him wrong and then went to Hell. He had wished during that year he spent with Lisa that he still had the amulet with him because it was the closest thing that connected him with his brother.

“There will be times when I won't be with you...” Sam explains, “and I thought you can use it to remind you that you're not in Purgatory anymore because it's something you didn't have there. So you know what's real and what isn't when you feel it around your neck..” Sam stops talking, and he blushes slightly. “It's just a thought,” he back tracks. “You don't have to wear it if you don't want to.”

Dean stares at him flabbergasted, still surprised the amulet is even back. Then he clears his throat, washing away the tears that try to break away, and puts the amulet on. He pats it over his chest, the familiar and missed weight over his heart grounding him already.

He glances back up to Sam, who looks like he's about to break a tear himself. “Thank you,”

Sam shyly smiles, and nods. “Don't take it off again.”

“I won't,” Dean promises.

“Okay,” Sam exhales. “Ready to go?”

“I was born ready,” Dean squibs.

Sam rolls his eyes, and then throws him the car keys before moving toward the passenger door.

Dean grins, takes a glimpse to the amulet, and then joins Sam inside the car. Mullet rock blares from the radio as soon the engine starts, and they drive off from the parking lot. Taking the road to their next destination that will take them closer to winning another battle.

Together against the world.

FIN