Sam

He had no idea how he had come to be here; standing under a streetlamp that flickered and burst above his head. All he knew is that he was out of the pit and that – that was enough.

How much time had passed? He wasn't aware of that either. He still looked the same, no mark on him, no sign of injury. Apart from the memory loss – he seemed to be mentally intact and not a drooling idiot – and he stood in the cool evening and looked into the neat, tidy house – his heart full.

Dean looked – if not happy – then at least content. He sat at the table, drinking whiskey, talking animatedly to the boy opposite him and smiling at Lisa as she bent to serve him a slice of pie.

Sam smiled; this is what he had made his brother promise to do and now his brother was keeping his promise. There had been so much self sacrifice in their lives that it had to stop and Sam was determined to be the one to stop it. He smiled, wistfully and lifted his hand in a small but significant wave.

This was goodbye.

Dean had remembered hell; remembered every tortuous minute, every painful year. Sam remembered nothing.

His last real conscious memory was panic and fear as he had plunged head first into the pit. He remembered the pain of Lucifer scratching at his brain, remembered the searing heat, the feel of Michael's hand on his wrist but – but after that his mind was blank. Whoever or whatever had 'rescued' him from Hell had wiped his mind clean and for that he had to be grateful.

He was pretty sure that he was no longer dangerous but he could still feel the power throbbing within him. Lucifer was long gone, still caged, but Sam knew his blood would never truly be purged. He didn't want to hunt anymore, certainly didn't want to hunt alone and he had no desire to contact any of his old friends like Bobby or Castiel because he knew it would only be a matter of time before they told Dean he was still alive.

Sam still had some powers; he could – if he put his mind to it – read minds – knowing instantly what people were thinking, knowing what they were going to say before they said it. He could levitate objects by just looking at them and he could sense danger – a creeping feeling on the nape of his neck a warning of what was to come.

He didn't want these gifts, hadn't asked for them and he had no idea what he was going to do with the rest of his life.

He found himself on a greyhound bus going to Las Vegas.

What seemed like decades ago – after Max – his brother had suggested they go and play the tables. Sam had laughed wryly then, fear and worry colouring his thoughts. Now though – now he had no real worries, no real fears and he wondered – randomly – if he might be able to use his abilities to eke out a living.

He moved from casino to casino – so as not to alert suspicion. He won big but he often let himself lose too, playing the odds.

For the first time in his life he could afford good hotels, nice clothes and excellent food but still he felt odd, out of place, booking double rooms that he didn't really need, still making the mistake of buying two cups of coffee or ordering two shots of whiskey when only one was needed.

He was lonely and as rootless as ever.

The magic show was a revelation.

He hadn't seen one since the case he worked with Dean and even something as simple as a fucking magician made him ache, missing Dean so much it hurt.

He went to most of the shows; it was better than sitting alone in his luxury hotel rooms, wishing for things he just couldn't have.

It would have been amusing if it had not been so ironic. These rooms didn't smell of grease or damp, the baths were big and the showers just the right temperature. The fridges worked, ice boxes keeping the beer cool day and night, air conditioning was constant and didn't rumble or click out, the beds were soft, the sheets clean, the carpets free of stains but he hated the rooms, hated them with a passion. He couldn't stay in them, didn't belong in them and so he spent his nights in the bar or at the casino watching anything and everything that the 'entertainment' had to offer.

Hence the magician.

He was pretty good, a little camp and over the top but good. His magic was more intimate, subtle than Sam remembered and he liked the illusions, the simple card tricks, the sleight of hand.

An idea began to form in his mind that night; a silly idea maybe, foolish and desperate but an idea all the same. He had the skills right? He had REAL power – not that anyone would be aware – so this – this might be a way forward, a way to leave Sam Winchester behind forever, a way to forget, to let Dean go.

So – that night – Sam Winchester set out on a new career and became a magician…

He had never been a showman; never as confident as his brother, never as at ease in large crowds. Even at Stanford his group of friends and acquaintances had been small, intimate and he had never really been a performer preferring to watch rather than partake in Karaoke.

Now though, he had to impress. He settled for black trousers and a simple black silk shirt and tied his hair back in a ribbon. He could almost hear Dean's voice, hear the snarky comments about ibeing a girl/i and ilooking like a pirate/i. It made him laugh a little but the tears in his eyes burnt like acid.

The owner of the small casino was almost too impressed with his 'act'.

He knew exactly what card the man had in his hand; wrote down the names of his wife and daughter, did a little sleight of hand and finished off with his levitation trick (which just meant making the man's glass rise of the table and float to him). The man hired him on the spot and Sam couldn't help but smile, wondering what the YED would think if he could see Sam so blatantly misusing his 'demonic' powers…

The act was a success and soon he was being touted as 'the next best thing'. He performed under the name of 'Robert Singer' and hoped that his old friend would forgive him. His sets were instantly sold out and word of mouth was a powerful thing. He moved from the small casino to one of the largest stages on the strip and he was richer than he had ever imagined.

And he was happy – he guessed…

The tattoos had been an afterthought. He still had the anti possession charm and looked cool when he undid his shirt. He went for pentagrams and protection sigils, all in thick black and on his arms and chest. Then there was the earrings and the nose ring, his brother's amulet around his throat – plucked from the garbage all those months – years – decades ago – all adding to this new persona as he became another person, as he tried to blot out his past and look to his present.

He slept with showgirls and – shit – his brother would have been proud. Dean would have admired his stamina, been envious almost of how often he got laid. The old 'Sam' would never had done this – but 'Robert' he was a different animal and he loved sex as much as he loved whiskey and money. Yeah – only the best for Robert – magician extraordinaire and the next big thing!

Critics called his act 'supernatural' and sometimes he wondered if he might be hunted down but the apocalypse had made everything different. No one hunted anything but spirits and low level monsters these days, angels and demons – it appeared – were long gone.

Kids seemed to like him too and – after one of his shows – a particularly brown and rich looking woman approached him, teeth white against tanned skin, nails as long as talons and painted blood red.

"Do you do kids parties?" She asked, her hand on her rather large purse, "my Jonathan is a huge fan and he – well what he wants – he gets."

Sam looked at her for a long time and then 'Robert' took over. Half an hour later after a long discussion about how much and how long, Sam had a new gig and he wondered how his 'Robert' persona would fit in with the kids. After a sleepless night he decided it wouldn't and – in a panic – he invested in a pair of round framed glasses and brushed back his hair, the kids going wild at this kind of aged Harry Potter.

In the end he wasn't doing it for the money but the pure enjoyment as it was the closest to family he ever came. He did more and more kids stuff and charged less and less. He visited rich apartments and poor flats and he wowed the kids everywhere he went. They called him 'Harry' and sat on his knee and it was like a balm to his injured and misused soul,

He didn't mind travelling. He had spent his whole life on the road, the impala more of a home than any house or apartment. It was midsummer and hot and he had an outdoor party somewhere in a small Podunk town that he had never heard of, the woman on the phone oddly touched and grateful when he told her he would do it at a nominal charge. Her house was small and in a poor area but it was neat and tidy and 'Harry' wasn't half as fussy and as choosy as 'Robert'.

As usual his set went down a storm and the little kid he levitated didn't wail as much as some. The older kids laughed and clapped and he felt his mouth curving into a smile as he bowed for the ninth or tenth time.

One boy – about eleven or twelve – he guessed, was waiting for his ride and Sam sat on the sidewalk next to him, both of them staring into the middle distance, the kid talking insanely about his magic and asking Sam for a few secrets.

"What does your dad do?" Sam asked, finally, when he could get a word in edgeways.

"He – he's not my dad but he's great," the kid said, "he works in a garage but he can handle a gun and he is ace at pool."

Sam was listening intently when the kid suddenly leapt up, waving furiously.

"Here he is!" He cried and Sam's stomach lurched – because even after all these years and all this time he still recognised the low rumble of the impala.

Dean

He had tried to make a go of it; really fucking tried.

He hadn't hunted – hadn't even taken an interest in hunting. Any calls, any visitors he would pass along to Bobby – or Rufus – and then he would return to his job in the garage and lie under the car trying desperately not to cry.

So – his normal apple pie life – just wasn't what it was cracked up to be.

He liked Lisa – but he didn't love her and he was pretty certain now that Ben was not his son. That didn't change things however because he loved taking care of the boy – in fact that was the one thing he did enjoy about this life he had promised Sam he'd live.

It had been his job – taking care of his pain in the ass little brother. Thing was – in latter years – his little brother wasn't so little anymore and – reluctantly – he had had to let Sammy go and watch Sam grow into a man.

Sam – the very sound of his name made Dean want to weep; he tried – tried hard everyday not to think about his brother, tried not to think of him suffering in the pit, remembered his own pain on the rack, remembered the day he finally climbed down knowing – deep inside – that Sam would never have that opportunity – that Sam would endure torture for eternity.

He rode in the impala but the empty seat mocked him; it was better when Ben was with him, when Ben chose the music, sang along with Bon Jovi, watched the world go by as Dean drove and drove, appreciating the company.

Taking care of Ben had – somehow – replaced taking care of Sammy and that – that was more painful than anything.

He hadn't seen Bobby for years so when the big truck pulled up outside Lisa's house he was – to be honest – fucking shocked.

Bobby looked older, thinner, the hair under his cap completely grey. He limped over to Dean and gave him a big hug, holding him tightly and calling him son, his head buried in Dean's neck until he got control of himself and stopped crying.

Lisa left them on the porch with beer and Dean sat down with his old friend.

"There must be a reason you are here," he said, finally.

"Yeah," Bobby peeled at the label on his beer bottle, "there is some guy in Vegas – a magician – some say his act is a little too 'supernatural' if you know what I mean."

"Magician," Dean's stomach clenched and his mind flashed back to the case he had worked with Sam, "well some of them can be a little weird – but – you don't think it is anything do you?"

"Wouldn't – but – he is goin' by the name Robert Singer," Bobby frowned, "that strike you as strange?"

Dean sipped at his beer; it was cold, fizzy and he tossed it around on his tongue as he tried to get his mind around what Bobby had said.

"Robert Singer huh?" He bit his lip, "I guess that is a little weird – but – that is all it is right? Coincidence?"

"Thought you might want to go down there and take a look."

Dean stared at his old friend, knowing that there must be more, that Bobby must have a better reason than this. He sighed and chewed at his lip again, the phantom ache inside of him growing and growing, nausea swirling in his stomach.

"Guess I could swing down to Vegas," he said, finally, "always wanted to play the tables."

Hadn't he told Sam once that they should go to Vegas and use his powers? He remembered how fucking scared his brother had been then – how scared Dean had been too, the first sign that there was something wrong with his little brother, the first sign – and he had just laughed – laughed and suggested they go to Vegas – how innocent and naïve they had been then and how world weary was he now?

It was odd, the road trip.

He stayed in small motels; kept ordering double rooms that he didn't need. Found himself drinking fruit juice with his bacon and eating salad with his burger and fries.

He was exhausted when he got to Vegas and pissed off when he couldn't get into one of 'Robert Singer's shows. Seems like 'Robert' was THE act to see when you were on the strip and Dean didn't have money or influence.

He caught a glimpse one night; peered in through a door that was ajar – saw the magician – all in black – long hair tied back, tattoos, piercings and something glinting around his throat. His mouth went dry and he told himself that – whatever he was thinking – was all kinds of wrong.

He did find out a little bit about the magician; found out that his levitation illusion was 'out of this world', that he could read minds and that he was a slut of the highest order. He also found out that 'Robert' did kid's parties for little or no money, that he called himself 'Harry' (seriously) and that he could levitate kids on the spot – which in itself was more than a little weird.

He got Lisa to persuade her friend to have the party; he told her he would pay for the magician – he gave her 'Harry's' card and waited. Sure enough the friend bit and soon the magician had been brought and paid for. All he had to do was to turn up on the day and the whole can of worms would be open…

Ben was sitting on the sidewalk with the magician beside him.

Dean pulled the car up and sat with his head bowed over the steering wheel, wheezing breathes making him feel faint, as near to passing out as he had been in his life. The guy on the sidewalk wasn't faring much better. His face was chalk white beneath his round framed glasses and his long fingers were buried in his stupid shaggy hair, stormy eyes fixed on the car, mouth open.

b Sam & Dean/b

The bed was as uncomfortable and as lumpy as he remembered but he laid back on it, his arms behind his head, staring at the water stained ceiling, the sound of the shower running comforting and reassuring.

Dean's jacket hung on the door; his bag was open on the other bed and clothes spilled out of it.

Outside, in the yellow glow of the lamp, the impala stood still and shiny looking much the same as he remembered her and her very presence screamed home to him.

"Why Sammy?" Dean appeared in the doorway; he was wearing a towel around his waist and his hair stuck up in all different directions. There was grey at his temples and lines around his eyes and Sam wondered why he had ever thought his brother was happy.

"I – you – I thought it was what you wanted."

Dean was angry; the bruise over his cheekbone was proof of that; the broken glasses in his pocket, the little kids crying because some 'thug' had punched 'Harry'.

"Why would you think that?" Dean said and Sam shook his head, throat rough, tears close to the surface.

"I missed you," Sam's voice was low, stupidly small and – despite everything – he was no longer 'Robert' but Sammy – Dean's little brother again.

"Yeah – fuck Sam – look at you – look at you."

Sam looked; at the tattoos, the amulet, the nipple ring (and that had hurt) and he felt himself smiling, then the smile became a laugh and the laugh a full blown hysterical fit of giggles.

"I still have them," he whispered, finally, when they had both calmed down enough to sit, side by side, on the bed watching some stupid 'Hulk' marathon. "My powers."

"Yeah – well – they might come in useful on a hunt I suppose," Dean didn't need to ask, "but you have to get rid of the piercings Sammy – and – fuck – those fucking glasses."

"I can make balloon animals too," Sam whispered and Dean laughed again, his head falling onto Sam's shoulder, his hand creeping into Sam's, squeezing once, twice, his fingers tight.

"New talents are always welcome," Dean said.

"There's money," it was the final confession – "lots of it."

"Enough to buy Lisa and the kid a new house?"

"Enough for that and more," Sam said and he breathed a sigh of relief, knowing that – finally – he was home and he was whole.

"Ready to go back on the road?" Dean asked.

And that – right there – was the real magic…

End