PART FIVE

-o-

He runs into Nina Porter at the General Store. Sam is looking for something resembling a newspaper, but is coming up painfully empty.

"Makes you feel a little backwater, doesn't it?" she asks, grinning at him.

Sam blushes a little. "Some habits just die hard, I guess."

"Nah, it's not you," she assures him. "It's this town. Great as it is, there are some things it just doesn't got."

"Like a paper," Sam concedes.

"And a Starbucks," she says. "Lordy, what I wouldn't give for a vanilla latte some days."

Sam laughs. "We are a bit out there."

"Moving here was one of the hardest things I ever did," Nina admits. "I wanted nothing to do with it. I'm a city girl at heart. But it was so very important to him--"

Sam smiles ruefully. "Did you ever find out why?"

She shrugs, frowning a little. "Damned if I know," she admits. "But I know it's important to him. I've seen the change in him. The way he is here--and well, it's just hard to regret."

"So, you don't regret it then?" Sam asks.

She makes a small noise in the back of her throat. "You just have to figure, it's not about you. It's about what they need. You keep that in mind, you can do anything. Even the impossible."

Even the impossible, Sam thinks. That seems just about right.

-o-

After dinner, Dean and Grace are snuggled on the couch. Sam almost joins them, but they have that look in their eyes, and Sam knows that he'd be more than a third wheel if he stuck around.

He slips onto the porch, and settles onto the swing with a sigh. He could do some work up in Jefferson's library. A hunter called in regards to an Indian ritual for a hunt in Oklahoma, but Sam's got time yet.

He's thinking about a new way to sub-categorize the books in the library when Everett yells at him.

"You goin' to daydream all day, boy!" the old man bellows.

Sam blushes. "Sorry," he calls back. "Just thinking."

He sees Delores next to him. "Tell him to come over, dear," the woman says.

Everett swats at her. "I'm getting there."

"Before I'm dead, dear."

"Not soon enough."

"Watch that or you'll never live to see morning."

"Don't tempt me."

"Tell him!"

"Okay!" Everett yells. He looks to Sam. "Delores wants you to come over!"

Sam just grins. "Really?"

"Yes, dear," Delores calls to him. "I've got something just for you."

It makes his chest tighten and a lump forms inexplicably in his throat. It's not just their thoughtfulness, which Sam might almost expect by now. But it's just so hard to grasp. Sam's a no one, even in Peace. He works on the Tanner farm, blends into the background, and does his best to make no trouble for anyone. He doesn't want attention, and the times he gets it anyway, he pulls back harder until he's invisible again, just to make sure he doesn't get it.

But it's not even that. It's...all the surprises in his life have been bad. The truth about hunting. Holiday let downs. Getting kicked out of the family for a full ride. Finding Jess on the ceiling. Finding his father dead. A knife in the back, the knowledge that Ruby had played him--

No, Sam and surprises didn't mix.

But Delores and Everett are watching him, hope so plainly written on their wrinkled faces, and Sam doesn't have the heart to say no.

When he gets over there, Delores has disappeared inside. Everett is in the swing, arms folded over his chest and scowling. "Damn woman didn't shut up all day," he mutters. "Just Sam this and Sam that."

Sam is embarrassed as he settles into the rocker. "I'm sorry."

The front door bangs open. "You've got nothing to be sorry for," she tells him. "Everett's a jealous old thing. He used to hate on our dog so much whenever I gave him table scraps that we had to get rid of him."

"It was a vile thing," Everett snipes.

"He was a sweet puppy," Delores says. "Just like you. And I can actually feed you chocolate without killing you, which is so much better."

Sam is just kind of perplexed, especially since Delores is laying out cake on the table.

It's a sheet cake, iced with thick white frosting that is frothy at the ends. Globs of it are molded into points across it, and Sam knows it's homemade.

"The cake looks beautiful," Sam says.

"Thank you, dear," Delores says as she takes her knife. She slices into it, slow and clean. "I was thinking of you this morning, and I just thought, that boy needs a cake. Skinny thing like you, all that hard work. If anyone deserves a cake, it's you."

Sam shakes his head. "I'm fine, really," he tries to say.

But Delores is still going on. "So I went into the General Store and I bought everything I needed. Even sent Everett back for a little cream cheese to add to the frosting."

"Two damn times," Everett gripes. "She wouldn't use the low fat kind."

"It's just not the same, dear," Delores says. "And have you seen that boy? Too skinny!"

"Really, I mean--"

"It was nothing," she says shortly. She lifts a generous piece up and puts it on a plate. She repeats the process. "I wanted to.

She hands the first piece with a fork to Everett.

Then she picks up the other, puts a fork on the plate and hands it to Sam.

"Saved the best piece for you, dear," Delores says with a smile and pats him on the head.

"I've been trying to eat that piece all day," Everett gripes. "See all that frosting? It's damn near perfection."

Sam offers him the plate. "You can have it."

"Samuel Winchester," Delores admonishes. "I gave that to you."

Sam looks up, startled. "I know--I just--"

"Do not insult me by giving it to Everett," she says. "That's your gift, and it ain't no crime to enjoy it."

Sam draws his brows together and slinks into the seat, pushing gently at the cake with his fork.

"Now you enjoy it, dear," Delores tells him firmly.

Sam doesn't look up as she goes inside.

"You goin' to eat it?" Everett asks.

Sam glances up. "Yeah," he says. "I, uh. I didn't mean to take your cake."

"It wasn't my cake to begin with," Everett says. "I just wanted it."

"But you should have been able to have it," Sam says. "It's your house."

"It don't matter if it's my house or your or the damn White House," Everett tells him. "It was always yours. Ever since Delores made the thing, she had you in mind."

Sam looks at the cake and nods.

"You think you're not worth it?" Everett asks.

Sam shrugs. He's past lying to the old man, who knows all the truths anyway.

Everett whistles. "Boy, there's plenty to go around, of the good and the bad. You have to believe your worth is inherent or you'll throw away the things that matter most. Sometimes taking what's good and right ain't selfish; sometimes acting like you don't deserve nothing is even worse, and don't you forget it."

Sam tries to believe it. As a show of good faith, he plunges his fork in, slicing off the end. He takes a bite and smiles at the man.

Everett smiles back, his own teeth coated with frosting.

Sam swallows and laughs a little, taking his fork to the cake again. The frosting is thick and rich, sweet and smooth.

When he's done, his stomach is full and he's still smiling.

-o-

New Hope is a small town, so it's not hard to find the church. It's tucked on a quiet road on the backside of town. It's easy to find, because every car in town is there.

Sam sits in the car and watches for a second, as mourners pour out of their vehicles. Old men, middle-aged wives, teenagers, and little children: the entire town is here, Sam thinks. Maybe the entire county.

He feels silly, suddenly. That he came. That he thought his presence might matter.

But he's here, and he made a promise. He doesn't break his promises. Not anymore.

Swallowing hard, he checks his tie in the rearview mirror and climbs out.

Inside, the church is packed. There are people from wall to wall and all the pews are filled. He stands uncomfortably in the vestibule, trying to find a place for himself, when he sees her.

She looks different than normal, with the dress and high heels. But still the same. Still beautiful and timeless.

He realizes he's staring when her eyes meet his and recognition dawns on her face.

He blushes and thinks to leave, but she's already moving toward him, navigating through the crowd and headed straight toward him. Sam has no choice but to stay there and greet her.

"You came," she says, and she sounds surprised. Her eyes are red but dry, and her nose looks a little sore. But she's not crying, and Sam can only think how hard that must be for her.

"Yeah," he says. "I'm so sorry for your loss."

She nods, blinking back fresh tears. "It's--hard," she admits. "But I know it was his time."

Sam nods back and tries to think of something to say. Maybe before, when he still believed in things like heaven and eternal rest--but now--now Sam just doesn't know. He doesn't know what to give her. He doesn't know why he's here.

Then she smiles a little. "Will you come sit with me?"

Sam blinks, opens his mouth and shakes his head. "No, I mean, you've got your family--"

"I want you there with me," she says. "Please."

Sam's come this far for her. It seems silly not to walk a few dozen more feet.

He sits by her side, ramrod straight and almost painfully rigid. He glances at her through the service, feels his breath hitch as she breaks with a sob during the benediction.

The casket is open, a pair of pale hands folded in death, and even the preacher cries as he remembers the good things this man has done. Acts of kindness and noble obligations and there's a church full of people that reminds Sam that good people exist, good people matter; even in a world of darkness and evil and death, people still find hope.

People, but not Sam, even though Sam's here, and he's beginning to wonder.

-o-

After the service, they all move to the cemetery in a long, slow procession. He's going to take his own car, but she looks at him and Sam knows enough just to follow.

He stands next to her at the cemetery, close enough to touch her, but he doesn't let himself. The sky is gray as the casket is lower to the ground, and Sam watches her as she bows her head during the final prayer.

There's something magical about that, watching her pray. It's more enticing than anything else. Because she prays like Sam wants to, like he used to, eyes squeezed closed, face scrunched in concentration, as if she's trying to make sure God hears her.

She's reaches out without looking and finds his hand. She takes it in her own and squeezes it for the rest of the prayer.

-o-

She's beautiful--inside and out. Sam's always sort of known it, but not like he does now.

There's a reception at the church, something simple and low key, because that's the way it is in towns like this, with people like this. Sam figures it's his cue to leave because she has family to attend to and friends to remember with.

But she lingers, willing him to stay with her eyes alone, until they're alone in the cemetery, standing on the hot grass in front of a mound of dirt.

"Death is so hard sometimes," she says.

Sam knows.

She looks at him. "But I don't need to tell you that, do I?"

He blushes a little, shoving his hands into his pockets. "It never gets easier," Sam tells her. "Even when you expect it. Even when you see it coming. It still hurts just the same."

She nods a little, and looks back at the gravestone. "It's funny," she says. "Sometimes I don't think we mourn for the person who has died, but for ourselves."

"What do you mean?"

She smiles at him in the sunlight. "When someone dies, they have the chance to move on, and we can only have faith that it's a better place. But for those of us who are left, who have to keep on living, we're always haunted by the memory. We carry the loss with us and we can never let it go. We can accept it, we can deal with it, but we never let it go."

Sam swallows hard, and remembers how there wasn't really anything left of Jessica to bury. He remembers a mother he never had the chance to know. He remembers his father sprawled on a hospital floor. He remembers burying his brother in a pine box in Pontiac, Illinois.

These are his losses, and so much more. One is enough. Added together, and Sam doesn't know how to function, doesn't know how to breathe.

She reaches out, touches him gently on the cheek. Her head is cocked and her face curious. "It doesn't have to define us," she says. "You have to know that, don't you, Sam?"

It's her grandfather's funeral, and Sam's the one who suddenly wants to cry.

Without warning, she moves closer. Her arms reach up and encircle him, pulling him into a hug. At first, Sam is startled--he doesn't know what to do.

But her arms are steady and her warmth is reassuring and his fears and doubts melt away until he's holding her, too.

Sam's not sure how long they stand there--seconds, minutes, hours--but it's long enough to count. It's long enough to matter. It's long enough.

-o-

Dean is watching a baseball game on TV. He's sprawled on the couch, one leg up on the coffee table.

"You want to pop a brewsky? Maybe join me?"

Sam looks at the screen. It's Atlanta and they're up by three in the fifth.

He looks at his brother and considers going upstairs. But Dean's offer is innocent and sincere. So Sam smiles and sits. "Much of a game?"

"Pretty good pitching battle," Dean says. "You want me to get you a drink? I was going to get a refill."

Sam shakes his head.

Dean groans a little, sitting up and putting both feet on the floor. "A little drink won't kill you, Sammy."

Sam's stomach clenches and he thinks about the powerful taste of alcohol. Sam knows his limits, and he's proven himself to be an addict before. He can't risk it. He can't risk anything. He shakes his head tightly. "I just shouldn't."

Dean sighs a little. "I know, I know," he mutters. "The whole twelve step process."

Not quite, but close enough. Sam's had to cope with this somehow, and he'd be a liar if he said that he still didn't dream about sliding a blade across the soft skin of Ruby's arm.

Standing, Dean claps Sam on the shoulder. "I'm proud of you," he says suddenly. "The strength it takes to do what you do--I don't think I could do it. Hell, I know I wouldn't last a day."

Sam just looks at him, perplexed.

Dean smiles and heads out.

Sam watches him go and feels like he's been sucker punched. It's been years since he's heard his brother say that--years since he's heard that tone in his brother's voice. Not just acceptance, but pride. Not just love, but respect. Not just commitment, but trust.

It's dumbfounding to think that sometime when Sam wasn't looking, his brother let him in again, not just for the hunt, but completely. How many months had it been since Dean second-guessed him? How many years had it been since the shadow of doubt lurked in Dean's eyes? How long had they been brothers without Sam even noticing?

Dean comes back with a beer and a bottle of water. Dean pops the cap of his and takes a sip, settling back into the couch. Sam breaks the seal of his water and takes a drink. He looks at his brother for a long moment, before looking back at the screen. He takes another drink and when the next batter hits a home run, they both cheer.

-o-

The nights are getting longer, and knows he should be working, but sometimes he can't help himself. The air is fresh in Peace and the company is good. The town has certain expectations and Sam can't break them after all this time, no matter how much he should.

"You never told me how you got here," Sam says. "You told me that no one was born here, and that everyone has a story--but how did you end up at Peace?"

Everett seems taken aback a bit. "You really want to know?" he asks, a little bemused.

"Yeah," Sam says. "I do."

"I was working for a big company out in New York," he says. "I was damn good at it, too. Lots of money to be made, and I made more than my share."

"So why'd you leave?"

"You'll laugh."

Sam shakes his head. "I promise."

Everett chuckles, then sighs, looking over the street. "I'd like to tell you it was that things were going badly. That I was winning the world and losing my soul, but it weren't true. Life was good. Life was perfect. Delores was glowing--a true socialite. We gave most of our money to charity, but still had a nice little brownstone. Had a boy and a girl, and they're perfect and beautiful."

"So what happened?"

Everett sucked on his chew for a moment, spitting a little. "God told me to leave," he says.

Sam waits for more. "God...what?"

Everett nods, seriously. "I was praying one day, thanking the Lord for his blessin's, and he done laid it on my heart. Told me to sell everything, quit my job and uproot my family."

"So--you did?"

"I did," Everett says. "Delores thought I was straight up mad, but she came with me, not a second's hesitation. And we just packed up what we could in the car, and drove. We drove until the car died, and ended up here. Too bad your brother wasn't around back then, because that damn car still don't work."

"Wait--you--just left?"

"And settled here," Everett says. "Peace ain't such a bad place to be."

Sam swallows, and thinks on that. The porch swing creaks, and he can hear Delores humming in the kitchen. "Did you figure out why?" Sam asks. "Why God wanted you here?"

Everett stretches a little at that, squinting out into the growing twilight. "For near forty years, I've wondered that," he says. Then he looks at Sam. "But after all that time, I think I've finally figured it out. And don't you ask me why, boy, because I think you know as well as I."

Sam's mouth opens, but nothing comes out. He tilts his head.

"Forty years I've been sitting on this porch," Everett tells him. "You're the first one to come up and join me. That means something, don't you think?"

"Yeah," Sam says slowly. "I guess."

Everett harrumphs a little. "Well, good thing for you, I know. And there ain't nothing you can say to change my mind. So, until you get there yourself, I'll just keep believing for the both of us, you hear?"

Sam hears, but he's not sure he understands. But there is a force here, more powerful than Everett's wisdom, more alluring than Delores' cooking. It's the force that drives people from successful jobs and prosperous lives. It's the force that brings people from every walk of life. It's the force that brings them all together, all here, and maybe Dean was right. Maybe this is a sign.

Sam's just not sure if he doubts the sign, or doubts himself, but maybe if he stays here long enough, he'll figure that out.

-o-

It's Tuesday night.

Sam finds Tuesday nights kind of boring.

Every Tuesday and Thursday, Dean goes into New Hope. He meets Grace there, sits in Grace's art gallery and finds ways to make her smile. He doesn't usually come home until morning those nights, and sometimes it makes Sam so lonely, he even heads over to the bar to eat something.

Self-imposed exile is important, Sam knows. But too much time alone with himself is a dangerous thing. For him. For everyone.

After showering from a day in the fields, he heads out. Everett and Delores are fighting over dinner. He can smell the barbecue from the Porters' backyard. Erick's dog is barking, and Caris' soft voice trails on the breeze from her open kitchen window.

The bar is mostly empty, like it usually is. Sylvie is nursing a beer and eating a sandwich, talking jovially while Zach sits hunched across from her. She winks at Sam when he comes in, but doesn't slow her pace, and Zach looks almost pleadingly to him for some kind of escape.

Sam isn't the right guy for that. He simply smiles and makes his way to the bar.

Anita comes up. "What'll it be, stranger?"

"I'll start with a water," Sam says.

"You do know our water's just from the tap, right?" Anita asks. "It's not very clean."

"It's fine," Sam assures her.

She shrugs, grabbing a glass and moving to fill it. "I figured you wouldn't care," she says. "I wanted to make sure you knew, though. Before you decided what your Tuesday regular should be."

"My what?" Sam asks.

She puts his glass down. "Your Tuesday regular," she repeats. "What you'll order every Tuesday night."

"I don't need a regular."

"But you do," she says. "That way I can have it ready for you when you come."

"What if I don't show up?"

"You've been here every Tuesday night for two months," she informs him.

That takes Sam by surprise. "I have?"

She nods. "Julia is the one who noticed."

Sam hadn't realized it'd been that long. Time in Peace is slow and fast all at once, flying and crawling until Sam feels like he's just standing still.

"So, you have to have a regular," Anita insists.

Sam shakes his head. "No, really, I don't."

"But you like consistency," she tells him.

And that much is true. Sam's life exists in small schedules and measured actions. It makes things predictable and safe. Makes him predictable and safe.

But he's not ready to accept this yet. A regular means he's regular. A part of this town. He can't do that--he can't.

"It's really not important," Sam tries to deflect.

"But you already have a Thursday regular," she tells him. "You order turkey on rye every Thursday."

It's a revelation to Sam. It hasn't been a purposeful choice, and he certainly hadn't expected anyone to notice. "I order turkey on rye every Thursday?"

"Like clockwork," Anita says with a nod. "Julia even goes to the store first thing on Thursday to make sure you have fresh cilantro."

Sam glances to the kitchen; Julia is nodding seductively in the doorway. "It's just a habit," he says slowly, turning his attention back to Anita.

"Habit, regular, it's the same thing, brother," she says.

This flusters Sam, and he wants to find the words, but Anita's logic is pretty good. "But--"

"But, what?" Anita says with a incline of her head.

"It's just not permanent," he says.

She snickers. "Sam, you've almost been here for a year now. Your brother runs a tab at the General Store. You sit on your front porch every evening and we all know the path you walk around town in the morning. How much more permanent are you going to make it?"

It's a little mind-boggling, to hear it all spelled out like that. The months have bled together with the simple ebb and flow of Peace. It's been day to day living, hard work out at Tanner's farm, early mornings with Everett, and evenings with the town. Sam's a part of all of it, he's in all of it, so why is it so hard to believe?

"You like the chicken and rice," she says. "You cleaned your plate the week Julia put extra picante on it."

Sam remembers that. He remembers eating it, but he can't remember liking it. He can't remember liking anything, and that strikes him suddenly as sad.

Sad and right.

"So chicken and rice maybe?" she asks, and she sounds hopeful.

He looks at her and looks at Julia and knows this isn't for him. With a weak smile, he nods. "Chicken and rice sounds great."

Anita just smiles. "Chicken and rice," she says, sounding quite satisfied. She pushes to her feet and yells at Julia over her shoulder. "Chicken and rice, extra picante! Don't forget."

Julia's reply is in Spanish, and Sam slinks lower in his seat as he wonders how this became his life without his knowledge.

-o-

One morning, the air is crisp and there's still a layer of dew on the grass. Sam's pulling on his work gloves, flexing his fingers in the stiff leather when Tanner comes up to him and says they need to talk.

They sit on a pair of hay bales and Tanner smoothes his hands on his thighs. "You have a nice night last night?"

Sam is confused but nods anyway. "Sure," he says. "I guess."

Tanner nods and then swallows. "Because I'm afraid I have to fire you."

Sam blinks and waits for the punch line. When it doesn't come, his mouth opens and he stutters. "What?"

Tanner nods, more certain this time. "You're fired."

"You're firing me?" Sam asks. "But--why?"

Tanner cracks his neck. "Son, you're a damn good farm hand," he says. "If I only could have one hand, you'd be the best one for the job. You work hard and you work right, and that's a damn near impossible combination. I never hear you grumble, and I never hear you ask for anything you aren't given."

"I don't understand."

Tanner looks at him. "Problem is, you shouldn't be doing this. You came to Peace for better things than this, son. Even if you don't know it yet."

Sam's a little speechless. He's just been fired and he's been complimented and he isn't sure which one bothers him more.

"Stop by with the missus and she'll have your last check. The kids wanted to say goodbye to you, too," Tanner explains. "It's been a damn fine time having you on, son, and you'd better stop by to pick up some tomatoes or Alice'll have my hide."

"Yes, sir," Sam says, still too stunned to come up with anything else.

Tanner nods once, claps Sam on the shoulder. "You'll do well, son. You'll do well."

-o-

Sam's too bewildered to walk it off. Instead, he goes straight home. Dean is eating his lunch.

"You're home early," Dean observes.

"I got fired," Sam reports, slouched on the couch.

Dean considers this with a surprisingly nonchalant manner. "Daydreaming about those midget strippers again?"

"What?"

"Clown porn?"

"Dean."

His brother shrugs. "It's got to be a sign, dude."

"A sign of what? That I'm a bad farm hand?"

Dean takes another bite and chews for a moment. He swallows and looks at Sam. "That you were never meant to be a farm hand to begin with?"

"And how do you figure that?"

"It's farming season."

"What?"

"Who fires their best hand during the height of farming season?"

"What do you know about farming season?"

Dean shrugs. "I hear things."

"About farming season," Sam concludes.

"And signs from God."

Sam rolls his eyes.

"Dude, you're in Peace, not purgatory," Dean says. "It's about time you accepted that."

Sam snorts and heads upstairs. If he slams his door like a petulant teenager, it's totally a coincidence.

-o-

Sam turns his attention to Jefferson's library in full force now and ramps up his contacts. He stops in the General Store each morning to buy the paper, and starts scanning the headlines for suspicious happenings. He can't hunt without Dean, but he's got connections in the hunting world. As long as he treads carefully, he might be able to tip some others off.

He tries to get a job at the bar again, but Julia comes onto him in Spanish and Anita says they'd never get any work done if he was around.

Sam loiters around the house, looking for ways to be useful. He starts sweeping every day, and has taken to dusting on a weekly basis. He reorganizes the kitchen cabinets to increase the efficiency.

When Dean can't find the coffee cups and Grace has trouble finding the spices, Dean curses. "You could get a hobby, you know," he says.

Sam tries to look innocent. "I already have the library in top condition. There's only so many hunts I can find and I don't get questions every day."

"Yeah, that's not the kind of hobby I'm talking about."

Sam is perplexed.

"Fun, Sammy," Dean says. "Build model airplanes. Start a garden. Get a dog. Something. Anything."

When Sam starts trying to organize Dean's closet, his brother draws the line and pulls Sam into the garage.

"Here," Dean says, and hands him a wrench.

Sam looks at it. "We tried this once," Sam remembers. "It didn't work."

"Well, this time I'm not teaching you so you can do it on your own," Dean says. "This time I'm teaching you because I could use a hand."

Sam just stares. "You don't need a hand."

"I need a hand so I don't kill you," Dean points out. "Besides, it's a good idea. You learn about cars, and I'll help you with the hunting resources."

"You're serious," Sam says, and he still can't believe it.

"If you don't shut up and listen, I'm going to bash you upside the head with that thing," Dean threatens. "So using it correctly is really in your best interest."

-o-

"Holy hell," Ella Montgomery says over the phone. "That tip about sanctifying the grounds was a damn good one."

She's a hunting acquaintance of Ryker Carter. She contacted Sam a week ago about a black dog in the Tucson area.

"I told you it was a good idea," Sam says.

"You didn't say it was going to save my life."

"I thought that was implied."

"I'm a hunter, not a mind reader," she says. "But I just about peed my pants when that thing charged me."

"You'd do better with backup," Sam tells her. "I told you that."

"Good help is hard to find," she drawls. "Speaking of which, I got a lead on kelpie not too far from here. You think I could pick your brain?"

"I still think you need a partner," Sam says. "Ryker's not bad."

"He's also got the personality of a board. Too many years on the hunt."

"You don't need him to entertain you," Sam explains. "You need him to watch your back."

"Well, what about you?"

"I had a partner."

"I mean, why don't you get out there on the hunt?" she says. "I could use something with the experience you have. Hell, we all could."

Sam's heart skips a beat. "No," he says. "I don't have experience you want."

"Just the stuff we need," she says. "You've been to the brink of Hell and back, they say. You've seen the darkness, been surrounded in it, and still came out on top. If there's anyone who's more up to the job, I can' think of them."

"It wasn't like that."

"No," she agrees. "But I'd bet my life that it was more."

Sam closes his eyes, and breathes for a moment. "Call me about the kelpie when you know more."

"Sure thing," she says. "And thanks again."

"Anytime," Sam says. "Anytime."

-o-

Byron Lin asks him if he's interested in some file folders. He has a whole assortment in his garage, with color-coded labels to stick in the top.

Sam's pretty sure the entire town is taking pity on him. Word gets around fast that he's been let go from Tanner's farm, and though the rumors vary wildly, everyone seems to want to coddle him just a bit. Anita gives him free sodas with his meals and Erick always throws in a Ho-Ho with his purchase, on the house.

It is very possible, then, that Bryon Lin is doing the same.

But file folders.

How can the anal retentive in Sam resist?

Byron seems relieved to have him there, and lets him pick through the boxes to Sam's content. There's lots there--the file folders, binders, paper clips, even a T-square.

"You must have done a lot of paperwork," Sam notes, trying to finagle a three-hole punch into his box.

Byron laughs. "Too much paperwork."

Sam grins. "Isn't that always the case."

"Have you worked in business?" Byron asks conversationally.

Sam shakes his head. He thinks about his dreams of being a lawyer and how he'd worked so hard in school. It's a different life. His mouth flattens, but he tries to smile anyway. "No."

"I was in architecture," Byron informs him. There's a hint of wistfulness in his voice. "I was very good. I enjoyed the clean lines and the mathematics behind it. Every choice I made had a clear and definitive purpose. It felt good to be so measured and so precise."

"Maybe I should have considered that, then," Sam says with a laugh. "I was pre-law for awhile in school."

"Another profession of logic and reason," Byron comments. He winks at Sam. "Far too much persuasion involved for me, though."

"I didn't finish my degree," Sam says softly, and he looks down, fiddling with a tape dispenser.

"I'm sorry," Byron says.

"It was a long time ago," Sam says. "Things happened. I had other things I had to do."

"That's why I left, too," Bryon tells him.

Sam knows Byron's comment is innocent, but Sam tries not to smile with incredulity. Byron's girlfriend probably didn't die in a fiery mess over his head and Byron probably didn't throw himself headlong into revenge until he destroyed himself and the world.

"It was a very demanding job," Byron continues. "And no matter how many lines I drew, or how many calculations I made, I still wasn't getting any closer to figuring out the things that really mattered."

There is a faraway look on Byron's face, and Sam recognizes it. It's the distance of a dream, not lost and not deferred, but given up. "Like what?" Sam asks, and suddenly, he really needs to know.

Byron looks at him and smiles. "How to be a husband. How to be a father. How to be a person."

Sam's throat tightens inexplicably.

"I spent a lifetime trying to build my own happiness, trying to construct it with my knowledge and skill," Byron says, and he's looking out the open garage door. Thomas is shuffling cards on the cement and Katherine is running in circles, her pigtails trailing after her in the sunlight. "But you can't find happiness. Contentment, the real thing, is something that finds you. You just have to accept it."

And that's what Sam wants. More than anything. More than normal, more than safety, more than family. More than atonement.

Contentment.

"That's what Peace is for me," Bryon says, meeting Sam's eyes again. "This town is my contentment. It lets me focus on the things that matter. Everything else just sort of falls into place. You know what I mean?"

Sam almost smiles, and if he let himself, he could cry. But he doesn't. "I think I do," he says instead, and he's pretty sure he means it.

-o-

He goes to the library so often that he's on a first name basis with Phil. Phil is more interesting than he seems, and he will take Sam through the stacks for hours at a time, pointing out obscure books and rare copies. He even has Sam convinced that the copy of The Grapes of Wrath with the scribble inside the back flap may actually be from John Steinbeck himself, though neither of them have proof.

It reminds Sam of why he fell in love with libraries, of the long hours at his father's knee flipping through books of things he didn't understand, couldn't understand--but wanted to understand. In a life full of lies, the library was a refuge of answers, and Sam has not lost that wonder quite yet.

His questions are specific now. Where before, he wanted to know who he was and what purpose he had, now he just wants to know if something can be killed with iron or fire.

Phil, though--he's just happy for the company.

"It's so quiet here," Phil says. "There just aren't enough people interested in libraries anymore. All this darn-fangled technology. But I'll tell you, libraries have things the interweb or whatever just doesn't have. It has concrete knowledge. Proof that it exists. That it's just not some mad man in his basement in South Dakota."

For a moment, Sam imagines Bobby making Wikipedia entries.

"So I'm so glad to see a nice, young man like you take interest in it," Phil is continuing.

Sam raises his eyebrows, his attention back on Phil. A nice young man, he is not, but it's not worth it to ruin Phil's fantasy.

"You and that girl."

Sam's interest is piqued against his consent. "What about her?"

"Such a bright thing," Phil muses. "Comes in here every weekend, almost like clockwork. And so polite and courteous. Always re-shelves her books correctly."

"Do you know who she is?"

"She's one of the locals," Phil says absently. "Family's been here all their lives. The Fullertons, I believe. Her daddy's the minister at the New Hope Christian church."

Sam's practically salivating, leaning in closer. "Yeah?" he asks.

"Oh, sure," Phil says with a wave of his hand. "She's the only girl--they've got four boys--and yet she smoked them all. Graduated top of her class in high school. School plays, debate team. Full ride scholarship to Princeton, but I tell you, I never seen a girl more heartbroken over college than that one. No one was surprised when she came back to do her masters at Georgia State. She's as much a part of this town as they are a part of her."

It is a mesmerizing tale, almost hypnotic. Sometimes, Sam thinks she's just in his head, a figment of his lonely imagination. But to hear that she is real, that she exists outside of him--it is strangely invigorating. For a second, the tendrils of possibility rise within him.

He had the willpower to stop using his powers. He had the dedication to give up the demon blood. He's given up hunting, he's given up atonement--he's given up everything, but for some reason, he can't find the strength to fight this right now.

"She deserves only the best," Phil adds thoughtfully. "Pure, wholesome girl like that."

He shakes his head, and smiles at Sam, adjusting his glasses on his nose.

"Between you two, my job is worthwhile," Phil concludes. "I have to get back to updating the card catalog, but if you need something, just let me know."

Sam mumbles his consent and watches Phil go.

A pure, wholesome girl like that.

Doesn't deserve a pathetic, screwed up guy like him.

The hope within him recedes, and he lets his common sense take over again. He doesn't deserve to even think about this. He never has.

It's time to let go. This place has made him soft. These months away from the hunt have dampened his resistance. He has to fight harder and stronger than before. He has to stop letting himself believe that Dean's happily ever after could be his.

He just has to stop.

The day, on the drive home, Sam drives clear past Peace. He keeps going and going, as far as he can, until the inevitable pull of it all draws him back.

-o-

As far as Sam wants to go, Peace always draws him back. He's not sure if it's Dean or if it's Jefferson's library or if it's Everett or everyone else, but he can't go far and he can't stay away.

Sam spends a few mornings each week in the garage. It's about as much as either he or Dean can take, sometimes. Things are better between them, but Sam has a hard time forgetting. He's still healing, he's still learning to trust in Dean's forgiveness, and between the sounds of metal on metal, Sam can hear the words that he'll never be able to let go of.

Boo-hoo.

I don't know when it changed.

You're weak.

It means you're a monster.

I'm sorry.

I just don't think I can trust you again.

But Sam's learning about engine and he knows how to change the oil and sometimes, fixing the cars is close enough to make things seem right.

One day, Sam's trying to see his way around a car's radiator when Dean says, "I'm sorry."

Sam looks up around the hood. "What?"

Dean sighs, and fondles a wrench in his hand. He looks up at Sam. "I'm sorry for telling Grace about you."

Sam doesn't know what to say. He looks back down at the engine. "You had to tell her the truth."

"But it wasn't my truth to tell," Dean says. "That stuff's personal. Off limits. Even for girls."

Sam still doesn't have a clue what to say and his eyes are watering.

"So I just wanted to apologize," Dean says. "And tell you that it's not going to be like that."

Sam finally manages a nod, and turns his eyes to his brother. "Okay," he says.

Dean is tentative. "Okay?"

Sam smiles a little, blinks back the tears. "Okay."

-o-

Dean is doing the dishes, and making a racket of it. Grace finds Sam on the porch and settles on a chair near him with a sigh.

"He's going to break something," she says lazily.

"It's just so you don't ask him to do it again."

She smiles and nods. "He can break every dish and it won't make a difference."

Sam nods approvingly. "Good," he says. "Dean needs someone to hold him accountable."

"Since you clearly won't."

Sam frowns.

"You let him get away with everything," Grace continues.

Sam's good humor has faded. "I owe him."

"No more than he owes you."

At that, Sam looks at Grace, shaking his head. "You know better than that. I owe Dean my life. More than my life."

"And you think he doesn't owe you the same?"

"He doesn't."

"And you think Dean's the stubborn one," Grace muses.

They lapse into silence, the sound of Dean's frenetic dish cleaning resounding in the evening.

"You know," Grace says. "Some people would think you don't like me."

Sam tenses a bit but forces himself to keep it under wraps. "Why would they think that?"

"You tolerate me," she says. "Answer my questions, leave me the last of the orange juice in the mornings. But you avoid me, too, when you can. Lock yourself in the library. Take walks when Dean and I invite you to watch a movie."

"I don't want to be a third wheel," Sam explained.

"So you'd rather be a liar?"

That smarts. He's worked hard to overcome that habit and he's worked harder to prove himself trustworthy. "I don't lie to you."

"But you don't tell me the truth," she says.

"You already know the truth," Sam says back, with more bitterness than he should.

She smiled, nods a little. "That's it, isn't it?" she asks. "It's not just that I'm helping Dean grow apart from you, it's that you can't hide from me. You hide the things you can to compensate for the things you can't."

Sam stiffens, and holds himself rigidly in the chair. The Wanet children are screaming down the street, fighting about kickball and who's in the outfield.

Her rocking stops, and she leaned forward. "I want you to look at me, Sam," she says.

It takes everything he has to comply, and he doesn't do it for her. He does it for his brother.

Her eyes are looking deeply into his, and there's an intensity there that is more than a little unnerving. She presses her lips together, and says, "You drank demon blood. You trusted a demon. You started the Apocalypse. You failed your brother, you failed your father, you failed your girlfriend, and for all you can know, you failed your mother, too. Your life is full of one failure after another, some that weren't your fault and some that were."

Sam's throat is tight and his body is screaming to run, but he finds himself immobile, locked into place by Grace's firm gaze.

"When most people look at you, they see a broken man. When Dean looks at you, Dean sees your regret. When I look at you, I see a good man."

Sam's eyes are watering and it's everything he can do not to cry. "How can you say that?" he asks, and his voice is small. "Knowing what I've done--"

"You're a sinner, Sam, same as me and Dean. Same as everyone in this town. But it's not just what you do that counts. It's who you are. And I'm not talking about demon blood or family legacies. I'm talking about you. Even in all of it, even when you killed a girl and started the end of the world, there was good in you. You wanted to do the right thing, and you forgot that the ends don't justify the means. People don't go to Hell forgetting. They go to Hell for not letting it go."

Sam's heart is pounding and his palms are sweaty. His mouth goes dry and he can feel the blood throbbing in his temples.

"Do you believe me, Sam?"

Sam works hard to swallow and he can't break eye contact. "I want to."

"Then do," she says.

With that, she leans back, starting her rocking again. In that moment, Grace belongs there, on that porch, sitting next to Sam. She's the one who can take Dean's Peace and make it a life.

What she offers Sam, however, might be even more important, he thinks. Not just forgiveness, because Dean gave him that a long time ago. But the possibility to believe.

Sam's not there yet, but as he rocks next to Grace, he thinks maybe someday he will be.

-o-

Sam's in the garage with Dean, poking through a tool box and looking for a wrench. He's telling his brother about his latest case that he's consulting on for Bobby and Ella Montgomery.

With a grunt, Dean slides out from under the car he's working on and gives Sam a look. "I can't believe you're trusting a kid like that to do that kind of job."

"She's not a kid," Sam reminds him.

Dean raises his eyebrows and stands. "Sure seems that way."

Sam snorts a little. "Well, we could always hit the road and join her for this one. It's only two states over."

Dean makes a face. "We've got a life here."

"I'm sure Everett will watch out for it," Sam says. "Jefferson's place did just fine without us around to mow the grass."

Dean just gives him a look.

"What?" Sam asks.

"Jefferson's place?"

Sam shrugs. "That's what it is."

Dean looks a little hurt and a little disappointed and a lot sad. "Dude, really?"

Sam rolls his eyes. "What?"

"This isn't Jefferson's place," Dean says. "This is our place. We've been here almost a year, when are you going to accept that?"

Sam's mouth is open and he's surprised. This has always been Jefferson's place to him. This is Dean's break. This is something to everyone else, and as long as Sam doesn't have any ownership, he doesn't have to face the fact that he's here.

If he doesn't have to face that, then he doesn't have to come to terms with the fact that everything is changing.

No, everything is changed.

He's been so scared, so utterly terrified, because he knows he could lose Dean to this. He could lose Dean and worse--he could lose himself. It hurts to be so close to peace and prosperity and not to be able to touch it. It just aches to have all the dreams within his reach and still have to let them slip away.

He doesn't deserve these things. Not calling them his own makes it easier to reject them. He can't reject what he has never been offered.

Dean is looking at him, shaking his head. "You really don't get it, do you," he says. And there's not disgust, there's surprise. "This is ours, Sam," Dean says. "Yours and mine."

Sam shakes his head. "It's yours--"

"Yeah, so what are you doing here?"

Treading water. Living for Dean.

Mostly, Sam doesn't know.

"I came here for us," Dean says. "We've both earned that."

"I want to believe that," Sam tells him.

"Then believe it," Dean says. "Wake up and realize that all those things you're fighting against, little brother, are already here. You don't want to let yourself make a life--too late. You don't think you deserve connections--too bad everyone in town loves you. You don't want to be happy--if you'd just get your head out of your ass, you'd realize that you have everything. You're just too stubborn to take it."

Sam swallows hard and his eyes burn.

"I can't do this one for you," Dean says. "If I would, I could. But I can't. It's time to step up to the plate and decide how this ends."

With that Dean, leaves the room. Sam's left, staring at the door.

It's a confusing moment. Full of surprise and dread; inevitability and regret. Everything he wants; nothing he'll let himself have. Penance and letting go. It isn't the sin that condemns most people. It's holding on too tight.

It's Peace and it's Grace and it's Dean and it's Everett and it's a girl in a library in New Hope. It's Jefferson's legacy and his father's last wishes and it's Bobby's influence and it's everything. It's a hunt that never ends and an apocalypse that did. And it's sins and atonement and it's moving on and letting go.

Sam's here. He doesn't really know how he got here, but he's here. This town, these people, this life. They're his for the taking.

But he's eight-years-old and the world is built on a shoddy lie. He's fourteen and no one has ever asked what he wanted. He's eighteen and when he takes a chance, he gets shown the door instead. He's twenty-two and his dreams go up in smoke. He's twenty four and Dean dies for his mistakes. He's twenty-six and he ends the world with demon blood coursing through his veins.

Sam's life is one of lies and failure, misery and rejection.

So to believe, to hope....

After everything...

It's scarier than Lucifer himself, and Sam knows.

Lucifer fell to Dean's sword.

But only Sam can vanquish these doubts.

But Sam's many things, but a good little soldier was never one of them. It's do or die time, he thinks, and he's just not sure which side of the line he'll fall on.

-o-

Peace doesn't need a reason to get together, but it takes every one it can find. When Sylvie finds out that it's Zach's birthday, that's more than cause enough for everyone to make their way down to the field behind the General Store for something of a celebration.

There's food, of course, and an assortment of drinks to keep everyone hydrated. Chris has a grill going and Tanner hauled his over as well, so there's more food than anyone could ever eat, but they're all giving it a go.

There's even gifts--which Zach looks embarrassed by--and someone turns on a radio and blasts Creedence Clearwater Revival so everyone can hear. There's talking and there's laughter, and there's even a party game or two.

Sam sips his lemonade and stays out of the way, but can't escape a game of pin the tail on the donkey when the Wanet children corner him. Julia tries to seduce him and Alice Tanner almost force feeds him a bowl of pasta salad, and all in all, it seems about right.

Then Sylvie brings out the cake. It's a huge concoction, dropping a little to one side. It's been frosted by hand and the sloppy lettering on top says Happy Birthday Zach! There is a line of candles running around the outside.

For a second, Zach looks like he wants to bolt. But Sam sees the kid look around and take it in and just accept it.

Then it all changes--Zach disposition relaxes and his smile widens as his eyes light up and it's like he's seeing Zach for the first time.

He watches Zach grin, and it's like the kid is entirely new. Bright eyes and white teeth: Zach looks alive. He's hardly the same kid Sam has seen moping around town and fighting miserably with Sylvie's cash register.

Suddenly, he's Zach, and it means something. He's alive and he's glad for it.

Erick is patting him on the shoulder as the town reaches the climax of the chorus. Sylvie looks like a proud mother and Everett is bellowing out the notes for all he is worth.

This is what this town does. This is who these people are.

The singing ends and the crowd claps. "Now, blow them out!" Everett prompts.

"But make a wish, dear," Sylvie reminds him.

Zach closes his eyes for a long moment, and Sam feels time stop. He can see it, on Zach's face. The pull of letting go is finally stronger than the need to hold on. The desire to be is finally outweighing the fear of being.

And when Zach opens his eyes and blows out every last candle, Sam knows Zach's wish came true.

Zach's finally blown out the candles. Sam still needs to have the courage to make his wish. Once and for all and for always.

-o-

Habit is Sam's saving grace. It's what keeps him going even when his heart just isn't in it. It's what keeps him grounded when his mind just can't quite get the job done.

So he wakes up, takes his walk, and makes breakfast. He eats with Dean and sometimes Grace, and three mornings a week he ends up in the garage, taking Dean's jokes and huffing some of his own. He spends his afternoons in the library, buffing up his contacts and deepening his growing wealth of resources.

Weekends are different, because Grace is always there, and Sam still goes to the library in New Hope. He still doesn't go to church with Dean, but he listens to the singing through the open window and closes his eyes like the girl from the library did at her grandfather's grave.

And evenings always find him on Everett's porch, sipping lemonade and looking out over the street. They talk and they don't, and it's quiet, punctuated by the rough guffaws of Everett's laugh.

"You asked me why I came here," Everett says one night. "But you've never said why you showed up."

It's an honest question and a legitimate one and it hurts so much that Sam can barely think. He looks out across the yard, the street, Peace, and he just shakes his head. "I don't know," he says. "I just don't know."

Everett is quiet for a moment. He spits a little, then nods. "I think you do," he says.

Sam looks at him.

Everett nods. "I think you just won't let yourself admit it."

Sam knows he's right.

-o-

Sam goes back to the house and goes up to the bedroom. He goes through the closet and sits at the table in the library.

He looks at the books, neatly lined on the shelves. He sees the meticulously kept files. Even the maps hung carefully on the walls--this is his. His.

Not Jefferson's.

His.

Sam sits there, soaking that in, trying, trying, trying to believe.

-o-

She beats him there, and she smiles at him when he comes in.

It's different now, more complete. They've existed outside these four walls. Sam's held her hand while she prayed and he's hugged her while she's cried, and Sam's beginning to realize that they're more than study partners.

They're friends, and yet, even more than that. They're connected and interrelated and there is something to this Sam can feel, some indefinable point they're building to, but Sam's not sure what happens next. He's not sure he wants to know because he's not sure if the right answer is yes or no and what each one will say about him.

They talk about studying and school. She talks about her thesis and Sam tells her about his research. It's as much as he's told anyone, and it's not the whole picture, but it's the best glimpse he's afforded to anyone in years.

She smiles like she knows it.

When the afternoon is spent, she packs her things with a sigh. "I meant to thank you again," she says. "For everything."

Sam's eyebrows knit together. He shakes his head. "It was nothing."

She smiles at him. "It was more than you think."

"It was the least I could do."

She looks at him--really looks at him--and Sam feels her eyes take in every feature of his face, every part of his body. She's looking at him and she's looking into him and she can see everything, Sam realizes. She doesn't know details, but she can see his failure. She can see his failure and his brokenness and she can see his persistence and his fear. She can see him more clearly than anyone else has in many, many years.

It's as terrifying as it is reassuring and Sam doesn't know what to do.

She nods, smiling. "I have to get going," she says, and pushes to her feet. "But I'll see you soon, Sam."

She's moving to leave when the question comes to him. "You never told me your name," he says.

She turns and looks at him, amused. Her head is cocked. "Yeah, I guess I didn't," she says. "After all this time, I sort of forgot."

Suddenly, this is very important. Sam's not sure why, but it just is. "So?" he asks. "What is it?"

Her smile widens. "It's going to be a letdown after all this."

"Please?"

"Hope," she says. "My name's Hope."

Sam's heart skips a beat and his mouth goes dry. His palms are sweaty and his heart pounds loudly in his ears. "Your name is Hope?"

She is embarrassed. "Hope from New Hope, I know," she says. "My parents weren't very creative. It's a family name. We've lived here forever, and there's always a Hope, you know?"

Sam just stares at her.

She looks uncomfortable. "You okay?"

Blinking, Sam nods. "Yeah," he said, his voice small. He nods again, looking at her in wonder. He remembers Dean's Peace and Dean's Grace and all the signs and wonders his brother told him existed. He hasn't wanted any part of it, has only tagged along on his brother's journey, but this time he's not so sure he can resist, not even if he wanted to. "It's really good to meet you, Hope."

She smiles, ducking her head a little before looking at him from under her hair. "It's good to meet you, too."

And for the first time in a long time, almost longer than Sam remembers, he believes.

-o-

END

-o-