Title: the crucifix was constructed wrong

Disclaimer: not my characters; title from Anne Sexton

Warnings: AU after Swan Song and during No Rest for the Wicked; references to canon character death; canon-typical violence/blood; a psychotic, irrational, erotic codependency; it started out as a fluffy fix-it but it's getting kinda dark; anything we learn after Swan Song is not canon here

Pairings: none. um. Dean&Sam are soulmates, obviously, but I'm not sure if it's platonic or romantic here

Rating: PG

Wordcount: WIP

Point of view: third

Note: I'm currently rewatching the entire series. I'm on disk 3 of season 6. This idea has beaten me over the head.

He blinks in the middle of the ritual, shudders, doubles over as the words trail off. "What?" he mumbles as a burn starts in his head and then moves down, spreading through his chest, his arms, his legs. He gasps at the pain—

I'm sorry, a voice says softly. I was given a choice, you see.

He closes his eyes, gasping for air.

You'll make the same choice, the voice says.

Light—For Dean, he hears—

He opens his eyes. Uncurls, glances at the candles, the symbols. "Ruby," he murmurs. Smiles slowly.

Resumes the ritual.

.

Once, there had been a desperate younger brother, who tried every last thing he could think of to save his older brother from Hell. After he failed, he tried every last thing he could think of to rescue his older brother from Hell. After he failed, he tried every last thing he could think of to exact vengeance on the one who stole his brother from him.

He went down a terrible path. Let himself be tricked, led like a lamb. Finally, because there was nothing left, he let the darkest of the fallen angels in and did the very best he could.

His very best wasn't good enough, but as he fell, tangled with two angels and the younger brother he barely knew, he saw a crack in the world and he lunged toward it.

There, in a split moment of time and space, something very old looked at him and he stared back, stripped down to only a soul. Interesting, he heard. What an interesting thing you are.

It laughed, that very old something, and said, Because you have amused me, small one, I shall offer you a boon.

There, in a split moment of time and space, something very old asked, To when would you return, small one?

He gazed into infinity and replied, Before my brother went to Hell.

Again, that very old something laughed. As you will, small one.

The very old something closed its eyes.

The desperate younger brother screamed as light—

.

He finishes the ritual, stands. Waits. He breathes, stretches his arms, his shoulders, his spine. He feels young. Strong.

A demon approaches. He turns to watch her appear, pasting a worried expression on his face. Dean was right; her true form, beneath the meatsuit, is hideous. "Ruby," he says, making the words sound as worried as he can, "Ruby, we know where Lilith is. We need your knife."

It won't work on her, of course.

Ruby refuses, going through the same old song and dance, so helpful yet not, so eager yet hesitant.

Dean slips down the stairs. He keeps his eyes on Ruby even though he wants to throw himself at his brother, so young, so frightened, still the strongest person he's ever met.

There's Azazel's blood in him, and Lucifer's bloodline, and there's a reason it always came back to him and his brother. A reason they started the end. They were led like lambs.

Ruby attacks his brother.

It still has to play out, so he lets it.

.

He sings along with Dean, wondering, What happens if Lilith dies here? Tonight?

Bobby and Dean make the plan, and he chimes in; he can feel every demon, Lilith most of all.

Ruby was poisoning him, making him biddable. Leashing him until the time was right. Driving a wedge between him and Dean, creating a gulf they couldn't cross, even as everything went to pieces around them.

He and Dean slip towards the house; Ruby follows and attacks Dean. Again.

He warned her, the first time around; he remembers that. He warned her.

He remembers how it felt, seeing Alistair standing over Dean. Seeing Lilith let the hounds in.

Ruby has her hands on his brother, so Sam reaches. She gasps but before she can scream, before she can try slipping out of the meatsuit, Sam covers her mouth with his palm.

"Sam?" Dean whispers.

He pulls her away from his brother, pressing down at the demon with every bit of his will, his rage, his hatred—and the demon burns.

Dean turns, eyes wide, and watches as Sam lowers the meatsuit to the ground. "Sam?" Dean repeats softly.

Demons approach, dozens of them. Sam steps over the meatsuit, saying, "Let's get inside."

.

"Sam," Dean says once they're inside with the sprinklers keeping the demons at bay.

It's so much easier without the demon blood.

Dean's panicking, fingers clenched around the knife's hilt, and he keeps looking from Sam to around the room, and Sam has to smile. Maybe he was meant to be Lucifer's meatsuit, which seems like such a stupid thing—maybe he was meant to become the King of Hell, which seems just as stupid. But it doesn't matter.

Because for one moment in time, he held Lucifer still, ripped Lucifer wide open, and saw.

Being Lucifer's meatsuit wouldn't save him from Lilith; he's still not sure she ever knew the true plan. But she did her best to destroy him, while his brother died two steps away, and she failed. A few drops of demon blood when he was an infant couldn't possibly cause that.

He breathes, watching his brother breathe. Dean looks so young. So unburdened.

Lilith is upstairs. She hasn't left the child yet.

She won't, because Sam reaches.

.

Dean follows him up the stairs, body tense with all the words he's biting back, fingers white on the knife. Every part of Sam is singing, is ready, has never been stronger or surer.

The woman cowers in the corner as Sam strides into the room. Lilith rages, the floor and the walls shaking, and when she turns her gaze on him, the girl's eyes turn bone-white. "You!" she shrieks with the girl's voice. "How!?"

He smirks, body loose, shoulders relaxed. "I'm what you wanted, right?" he asks. Dean steps up beside him; to Sam, he's obviously confused but backing Sam's play, whatever it is. "You and Azazel, you wanted a king—well, here I am."

He can practically hear everything Dean isn't saying, but he keeps his gaze on Lilith. She holds up a hand; wind rushes around the room, a light begins to build, and Sam steps in front of Dean.

He doesn't hold up a hand. He doesn't need to, not anymore.

The woman screams as Lilith lowers her hand, and the little girl's meatsuit gazes up at him in bewildered horror. "Lilith," he says, and his glee is evident in every word as he continues, "You're trapped in that body. You can't run. You can't hide."

She killed his brother. Dean died screaming, torn apart by hellhounds, and then he went to Hell, where he was tortured for decades, and he had to live with the guilt of what he did when he broke. Because of this demon. Because of Azazel's plan, because of the angels, because of the demented game Heaven and Hell played, will try to play again.

"I'm not going to exorcise you, Lilith," he says. The woman is weeping against the wall, and Dean is warm behind him, stepping next to him, confused and frightened and just a little bit proud. Sam can feel his emotions, can almost hear his thoughts.

He's not sure Lilith has ever been this terrified before. He revels in it.

She killed his brother. He reaches out and inside the little girl, Lilith burns.

.

Dean insists on taking care of the family, and then, they step outside to see all the neighbors collapsed on the ground. Sam knows that Dean wants to ask, wants to demand, wants to wrap him in cotton and never let him out of his sight.

"They're alive, Dean," Sam says, because he can feel their souls, all of them.

This is what Ruby tried to keep from him. What Azazel had groomed him for. What's the point of a vessel that can't withstand an angel's power?

"Boys!" Bobby shouts.

The hounds howl, drawing close; Dean flinches but then steps in front of Sam.

Sam says, "No." He can sense how the hounds hesitate, how they circle around. They have Dean's scent, and they were sent for him. "No," Sam says again.

They whine, all six of them.

Dean is panting, watching them, and Sam tilts his head, meeting each of their gazes.

"No," he says for the final time.

They slink back, ears flattened, tails tucked between their legs, and then they whirl and run.

"What the fuck is going on?" Bobby demands.

.

Sam sits shotgun, angled slightly so that he can watch Dean. Dean, who should be dead. Dean, who should be in Hell. Dean, who sacrificed everything he could to keep Sam safe, keep Sam fed, keep Sam clothed and in school, keep Sam alive. Dean, who he's betrayed and left behind and torn down.

"Stop lookin' at me like that, Sammy," Dean says.

Sam can't. His hands nearly beat Dean to death not even a day ago. Dean could've been torn apart by hellhounds not even an hour ago.

He ripped into Lucifer, and even though Lucifer is currently in his cage, he saw and he knows, and Michael could perhaps destroy him, or Death—but nothing less.

Nothing less can threaten him now, not Heaven or Hell, and he doesn't want to tell Dean any of it, doesn't want even the shadow of that weight on his shoulders, but he spent two years lying to his brother and he won't do it again.

He watches his brother, and he smiles.

.

There is a panic in Heaven. "The Righteous Man is not in Hell," Zachariah mutters. "How can this be?"

Raphael and Michael, who have not spoken to each other since moments after Gabriel left Heaven, share a glance before looking away.

Lucifer is still in his cage, yes—but something is free, and on Earth, and for the first time since Lucifer began questioning Father, Michael feels fear.

.

Dean sits down on Bobby's couch and fixes a determined, expectant gaze on Sam. Bobby glances from one to the other and decides to get a whiskey and leave them to it.

Sam has resolved to stop lying to his brother, but he's not sure where to start. He can already feel a dozen different ways of spinning this trying to fall out of his mouth.

Raising an eyebrow, Dean crosses his arms, slouches back against the couch. He's prepared to wait Sam out. He can be so damn patient sometimes. Sam almost always broke first, when they were kids.

Well. When he was a kid, because Dean never really was.

"I have these nightmares," he says. "Sometimes they come true."

Dean rolls his eyes. Sam grins before looking down, letting the mirth fall away.

"Then it became telekinesis," Sam says. "And then I could exorcise demons with my mind." He doesn't look up, but he can hear Dean shift in place, can feel his confusion, his apprehension. "Only after you died, Dean. Only after I failed to save you from Hell."

He can hear Dean inhale sharply. "Sammy, what are you saying?" he asks, all worried big brother. The best man Sam has ever known. His idol, his hero.

"A year from now, I killed Lilith and let Lucifer free," he murmurs. "Two years from now, I let Lucifer in and then threw us into Hell." He closes his eyes. "I couldn't let it happen again, Dean. I couldn't."

"So you time traveled," Dean says. "To the night my deal came due."

Sam nods. He's still standing in the middle of the room, head tucked down, eyes squeezed shut, hunching in, trying to be as small as possible in a body that has never felt bigger. Dean's looking at him, he knows, so confused. A little frightened.

Dean sighs. Stands. He walks over slowly, silently, and Sam lets him come. He's not sure he could ever raise a hand against his brother again.

"Sammy," Dean says. He reaches out to grip Sam's shoulder with one hand and the other lightly lifts Sam's chin, but he keeps his eyes closed. Doesn't want to see whatever expression is on Dean's face. "Sammy," Dean says again. "Look at me."

Sam has to obey.

Dean's gazing up at him, warm and wondrous, and he says, "You never do anything halfway, do you?" He's smiling. "Why don't you sit down and tell me everything, okay, Sam? We'll deal with this, you and me, like we always have."

Sam nods, tears already leaking out, and then he wraps himself around his big brother and holds on as tight as he can.

.

In Heaven, councils are held by the highest choir. In Hell, battles wage as demons try to claim the throne Lilith held in waiting for Lucifer.

On Earth, Sam tells his brother everything, words tumbling and tripping off his tongue, hands clutching his brother, ignoring Bobby and the outside world, ignoring anything that isn't Dean, who doesn't turn away, no matter what Sam says, what Sam admits to, what Sam confesses.

Sam lays it all bare and waits for judgment.

.

Once Sam falls into an exhausted sleep right there on Bobby's couch, Dean slumps back, lets his head rest on the cushion. Sam is folded up next to him, pressed as close as he can without squashing Dean, and Dean strokes his hair, like when they were kids. He can hear Bobby in the kitchen, mumbling. Can feel Sam's chest rise and fall.

It's a fantastical story, the one Sam dumped in his lap. Horrific. Awesome, he thinks, in the old meaning of the word. He looks down at his baby brother, the infant he once cradled, the little boy he protected as best he could, the man he let go, who he's carried out of three fires, who he willingly would've died for over and over and over again.

Azazel. Lilith. Lucifer. Angels. The Seals of the Apocalypse, the Four Horsemen walking the Earth. War between Heaven and Hell, played out by two brothers.

It hurt, listening. Not nearly as much as it hurt Sam to tell it.

He leans down to press as kiss to the top of Sam's head and whispers, "Sweet dreams, Sammy."

.

Bobby watches warily as Dean extricates himself from the couch, tucks a blanket around his brother. Dean can feel the heat of his gaze. He hesitates, hand resting on Sam's chest as it rises and falls, listening to the steady breaths.

Sam's always looked so young in his sleep. It's been a long time since Dean could curl around him, keep him safe from the monsters in the dark.

He turns to face Bobby, who gestures sharply for Dean to follow.

.

"What's going on, Dean?" Bobby asks. It's been almost 24 hours since Dean should've been dragged to Hell; he knows that Bobby slept at some point, but Dean sure hasn't. "You should be dead." Dean chuckles slightly as Bobby adds, "Not that I'm not glad you aren't. But what the fuck happened?"

Dean looks at him, then back to the glass of whiskey on the table in front of him, the one his fingers curl around. He should tell Bobby. Bobby, who has taken care of them and helped them and loved them since the first time Dad brought them here, since Dean started messing around with the cars out back and Sam lost himself in Bobby's library. Sometimes, on the best days, Sam would bring a book outside and settle on the trunk of a nearby car and read whatever book he'd chosen to Dean. Other days, even though they were too big for it, Sam would demand Dean do the reading, and he'd pull out all the old voices that used to make Sam laugh.

They were good times, the ones they had here.

So he should tell Bobby. He'd trust Bobby with his life, has. But with Sam's?

He didn't even trust his father with Sam's life.

So he looks Bobby straight in the eye and he says, "I don't know."

Bobby gives him a disappointed glare. "Really, boy? That's how you're gonna play it."

Dean smiles, though he can barely hold it. "Guess so."

After a long sigh, Bobby drains his own glass. "Then I'm goin' upstairs to bed. You should get some sleep."

Dean nods, watches him trudge out of the room. He wants to call him back, to dump this mess into someone else's lap. To just be a kid again and let the adults handle everything.

Except, he's never done that before. Not that he can remember. A roly-poly baby brother was shoved into his arms and he ran out of a fire, and while Sammy was wailing in his arms, Dean vowed, I'll always take care of you.

He leaves his glass half-full on the table and goes back to the den, where Sam is stirring restlessly in his sleep. Dean pauses to lightly touch his shoulder and murmur, "I'm here, Sammy," which calms Sam down like it did when he was little. Once Sam's settled again, Dean grabs a blanket and pillow from the pile in the corner and stretches out on the floor, between Sam and every possible entrance into the room.

.

In the morning, Bobby makes chitchat with Sam while Dean rustles up some breakfast. Dean keeps an ear on the conversation, chiming in whenever he thinks of something to say. Sam is relaxed, after a year of constant stress, and while Bobby is slightly reserved, Sam doesn't seem to notice.

Dean serves up the eggs: over easy for Bobby, scrambled with ketchup for Sam, scrambled without ketchup for himself, and sits down next to Sam, across from Bobby. He presses his knee to Sam's, just because he needs a point of contact, even though Sam's solid and warm next to him. "Bobby," he says. "We'll be headin' out this afternoon."

"You will?" Bobby asks, meeting Dean's eyes. "Don't you think the two'a ya need a rest?"

Sam leans in slightly, so Dean glances at him. He raises a brow and Sam shrugs, nodding.

"Yeah, Bobby," Dean says. "We're gonna rest, but it'll be somewhere out there, you know." He nods toward the window. "We've caused you enough grief and trouble for a lifetime."

Bobby shakes his head. "You're like my sons, you know. You don't have to leave."

Dean smiles brightly. "We know, Bobby."

Bobby's face doesn't drop, exactly, but it's obvious. Sam nudges his shoulder against Dean's. "We'll be back, Bobby, you know we will," Dean says.

Bobby nods and tucks back into his eggs.

.

"Wanna drive?" Dean asks, tossing the keys to Sam. Sam catches them in shock. "C'mon, Sammy, we gotta shag ass, daylight's wasting here," he says, grinning.

Bobby's on the porch, their goodbyes already said. He's promised to keep an eye and ear on the hunter network. Sam waves as he opens the Impala's door. He watches Dean nod to Bobby and circle the car.

He remembers this day, from last time. He spent it arguing with Bobby about what to do with Dean's body. He won that fight, obviously.

It still doesn't feel real, even though the car rocks as Dean throws himself into the passenger seat and the engine roars when Sam turns the key.

Sam doesn't know where they're going, or why. He doesn't care, either. This is Dean's show, because Dean didn't have these days, and every choice Sam's made since the first time around has been wrong or gone sideways.

"You're quiet, dude," Dean says, pushing a tape into the deck.

Sam huffs a small laugh. "I'm basking, Dean," he says, taking the turn out of Bobby's place. "You're alive. I know everyone who might come after us, and there's nothing they can do." He darts a small glance at his brother, about to ask—but then he focuses back on the road.

"What?" Dean asks.

"I just…" Sam pushes down on the gas. He wants to know; he doesn't want to know. In equal measure. He glances at Dean again, Dean sprawled over the seat, alive and smiling and lit up in the late afternoon sun. "Are you scared of me, Dean?"

He can feel the immediate response that Dean bites down. There's no noise except Metallica screaming, and Sam has to consciously control his breathing because what happens if, after everything, Dean sends him away again?

"Sammy," Dean finally says. "I wasn't scared when your nightmares started coming true, or when Azazel said you didn't come back fully you. Now, you've killed Lilith, and hellhounds listen to you, and you traveled back in time to stop all that fuckery from happening—" Dean chuckles. "You're my brother. The kid I've taken care of all my life."

Sam exhales. "Okay," he murmurs and hits the gas.