This is completely unbeta'd. I just got it done and wanted to post it - it has just been a crappy couple of days for me - but hopefully this isn't total crap. Anyways, the story is finally done. I hope you enjoy it and there are SPOILERS in this chapter for everything that has happened in Season 6 so far. So if you haven't seen this season and don't want to know - please don't read.

The Walking Dead

Chapter 11

Sam really, really wanted a cup of coffee.

A week into his convalescence and he still hadn't been allowed that small luxury; his older brother being an absolute tyrant about his recovery.

"No stimulants, Sammy, you heard the doctor." Sam muttered darkly, mimicking Dean's patronizing answer every time Sam had asked his brother for a mug.

Hell, inhaling the aroma was practically considered a sin.

Personally, Sam thought Dean was just doing it for kicks. Surely the man who planned and executed Sam's escape from the very same doctor (well the hospital technically, but Sam's petulance wasn't splitting hairs) couldn't be that big a stickler on the smaller details such as the effect of a single cup of coffee on his bed-ridden brother, could he? Even if said brother was right at this moment, carefully propped up in Bobby's old wheelchair, in the living room.

Sam had been watching Dean through the window as his older brother tinkered under the hood of the Impala, on yet another gray overcast autumn day, the sound of brewing coffee in the kitchen picking at his last nerve. He'd swear he was twitching as the aroma practically had Sam drooling; dignity is highly over-rated when you're already at the level of helplessness I am, he mentally derided, but a wash of appreciation blushed out the bitterness.

Thank God though for Dean and Bobby.

They dealt with things, with him, in a way that was both professional and defusing. Everything from his nightmares to helping him wipe his ass (and wasn't that such a treat?) left him feeling humbled and loved; doing more to help his laden soul then either man would ever know.

They made this vulnerability tolerable.

A loud ding announced the completion of the pot.

Sam waited – tense – for the sound of footsteps. For someone to acknowledge to the obvious call of the coffee siren in the kitchen.

But no one came.

He waited another moment, then slowly, using his good hand, half turned his chair towards the kitchen. "Bobby?" he called, knowing Dean was outside fussing with his baby but thought the older man was still in the house. "Coffee's done."

There was no answer. Sam frowned then called out a bit more loudly. "Yo, Bobby? Poison's ready!" Still no answer. Huh, old codger must have snuck out…

Wincing as he gingerly shifted enough to look back outside, he saw the grizzled scrapper talking to Dean. Bobby had gone outside.

Sam was taken aback by that – just how off his game had he let his injuries get him?

Sure his broken bones still ached something fierce, his shoulder burned like a sonnovatibitch, the cast on his hand itched, his ribs ached when he breathed quickly or inhaled deeply and he had a headache that kept sliding his brains around at the worst moments... but surely that was no excuse?

And then a cunning smile twisted at his mouth.

"Hey, Dean," he called out softly. "I'm going to grab a coffee – you want one?"

No answer.

He waited another heartbeat, his own pulse starting to race in anticipation.

"All right then. If you're sure…" Snickering slightly at his own deviousness (and good fortune) Sam started the laborious process of wheeling himself to the kitchen. And it really sucked. This was only his second time in the chair, and his first time doing more than carefully turning the chair, but the lure of the forbidden fruit was just too great a temptation.

Sam was not about to be bested by injury and a wheelchair.

He was going to have his damned coffee and drink it too!

By the time he did get to the kitchen, Sam had worked up a sweat and was panting shallowly as he tried to keep the flaring pain in his chest to a manageable agony. His good hand was cramping terribly and he'd managed to knock one of his feet against the side of the wall, hard, stubbing his little toe in the process. He'd whacked it pretty good, probably even broken it if the throbbing waves of pain were any indication, but he was so focused on his goal – on getting his cup of coffee – that little else mattered.

Both he and Dean had hunted in much worst shape after all and hell… Sam stopped and swallowed hard, his eyes flickering nervously towards a corner of the kitchen half expecting Adam to be there… there was no comparison to hell.

Sheer determination pushed those feelings back and he continued on.

He could actually see the coffee pot now –

Could practically taste the strong black coffee –

Could feel the warmth of the mug warning his hurting hand –

And then a throat was cleared behind him and Sam let his head drop.

Damnit.

So close.

"So, what'cha doing, little brother?" Dean asked matter-of-factly as he neatly side-stepped Sam and opened the cupboard and pulled out a mug.

Sam scowled as he eyed the cupboard evilly. He hadn't even thought about how he was going to tackle that.

Usually getting a mug off the counter wouldn't be a big deal as Bobby wasn't normally anal about putting his dishes away – they get washed, was the man's defence.

And they did.

Washed and put in a drain tray to dry. They just rarely got past the drain tray and back into the cupboard, until Dean had only earlier insisted on putting away all the dishes, as a way of repaying Bobby for letting them crash there.

Well that was what Dean claimed anyways but Sam had his suspicions since Dean had obviously realized his ingenious little brother might make a runner for the coffee, but would find getting something to put the coffee in, more of a challenge.

Not like Sam was above drinking straight out of the pot at this point.

"Nothing." Sam pouted, gingerly slouching as much as he could in the chair.

Damn his toe was really hurting.

"Hmmm… really?" Dean gave him a sugar-sweet look as he got down a second mug for Bobby.

Sam had never felt the need to kick his brother as strongly as he did now… that he couldn't. "Really," Sam tried to shift his foot a bit to help the pain. It didn't.

"You okay?" Dean must have noticed something because his attention was laser focused on Sam, the two mugs side by side now on the counter.

Sam gave him a loaded look.

"Okay, okay," Dean held up his hands in supplication before turning back to the coffee and pouring out two drinks. "Stupid question, I know."

"Where's Bobby?" Sam asked, avoiding the question. Dean would kill him if he found out Sam had hurt himself more. Besides there wasn't anything anyone could do to help, that his next dose of painkillers wouldn't fix.

"Taking a look at something for me," Dean said vaguely knowing that Sam wasn't interested enough in cars to want any more information than that. Picking up the mugs, he moved them to the table. "Hey, Sam," he sat down. "Can we talk for a minute?"

Sam felt something cold and slimy curl in the pit of his stomach. Dean was leaving. He knew that tone.

Not that his big brother had a history of doing so, but he recognized his sibling's 'I have something to tell you and I know you aren't going to like it' tone, and there wasn't anything else Sam could think of that would be worse. And not unexpected. After all Dean still had a whole other life, other family, and just because he'd come with his badly hurt brother to Bobby's, now that Sam was starting to mend, it was only reasonable that Dean was going to leave. Sam briefly considered telling Dean about his toe, then chucked the selfishness and instead forced the wheelchair the short distance between him and the table.

"Uh, sure," he said, his interest suddenly on a stain in the wood.

A mug of coffee was quietly slid in front of him but instead of coveting his desperately sought after drink, Sam just felt his eyes burn.

Like a coffee could replace his brother…

"I don't know how to say it, so I am just going to."

Sam glanced up when Dean paused. It was unsettling to see his brother looking so uncomfortable. He knew that this wasn't easy for Dean either and sought to make it easier.

"It's okay," he broke in sparing his brother from actually having to say it. "I know you're leaving."

"What? You do?" Dean sounded and looked startled; it made Sam chuckle softly.

"Yeah… it's pretty obvious. I mean, I'm doing a lot better now – you don't have to stay. I'm sure Lisa and Ben are anxious to get you back home." Sam forced a lightness in his voice that he didn't feel. It actually hurt his face to hold the smile. "And it's okay, man. I get it and I'm fine with it, really." He'd stay at Bobby's until he could walk again (hello, irony) then – well, he wasn't sure what then. Uncertain if he could keep up the hunter's charade any longer. It just felt like something in him was even more broken then before.

"You're a horrible liar," Dean was watching him carefully. "And you're an idiot."

Sam huffed out a surprised noise. "Huh?"

"Lisa and Ben – yeah, I care about them – that's why I'm going back… but it isn't my home and that's why I'm not staying. I'm just going to be gone a couple of days, talk to them, explain things, not that that'll take much explaining because Lisa's pretty much already got things figured out… grab my stuff, then haul ass back here in time to make sure you don't O.D on this stuff," he nudged at Sam's cooling coffee. "And then that's that. Until you're ready to hit the road again. That is… if you want me to."

"That's not my decision to make," Sam stated honestly. As much as he wanted to get down on his knees and grovel, he refused to be the reason Dean gave things up, unless Dean wanted to. If Sam did, he knew that eventually his brother would come to resent him. But, at the same time, he didn't want Dean to feel unwanted. "Whatever you decide, you know I'm always here. Okay, well maybe not physically here but you know what I mean. Brothers, dude. For life."

Dean rolled his eyes, even as he leaned forward and patted Sam's shoulder very lightly. "You need to work on your delivery," he teased then glanced down at the coffee significantly. "For all the trouble you went through, you could at least drink the damn stuff before it gets cold."

"I like cold coffee," Sam argued, just because he could.

Dean left that afternoon.

Of course he found out about the broken toe before then, and yes it was definitely broken. And and after giving Sam a strict lecture that involved inventive threats and dramatic hand gestures, he taped the toe to its neighbour and told him to take a damn painkiller and that he'd be back in a couple of days. Sam had never felt so loved.

And Sam, being the above mentioned idiot he was, decided that he needed a dose of morphine. His toe was really hurting and it had nothing to do with hoping he'd dope himself up enough that by the time he came down, his brother would be back. Nope, nothing to do with that at all. And definitely nothing to do with Adam, Lucifer or even Michael not being able to reach him in his dreams through that narcotic… Unfortunately though, while his mind was protected from the horrors of its own memories, it dazzled him with dreams that left him just as shaken and emotionally twisted when a blurry eyed Sam woke the next morning –

To the bizarre scene of Bobby standing in the doorway of his room and asking him, "Does this sweater make me look old?"

Muzzy minded and still half doped out of his gills, Sam turned tired eyes on his old friend took in the grey cable knit sweater the man was wearing and, mentally uncensored, answered bluntly. "I don't think it's the sweater, Bobby."

"Bah, what do you know anyway," Bobby scoffed and turned to leave.

Swallowing at the paste like dryness of his mouth, Sam winced, his brain playing catch up with the conversation. "Sorry, Bobby – the drugs. It looks…" he took a harder look at the garment as Bobby paused in the doorway again, but was at a loss how to really compliment it. "Why are you wearing a sweater?" He deflected instead. It wasn't the hunter's usual attire of comfort.

If Sam didn't know better, he'd think Bobby blushed as he tugged hard at the woollen neck and made a face. "What? I can't want to look nice for a change?"

Puckering his brow, Sam wondered if he had missed something. "And you want? To look nice? For me?" He wasn't quite sure how to take that, especially in light of the troublesome dream he'd just had. "Bobby?" He rushed the name out in a breath, "You know I'd never try to kill you, right? Not really. If I was in my right mind, right?" It was suddenly very important for Sam to let Bobby know that.

The man frowned at him and approached the bed. "You feeling okay there, boy?" he reached out a calloused hand towards Sam forehead, shaking his head at the lack of obvious fever. "You don't feel warn."

Sam closed his eyes at the brief contact, then opened them again. "I just had this really weird dream. Nightmare actually." He chuckled humourlessly at the end.

"Morphine will do that to you," Bobby offered. "And?"

"And I dreamt that I came back from hell, wrong. Well more wrong than I am now… actually more soul-less than wrong, I guess. Yeah, soul-less, for sure." He waffled as he tried to make some sense out of this. Normally he would have just brushed it off but he couldn't and just needed to talk to someone – to Bobby actually – about it.

"Soul-less?" the old man scratched his head. "I'm not sure that's possible, Sam."

"It was a dream," Sam felt the need to remind then continued. "And it was horrible! I was me only not me at the same."

Bobby sat down in the chair next to the bed. "That'd be quite a conundrum, that's for sure. Depending on popular beliefs, a soul encompasses all goodness and morality. It defines us from an animal and makes us who we are…" His dark eyes watched Sam carefully. "So without it – who were you?"

"Not someone I liked!" Sam admitted vehemently. "The stuff I did…" he shook his head and snorted softly. "Hell, I let vampires turn Dean just so we could get a man on the inside!"

That made Bobby snort. "Yeah, as if. Exactly what were you boys mixing with that morphine?"

"It gets worse," his gaze dropped to his blanket as he shifted again uncomfortable with this next part but still needing to get this nightmare off his chest. Maybe Bobby could help him make some sense out of it. "I, uh, well, Dean decided he was going to help me get my soul back-"

"Vampire Dean?" Bobby interrupted.

"He wasn't a vampire anymore." Sam brought him up to speed.

"Of course not," came a placating reply.

Sam spared a small glare for his companion then returned to watching his blanket, the pain in his little toe starting up again. "But by then, I figured I didn't want it back-"

"Do you know where your soul was?" Bobby interrupted again.

"Hell," was a whisper and for a moment neither said anything. Sam felt the weighted compassion in the older man's eyes and forced himself to continue. "Like I said, I decided I didn't want it back. Too much emotional crap and all that stuff, even Crowley was telling me it wouldn't be a good thing to get back-"

"Crowley was in your dream?"

"Do you want to hear this or not?" Sam wasn't sure he'd have the nerve to finish telling Bobby if the man kept interrupting him.

"Sorry. Go on."

"Thanks. And yeah he was. But don't worry, you were in there too." Sam knew Bobby wanted to say something and appreciated the man's restraint when he didn't. "But see, that wasn't really a good thing because I found out that the only way I could keep Dean from putting the soul back in my body, well not Dean really because he sort of screws it up by not killing the little girl with a heart condition, so Death ends up doing it but not before Balthazar tells me that killing you is the only way of making myself so repulsive my soul wouldn't want to return." Sam rushed out.

"Well, I could have just loaned you this sweater," Bobby offered when it became apparent Sam wasn't going to say anything else. Sam looked at him unsure what he was talking about. "Repulsive? Killing me? I think this sweater would have worked just as well. So, did this Bill guy-"

"Balthazar," Sam corrected.

"Balthazar," Bobby repeated, "Did he say why killing me was the way to go? Or did he just hate this sweater too?"

"I don't think he knew about the sweater," Sam played along and then got serious, not sure how Bobby was going to feel about this but needing to tell him anyways. "Well apparently, you weren't the first choice. Patricide was the way to go but since Dad was dead, he said I could use a surrogate and since, well, you… you're… well…" Sam faltered, terrible and embarrassed to actually say the words. He grimaced then forced them out. "Sinceyou'relikeafathertome,you'dod."

"Huh?"

Oh God, Bobby was really going to make him say it again. He took as deep a breath as he could and managed them again. "Since you're like a father to me, you'd do."

The room was quiet once again for a moment. Sam was tense, waiting for some sort of fallout, just unsure what it might be. Then Bobby chuckled, leaned towards him and gave his uninjured arm and gentle shake. "Oh kid, that was one heck of a dream. So, did you kill me?"

"You're not bothered by this?" Sam's voice rang with disbelief.

"By what?" Bobby seemed genuinely baffled.

"By me trying to kill you?"

"So you didn't succeed, then?"

"Well, no. Dean got back in time and stopped me."

"I bet he was pissed." Bobby speculated.

"I think so – he clocked me before we had much of a chance to talk though…" Sam paused as the other man chuckled again. "You're seriously not bothered by this at all?"

"Naw," Bobby brushed it off with a shrug. "If anything, I'm honoured. If even soul-less you considered me father enough to try to kill, I must be doing something right – now, seriously, does this sweater make me look old?"

"Seriously?" Sam stared at the other man.

"Seriously."

"I think you're right."

"About what?" Bobby frowned in confusion.

"You should have just loaned me the sweater."

It was almost three days later before Dean came back. Sam heard the throaty rumble of the v8 and smiled from his place on the couch. Bobby had helped get him situated with pillows and carefully rolled blankets so that he was able to comfortably recline and keep his legs up. It was a nice change allowing him a reprieve from the bedroom and sitting in the chair. The wheelchair did let him get around but he still wasn't healed enough to spend much time in it.

Smiling as he glanced up from the book he was reading, Bobby's holler from the kitchen of "Dean's back," was completely unnecessary.

A few minutes later, the clunking of boots and the front door slamming open heralded the travelling Winchester. Dean's gaze immediately sought out Sam and he grinned wide when he saw the younger man ensconced in the living room. "Dude," he moved towards Sam. "You survived!"

Sam laughed. Scowling, Bobby appeared from the kitchen and lightly smacked Dean on the back of his head. "What you saying, boy?"

"Ouch, geez, Bobby," Dean ducked away from the older man and made a show of rubbing his head. "I just mean that he didn't get himself killed for a can of cola or something." The lie was smooth and so Dean but neither other man in the room bought it for one second – neither said anything though. Bobby just grumbled something about checking on a stew and left the brothers alone.

"Hey, I brought you back something," Dean said, dropping his duffle on the floor and then crouching down to look through it.

"You did?" Sam felt about five, his eyes light up with eagerness. He pushed himself up a bit more, biting back a groan. "What is it? What'd ya get me?"

"Eager much," Dean grinned as he found what he was looking for and stood back up. He glanced at a small brown bag for a long moment and then handed the bag to Sam. "It's not much. Just something, you know? "

Something in Dean's tone made Sam's skin prickle and he knew that there was significance in this gift.

"I'll be back in a minute," Dean promised as he re-shouldered his duffle and left the room, obviously taking his stuff upstairs.

Sam listened to him leave as he carefully opened the bag and pulled out a small pocketbook. Frowning, he glanced at the cover, confused. The Outsiders by S.E Hinton?

"I remembered you always liked that book, so when I saw it I figured you might get a kick out of re-reading it," Dean's voice was quiet as he re-entered the room and saw Sam looking at the cover.

"Yeah," Sam's head bobbed as he carefully fingered the cover. It was a well-used second bookstore copy and he smiled as it brought back a lot of memories. Most of them good. He glanced up at his brother and smiled. "This is great. Thanks."

Dean didn't say anything but his hazel eyes were a curious shade of green as he continued watching Sam, expectantly, as if waiting for something. Unsure what was this was about, Sam looked back down at the book, opening it and sifting through the pages. They were brittle and slightly yellowed but it was the flash of something red that caught his attention. His breath caught in his throat. His eyes stung. Carefully placed in the middle of the book was a leaf.

A worn and damaged looking red leaf.

Sam's precious leaf.

And it had been laminated.

Swallowing hard, he picked it up; then looked at his brother.

The expectant look had been replaced by warm affection as Dean gazed at him, his posture deceptively casual as he moved to sit down on the edge of the coffee table across from Sam. "I should have been back yesterday morning." He admitted as he leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees and watched Sam looking at the leaf again. "It kinda reminds me of you."

"Me?" Sam balked with a snort. "I suppose it does. Pretty sad looking excuse for a leaf…" He forced a smile but it wavered. "Yeah, I can certainly see the similarity."

"You are an idiot," but there was no censure in his brother's voice as Dean shook his head. "Look at it. Yeah, sure it's pretty worn and has been through a hell of a time, but look at it Sam. I went back and it was still there. Still just being a leaf. So what if it is a bit more brown? And a bit torn up and shit? It's still the same leaf. Just – uh – different… But no less that leaf that you stopped to watch falling just because it was so beautiful… And now with all that lamination crap, it's all protected. Nothing's going to do anymore damage to it. Not now. Not if I have anything to say about it." A fierce edge crept into Dean's voice that both chilled and warmed Sam from the inside.

He reverently put the leaf back in the book and thought about what his brother was saying. What Dean was really saying and he supposed, if he was ready to cut himself any slack, he could see through the metaphor or whatever it was. The stinging in his eyes burned his cheek and he hastily wiped at it, thankful that Dean dropped his gaze, although not before Sam saw the little smirk on his brother's lips. "Well, then," he cleared his throat and quirked an eyebrow as he considered the other hunter. "If I'm the leaf… that'd make you the lamination, right?"

A startled noise from Dean had them both laughing, Sam more gingerly as his body started to throb anew.

"Hadn't really thought about it like that before," Dean mused smugly, "but, yeah, guess so. I've had worse jobs. Not by much," he chuckled. "But it's okay."

"Thanks, Dean," Sam's words were heartfelt. "I don't know what else to say."

"How about nothing then?" Dean offered. "Except maybe do one thing for me. I'm not sure it'll help but hey, stranger things have happened, right?"

"What?" Sam should have been suspicious but he was back looking at the leaf again and thinking about what his brother had said.

"Keep it under your pillow when you sleep. I know it sounds corny but maybe the next time you're sleeping, it might, sorta, help. You know? Maybe keep Adam from haunting you so bad? Just a thought… Stupid, I know."

"You know about Adam?" Sam was shocked. He thought he'd kept that part of his nightmares hidden.

"I know a lot of things, Sam," Dean's tone was sombre; his eyes their own shade of haunted. "It isn't just Hell that's tormenting you, is it? It's Adam."

Sam refused to look away from his brother's intense gaze but he didn't deny it either.

"Like I said, it's probably stupid but I'd like to think that maybe it'll help remind you in some way that even there, in any way that I can, I still have your back."

"What about Adam?" Sam whispered, his voice sounding jagged even to him. "Who's going to watch his back?"

"We will," Dean promised. "Once you're back on your feet, we are going to figure out what brought you and Gramps back and see if we can somehow finagle a way out for Adam. At least get him back to Heaven where he belongs. And that is all we can do."

Sam slowly nodded, that was a plan he could get on board with. "Maybe Cas can help?" he wondered.

Dean shrugged. "Maybe. The angelic SOB is being a bastard about returning my 'calls' so far, but who knows. Maybe by then, he'll need something from us and we can find out what he knows."

"Maybe," Sam agreed, unsuccessfully stifling a wide yawn. Although he wanted to spend some more time with Dean, his body wasn't, and he knew it was only a matter of minutes before he'd be out like a light.

Dean obviously saw and shook his head. "Take a nap, Sam. I've got some things to talk to Bobby about anyways." His eyes drifted to the book Sam was still holding.

Sam followed his gaze and then reached for the leaf. "Do you mind, maybe helping me with this now – I'd really like to test it out." His nightmares didn't contain themselves to the nights.

His brother understood. Nodding, Dean took the leaf and then gently moved Sam just slightly so he could slip it under the pillows behind Sam's back. It would have to be good enough until Sam retired to his bed for the night. Then, regardless of whether it worked or not, it'd be going under the pillow beneath his head.

Making sure Sam was comfortably settled and halfway asleep before Dean went in search of Bobby, Sam had one final comforting thought before drifting off. Dean might sleep with a gun underneath his pillow for security, but Sam was going to be sleeping with something just as dangerous under his.

A laminated red leaf.

And that afternoon, when he slept, Sam only dreamt of hell.

The End