My heart bleeded, girl

Part Two



"I don't understand why being your brother isn't enough for you, Sam."

"It is," Sam said. He knew how transparent his lie was.

"Bullshit," Dean said angrily. "You want the other guy back, the one who remembers you, the one who fucks you."

"The one I'm in love with," Sam said. There was really no point in lying, he guessed.

"I can be your brother, but you're going to have to find someone else to fuck." Dean said.

"Stop saying that! It wasn't just fucking. I love you! You love me!" Sam looked away, not wanting to see the revulsion on Dean's face. "You loved me," he whispered.

"I can't fucking do this," Dean said.

They ate dinner in silence. Sam made fried chicken and mashed potatoes, with green beans and apple pie. He hadn't planned on it, he wasn't trying to win Dean over with food or anything, but that's what he made.

Dean picked at his chicken, made designs in the potatoes with his fork, and fed Daisy the green beans, handing them to her one at a time as she sat next to his chair, her head on his knee

He ignored the pie completely.

"I'm not trying to win your love through dinner, asshole," Sam muttered as Dean pushed his chair back and got up from the table. "You can eat the damn pie."

"I'm not hungry," Dean said, walking over and opening the back door. "Come on Daisy, let's go for a walk."

Dean disappeared upstairs as soon as he and Daisy came in. Daisy wandered into the living room and took her turn with Sam, resting her head on his knee, looking at him with sad and reproachful eyes.

"I'm sorry, girl," Sam said. "I don’t know what I'm supposed to do."

He fell asleep on the couch, waking up in the morning stiff and sore.

They fell into a kind of pattern, their days taking on the shape of one of Sam's nightmares. It wasn't that they didn't speak, they did. Dean said things like "pass the salt" and "do you want more coffee" and "I need the car this afternoon."

It was enough to make Sam want to cut out his tongue so he didn't have to answer.

Daisy was clearly unhappy. She stopped eating unless Dean sat on the kitchen floor with her, coaxing her with bits of dog food and whatever leftovers he could find.

Sam felt like a ghost in his own life, drifting through unnoticed, or at least unacknowledged. He worked for a few hours in the morning and then did whatever chores needed to be done around the house.

He went back to his computer in the afternoon, editing the articles submitted to the magazine, creating indexes for books he'd never read.

He always made supper, made sure there was a hot meal on the table when Dean came home from work, like some kind of 1950s housewife. Dean always ate, always thanked Sam for it when he was done, as he stood up to take Daisy outside for their nightly walk.

He never failed to make Sam feel as if he were the most despicable being on the planet with the way he almost shook with the effort it took to stay in the same room with him long enough to eat a meal together.

When Dean and Daisy came back in, usually at dusk, Dean would head straight upstairs to his room, leaving Daisy to offer what comfort she was able while Sam stared sightlessly at the television until he fell into a restless sleep.

It was worse than Hell.

Sam tried not to actually look at his face when he shaved in the morning. His skin was pale and sallow, with dark bruised circles under his eyes. His hair was lank and lifeless, and if he didn't know any better, Sam would think he had some kind of Lifetime movie disease.

He almost didn't blame himself for wishing he did. If he were sick, if he were dying, Dean would have to talk to him. He'd feel bad, he'd feel sorry he'd treated Sam this way for something that wasn't his fault, and he'd be sorry when Sam was dead.

Jesus Christ. Sam dropped his head, hitting the mirror with his forehead multiple times, until he knocked some sense back into himself.

That was the most maudlin, the most self-pitying train of thought he'd ever indulged in. It beat the things he used to think about when he was thirteen, hoping he'd get hurt on a hunt so that his father would be sorry.

He'd sit in the back of the Impala as they drove, seething with resentment and half-listening to John and Dean up in front, his father making pronouncements and judgments, issuing commands and demands, while Dean eagerly took it all in, agreed with him, deferred to him, apologized and idolized him.

Sam would make up scenarios in his head, about hunts gone wrong, with Sam being bitten by a werewolf or pushed down the stairs by a poltergeist.

His father would rush to him, devastated as he realized that he would have to kill Sam before he turned into a werewolf himself, or screaming for Dean to help him get Sam to the car, to get him safely to the hospital to treat his bruised and broken body.

When he was really angry, he'd daydream about John making a mistake on a hunt, something that would result in Sam being injured, being badly hurt.

Or that maybe one of the times that John and Dean left Sam alone while they ran off to play hero, the monster would come to get Sam while they were away.

Sam always killed the monster, but he would be grievously injured in the process, and then John's remorse knew no bounds.

Sam always forgave him, before he passed out or died, sometimes before John had to shoot him in the heart with a silver bullet while Dean cried and pleaded with him to spare Sam's life.

It was a satisfying way to pass the tedium of long road trips, and probably went a long way toward allowing Sam to maintain a modicum of civility when dealing with John.

And now he was embarrassed to find himself doing the same thing with Dean. He'll be sorry when I'm gone became He'll feel like a real asshole if I have cancer or something.

But even Sam wasn't a big enough bastard to make himself feel better with thoughts of how bad Dean would feel if Sam died. They'd both been through that more than enough times, and his mind shied away from the very idea.

*

It was almost a week after Dean figured out the part of their relationship that Sam missed the most but wanted Dean to know about the least, when Sam woke up to the sound of Dean screaming.

Ted had said some of Dean's memories could return in his dreams, and that was true. Dean seemed to have nebulous dreams, recalling bits and pieces of events, sometimes a person, a face, a name.

But this sounded as if Hell had returned in full force, and Sam heaved himself to his feet and hit the stairs running.

Dean was sitting straight up in bed, the covers pooled around his waist. Tears streamed down his face, and his hands covered his ears.

"No, no, noooooo," he moaned, and Sam hurried over to the bed, fitting himself behind Dean and putting a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"Dean," he said, "Dean, come on, man, wake up. Wake up, Dean, come on."

It was a few minutes, but Dean finally took his hands away from his ears, lowering them to rest motionless in his lap. Sam kept rubbing his shoulder, slowly and rhythmically, feeling his brother tremble under his hands.

Dean gave one last shudder and gasped, "Sam?"

"Yeah, Dean, it's me." Helping each other through these dreams had become something they'd just gotten in the way of doing over the past few years. Dean had given up hiding his dreams, denying them, a long time ago. There was no reason to be embarrassed, not in front of each other.

The dreams weren't going to go away, so they might as well deal.

"Do you want to tell me about it?" Sam asked. Usually Dean didn't share the details, and neither did Sam. Neither one of them needed to know the finer points of the time the other spent in Hell.

But this was new to Dean, and Sam imagined he had no idea what it was all about.

Dean shuddered again. "I was tied to a rack, and there was a man, a man with black eyes. He cut – he had a knife, a thin blade, and he sliced into me, he was carving –" and suddenly Dean doubled over and threw up over the side of the bed. It spattered on the hardwood floor, the sharp acrid smell reaching Sam and making him gag in sympathy.

"Sam," Dean said, panic in his voice. Sam moved out of the way, let Dean rush for the bathroom. He followed behind, stepping around Dean as he crouched in front of the toilet, retching again and again. Sam grabbed a towel and took it back to Dean's room.

He tossed the towel over the puddle of vomit, tempted to just leave it until morning, but knowing he would be sorry if he did. Trying not to breathe, he mopped up the mess and then took the towel down to the washing machine in the basement, dumping in a cup of detergent and switching on the machine.

When he got back upstairs, Dean was still huddled over the toilet. Sam filled the bathroom glass with water and offered it to him.

"Here, rinse," he instructed.

Dean rinsed and spit, and Sam reached over him to flush the toilet. He put toothpaste on Dean's toothbrush and grabbed his elbow, helping him to his feet.

"You done?"

Dean nodded. Sam handed him his toothbrush.

"Go on."

Sam knew enough about what happened to Dean in Hell to recognize Alistair in Dean's dream, to know what he'd done to Dean, over and over, again and again. Sam would have given anything for Dean not to remember this.

When Dean finished brushing his teeth, Sam guided him into his room - their room, shaking his head when Dean protested, pulling toward his own room.

"It stinks in there, dude," Sam said, trying to keep it light. The last thing Dean needed right now was for Sam to show how upset he was.

Dean hesitated, and then he allowed Sam to lead him to the bed. He sank down on the edge, resting his elbows on his knees.

Sam let him sit there while he dragged a pair of dirty jeans and a crumpled up t-shirt off the bed and tossed them on a chair. He straightened the pillows, uselessly fluffing them.

Finally Dean raised his head. "You know what that was all about, don't you?" He sounded accusing. "What I was dreaming about?"

Sam hesitated, and then nodded. "Yeah, Dean, I do," he admitted.

Dean stared at Sam for a long moment, and then he said, "Tell me."

Sam stared back helplessly. "Dean –"

Dean shook his head. "No, Sam. Tell me. I need to know."

"You really don't," Sam said, but he sat down on the side of the bed opposite Dean, swinging his legs up and scooting back until he was leaning against the headboard. He spoke to the back of Dean's head.

"You were dreaming about Hell. You were there."

Dean went very still, and Sam wished he could see his face, wished he hadn't situated himself behind him. He hoped that was enough, that Dean only needed that basic bit of information. He'd rather not tell Dean the details.

"Why was I in Hell?" Dean sounded hoarse, like his voice had been shredded, and Sam winced.

"You…you made a deal with a demon."

Dean turned to look at Sam, his face full of horror. "Why would I do that?"

"Because I died," Sam said in a whisper. "I died and you made a deal to bring me back."

"A deal to go to Hell? For how long? How – how did I get out? How do deals with demons work, Sam?" Dean's voice had risen steadily as he spoke, and he was practically shouting when he reached Sam's name.

"You were there a year. Castiel pulled you out." At Dean's blank expression, Sam added, "Dude in the trench coat. Angel, remember?"

"I made a deal with a demon to save your life, I went to Hell for a year, and then an angel in a trench coat pulled me out." Dean scrambled off the bed and started pacing. "Have I got that right?"

Sam nodded. "I'm sorry," he said, although he had no idea what he was apologizing for. He guessed he was sorry that Dean had remembered. It was bad enough when they lived through this crap the first time, having to relive it by watching Dean remember it one excruciating detail at a time was a particularly horrific form of torture.

Maybe this was happening because Sam's recollections of Lucifer and his own time in Hell were so muted that the universe had decided he hadn't suffered enough and had devised this new fresh hell just for him.

But that was ridiculous, because the "universe" was God and Castiel was God's right-hand man these days, and Sam didn't think he would do that.

"I – I gotta go," Dean said, and he turned and left the bedroom. Sam could hear him clattering down the stairs, heard him in the kitchen, searching in the refrigerator, probably for a beer.

If this didn't make Dean start drinking the hard stuff again, nothing would.

Sam scrubbed his hands over his face and made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob. Who was he kidding, there were so many more things that would make Dean stay drunk for days if he remembered them.

*

Dean was still quiet after that, but the whole unclean! vibe was gone. The relief Sam felt once he figured that out was so overwhelming he almost couldn't breathe.

"So," Dean said around a mouthful of spaghetti one night, "I guess our lives were kind of shitty." There was so much sadness in his eyes, and Sam swallowed. Dean looked as if he desperately wanted Sam to deny all the crap that had happened to them. Sam really wished he could.

"It wasn't all bad," Sam said. That was true. "We had fun a lot of the time, we had good friends. We had each other –" he stopped, knowing that was the wrong thing to say.

Dean was watching him with sharp eyes.

Sam shrugged. "Not just – like that." He actually felt heat rise in his cheeks. He hadn't blushed in years, he didn't think, and he certainly hadn't blushed around Dean in a very long time.

Sam sighed. "Look, Dean. Mom died, we went on the road with Dad. He taught us how to hunt. We met some folks along the way, but most of them aren't around much anymore. They're mostly dead. Some bad shit happened, but there were good times, we did some good things, we saved a lot of people along the way." He paused, then said, "Dude, you really used to like to hunt, back before all the shit hit the fan. Like when we went to Pittsburgh last month."

He wasn't looking at Dean, didn't want to see whatever expression was on his face. "And in the past few years, things have settled down. God came back, Cas is up there with him, Hell's been on lockdown for a while now. There are fewer monsters these days. You and I, we've been living here pretty peacefully." He looked at Dean for this last part, he had to look him in the eye when he said it. "It's been nice."

Dean looked steadily back at him for a moment, and then nodded.

Sam counted that as progress.

*

Sam missed the car. He felt its loss like a severed limb. It represented home and safety and Dean to him, and now Dean didn't even care.

He nagged a little, poked at Dean about it.

"What the hell, Sam? Why do I have to care about the car? It's a wreck, it's old, what am I supposed to do about it?" Dean seemed more irritated than anything by Sam's prodding. Like it wasn't important enough to get pissed over.

"It's my home," Sam said, anger boiling inside. "It was my home, and it was your home, even if you don't remember it, and you took it away from me!"

"I didn't do it on purpose! Stop blaming me, I'm trying to remember." Dean was pale now, his fists clenched at his sides.

"Well, try harder, Dean!" Sam was goading Dean, trying to provoke him past quiet avoidance.

"Fuck you!" Dean's eyes blazed with anger now. Good. "I have no clue how to do this. I don't know what you want from me!"

"I want you to remember!" Sam jabbed his finger at his own chest. "I want you to remember me!"

"You think I don't want to? You think I can't see how bad you want the old Dean back?" Dean's anger seemed to disappear, to be replaced by a terrible sadness. "I'm not stupid, I know I'm not who you want."

Sam's own anger rushed out of him, leaving him weak and sick. "No, Dean, no, I'm –" he reached a hand out, but let it fall when Dean turned away. "Dean –"

"Forget it, Sammy. It's fine. I’m going to bed." Dean climbed the stairs like an old man, tired and defeated looking.

Sam felt like the biggest piece of shit alive.

*

Sam was in the kitchen, putting groceries away. Dean had taken Daisy for a walk down to the creek that ran along the north side of the field behind their house. He'd been doing that a lot lately, and once or twice, Sam had seen him take a fishing pole with him.

There weren't any fish in that creek, although there was a stocked pond about five miles down the road where Dean had sometimes gone to fish, before. Sam kept meaning to tell Dean that, but he hadn't yet. He wasn't sure if he just kept forgetting, or if he hoped Dean would remember on his own.

Sam had his head in the refrigerator when Dean and Daisy came in. The screen door banged shut and Dean said, "Was there a, a necklace of some kind, Sam? Did you give me – I remember something –"

Dean trailed off, and Sam turned startled eyes to his face, narrowly missing hitting his head on the freezer door.

Daisy woofed impatiently, and Dean reached to get her a dog treat. Mud covered his boots, and the bottoms of his jeans were wet. His hair was soft and messy looking, and freckles stood out on his skin, pink from the afternoon sun.

Sam was struck by how miraculous it was to see Dean standing in front of him, after everything, whole and healthy. How lucky they both were, and how ungrateful he was that it didn't feel like enough.

He felt ashamed that he'd given Dean the idea that who he was now wasn't what Sam wanted, what Sam would always want.

Some part of that must have shown on his face, because Dean cocked his head at Sam, and then his lips quirked in a half-smile.

"What?" Sam said. He wasn't even sure what Dean had just asked him, he'd lost it in the rush of feelings that had come over him.

"A necklace – a pendant of some sort. It was on a leather cord. I keep seeing you hand it to me, wrapped in newspaper? Is that real? Did that happen?"

Sam didn't trust himself to speak, so he just nodded.

"You gave it to me?" Dean persisted.

Clearing his throat, Sam said, "Yeah. Yeah, Dean, I gave it to you. We were just kids. I – it meant a lot." He wasn't going to say anything else. If Dean didn't remember anything else about the amulet other than the fact that Sam gave it to him, well, Sam thought that was the best thing he could hope for.

That was more than enough.

"Where is it now?" Dean asked. "I haven't seen it in my stuff." He waved vaguely toward the bedrooms overhead.

"Um, it's gone? I mean, a few years ago, it just –" Sam broke off. He shook his head, praying that Dean would let it go, be satisfied with the little bit of information Sam gave him. He was usually pretty content not to dig beneath the surface on a lot of things. Oftentimes, details were more than he wanted to know.

"That's cool," Dean said. He gestured at his mud-covered boots and wet jeans. "I'm gonna go clean up."

Sam was lucky this time.

*

Sam finally convinced Dean to go look at the Impala again on a sunny Saturday morning in May.

"You wanna tell me why this is so important to you, Sam?" Dean asked him quietly as he shut Daisy in the house. "We'll be back soon, sweetheart," he said as he pulled the door closed.

Sam stopped walking and turned to look at his brother. "I told you, after Mom died, we moved around a lot. We lived in shitty motel rooms and crappy apartments and run-down trailers. Sometimes we stayed with – well, with friends. Bobby. We changed schools every five minutes, it seemed like."

"You didn't like that," Dean said, watching him closely. "It made you angry."

Sam's heart thudded at the realization that Dean could read him so well. They'd been almost strangers just a few short months ago. But even without his memories, Dean knew Sam.

Sam turned to hide the sudden heat in his face and kept walking toward his car. He slid behind the wheel and waited for Dean to get in, waited for him to buckle his seatbelt and get settled before he said, "No, I didn't like it. But the car, that was our constant. The only thing that was always there. Even Dad, Dad was gone a lot, off hunting things before we were old enough to hunt with him."

Sam shrugged. Dean looked at him as if he was trying to solve a mystery. "The car was where we lived, at least emotionally." And Sam waited for Dean to make fun of him for being so sappy, but then he remembered that this was a different Dean, a Dean who had no cause to be so hard, so cynical. This was a Dean who was undamaged, except for the few things he'd remembered so far.

And of course the whole fucking his brother thing. That wasn't at all damaging, really.

But Dean seemed to be dealing with that, at least for the time being. Right now he actually seemed interested in what Sam had to tell him about the car.

Once again Charlie came out to greet them. Dean seemed more relaxed than the last time they came to see the car. More interested and engaged in why they were here.

"Hey, Charlie," he said, as if Charlie were someone he actually knew.

"Dean," Charlie said. "Good to see you again."

The three of them went inside, to the bay in the back of the garage where Sam had been paying to keep the car since the accident.

"No pressure," he said to Dean. "But she's going to start to rust where she's banged up if we don't get her fixed up soon."

Dean seemed more involved than the last time San had dragged him here. He slowly walked around the car, touching the places where she was broken with gentle hands.

Sam felt tears prickle at the back of his eyes as he watched Dean, but he couldn't turn away. Let Dean catch him, he didn't care.

Dean straightened up from his inspection of the engine and looked at Sam. "I don't know how."

"You've done it before. More than once." Sam held his breath, trying not to push.

"What if I don't remember? What if I screw it up?" Dean sounded so unsure, and Sam wanted him to know he couldn't screw it up, no matter what happened, if he'd only try.

"You won't," Sam said with confidence, hardly daring to hope.

Dean nodded. He turned to Charlie and said, "Could you help me? I mean, if I decide to work on her a little?"

Sam's heart soared. Not at Dean's half-promise to fix the car, but at the way he'd called the car "her." It was the first time he'd done it, and the fact that he didn't seem to even realize it made Sam feel better than he had in weeks.

Charlie said sure and they spent the next half hour talking about what needed to be done.

*

But in the days that passed, Dean didn't spend any time at the garage, as far as Sam could tell. He came home from work, dusty and tired, pretty much on time every day. Ron came over after work for a beer or two a couple of times a week, and they just hung out.

Sam didn't want to ask. Things between them were going pretty smoothly right now, and he didn't want to rock the boat.

"Hey," Dean said, poking his head into Sam's bedroom one night. "Can I borrow a clean t-shirt? Mine are all dirty."

"Yeah, sure," Sam said. He had no idea whether to get up and get a shirt for Dean, or whether to just let him rummage around in the dresser and get one himself.

"Um, where -" Dean asked after it became apparent that Sam wasn't getting up.

"Oh, sorry," Sam said, jumping up and pulling open the top drawer of his dresser. He was shirtless himself, which made him unaccountably nervous. It was silly; Dean wasn't going to think he was trying to seduce him because he was half-naked. This was Sam's room, after all.

He grabbed a shirt and thrust it blindly at Dean. "Here."

"Thanks." Dean stood for a moment, staring at Sam, an appraising look in his eye. He actually looked a little surprised, or something; Sam couldn't tell for sure what that particular expression meant. He thought maybe he liked it.

"'Night, Sam."

"'Night, Dean," Sam said, but Dean was already gone.

Sinking slowly back down on the bed, Sam realized maybe it had been appreciation he'd seen on Dean's face.

*

And then Sam had another nightmare.

Most of the time when Sam dreamed, they were nebulous dreams, where Sam was in pain, or Lucifer was taunting him in some way, but the details were never very clear. Remnants of the wall, Sam supposed.

But when the dreams involved Dean, they were as sharp and clear as they could be. Sam didn't have to be a genius to grasp the psychological underpinnings of that.

This dream was about Dean.

Sam found himself on a lonely country road. It was dark and cold, the asphalt icy under his feet. Trees surrounded him, their branches knocking together in the wind.

Up ahead, snow swirled thickly, visible in the headlights of a car. The beams of light tilted slightly upward, and the snow mesmerized Sam as he walked, heavy flakes dancing in the wind and then disappearing into the darkness beyond the lights.

He approached the car cautiously. Its rear end was in a ditch, and the gleaming black front end was raised a few feet off the ground. The tires were still spinning, rotating uselessly in the frigid air.

A man slumped in the driver's seat, his head resting on the steering wheel. Sam didn't want to look, didn't want to see who it was, although he already knew. There was an unnatural twist to the man's shoulders, to his neck. Dread nearly overwhelmed Sam, and he wanted nothing more than to turn and run away. Away from what he knew he would find.

He was close to the car now, close enough to reach in through the broken window and touch the man trapped inside. Putting a hand on the shoulder that jutted toward him, he pushed gently.

The body was cold and stiff, and it fell away from the steering wheel and back against the seat.

Bile rose in Sam's throat and a scream clawed to get out. Dean's lifeless face was frozen in a rictus of pain and terror. Blood had run from a gash on his forehead and congealed in smears that shone black in the light reflected around him.

Sam fell back, stumbling and slipping on the icy pavement. "Noooo, noooo, Dean," he cried.

Hands gripped his arms, shaking him. He struggled to get away, still screaming his brother's name. "Dean!"

"Sam! Sam, wake up! Sam! Sammy!" There were hands on his shoulders, in his hair, moving up and down his arms. The back of his neck was held in a firm grip, and a frantic voice said in his ear, "Sammy, wake up, come on, it's okay."

His name, over and over in that particular voice, finally penetrated the last of the nightmare. Sam blinked, shook his head, and whispered, "I'm okay."

Dean – a living, breathing Dean – kept his hands on Sam's shoulders as he said, "Dude, you back with me now?" He sounded completely freaked out, and Sam made an effort to pull himself back together.

"No, I'm fine, I'm good," he said. He gave a little gasp, and coughed once or twice. "I'm good."

Dean peered at him uncertainly, then seemed to become aware of the way he was holding onto Sam. He pulled back, took his hands off Sam, and Sam had to make a conscious effort not to follow him, not to lean into the comfort Dean's body offered, even if Dean's stupid broken brain wasn't on board with that.

Sam looked away. He could see in Dean's expression that he cared about Sam's distress, but not in the way Sam was used to, or in the way he needed him to.

Scooting further away from Dean, Sam leaned back against the headboard. He was drenched in sweat, and his t-shirt stuck to his chest uncomfortably.

Dean got up off the bed, and Sam's heart sank. He wished Dean would stay for just a little longer. "Dean…"

Dean held up a hand. "Hang on, Sammy." He disappeared into the bathroom and came back with a towel. Tossing it at Sam, he said, "Get out of that shirt." He grabbed a clean shirt out of Sam's dresser and turned to hand it to him. "I know where you keep your clothes now, dude."

Sam nodded and stripped off his damp shirt. He mopped at the sweat on his chest and stomach and then pulled the clean shirt on over his head. Emerging, he tried to smile. "Thanks."

Dean stood next to the bed watching him, looking like he wanted to say something but not knowing how. Sam raised his eyebrows.

"Are you okay, Sam? Are your dreams always so – I don't know, so bad?"

Bad was probably the most inadequate word Sam could associate with the things he dreamed about, and he shook his head. "You could say that. Well, sometimes they're less…powerful. Sometimes they're…faded, kind of." He shrugged. Dean used to know this about him and didn't make him talk about it.

"When they're bad…do I…how do I…what can I do to help?" Dean finally managed to say.

Sam shook his head. "It's fine. I'm fine."

Dean snorted. "You're so not fine, Sammy. I feel like – I mean, when I had that one really bad nightmare, you were – I just feel like –"

Sam took pity on him. "We don’t usually talk about it. I mean, we already know what we dream about, and we don't need to talk about it."

"So, what then?" Dean looked determined, and that struck Sam as incredibly brave, somehow. It made him feel such affection for Dean that his eyes prickled.

He looked at his brother. "You really want to know?" Sam needed to make himself clear, let Dean know what he was asking. "You probably don't want the details," he warned.

Dean flushed but he met Sam's eyes. "I can handle it."

Sam smiled a little, saying, "Really? You sure about that?"

"Give me a break here, Sammy. It was – I didn't expect it, that was all." Dean glanced away and then back, looking directly at Sam. "I'm – I'm sorry about before."

"Okay," Sam said, surprised. "I – I mean –"

"Yeah, yeah," Dean said, sitting down next to Sam. "Just shut up and tell me what to do."

Sam ruthlessly pushed down the rush of hope Dean's words brought. "Well, for one thing, we're usually in the same bed when it happens." He held up his hands before Dean could react. "You want to know, and I'll tell you. Just – don't freak out again." He waited for Dean's nod before he continued.

Sam didn't think he'd ever felt so self-conscious in his life. Not because he was embarrassed at the things he was telling Dean, but because Dean was looking at him with such trepidation. Taking a deep breath, Sam said, "You – we – you hold on, hold on to me. Like, like a hug." Oh god, he sounded like he was twelve years old.

Dean must have thought so, too, because Sam could see the beginning of a smirk on his face.

"Go on," he said.

"I'm glad you find this so entertaining," Sam said. "So, we spoon, we snuggle, sometimes we make out, sometimes we fuck," he said in a rush, watching Dean's expression closely.

"Sorry," he added, "But it's true. And you asked."

"That I did," Dean conceded. "I really did." He took a deep breath, studying Sam's face.

Sam was pretty much over his nightmare by now. Losing Dean in a dream wasn't any more terrifying than losing him in real life. Not that he thought he'd lose him over this, but he couldn't help being anxious. He should have kept his mouth shut, told Dean that he made him hot chocolate or something. Not that they sometimes fucked. What the hell was he thinking?

Distracted by his thoughts, Sam didn't notice that Dean had crawled into bed with him until he felt him put a tentative arm around his waist, pulling him down and more or less manhandling him until he was on his side and Dean was spooned behind him.

"What –"

"Shut up, Sammy," Dean said. He tucked his knees behind Sam's bent ones, and his breath was hot on the back of Sam's neck.

Sam wanted to protest, to tell Dean he didn't have to do this. He wanted to tell him not to do this unless he meant it, but Dean tightened his arms, so Sam didn't say anything. He concentrated on breathing instead.

The images from his dream came back unbidden then. The dark road, the swirling snow. Dean's bloody face, his sightless eyes. Sam's breathing sped up, and his heart felt suddenly as if it was going to beat out of his chest.

Dean murmured something too quiet for Sam to hear and began to slowly move his hand, stroking Sam's chest, his stomach, up and down. He breathed deep and regular, and Sam tried to breath with him. He shuddered once, and Dean murmured again. This time Sam heard the words.

"It's okay, Sammy. I'm not going anywhere."

Somehow Dean, this Dean who Sam thought didn't know him at all, who didn't know anything about their lives beyond what Sam had told him, somehow this Dean had put his finger on Sam's deepest fear.

It surprised him, although maybe it shouldn't have. That was Dean, and it had always been Dean.

It gave Sam great comfort to think this Dean knew him so well, and when he finally fell asleep, it was to the feel of Dean's heartbeat against his back and the sound of his breath in his ear.

*

They didn't talk about it the next morning, or the day after that. It didn't feel like they were avoiding anything, it just felt like it was a perfectly normal thing to have happened.

Sam was grateful for that.

Dean started showing up in Sam's bedroom at odd times. He was either looking for something he'd misplaced, or wondering if Daisy was in there, or telling Sam he'd made a pot of coffee and did Sam want some?

One night came in searching for the dog, and he stood in the middle of the room, looking around thoughtfully.

"Does it – I mean, this was your room, too, not the one across the hall. Does it feel familiar in here?" Sam asked.

Dean looked at Sam and shrugged. "Maybe. It doesn't feel familiar, but it doesn't feel strange, either. It feels – I don't know, it feels comfortable in here. I like it."

"You know you can –" Sam broke off. He didn't want to push. He waved his hands around in a way meant to convey move back in any time you want.

He didn't think he'd been particularly successful with that, but Dean smiled. "I know."

He didn't officially move back to their room, but Sam started finding Dean's boots in the corner or a shirt tossed over the back of the chair. More and more of Dean's crap started migrating across the hall, and each book or pair of dirty socks made something twist in Sam's chest.

Something that felt dangerously like hope.

More often than not, Dean would end up falling asleep on the bed after he'd come in to watch TV with Sam in the evening. They had a small, beat-up television in there, hardly visible from the bed, but Dean insisted on springing for the full cable package, so there was always something on to watch.

Sam wasn't much for TV these days, but Dean never, ever got tired of reruns of the shows he could remember. He'd drift off in the middle of How I Met Your Mother, which seemed to be on five times a night, at least, leaving Sam beside him, laptop open but ignored.

As soon as Dean's breathing found a regular rhythm, Sam would turn his attention to Dean, studying his face, looking for evidence to show that he was different now. That he wasn't the Dean Sam used to know.

But as hard as Sam looked, all he could see was the Dean he'd known all his life.

*

Ron called on a Friday night to see if they wanted to go bowling.

"Bowling? Have I ever been bowling, Sammy?" Dean's eyes were bright with excitement. "I bet I kick ass at it."

Sam laughed. "I guess we'll find out, won't we?"

Once they were ensconced in an alley, questionable shoes and cold beer in hand, Dean realized that if he'd ever been bowling, he hadn't done it often enough to pick up any actual bowling skills.

Sam, on the other hand, had hung out with some guys during the spring of his tenth grade year who went midnight bowling every Friday night.

It was apparently a great place to pick up girls, although Sam hadn't had much luck in that department. One of the guys – Sam thought his name was Corey – thought it was hilarious that Sam couldn't get a girl to make out with him even at midnight bowling.

"Didn't you ever go midnight bowling in high school, Dean?" Sam asked.

"Doesn't look that way, does it, Sammy?" Dean said as he cheerfully watched his ball hit the gutter halfway down the alley.

Ron had been in a league for years, so he pretty much owned them both, but that didn't stop Sam from being secretly stoked to beat his brother, even if Dean bowled like a drunk three-year old.

The place was a madhouse of sound and color. There seemed to be a lot of couples there, and everywhere Sam looked, someone was making out.

Sam didn't think he'd choose a bowling alley to try and swallow someone's tongue, but he shrugged. To each their own, he guessed.

There was one girl, a pretty blonde with pouty red lips and a killer figure that kept throwing inviting glances in Sam's direction. He tried to ignore her, but she was obvious as fuck. Ron and Dean teased him about it, but Sam thought he saw annoyance in Dean's eyes, and maybe a little bit of a challenge there, too.

Dean looked around the alley, loud and bright, and said, "Friday night's date night, you know." His color was heightened, but he met Sam's eyes with a steady gaze.

"I know," Sam said, not sure where this was going.

"So," Dean said, and a grin spread slowly across his face, growing wide and bright and happy.

"So," Sam said, swallowing thickly. Dean winked and turned to pick up his ball.

"Gonna kick your ass, Ronnie," he said, throwing another gutter ball. He cackled with laughter.

"Not noticeably," Ron said.

It was one of the best nights Sam could remember having.

And then they went home, and it got better. Sam was getting ready for bed, stripping off his shirt, when Dean came into the bedroom.

He paused in the doorway for a moment, then moved forward and put a hand in the middle of Sam's chest. Watching the movement carefully, Dean curled his fingers, digging the tips into Sam's skin. "I figured something out, Sammy," he said.

"Oh, yeah?" Sam said, his throat dry. "What's that?"

Dean looked up at him, his eyes intense. "You belong to me. You always have." His fingers dug in a little more. "And you already knew that, didn't you?"

Sam nodded, afraid to speak, or even breathe.

"Does it work both ways, Sam? Do I belong to you, too?"

"Yeah, Dean," Sam whispered. "You always have."

Dean said in a satisfied voice, "I thought so."

He held Sam's gaze. "I don't remember much about the past, Sam. And the future – man, I don't know, it's not something I like to think about. I don't trust it, not really. It doesn't matter what we think about the future, anyway. It can all change just like that." He snapped the fingers of his other hand in Sam's face. "What we have is right now. That's all we've got, and I'm tired of fighting for more when I can't have it."

Sam understood it, then. He got it. Dean, right here, right now, was enough. It was everything.

Dean pushed against Sam's chest, pushing him away, and Sam made a small sound of protest. But apparently Dean was just trying to get his hand out from between them and up around to the back of Sam's neck.

He pulled Sam down and kissed him, a sweet, simple kiss that felt just like coming home. Sam sighed into it, wrapped his arms around Dean and hung on.

Dean pulled back, leaning his forehead against Sam's.

"Is this all right?" he asked.

"Are you nuts? Of course it is," Sam said.

"Okay, then," Dean said, letting go of Sam completely and rubbing his hands together. "Show me what you like."

"What?"

"Yeah, okay, maybe you should show me what I like," Dean amended. He shot a quick glance at the bed and then chuckled nervously.

"Hey," Sam said, crossing over to the bed, grabbing Dean along the way. He gave him a little shove and Dean sat down with an "oomph," glaring up at Sam. "Relax."

Dean nodded. He looked vulnerable suddenly, sitting there waiting for Sam to show him – oh, god.

Sam sank down on the bed next to him. "Did you like kissing me before?"

"Sure," Dean said. "Sure I did, Sammy."

"Then let's start with that. Here, get this off," Sam said, tugging on Dean's shirt.

"You're right, Sammy, I like this a lot," Dean said against Sam's mouth.

Sam rolled them over so that Dean was on top, sliding his hands down over Dean's ass to hold him in place. He thrust his hips up, sliding his cock against Dean's, letting the warm, familiar friction work to heal the hurt the past months had brought.

Dean moved with him, against him, and it was as if they'd never lost this, not even for a little while. And for the first time since he'd heard Emmett say, "There's been an accident," Sam thought he would be able to survive this.

It was almost too much. He tore his mouth away from Dean, hid his face against Dean's neck, and came with a gasp.

"Dean," he whispered. "Dean."

"I gotcha, Sammy," Dean said. "Always." And Dean did, Dean had him in every way that could ever mean anything.

Dean ground down against Sam, his hips moving frantically, and then he slowed and stopped, hot wetness between them.

It was a few minutes before Sam could open his eyes.

"Like riding a bicycle," Dean said proudly when he did.

"You did not just say that," Sam said. "Please tell me you didn't say that."

"No can do, Sammy." Dean grinned happily down at Sam. "I went there."

Sam smiled right back up at him. "We went there, Dean."

*

It had been almost three weeks since Sam and Dean went to the garage to look at the Impala. Sam tried not to think about it, and he certainly never mentioned it.

Neither did Dean.

But still Sam wondered. Why would Dean bother dragging Sam to the garage if he weren't going to do anything about the car? Had he decided to scrap it? Sell it for parts? Sam felt sick at the idea, so he didn't ask. If that was the case, he didn't want to know.

So he tried to push it out of his mind and not drive himself crazy thinking about it. He manfully resisted the temptation to grab Dean by the neck and shout, "What are you doing with our car, asshole?"

And then one evening, about twenty minutes after Dean was due home, he heard it.

The rumble of the Impala's engine.

There was no mistaking that sound.

Sam had been pretending to research South American silver mines for Henry, but was in reality watching the clock. Ever since the accident, he had even more issues with Dean getting home from work late than he'd had before it happened.

That was something Dean didn't remember, but after the night he came home an hour late, having gone out for a few beers with Ron, he'd quickly learned.

He'd come home to find Sam in a flat out panic, pacing and clutching his phone almost hard enough to break the casing. "You've reached Dean's other, other phone" had stopped being funny after the fifteenth time he'd heard it, and if - when Dean came home, Sam was going to make him change his voicemail. It was an old joke that was never going to be funny again.

"Where the hell have you been?" Sam demanded when Dean waltzed in as carefree as could be. "Do you know what time it is? What the fuck, Dean? Why didn't you answer your phone?"

His voice broke on that last, and Dean looked at him, startled. "I – I went out with Ron. We went for a couple of beers…" Dean trailed off, crossing the distance between them, kneeing Daisy out of the way.

He caught hold of Sam's shoulders. "Sam, it's fine. My phone died this afternoon, and my only charger is here." Reaching down, he caught Sam's hand, prying the phone away, gently uncurling Sam's fingers from around it.

Dean tossed the phone on the coffee table and turned back to Sam. "Sam, I'm sorry. I didn't think – I'm sorry. Shit," he said, as Sam stared blankly back at him.

"Dean?" Sam swallowed. "Dean, are you – is that - I mean, are you okay?" Sam blinked, and there was Dean staring up at him, concern and contrition on his face. Sam smiled. "You're okay."

"Yeah, Sammy, I'm okay." He grabbed Sam's elbow and dragged him over to the couch, pushing him down to sit.

Sam's knees kind of buckled and he folded none-too-gracefully down. He gave a watery chuckle. "Sorry, dude. I guess I freaked out a little bit."

"I guess you did, buddy. I'm sorry. I didn't realize…it's not just the accident, is it?"

Sam shook his head. "No, probably not." He didn't want to talk about it, to talk about all the times he'd lost Dean to more than a drink after work. Dean didn't need to know all that shit.

But after that night, Dean made it a point to either be home on time or to call if he was going to be late. He never forgot, either. He saw that Sam needed that, so he just did it without making a big deal out of it.

And now Dean was late coming home, and Sam had been about to freak out, but the rumble of the Impala was in Sam's ears, vibrating in his chest. He got to his feet and stumbled to the kitchen door.

He yanked it open, and there they were - Dean and the car. Together. She gleamed in the late afternoon sun, every inch of her perfect, while Dean beamed at Sam through the driver's side window.

Sam stood rooted to the spot. He couldn't have moved if his life depended on it.

Dean scrambled out of the car, saying as he did, "Sorry, I'm sorry I'm late, Sammy." He turned to Sam and grinned proudly. "But look what I did."



Later, after Dean had dragged Sam down the porch steps and over to the car, after he'd shown Sam every single repair he'd made to the car with the air of someone handing Sam the moon and the stars, after all that, Dean kissed him.

Before, they hadn't kissed much, unless they were in bed. Sam liked kissing, and he knew Dean did, too, but Dean had always seemed to think it was too demonstrative, or something. If ever Sam kissed him out of the blue for no reason other than he felt like it, Dean would laugh uncomfortably, pat Sam on the shoulder, and quickly do something to gross Sam out.

It never worked – Sam had spent his whole life around Dean, and a well-timed belch or an unexpected glimpse of half-chewed food barely registered on his radar.

But at the same time, if Dean was uncomfortable kissing without the end goal of sex in sight, Sam was willing to let him get away with it. It never seemed worth the hassle to convince Dean that it wouldn't turn them into girls if they made out for the heck of it once in a while.

So for Dean to kiss Sam in the middle of the driveway for no apparent reason than that he felt like it was pretty fucking awesome.

Except, of course, Dean couldn't possibly know that. Sam considered him thoughtfully, and then pulled him into another kiss, this one meant to convey how happy Sam was that he and Dean were in this moment, right now, just the two of them, making out against the Impala.

Dean pulled back, a soft look on his face that Sam hadn't seen in far too long.

"Do you like it?" he asked, gesturing at the car. "Does she look like, um, Baby again?" Dean sounded unsure about the whole "baby" thing, like maybe he was being presumptuous.

There was really no adequate answer to that question, so Sam just tightened his arms around Dean and nodded.

"I didn't think – I mean, I didn't know you'd been working on her." He peered down at Dean. "As a matter of fact, when have you been doing it?"

"Well," Dean said, a hint of mischief in his smile, "Ron's been giving me time on days when we have a light work load."

It was springtime – Sam knew there was no such thing as a light workday in construction during the spring. He frowned, and Dean pulled away.

"Okay, look. Ron knew how much it meant to you for me to fix the car." Dean shrugged. "I really didn't get it, Sammy. I mean, I hate to hurt your feelings, but I figured, hey, it's just a car."

He must have seen something on Sam's face, because he hurriedly added, "No, I mean, I know, you explained it to me, but I wasn't feeling it, not really." He shrugged.

"But it meant something to you, and I figured the least I could do was give it at try."

There was no way Sam was going to find words for what that meant, so he didn't try.

He pulled Dean down into another kiss and tried to tell him that way.

*

"Hey, you know what's awesome? Besides my cooking skills?" Dean said as he put a bowl of Kraft macaroni down in front of Sam.

Sam grinned happily at his food. "No, what's awesome besides you?"

"You." Sam looked quickly over at Dean, surprised. "No, really. You've stopped looking at me with that tragic expression on your ugly mug. I really hated that look, Sammy. But your eyes aren't sad anymore." He smiled, a small, soft smile. It was a smile Sam hadn't seen since before the accident, but he recognized it. He saw it and knew it for what it was – his brother. Not Dean before, not Dean after, just Dean.

"I'm glad," Dean added simply.

"Me, too," Sam said.

"There's always gonna be things I don't remember, Sam. I can't help that. I'm damn sorry for it. I know it hurts you."

Sam was shaking his head before Dean finished talking. "No, no Dean. Don't be sorry. I'm not sorry. There are so many things, so many things that happened to you, to me, that I'm glad you don't remember. Things that hurt you. This –" he waved a hand between them. "This is good. I can keep the memories for you, Dean. For us. Do you trust me to do that?"

Dean stared at him, then laughed. "Yeah, Sammy, of course I do. I can trust you to do that." He paused, and then said, "As long as you let me keep looking out for your ass."

"Yeah, I think I can manage to do that," Sam said.

"Then we're good."


~fin~