Author's Note: And here is the final chapter. This story has been a ton of fun to write and all your reviews have made it such a fun ride. I've got plans for a few other Supernatural stories kicking around, so I hope you'll check those out as well.

Anyway, I wanted to get this out for my 23rd birthday today, so consider this is a gift from me to you, wonderful readers. Hope you'll leave me one final review and let me know how it turned out. Thanks again and enjoy!

Warnings: Spoilers in this chapter through 6.14. This story takes place between 6.14 and 6.15.

Disclaimer: Supernatural isn't mine. I'm just happy to play in the sandbox and promise to put the toys back when I'm done.

Epilogue

It was over a week before Sam was awake longer than he was sleeping during the day—mostly thanks to the heavy dosages of painkillers Dean and Bobby were keeping him on. It wasn't until a few days after that that they let Sam off the couch for any longer than a trip to the bathroom. Sam didn't protest (much), but Dean could tell that he was chafing under his and Bobby's watchful gazes; considering what a wreck the kid had been after being kidnapped, tortured, and suffering another Hell seizure, though, Dean didn't feel guilty for acting overprotective.

Fourteen days after getting Sam back from that barn, Dean woke up tangled in his sleeping bag on the living room floor. He blinked against the sunlight streaming through the windows, surprised to see he'd slept through the night for the first time in probably months and gave his watch a cursory glance. He did a double take before bolting upright. It was nearly noon.

Dean turned toward the couch to bitch at Sam for letting him sleep so late only to find it empty except for a folded up blanket. Dean spared a thought for Sam's friggin' OCD tendencies before wondering where his brother had gotten to.

He checked the kitchen and bathroom but both were empty. Dean doubted Sam was upstairs since he was still hobbling around the bottom floor like an old man, but he went up anyway. Their room was empty, neither bed having been used since before Sam was taken—Dean had slept his few hours a night on the couch that week, collapsing onto it after long, fruitless days of searching for his brother.

Dean peered into Bobby's study—the one he kept his "normal" books in, according to Sam, who'd taken a liking to the room and had spent countless hours inside when they were kids—and found the older hunter sitting in a ratty recliner with a book in hand. He looked up and nodded at Dean.

"Mornin' sunshine," he greeted, putting his book down in his lap.

"You seen Sam?" Dean asked, leaning against the doorway.

Bobby raised an eyebrow. "You lose your brother, son?" At Dean's irritated look, he threw up his hands in mock surrender. "He wanted some fresh air. Said he'd just be out in the lot and promised not to go far."

"When was that?"

Bobby looked at a clock on the wall. "Maybe an hour ago," he replied with a shrug.

Dean blinked. Sam had been out on his own for an hour? There was no telling what kind of trouble Sam could get into—or could find him, trouble magnet that he was—in that amount of time.

"And you let him go?" Dean demanded. "In his condition?"

Bobby fixed Dean with a patented You Idjit stare, and Dean clamped his mouth shut. "He's much better, Dean."

"Yeah, barely being able to make it down the hallway to the bathroom is such great shape," Dean muttered.

Bobby just rolled his eyes. "It's progress, Dean. Damn good progress. And you know it."

Dean sighed and ran a hand over his face. "Yeah, I know. I just worry about him, Bobby."

"Hadn't noticed," Bobby deadpanned, but there was a hint of a smile on his face. "The kid's going stir-crazy, Dean. He's been playing in that yard since he was in diapers, so him going out for some air—"

"Yeah, I got it," Dean said, cutting the older man off. "You're right."

"Take him some painkillers and some water while you're at it," Bobby said, picking his book back up. "He's probably due for another dose."

"Sure." Dean turned from the door but paused and looked back over his shoulder. "Hey, why'd you guys let me sleep so late?"

Bobby shrugged without looking up. "That was Sam's call. He wanted to let you sleep—thought you could use a decent night sleep for once."

"Oh." Dean turned the words over a few moments before nodding with a small smile. Even while hurting, Sam couldn't resist being a mother hen himself. "Thanks."

Bobby nodded and made a dismissive gesture in his general direction. Dean snorted and headed back down the hallway and down the stairs. He swiped a couple pills and a water bottle from the kitchen before heading into the salvage yard.

He didn't have to go far to find his brother. Dean sighed in relief at the sight of Sam sitting on the hood of the Impala, one knee drawn up to his chest and an arm resting on it, looking over the yard they'd played in as kids and had come to see as home as adults. Dean made no attempt to hide his approach, shoes crunching loudly over gravel as he headed over to his brother, so he knew Sam was aware of his presence even if he didn't react.

Dean took up the spot next to Sam. "Hey."

"Hey," Sam replied, not looking over.

Dean nudged his brother lightly with his elbow. "I come bearing gifts."

Sam still wasn't looking at him. "Oh yeah?"

Dean held out the painkillers and Sam took them with only a minor wince at the motion. Dean handed him the water bottle and Sam chased the pills with a swig before replacing the lid. He held the bottle loosely in the hand resting on his knee.

"Thanks."

"Bobby's orders," Dean replied and caught a twitch of Sam's lips out of the corner of his eye. He leaned back against the windshield and followed his brother's gaze over the car yard.

They lapsed into a comfortable silence for awhile. Dean was just happy to be able to sit next to his brother, banged up or not, after everything that had happened. Dean shut his eyes and entwined his hands behind his head, enjoying the sunlight beating down on them.

"How you doin'?" he asked after awhile, eyes still shut.

He felt Sam shrug stiffly, his movements constricted by bandages and wrappings. After a moment, he said, "I'm OK." Dean opened an eye at that and Sam sighed. "I'm dealing, Dean. Best I can."

Now that, Dean believed. Sam was a fighter and would fight this shit until the end. Dean swallowed, shoving the idea of that inevitable end as far down as it would go. For now, he had his brother—all of him—at his side, his baby ready to hit the road, and a place to come home to after a hunt; as far as Dean was concerned, that was more than enough. It was more than he expected to have not long ago, after all. Dean shut his eye again and they lapsed back into silence, Sam taking the occasional draught from the water bottle and Dean taking in some rays.

After awhile, it was Sam's turn to break the quiet. "How long was I out?" His voice was almost inaudible, but the words still hit Dean hard.

Dean opened both eyes and looked over at his brother. "Sammy?"

Sam's posture was rigid and he was deliberately eyeing the water bottle, twisting it so the light from the sun reflected in different directions on the Impala's hood. "When I—you know. How long this time?"

Dean swallowed and pushed himself upright. "Sam…"

"How long, Dean?"

"About ten minutes." Sam seemed to digest that for a few beats before nodding. "You?" Dean asked, unsure if he really wanted to hear the answer. "How long was it for you?"

"About a month," Sam replied and something unreadable crossed his face. He sounded exhausted all over again. "Give or take."

Dean felt like he'd been slapped, though after Sam had revealed the last seizure had felt like a week, he didn't know why this should surprise him. But the amount of memories that must have come through… Dean studied his brother and, for the first time since they'd gotten him back, noticed just how haunted his eyes appeared. He recognized the look from the mirror after he'd come back from Hell.

"You wanna talk about it?" Dean had made the same offer after Sam's last seizure and his brother had shot him down then. He wasn't really expecting any different this time but figured he should make sure Sam knew the offer still stood.

Sam finally tore his gaze from the bottle and looked at him. "You told me once," he began quietly, "that there were no words to describe Hell." Dean swallowed, remembering those words spoken on a bridge what seemed a lifetime ago. "I didn't understand then," Sam said. "But I'm starting to get what you meant."

"Sammy, I never wanted—"

Sam forced a small smile that didn't quite reach his hooded eyes—ones that had once been so full of confidence and life. "I know. And I'm dealing, Dean," he said. "Really. I'll be OK."

Dean hated seeing the Hell-haunted look in Sam's eyes. It was a painful reminder of how he'd failed to protect his kid brother in the end. Seeing Sam in so much pain made Dean ache in turn. But Sam was strong; Dean knew better than to underestimate the kid. That was a mistake the bad guys made one after another and look where that had gotten them.

"Yeah, you will," Dean said, nudging Sam's shoulder with his own. Sam's forced smile grew slightly at that and he took another gulp of water, downing what was left. Dean grabbed the bottle from him when he was done and threw it back toward the garage.

Sam raised a questioning eyebrow, Shouldn't litter, Dean hanging unspoken on the air, but Dean just shrugged. "I'll pick it up later. Don't want you screwing up those shoulders, anyway."

Even with Cas' healing, Sam's shoulders had been in rough shape after being suspended from a ceiling for eight days. Two weeks later and the kid could barely lift his arms straight up without a lot of pain. They'd found some slings in Bobby's first aid supplies but Sam had turned them down, refusing to be completely helpless.

"Whatever," Sam replied, but Dean heard the appreciation loud and clear.

Dean nodded, debating how to go about bringing up what he really wanted to talk about now that Sam was back on his feet. He suddenly really wanted a beer or maybe something stronger—liquid courage would not be unwelcome—but didn't want to leave his brother to get anything.

"What?"

Dean started at his brother's voice. "Huh?"

Sam was watching him curiously. "Something's bugging you. What is it?"

"What makes you say that?"

Sam snorted. "Because I know you. You've got that look on your face and you're fidgeting."

"What look?" Dean demanded, suddenly feeling self-conscious under his brother's scrutiny.

"That one that says you've got something on your mind but don't want to bring it up because 'Dean Winchester doesn't talk about his feelings,'" Sam replied, his tone deepening in his Dean impression. "So?"

"That phone call," Dean blurted out before he lost his courage, "that Walt found on your phone."

All amusement drained from Sam's face and he visibly stiffened. "Dean, I—"

Dean shook his head. "I never sent that."

Sam opened his mouth but shut it again as the words registered. "What?"

"That night," Dean said, trying to gather his wayward thoughts, "after the angels took me, I did call you. But that wasn't the message I left."

"Dean," Sam said, voice tight but filled with an understanding that made Dean's blood boil, "it's alright. You don't have to—"

"No, it's not alright," Dean growled.

Just thinking that Sam had had that message on his phone for nearly three years—it hadn't expired in that time which meant someone had been listening to it—that he had believed Dean thought those horrible things about him even after all the bridges they'd rebuilt since the convent, that Sam had gone to Hell believing Dean thought that about him, was too much.

"I never left that message. Zachariah must've changed it," he said, words just spilling from his mouth. "I mean, I've never thought—" He trailed off, eyes shutting against parts of the message echoing in his ears. Bloodsucking freak. Monster. Vampire. No going back. Done trying to save you.

"I would never hunt you, Sammy. Nothing you could do would ever change that. Nothing. You have to understand that. I need you to understand that."

Dean took in a breath after his tirade and hazarded a glance in Sam's direction. His brother, for once in his life, was at a loss for words. His wide eyes were locked on Dean's face as if searching for any lie in the words and his mouth moved without any sound.

"Sammy?" Dean prompted with some forced levity, waving a hand in front of his brother's face, "you in there?"

Sam swallowed. "W-what did you say?" He fidgeted uncomfortably. "In the message you sent," he added, needlessly clarifying what he meant.

Dean ran a hand through his hair and briefly thought that Sam wasn't the only one who needed a haircut. He still remembered the message like he'd left it yesterday. "Just that I was still pissed and owed you a beatdown," he said, "but that I wasn't Dad and I was sorry."

"Oh," Sam said faintly after a moment. Dean could practically hear his brother's inner gears turning over this new information, trying to reconcile it with the message he'd heard. Suddenly all the tension in his frame completely deflated in front of Dean's eyes. "Thanks."

Dean shrugged. "Yeah well, you know…"

Sam cracked a weak smile at his brother's stuttering. This time it did reach his eyes—the genuine Sammy article. "But you're ready for this chick flick moment to be over," he supplied.

Dean barked a relieved laugh. "Damn straight, little brother." He patted Sam's leg before swinging himself off the Impala. "C'mon, I could use a beer and Bobby has some books he thinks might have some info on this Mother of All bitch to go over."

Sam snorted but pushed himself off the car with slow, deliberate motions. "You were just waiting for someone else to do research, weren't you?"

"Sammy, I'm hurt," Dean replied, moving to follow his brother as he shuffled toward the house. "I just didn't want to cramp your style. I know you love that book nerd crap."

Sam huffed a laugh, purposefully not commenting on his shadow. "Whatever. And don't forget to pick up that bottle, jerk."

"Uh huh. And don't you forget to delete that message from your phone when you get inside, bitch."

Sam threw up an acquiescent hand as he headed for the door. Dean bent over and snagged the water bottle from the ground, making an impressive three point shot into the trash his brother naturally missed.

- Fin -