Tyranusfan A/N: This was inspired by a recent interview with Sera Gamble, in case anyone might have read it. For my money, I don't think S5 will go anything like this, but I like to think of this as a worst case scenario.

Thanks to geminigrl11 for co-writing it with me, and reigniting our respective muses after a long hiatus. Thanks to Phx for her quick beta skills.

Geminigrl11 A/N: Giving credit where it's due, I'm pretty sure "Cheney" as one of Bobby's dogs came from Maygra in her post S1 finale fics. If I'm wrong, I apologize to--and thank--the original author. I know for sure it wasn't either Tyransufan or me.

Thanks, T-fan, for getting the idea to spur our muses back into action, and also

for dealing with my fairly epic procrastination. This is the longest thing I've written in forever and it was absolutely the puzzle piece approach that did the trick.

And thanks quarterwhore on LJ, whose most recent meta on Sam in S4 brought up some great points and also reminded me of the quote from "Rapture" (er--informed me, since I have not watched that episode).

We own nothing. But, we'd like to! Reviews craved.

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No Going Home

By tyranusfan and geminigrl11

"Don't you get it? Forever. The demons will never stop. You can never be with your family. So, you either get as far away from them as possible. Or you put a bullet in your head, and that's how you keep your family safe. But there's no getting out and there's no going home."
-Sam Winchester, The Rapture

Liz was gorgeous, especially in her flowing white dress. Radiant, stunning…all those Triple Word Score words. She was even more beautiful than when Dean had first met her. She grounded him, tonight. Everything was so overwhelming…more than he'd thought possible.

Dean had never seen so many flowers in his life. The reception hall was full of them. Flowers along the walls, in people's hair, petals on the floor and tables. It was a little much, but Liz had a thing for flowers, so Dean was happy to oblige.

The hundred or so guests surrounding them were almost all hers. Dean's side was represented by Bobby, Missouri, Cassie, Ellen and Jo. And, even Castiel, who was lingering by the far wall in a dark trench coat, eyeing something on the buffet table with curiosity.

A few invited others hadn't shown up for various reasons. Joshua and Jefferson were working a case in Canada, of all places. Rufus was in the hospital. The others who weren't there all had their reasons.

The biggest absence...well, Dean tried not to think too much about that, though it had been nagging at the back of his mind all day. Dean felt his face fall a little, and quickly covered by fidgeting with his cuff links.

"Thinking about Sam again?" Liz whispered, keeping her smile in place as the ditzy photographer went for another angle on them.

Dean shook off his darkening thoughts. This was Liz's moment; he would do his best to let her enjoy it. He forced a grin. "Nah, just thinking about that cake. I love chocolate."

"Liar," she shot back playfully.

Keeping his own smile in place, he looked out over the guests. Bobby was laughing at something with Ellen---it was the happiest he'd seen the man in years. Things hadn't been exactly peaceful between them, especially since Sam---

Dean shook his head again.

Cassie and Jo were talking to one of the bridesmaids. Castiel had wandered toward Bobby, looking awkward and intrigued at the same time. He'd said something earlier about "the last human bonding ritual" he'd been present for. About two thousand years earlier. Dean wanted to hear that story later.

Something caught his eye when he scanned across the back of the room where the gift table sat---a flash of dark clothes, broad shoulders and too long hair that hadn't been there the moment before---but whoever or whatever it was disappeared before Dean could do a double take. He swept the gift area with his gaze, standing on his toes to see over some of the taller guests. The area around the table was clear.

Frowning, Dean strained to look over the crowd, certain he'd seen something out of place. Maybe it was just his hunting instincts, but he couldn't pass it off as a trick of the light. Dean turned to Liz and gave her a quick kiss, garnering a whoop from part of the crowd.

"I'll be right back, baby."

Liz looked confused, but nodded. The overpaid photographer kept snapping as if Dean hadn't stepped away. He shouldered through the crowd, muttering 'thank yous' and 'excuse mes' as he went, until he emerged at the gift table. There was no one there. No exits nearby that were easily accessed, just a wired fire escape door that would have sounded an alarm if opened.

Dean stepped closer to the table, noting an extra gift among the many gaudily wrapped presents. A small, plain white box had been placed in amongst the other boxes since Dean had last been over. A simple note was taped onto the top, reading "Dean" in block letters.

It was Sam's handwriting. Dean would have recognized it anywhere.

Dean glanced around. There was no way anyone could have gotten away so quickly from this side of the room. It was a long walk across an open dance floor to the exits and restrooms.

Unless....

He examined the fire door again. The wire leading from the hinge to the alarm was disconnected.

Flinging the door open, Dean rushed out into the night air. The fire escape led out onto a large, darkened, elevated patio deck behind the building. There was no one in sight, but metal steps led down onto a path that wound around the back wall, toward a side street. He followed that trail.

It was dark on that side of the building, just moonlight and the glow of distant city lights beyond the trees illuminating the grassy area. Dean jogged to the corner of the building and rounded it, only afterwards remembering that he was being a little reckless. Anyone could be out there, and he was unarmed, for once.

The wedding and monkey suit wasn't the only reason he felt self-conscious that night. He hadn't been all that comfortable not packing a weapon that night---old habits died hard---but Liz had specifically asked him not to, just this once, so he'd reluctantly agreed. Besides, they had an angel in the crowd. That should be protection enough from any possible danger.

He skidded to a halt when he saw the tall figure walking along the wall of the building, heading toward the street at a stroll. The figure was unmistakable, even in the shadows and with hair a little longer than Dean remembered.

"Sam?"

The tall shadow stopped abruptly, but didn't turn or reply. Dean took a few hesitant steps forward.

"Sam, is that you?"

The tall, broad shoulders hunched a little, the head dropping fractionally. "You don't have to throw me out. I'm leaving. I don't want to fight."

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The first days after St. Mary's were a blur. Lucifer split the earth, shoved a shower of white light up through the cracks, and then was gone like he'd never come. That is, if they didn't count the blood staining the floor, the broken bodies of Lilith and Ruby's hosts, the wreck of the convent's small chapel.

Sam didn't remember anything from that moment of absolutely sickened awe to when they arrived at Bobby's. Dean commandeered Ruby's stolen car and drove like the devil was on their heels, which…well, he was. And that was all Sam processed. There were a heck of a lot of miles between Maryland and South Dakota, and nights and days must have passed, but they weren't even a blur. Just a blank.

Until the car was parked inside the junk yard's consecrated grounds, and they were staggering, worn and road-blind, onto the gravel of the driveway. Bobby's worried face and Cheney's soft growl were the first things to penetrate the fog.

Sam panicked a little at the sight of bared teeth from a dog trained to recognize demons. He flung both hands back, planting them against the sun-warmed metal of the car trunk for balance.

Which was when the memory hit.

His stomach dropped clear to his boots.

"Dean." The single word came out so strangled, even Sam couldn't understand it. Dean was already walking toward Bobby, hands moving, saying words that didn't carry far enough for Sam to hear. "Dean."

Dean finally turned, Bobby with him. He didn't try to decipher the looks on their faces. "You've gotta pop the trunk."

There was a pause, everything still. Waiting. Then Bobby's eyes widened as he gave Cheney a command in what sounded like German that had her immediately standing down, though she didn't move away. Dean's expression was dark and hooded as he stalked forward, keys in hand. Nauseated, Sam watched in mounting horror as Dean slid the key home and twisted it, lid creaking open.

The result was anti-climactic, in a way. The trunk was empty: no body of a helpless, terrified nurse who'd just had the bad luck to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. But there were bloodstains clawed up the sides and spattered over the bottom, dried black and accusing.

Dean closed the trunk hard and turned away. He didn't ask any questions, didn't say anything. But Sam had no doubt he knew…if not the specifics, then at least that Sam had one more sin etched on his soul, one more damning secret. He just wasn't giving Sam the opportunity to lie.

"We've got a real mess on our hands, Bobby," Dean snarled as he led the way to the house, not looking back.

Bobby did, though. One long, assessing gaze, marking Sam from head to toe. "Come on, kid. We got work to do."

There was a note in Bobby's voice, something quiet and sad. His shoulders drooped and he shook his head, sighing. He waited for Sam to almost catch up before following Dean inside.

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The withdrawal never came, this time. Sam prepared for the worst, barricading himself in the panic room right away, huddled against the cot, waiting for the hallucinations to begin. But there was nothing. Besides a dull, throbbing ache in his head that never really lessened as the days passed, he never felt any physical affects at all.

He didn't know whether or not to be relieved. He'd felt the power coursing through him when he'd killed Lilith, twining like a serpent through his veins. It had flared bright as a megawatt bulb in the instant she'd collapsed, and all Sam could think now was that maybe it had burned itself out. A thin hope at best, but the only thing he had to hang onto at the moment.

Dean didn't check on him. He also wasn't waiting for him when Bobby convinced Sam to come back upstairs.

The first thing Sam did was crash on the couch, exhausted. He was asleep between one breath and the next and didn't wake until the next morning, still curled in his jeans and boots. Bobby prodded him into eating—not the most pleasant of tasks, since the nausea that had hit, waiting for the trunk to open and reveal a woman's corpse, had never gone away. It wasn't born of any jonesing for demon blood, though, but grief. Guilt.

Sam thought he'd tapped every layer of remorse it was possible to feel when Dean had died, torn to pieces in front of him. Turned out, that was just the beginning.

He stumbled over apologies—dozens—before Bobby finally told him enough was enough. As far as he was concerned, none of them had been blameless. Not Sam, not Dean, not Bobby himself, "and definitely not those bastard angels." He went so far as to apologize to Sam for the way the whole intervention had gone down. A failure of epic proportions, in Bobby's mind; maybe the catalyst for things getting as bad as they did, in the end. But Sam couldn't accept it.

It was his fault, he knew. Everything. From Cold Oak to now, and even further back, if he were honest. Every decision, every reason, every choice had been his, and he'd been wrong. Catastrophically. Apocalyptically.

Appropriately, in Sam's mind at least, Dean seemed to agree with him. He moved through the house and grounds as a man—a hunter—on a mission that did not include Sam. He watched Sam like a hawk whenever he researched and followed when he went outside, even if it was just to stretch his legs on the porch. He vetoed all of Bobby's suggestions that Sam leave the grounds for any reason, even with company, but especially alone. And they didn't talk beyond necessities.

Sam caught a couple of raised-voice conversations between his brother and Bobby, though, always when he was supposed to be out of hearing range: walking up from the basement laundry, finishing early from wood-chopping or doing inventory for the salvage shop or one of the other tasks Bobby gradually started assigning him. He never tried to listen, didn't really want to know what they were talking about. But if Bobby was arguing for some kind of forgiveness or acceptance for Sam from Dean, Sam would have told him not waste his breath. Dean didn't owe him anything.

Despite the finality of that last voicemail, Dean hadn't killed him, hadn't hunted him. Had let him live. Had let him ride shotgun again, even if it wasn't the Impala, and brought him back to what they both considered a safe haven. After everything Sam had done, it was more than he had any right to ask for, much less expect.

As though to make up for it the distance between the brothers, Bobby went out of his way to be social. Which was…totally uncharacteristic. Even worrisome, if Sam thought about it too much, so he tried not to. Bobby pressed him to eat, to drink, to rest, to not think Dean was angry even when it was so obvious he was. He made excuses for Cheney's behavior and tried to coax Sam into giving the dog another chance, even though Sam couldn't bring himself to.

In short, Bobby was kind. Far kinder than Sam deserved. And instead of making him feel better, it only added to Sam's guilt.

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Hunting was the great equalizer. Despite the guilt and the distance and the million unspoken issues between them, all it took was one visit from Castiel to have Sam and Dean both on the same page again in deed, if not in spirit.

Lucifer's ascension had come with a rise of demons even greater than when the Hell mouth was opened in Wyoming—scarily more powerful demons that had Bobby scrambling for older exorcism rites, that had them all carrying chrism-blessed weapons and multiple flasks of holy water. As bad, or maybe worse, Lucifer had also brought forth a plague of dark creatures that defied description but left a swath of destruction everywhere they went.

Castiel was on the run from Zachariah and his minions, but wasn't without resources. His own network of Host and Fallen kept him as informed as they could, and their intel often proved more useful than any research Bobby or Sam could do. Having Castiel riding in the back of the Impala, though, acting as their backup and sometimes even the lead, was more than disconcerting for Sam. The way the angel watched him as though he were some rare and interesting alien specimen wasn't exactly comfortable, either.

But Sam bore it in silence: the easy rapport Castiel had with his brother, the private conversations he seemed to interrupt every time he left the two of them for more than a few minutes. After all, for a year, the angel had been the only person—being—Dean could trust. It was understandable that their relationship had evolved into a partnership, a friendship. And it was good for Dean, having someone who truly had his back. Someone who could…save him…in ways Sam never could, no matter how hard he tried.

It was a comfort, even. Mostly.

It was not, however, a comfort the day Castiel pulled him aside with a heavy hand on his shoulder and an even more heavily intoned, "I'm sorry, Sam."

Sam flinched under the scrutiny, under the weight of the word itself. He couldn't find the voice to ask what Castiel was sorry about. Not stopping Sam from killing Lilith? Not letting Uriel turn him to dust when he had the chance? Either way, Sam decided he'd rather not know, especially since he was sorry for pretty much the exact same reasons.

Castiel watched intently until Sam finally nodded in acknowledgement, hoping to break the spell. But it was Dean who brought the odd moment to a close, throwing the door open to say the Impala was gassed up and ready to go. They didn't speak of it again, as they loaded up their gear and headed south.

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The warehouse was huge and practically pitch black, save the occasional sweep of a flashlight beam across the stacks of crates and boxes. The perfect hiding place for the demonic beast they were hunting. Some huge, black, clawed thing that Lucifer had released from the Pit and sent rampaging across the countryside; that's about all Dean knew. Castiel had offered a few details, and Sam had dug up some research on the breed, but Dean was a little fuzzy on exactly what it was, and Sam's brief, monotone answers---all they got from the kid lately---hadn't told him much.

A regular exorcism was all it took to get rid of it, though, despite its size and strength.

Dean cast a quick look to either side. Cas was on his left, about fifty feet away, moving cautiously. Unlike them, he didn't need a flashlight.

To Dean's right, Sam was creeping along another aisle, about twenty feet away. He was scanning the darkness ahead, but studiously avoided looking in Dean's direction.

Dean cursed softly, and he shook his head. Things hadn't been exactly warm between them in the past few months. But, damn it, Sam deserved the "I told you so." His obsessive fixation on Lilith and blind trust of a demon had started the freakin' Apocalypse. The stubborn streak Sam had inherited from their father had screwed them all royally. Dean had every right to be pissed.

But he'd expected a little more fight from Sam after that blowout in Cold Spring. Not silence. Not depression so deep that it physically hurt to look his little brother in the eyes. Dean felt like he should do something, but he had no idea what, and Bobby wasn't exactly helpful when the conversation turned to Sam. The older hunter seemed to be mad at Dean for not handling it all better.

What the hell am I supposed to do? Sam started the End of the World! Was he supposed to take him out for ice cream?

Still, a voice in the back of Dean's mind kept---annoyingly---reminding him that Sam had broken the last Seal, not the first one.

He shook his head to clear it. This wasn't the time or the place. Dean went back to scanning the inky shadows ahead. He saw little. It was like the flashlight beams were swallowed whole by them.

A noise to his left caused him to freeze mid-step and look toward Castiel's row. He sensed rather than saw that Cas and Sam had stopped as well.

Dean swept his light over a pallet closer to Castiel, pausing when something caught his eye. At first glance, it was just another collection of dark shapes, but when Dean looked closer, he saw the faint outline of something…not square. Not a crate. It was barely ten feet in front of him.

When the beam of light reflected off four blood red eyes, Dean reached for his shotgun, but the creature was already in motion before he could take aim. It moved like a demon, losing its shape and flowing like intelligent smoke. The billowing cloud raced at Castiel, surrounding the angel and tossing him like mere trash. Cas hit a stack, splintering crates and sending a plume of dust into the air, disappearing behind it.

Dean sent two rounds of salt at the beast, but it was already racing past him, making a beeline for Sam, who was heading Dean's way. Sam was batted aside just as easily as Cas, hitting hard and skidding across the floor. Dean had no time to check and see if his companions were all right. He fumbled in his haste to reload the shotgun.

A mantra of damn it, damn it, damn it chorused in his head. He'd been so caught up in thinking about Sam that he'd completely let his guard down and walked right up to this monster.

The brute was moving again, and Dean had just brought his weapon back up when he heard a shout.

"Dean! Look out!"

Dean froze. It took him a few long seconds to identify the voice as Sam's. It had been weeks since the last time he'd heard his brother say anything without being asked a direct question, and Dean almost thought he was hallucinating. He glanced over, seeing the brother in question struggling to his feet.

He was so astounded to hear Sam call his name that he lost focus. By the time the warning registered, the eight-foot tall demon-thing was right on top of him. Dean didn't even have time to pull the trigger before he felt himself get lifted up and rammed into a stack of dusty boxes. Foul fumes from its mouth filled Dean's nose. It was straddling him.

He was lifted again, and as he was thrown into another stack, he heard the thing chuckling in a deep, echoing voice. At the same time, he heard similar unearthly tones inside his head.

Chosen ones, indeed. You'll die slowly, weakling. Your pet angel, too.

As Dean landed in another heap, the twin blasts of a shotgun filled the air. He spared a moment to look. Sam was back on his feet, running at the creature. The salt rounds did nothing. The beast was solid enough, holding Dean down and grinding him into the shattered pallets beneath, but where the gunshots hit, its body simply turned to smoke, allowed the salt to pass through then solidifying again immediately.

This wasn't going according to plan. With a feral growl, the giant raised its other arm, and the very solid-sounding shink of razor-sharp claws extending was all Dean could focus on.

"Dean! No!"

The creature swiped downward, and Dean expected to feel his skin ripping apart, just like the Hell hounds all over again…but nothing happened. He looked up, finding the huge, glistening, black hand, with its claws hovering inches from his nose. It wasn't moving.

Dean was too stunned to feel any kind of relief, but he was glad Cas was back in the fight. He spared a moment to glance over, expecting to see the trench coat-clad angel standing behind his attacker, and did a double take.

Cas was there, but quite a ways off, staring with what Dean assumed was the same dumbfounded look he was wearing himself.

Sam was closest to the creature, about ten feet away, holding out his hand, palm forward. He was shaking and sweating, and his face was contorted in deep concentration.

He had stopped the attack cold, mid-swipe.

Dean blinked. "Sam?"

It was impossible. Sam was using his powers, but he hadn't been anywhere near demon-blood since that night in Maryland, a good five months ago. Dean knew that for a fact. He hadn't used his powers since, even in self-defense. In fact, he'd taken a beating on more than one occasion virtually without fighting back at all, much to Dean's outrage. Some kind of stupid, self-hating penance.

A gasp from Sam drew Dean's attention back. His brother appeared to be having trouble breathing, but moved his hand slightly to the side, forcing the beast away from where Dean lay. A clench of his fist had the monster howling and convulsing. A few twists of Sam's wrist, and it was screaming, hellfire flashing inside its body, glowing through its chest and eyes.

Dean hauled himself into a sitting position, watching. Castiel walked closer slowly, observing the struggle with unabashed surprise.

Sam turned his hand over and opened it, pushing down, forcing the thing to its knees. It screamed---a horrible, inhuman sound---until it finally collapsed to the floor and exploded into a burst of rapidly vanishing fire.

As soon as it was gone, Sam dropped his hand, wheezing like he'd just surfaced from too long underwater. Dean could only stare. His brother still had his demon-killing powers. How---?

Sam seemed to recover, and briefly stared at his hands as though they belonged to someone else. When he looked up, a kaleidoscope of emotions filled his face, ranging from disbelief to shame.

Without a word, Sam moved to where Dean was sitting, placed his hands beneath Dean's arms and lifted him up. Sam was surprisingly strong, considering Dean hardly saw him eat anymore. "Sammy…?"

His brother patted him down, checking for injuries. He was back to avoiding Dean's gaze. Dean stopped him with a hand. "I'm okay. Thanks to you."

Sam paled, looking as though he might throw up on Dean's boots. He said nothing, just gave a curt nod and stepped back, reaching down and gathering Dean's dropped shotgun. Dean tried again.

"Seriously, I don't know where that came from, but you saved our asses." Dean hoped Sam would pick up the conversation. But, Sam just moved robotically, gathering up discarded weapons and their bags, and headed for the exit.

Dean watched him go, turning only when he heard Castiel step up next to him.

"That was unexpected."

"You think?" Dean retorted. The angel glanced at him about as expressively as Sam just had. Dean shook his head and headed outside.

Sam was already in the Impala, sitting in a ball in the back seat, holding his head. Apparently, using the powers still gave him headaches, though Dean noticed there was no accompanying nosebleed or any other signs of distress. Sam looked more humiliated than anything.

He certainly didn't need to be, he'd saved Dean's life in there. And why the Hellis he in the backseat?

"Sam, you okay?" Dean asked, sticking his head in the driver's side door.

Sam muttered something almost unintelligible that sounded a lot like "I'm sorry," but didn't look up. Dean frowned at that. Sam had nothing to be sorry for---in this case---his freaky powers had saved the day. He wanted to say that out loud, but before he could, Sam rolled away, turning to bury his face in the back of the seat.

Whatever conversation they might have engaged in was over before it started. Dean stood, looking over the roof of the car. Castiel was gone, no doubt flying off into thin air as he was prone to. Great.

With a quiet sigh, Dean got in the car, reached over to the bag in the floor and got Sam a water bottle, which was ignored when he lowered it between Sam and the leather seat.

It was going to be a long trip back to Bobby's.

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Dean never mentioned Sam using his powers again. It was like the whole event in the warehouse had never happened, just as things had been after Sam had killed Samhain. He didn't seem disapproving, which Sam supposed was a relief. But even though Dean's restrictions on Sam's movements eased considerably—not freaking out when Sam went to grab a soda from the vending machines was a good thing—he seemed to watch Sam even more carefully now. Like Sam was a time bomb, waiting to go off. Like Dean had to be prepared to stop him when he did.

In the back of his mind, stuffed way down where he tried to pretend it never happened, Sam once again heard the echo of Dean's voicemail to him on that horrible day in Maryland. I'm giving you fair warning. I'm done trying to save you. You're a monster, Sam—a vampire. You're not you anymore. And there's no going back.

There really wasn't. Nothing could ever be the same again.

Sam didn't blame Dean for being wary, though. For being ready. In most ways, Sam was ready, too. He didn't want to kill himself—even if the thought had crossed his mind more than once—but an actual execution, punishment for his crimes, seemed fitting. After all, he was a murderer now. In cold blood. For blood.

The only thing that kept him from a full-on death wish was not wanting it on Dean's conscience, no matter how much Sam deserved it. And the growing certainty that there would be no white light at the end of the tunnel.

A demon had refused Sam's soul once. Had laughed in his face and told him it was worthless, that Sam was exactly where he was supposed to be. There'd been a subtext Sam refused to hear at the time: that he was destined for Hell anyway, even if the timetable took a little longer. And he was pretty sure there would be no angels braving Perdition to rescue him.

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The demon attacks were escalating, even though Lucifer had yet to make an appearance. Bobby was of the opinion that he was biding his time, building toward some epic event and trying to wear them all out in the meantime.

If that was the strategy, it was working. Sam was exhausted. He knew Dean and Bobby were, too, and even Castiel had taken on a rough-worn look that aged him while at the same time making him seem disturbingly more human.

A string of hunts kept them on the move almost constantly. They'd abandoned the salvage yard as a base of operations, Bobby asking Joshua's grown sons to keep an eye on the place while he maintained a library in the tool chest of his pickup that rivaled the Impala's weapons stash. The jobs were too big, now, and coming at them too quickly for Dean and Sam alone to keep up with. They split up when they could—Sam assigned to Dean or Bobby, though never Castiel—and joined forces when they couldn't, which became increasingly common.

Sam tried not to use his exorcism powers again, but it proved impossible. The first time was actually for himself, which made it even harder. Bobby was shouting at him and his vision was going dark around the edges, and then—much like that first experience with telekinesis in Max Miller's closet—the force just seemed to push out of him, without his mind's consent.

In the blink of an eye, the suffocating pressure on his trachea was gone, as was the demon. The host's body was nothing but a curled shell on the floor.

"Dammit, kid, what the Hell were you waiting for?" Bobby's hand was almost painful, gripped around Sam's bicep and hauling up.

"I didn't…I didn't…" The words wheezed out of him, stuttering to a halt as he started coughing, hand massaging his bruised throat.

"Sam, you can't just…" Bobby shook his head, easing Sam to lean against the wall until he had his breath back. "What if that had been me? What if it had been Dean? What would you have done then?"

The words hit like a punch. "Dean doesn't want me to…"

"He doesn't want you dead, Sam."

Sam dropped his eyes to the ground, still feeling weak on his feet, shaky. And it wasn't all just the near-death experience. "I don't want to hurt anyone else."

Bobby didn't respond at first. Sam didn't dare to look up.

"Listen to me, kid." Bobby's voice was firm but not unkind. "You made some mistakes. Big ones. There's no getting away from that."

Sam's stomach lurched, and he tried to swallow, to hold the nausea down. "I…I know. That's why I—"

"Listen." The tone brooked no argument. "There's no getting away from it," Bobby repeated. "But this is war. And sometimes in war, there are casualties. The world is at stake, here. And we're the ones with everything to lose. Whatever mental block you've got against this ability of yours, get over it. You have a weapon, and you need to use it."

There were a dozen arguments on the tip of Sam's tongue. But he didn't voice them.

The only thing he knew for certain, after this past year, was that when it came to making decisions, he was pretty much an utter failure. Every time he thought he knew what he was doing, thought he was acting for the greater good, he was wrong. His judgment wasn't just shaky but inherently flawed, so if Bobby told him he needed to use his powers, what could he say? It was selfish not to, really. A foolish attempt to get back into Dean's good graces. A futile attempt to try to save his own soul.

So, the next time they were pinned—this time all four of them, with Castiel and Dean flanked on one side and Bobby and Sam on the other, demons advancing, no escape, every tactic they'd used a failure—Sam didn't hesitate. He took a deep breath, raised both hands, and concentrated.

It took a lot more out of him than any banishment he'd done under Ruby's guidance, leaving him limp and panting. But it also sent all five demons screaming back to Hell. He couldn't look at the crumpled bodies or the blood—especially the blood. Wouldn't let himself wonder why the hosts hadn't survived these last few times, even though he'd once trained so hard to get to the point where they did.

"Sam…God." Dean's voice sounded hollow, and to Sam's ears, horrified.

He hunched his shoulders, turning away so he wouldn't have to see the look he assumed would be on Dean's face…any of their faces. It took a while for them to follow him to the Impala; Sam tried to spend the time thinking about anything but innocent bodies being salted and burned. When they finally joined him, all was silent. Dean reached out a hand to him; tentative, shaking a little. But when Sam couldn't quite contain a flinch, he let it fall, shook his head and started the car. They drove, leaving another abandoned warehouse and another skin-of-their-teeth battle in the dust.

An emptiness opened up inside Sam, starting in his chest and radiating down to his stomach, his hands, his legs. A monster, Sam…A monster. He took a breath, pulled the emptiness closer, wrapped himself in it.

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The final battle was every bit as epic as a scene from Constantine, a movie Sam thought was cool once, some Friday movie night back at Stanford. They ended up as foot soldiers—even Dean, despite all Zachariah's predictions and prophecies—while the Heavenly Host fought Lucifer, angels against Fallen angel.

Zachariah himself was nowhere to be found, when all was said and done, and though Anna wouldn't tell them everything, it was imagined he'd met the same fate as Uriel. Pride, especially angelic pride, did goeth before a Fall.

Dean was giddy. He peeled out of Bobby's with a spray of gravel, headed on a beer-and-essentials run, coming back with enough six packs for a week-long binge and enough food for a small army. He kept clapping Castiel on the back and trying to get him to try Cheez Doodles, something Castiel seemed to regard with dismay. He cranked up Bobby's old AM radio, singing along with Elvis and the Big Bopper and a slew of other singers Sam would have never guessed he knew.

Bobby started singing along at one point, which was…a sign of the Apocalypse, for sure, if they hadn't just lived through it. And after a half-dozen choruses—and a couple of bottles of Killion's Red—Castiel was starting a bob his head in time, smiling in a way that said he wasn't completely sure what he was smiling about, but going along with it just the same.

Sam tried. He really did. He clinked bottles with them and drank a toast and reached deep within himself to find some spark of hopefulness or good feeling. But there was nothing.

He claimed tiredness after what was hopefully enough time to not look suspicious. And he was tired, but it was more that he needed the space. To try and get his head together, to figure out how he was going to go on in this next, and maybe final, chapter of his life.

Dean stumbled into the bedroom long after midnight, chuckling to himself as he stumbled over the rug, bumped into the footboard, and finally collapsed with a satisfied sigh on his bed. "We're going to Disney World, Sammy," he announced, and then followed it immediately with a snore.

Sam stared up at the ceiling. Whispered a thank you to…whoever might be listening Up There. Thank you for keeping Dean safe. Thank you for keeping the world safe. Thank you for not letting me ruin everything.

Dean was up surprisingly early, considering Sam thought he'd be suffering from the mother of all hangovers. Instead, he'd joined Bobby and Castiel at the breakfast table, hollering for Sam until he was in the kitchen, too.

"I'm retired," he stated. "You're both witnesses." He aimed his mug at Bobby and Castiel in turn. "And you." He turned to look at Sam, who was braced against the door frame, not quite sure what to expect. "You are, too. We're done with hunting. We're going to get jobs and pay bills and live like normal people."

Sam felt his jaw drop, watched Bobby's do the same as Castiel stared on inquisitively. He wasn't sure what to say, not positive this wasn't some hallucination, or if maybe Dean was still drunk after all. "Uh, Dean…what about—"

"Nope." Dean swallowed a mouthful of coffee. "We're done. No more cases, no more research, no more angels—no offense, Cas—or demons or living out of motel rooms. We've done our time. We survived the freaking Apocalypse. That's enough."

He set his mug down with a thunk and slid his chair back, stretching as he stood. Sam was still in the doorway and Dean paused, standing next to him just long enough to tap his fist on Sam's shoulder. A cap on the conversation; no more discussion needed. And then Dean disappeared out the front door, whistling.

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Sam had a hard time doing anything but waiting for the other shoe to drop. It didn't seem possible that Dean was serious, that he was really done not only with hunting but with the vagabond life he'd seemed to love even apart from it. At the very least, there were some big logistical issues to work out, like the small fact that they were both legally dead, Dean twice over. Things like not having a valid Social Security card or driver's license or credit of any kind or a clue what to do with the rest of their lives.

Although, maybe that last part was just Sam. Dean seemed to be the man with the plan. He "knew a guy" who could help with their documentation; apparently, Victor Henrickson had started the process before he was killed. He had a part-time job with the garage in town by the end of the second day and another one at the Fish and Game Club by the end of the week, teaching gun safety and self-defense. He set an alarm in the mornings and packed his lunches in brown paper bags, and sometimes, all Sam could do was stare, wondering if he was back in the universe Zachariah had kidnapped them into. Ready to grab a fire poker again if someone even mentioned blue screens or frozen keyboards or jammed printers.

He finally let himself believe things really could be good when Dean invited him out to play pool on Saturday night. It was just a straightforward set of games between the two of them, no hustling. They didn't talk much as they worked the table, blending into the crowd of regulars, but it was comfortable. They closed the bar down, not even tipsy despite the number of rounds they'd polished off, including last call.

The night was like a hundred others they'd shared over the years, not particularly notable in any way. But as Sam lay in the dark, listening to Dean settle, breathing slowly, he thought, Maybe. Maybe things were going to be okay after all. Maybe Dean had really forgiven him. Maybe the specter of Ruby and demon blood had faded enough for them to just be…brothers again. Maybe this was how things were meant to be—not the vision of normal he'd dreamed once upon a time with Jess and law school, but something simpler. Easier. Maybe even better.

It was the first good night's sleep he had in a year.

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When he woke, sunlight already bathed the room, full bright and yellow, rather than the pale glow of just-past-dawn he was used to. Sam yawned and scrubbed a hand through his hair as he stared at the clock, marveling at having slept into the afternoon.

There were voices coming from downstairs, cadence rising and falling like waves. Sam made his way to the bathroom, and when he came out, they were still going. Louder this time; the sounds of an argument.

"…don't care, Bobby! You know as well as I do, that demon blood isn't coming out of him. I tried…"

Dean's voice quieted, words too soft now for Sam to decipher. Didn't matter, though. Sam had already heard enough to make him feel a little dizzy, the weight of the other shoe dropping hitting harder than he'd expected. Especially after letting himself hope…

"…can't understand how you…sending him away…"

Bobby that time. And then Dean again. "…think I want this? …did everything I could to…can't…go on..."

Bobby's answer was muffled.

"…scared all the time. You don't know what it was like when he…"

The voices continued, calmer now and heading toward the door. Sam heard it squeak open and shut and then silence.

He sagged against the wall, all his strength completely gone. His legs eventually gave out and he slid down, uncoordinated and limp.

Dean was afraid of him. Dean…couldn't go on with Sam there. The demon blood and everything that had come with it, the lies and the anger between them and God, that last fight, slamming Dean into mirrors and walls and then curling his hands around Dean's neck and squeezing…

How could he expect Dean to forget? To forgive? How could anyone? What Sam had done…it was too much.

Bobby had told him, hadn't he? Dean had rescued him from the fire, given him a reason to keep going after Jess, had been his partner and his…his friend and his brother. And Sam had betrayed him at every turn. Had messed up so huge it had brought Lucifer to Earth and wrecked the last remnants of their family in every way possible. Had been a lifelong burden Dean was fighting to get out from under.

There's no getting away from it.

And, yeah. There wasn't. Not ever. But he could at least get himself away from Dean. Let Dean feel like he was safe again, let him finally live a life without the millstone of his brother around his neck anymore. That, Sam could do.

Somehow, he found the strength to stand again. To pack a bag and write a note and leave the house, sight unseen. Wishing he could offer just one more apology and knowing it wouldn't make a difference.

Cheney bounded up as he headed for the road, a single duffel over his shoulder. Sam had finally made peace with her when he'd let himself realize she'd only ever growled at Ruby's car—the trunk especially—not him. She was a good dog; calm but fiercely protective. He scratched behind her ears. "Look out for him, okay?"

He patted her once, then shooed her off, walking once again. And though it physically hurt not to, he didn't look back.

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"I don't like this any more than you do, Bobby," Dean said, heading back toward the house. They'd spent hours, it seemed, out in the garage, hashing out Dean's plan to help Sam. He was tired of debating, and he really needed Bobby to have his back on this. "But, he's not getting any better and I really think Missouri can help him."

Bobby sighed, stopping by the porch steps. "I know she can. Hell, she's the closest thing you're gonna find to a psychiatrist that can handle demons and psychic powers. But, leaving him there---"

"I know. I hate to do it, but if I stay there with him, it'll just hold him back. He won't open up around me. I've seen it in his eyes. He doesn't really believe that I can accept him as he is."

Dean knew Bobby was right. Sam would be devastated, but there was no choice. Missouri could get in Sam's head, and see things Sam would never show him or Bobby.

"He's gonna think you're abandoning him. This could all backfire in the worst way." Bobby replied grimly.

"I'm not abandoning him, Bobby. I just want him to be okay. I want us to move on, finally. But, he can't do that carrying all this guilt around. He blames himself for everything that's happened, and every time I even get close to the subject, he shuts down. He needs to know that he's not a monster…that I don't think he's a monster."

Bobby sighed. "I guess you're right. When are you gonna tell him?"

Dean glanced up at the house, almost dreading what was coming next more than any hunt or battle. He didn't want to see the look that he knew would be on Sam's face when he found out he was going away for a while. Dean steeled himself. "Right now."

Sam needed a big brother. Deserved one. Dean was going to be one, and get Sam the help he needed, no matter how much the process might hurt both of them. They'd been apart so long already. Too long. He'd fought his war, and now he just wanted his family back. Maybe Missouri could succeed in putting Sam back together where Dean, Bobby and Castiel had failed.

The sun was already getting low in the sky. They'd had one hell of a night on the town, but surely, his brother should be awake by now. Bobby headed for the front of the house to feed the dog while Dean marched upstairs. All the doors were shut in the hallway. There was no indication that Sam was awake, yet. Well, Dean was a good alarm clock.

He took a deep breath, preparing himself, and flung the door to the bedroom open. "Yo! Sleepyhead! You gonna sleep all---" Dean stopped, glancing around the empty room. "---day? Sammy?"

He looked back down the hall. The shower wasn't running. The bathroom light was off. "Sam?"

Turning back toward the beds, Dean immediately noticed something amiss. Sam's bag was gone. The bed was made with the expected precision…and there was a piece of paper by the bedpost.

Dean stepped forward, a sick feeling building inside, even though his brain hadn't caught up with what was going on. He saw Sam's handwriting on the note, perfectly spaced despite there being no lines on the paper.

Dean,

You're right, the demon blood will never come out of me. I'll never be the brother you need, and you deserve better than to babysit a freak for the rest of your life. You did your part, and more. I wish I could take back all the things I did, all the lies, but I can't. I have too much to atone for, and you shouldn't be dragged along, cleaning up my messes. I can't---I won't do that to you.

I know you're afraid of me, and I want you to know I don't blame you for that. I could never blame you. You've given up everything for me your whole life, and the only thing I can do in return is let you live yours, finally. You're right to send me away.

I'm so sorry. For everything. I don't know if you believe that, or if it even matters, but I am.

I love you, Dean. If you believe nothing else I've said these past few years, please believe that.

-Sam

Dean reread the letter twice. I know you're afraid of me. The demon blood will never come out. You're right to send me away. Sam must have overheard them talking. But, he must have only heard the wrong parts--- No. Oh, God, no.

"Bobby!" Dean was running down the stairs before his thoughts even processed completely. He landed at the bottom of the stairs at a dead run and headed out the front door, toward Bobby and the road.

The older hunter looked up from Cheney's food dish in surprise when Dean came barreling out of the house.

"He's gone! Sam's gone!"

"What?"

"He overheard us talking," Dean panted, waving the note in the air between them. "But, just bits and pieces…."

Bobby actually paled as the realization sank in. "Ah, Hell." He looked around the yard. "None of the cars are missing, so he must have left on foot. Go get the Impala. We'll split up and search the road."

Dean was already moving. He had trouble wrapping his brain around this. Sam must have came in on the absolute worst part of the argument, heard everything out of context. Of all the horrible, horrible luck.

The only kind Winchesters had, apparently. Dean should have known better to expect anything else.

He practically stripped the gears as he peeled out of the driveway, but he ignored the protesting screech of metal. Sam couldn't have gotten far. Dean had to find him before the kid did something stupid.

Before the only family he had left fell apart.

TBC