Chapter Seventeen

"Drive faster," Dean demanded.

"I'm going as fast as I can without swerving off into a fucking tree," John forced out through gritted teeth.

"Sam's being hurt right now, Dad!" Dean yelled. "I know you don't fucking like him all that much, but -"

"Now wait the fuck a minute!" John yelled back. "Just because I'm not in too much of a hurry to get into a car crash doesn't mean I don't give a damn about the kid's life, alright?! I know. I know what that bastard's capable of doing without a shred of remorse. You don't think I was there the first few days when you brought him in?"

"Well, you were more worried about Rick being on our ass than you were about Sam!"

John went silent, rubbing a hand down his face.

Dean took a deep breath, and fell into the silence too. After a while, he realized how irrational he was being, accusing his Dad of not caring about Sam just because he wasn't driving as fast as Dean wanted him to (he wouldn't be with him, looking for him just as hard, if he didn't. He noticed his Dad growing softer towards Sam the past year). He was terrified that he'd be too late, and so he was trying to race time, thinking that the faster they drove, the less chances there were of finding Sam -

But then, having a car accident wasn't going to make them get there any faster either.

"I'm sorry, Sir," Dean said.

John didn't reply, and Dean thought that he was in for a long and awkward car ride under his father's silent treatment.

"I'm trying my best here, Dean," John said wearily. "Sam's a good kid, and as long as he's not…"

"He's not," Dean answered quickly, remembering his odd and agitated behavior towards Sam initially, only to discover that it was disguised fear that Dean was replacing Adam.

"I know that. I don't have any issues with him anymore. If anything, he's… he's growin' on me too."

…

Rick grabbed his hair callously and hauled him up, and the sudden, harsh movement had him double over, an anguished gasp ripping out of his throat as his entire body flared up with white-hot agony.

But he knew this was his only chance. He didn't know if it would work, but he had to try. Whether he did or didn't, he was going to get beaten or killed anyway.

He knew Rick had no intention of keeping him alive. He had said it himself, said he was going to kill him, and then he was 'going to go after his friends' (but even if that troubled Sam, he knew Dean and John and Bobby were able to hold their own). If this really was where it'd end, the thought of not getting to say goodbye to Bobby and Dean, and even John, made his heart scrunch up with sorrow.

That fear and that need, to see them all again one more time (and then he'd leave, he promised to himself. He'd leave forever, never bother them again) gave him a heat of strength, exploding from his stomach to his chest, the way those memories of Dean did before, a strong sense of adrenaline that pumped energy into his muscles and made his heart pound and made all of the burning wounds on his body nothing but a dull throb in the back of his mind, and as soon as Rick had pushed him down on the chair he had been occupying about two hours ago (mocking him about Dean), leaning down to unchain one of his hands, he launched.

His head jerked forward, colliding hard into Rick's nose. A crack reverberated between the walls along with an angry scream, and blood spurted out into Rick's hands as he tripped back a few steps. Sam's hand shot out towards the waistband of Rick's jeans, and the next thing he knew, Rick was clutching his face, involuntary tears of pain in his eyes, and he was down on the ground on his ass with a boot print on his shirt while Sam stood over him, a gun in his hand pointed at him, index finger on the trigger.

"You little bitch!" Rick yelled, thick and muffled into his palm, panting.

Sam thought of those words being shouted at him, and all of those other words that his father had once hurled at him, that Rick had too. Worthless. Bastard. Murderer. Useless. Lazy. Stupid. Weak. Burden. Fuck-up. Selfish (because he didn't want to hunt, didn't want to screw it up and get punished even more for it when he couldn't even move straight because his body hurt too much). Nobody could ever want you, boy. And maybe, for the very first time in his life, he wasn't terrified or hurt, thinking about it. He was angry, hot lava coursing through his veins, piling up in his chest, the lights sharper and the world so vivid, and yet, so surreal.

Because he was the strong one, for the first time in his life, not the helpless one, the one on the ground. Rick was. He was the shadow looming over him, the one with all the power, his own life (he didn't have to be afraid of it all going too far some day) and Rick's life in his hands.

"You can't," Rick whispered, his bloodied grin as mocking as his tone. "You're too weak."

Weak.

He wanted to show him, wanted to pull the trigger so he could show him how he wasn't weak, and his finger tightened slightly. God, it'd be so easy. It'd be over. He wouldn't have to live in fear anymore, wouldn't have to wake up in the middle of the night from the nightmares of him coming back and getting him, knowing that as long as he was out there, it had the possibility of not being just a dream some day.

It was all he wanted to do, more than anything, in that moment. He wanted to pull that trigger, to have him just gone, to have that peace and that freedom he had always longed for and never had, that trapping feeling of impossibility, of imagining it and feeling stupid because how could it ever happen? But now… he had tasted it now, with Dean and John and Bobby, and he wanted more of it, wanted it forever.

And that couldn't happen, not wholly and completely, as long as the man in front of him was alive.

I could do it.

Sam swallowed hard, hand beginning to tremble, his finger aching to press down on the trigger, and yet, something holding it back. His eyes were wet, nose stinging red, his jaw clenched tight, and he couldn't couldn't couldn't stop thinking about freedom and peace and no fear and everything they've done to him and everything Dean had done for him and Dean's eyes filling with disappointment when he'd tell him what he did-

He doesn't have to know.

It'd be so easy. So easy.

It'd be over. I won't have to be afraid anymore.

I could do it.

I could.

I could I could I could-

"You don't ever come after me," Sam said, breathing hard through his gritted teeth. He swallowed, lips trembling, tears firmly held back as he shifted on his foot. "You don't come after Dean or John or Bobby. You do that, and I will kill you, I swear to God… if I see you again, I will kill you right where you stand."

Rick laughed somberly, his bloodied hand now on the ground, leaning back on his arms, looking almost relaxed, like he knew all along that Sam was too weak, wouldn't be able to do it.

He was. He was weak, because he wouldn't let Dean down, even for his own peace and safety. There was something pitiful about his priorities, indeed.

"I told you," Rick said, smirking, self-satisfied.

Sam put his arm down, sucking in a deep breath, biting his lip.

He turned around and limped towards the door, hand still gripped tightly around the gun, but his shoulders were tense and alarmed, his instincts screaming at him to not turn his back on Rick. He knew he couldn't depend on Rick listening to him, leaving him and the ones he loved alone. He wasn't stupid, but he still hoped that Rick wouldn't try anything too soon, wouldn't try anything now when there was a gun in his hand.

But then…

A swift rustle and an accidental clink as metal rubbed against fabric, scruff of boots and his back instinctually tingling from the danger behind him -

And Sam didn't think, his body moving before he even could. He spun around, and from one second to the next, he found himself standing over a fallen body on its back, eyes wide and a smoking gun in his hand (Rick's eyes wide too, head bloodied and smoking too), echoes of a fired bullet ringing in his ears. He stared down at Rick, a knife loose in his hand, a hole in his forehead, mouth agape with shock and staring far-off into a place beyond this world.

Dean's face filled his mind, his eyes pinched with disappointment. He doesn't have to know.

The next thing that came was the full brunt of agony in his body, colliding and burning in every nerve of it, pushed back from the forefront of his mind by the adrenaline, which was finally leaving him, sapping him of all the energy and vigor that had saved his life.

And maybe, also destroyed it.

Dean's face, sad and so fucking disappointed, was still there, in the front of his mind, his heart swelling up like a throbbing bruise, and he felt sick (murderer. He was a murderer. His mother and now his brother). The pain of it crashed along with the pain in his back and sides and torso and face, feeling hot and cold and light-headed as everything around him spun, and the world tilted on its axis and went black.

…

When they entered the small abandoned warehouse, the first thing that caught their eye were two bodies lying on the ground, one lying in a pool of blood around its head and the other crumpled on its side, curled up loosely, long brown hair curtaining his face.

"Oh god," Dean murmured frantically, rushing forward to Sam. John followed, putting away his gun. They spared a glance at Rick, saw the bullet in his head, and turned back to Sam.

"Is he…" John started. Dean's finger was on Sam's neck, breaths held, waiting, until his hand fell off slowly, exhaling shakily in relief.

"He has a pulse," Dean said softly, his hand coming up to slide into Sam's hair. He reached out his other hand to turn his face towards him, Sam's messy locks falling away.

John saw the second Dean's brain registered the gruesome wounds, brief shock transforming into a twisted snarl of fury, his jaw tight and nose flared. Both of Sam's eyes were a swollen, deep purple as well as the sides of his mouth, his cut cheeks and his jaws and temples a multitude of colors, his nose bleeding heavily over his split, red-stained lips. Dean glanced at Rick's corpse over his shoulder, glaring as if he wanted to resurrect him and kill him himself. But he turned back to Sam and swallowed down whatever anger he had, grasping the hem of his shirt and gently lifting it up.

That didn't help him keep his anger down at all.

Dean's eyes widened, and his other hand curled into a fist along with the one scrunching up the bottom of Sam's shirt, white and shaking. "Fuck, that bastard!" Dean yelled, jumping up on his feet.

"We have to get Sam patched up, Dean," John said. "You can get pissed at Rick's dead body later."

…

When Sam woke up, dazed and muddled and only just on the rim of consciousness, it was to a soothing pressure against his side (careful against the throbbing, and he couldn't remember why he was so sore) and a gentle hand running over and over through his hair, his ribs and abdomen feeling slightly tight with something wrapped around it. He felt light and warm, and he wanted to go back to sleep like this, wanted to be like this forever, his heart soft and full with serenity and safety and home.

Dean.

Dean was the only one who made him feel like that.

But something didn't feel right. The ache in his muscles that he couldn't remember where it came from, that sense of an unfathomable sense of wrong, almost like guilt, in his mind (about what?), how there was a blank gap in his memories when he tried to remember where he was or what he was doing the last time he was awake, how he got here in Dean's arms in the backseat of a moving car (the roaring and bumping and the slight vibrations).

Then it came to him, in hazy, fragmented pieces of images and words and a voice that gripped his heart in fear. And then all at once.

"Kick you out on your ass?"

"…considering what a needy bitch you are."

Adam. Leaving. Pain exploding in his head. Rick. Fists on flesh and whipping belts and taunting words. His head connecting with a nose.

"You little bitch!"

I could do it so easy over he doesn't have to know I could

"You're too weak."

A loud explosion of a firing gun.

Sam tried to hold in a sob, the effort of which resulted into something strangled and sad anyway, the billow of guilt and shame and unworthiness washing over him. Some part of him knew that there wasn't anything he could have done, that it was self-defense and survival instincts and he didn't even realize when he had pulled the trigger, but the rest of him told him that it didn't matter, because he was still a murderer, and Dean was still going to find out, and he was still going to be disappointed in him because he could not be as kind and good and clever as Adam was. He could have been smarter, quicker, could have turned around and fought him off or not turned his back on him at all instead of shooting him in the head.

The warm body against him tensed up at the distressed, restrained sound, the motions through his hair stilling.

And then he was being hauled away, hands scrabbling over his shoulders and face. A pained groan ripped out of his throat as they pushed and pulled against him to sit him up straight, his body still heavy and exhausted, still burning and aching from all the collisions and blows it had suffered. Dean seemed oblivious to his agony, his fingers coming to clutch his shoulder to hold him up, his other hand grasping his jaw tenderly.

"Sammy?" Dean asked, eyes wide with hope, and then closing with relief as he saw Sam's half-mast eyes struggling to open fully, blinking hard. His hand moved over from his jaw to the side of his neck. "Hey, kiddo. Finally awake, huh?"

Dean didn't ask him how he felt, because having been beaten within an inch of his life made the answer too obvious. Sam wondered if he had seen Rick's dead body and the gun in his hand, then why didn't he look upset that he couldn't do better?

"I killed him," Sam whispered, swallowing. He didn't know why he had to say it, but it made it real and it made him realize that John was in the driver's seat and he could probably hear him, and it made him wish that he hadn't said anything because the longer he didn't let them think about it, the better. But then he realized how stupid that was, because they probably had enough time to think about it anyway during his nap.

But Dean didn't look at Sam like he was a failure, like he had finally realized the truth.

"He had it coming," Dean said it softly, just like that. He squeezed the side of his neck lightly, and Sam was confused and dumbfounded, his eyebrows furrowed, not having expected such a response.

"I could have done better…"

"You did what you could. It wasn't your fault," Dean replied, this time firmly, looking at him hard. There was no room for argument in his voice, no trying to convince him otherwise, the end of conversation. Sam swallowed, and reluctantly nodded, leaving it there with a deep, remorseful inhale, relieved as he was that Dean didn't reject him or find him faulty. Dean pulled him back in, and Sam went into his arms gratefully and limply, his muscles pliant and too tired. He was warm and safe and content, a strong, rhythmic heartbeat thudding soothingly in his ears, and he thought he could go back to sleep like this.

Just as he was about to, floating on the edge of sleep where he had only the vaguest awareness of the nonsensical and odd images playing in his mind, his attention was jerked back into the living world by Dean's voice.

"Why'd you leave?" Dean asked quietly, and Sam's heart tightened at the bare note of sorrow in his voice, as carefully as he seemed to have tried to hide it.

Sam exhaled diminutively, shifting his head. He didn't know how to answer that, not without sounding stupid or selfish. He considered making something up, but his brain was too tired to think too hard, and his chest was sick and aching, and he didn't know if it was the pain in his body or fatigue or the emotions from what had happened on top of everything else, but he felt his eyes burn and burst from the heaviness behind them, his vision blurry and swarming in front of him, and the words tumbled out in a tight, shaky flow without his being able to stop them, like water from his mouth.

"Because I was scared," he whispered, breathing tremulously as his lip quivered. He breathed deeply. "There was somebody you wanted me to be, and he was better than I could ever even try to be, and some day you were going to realize that… that I'm not him, and I could never be as good as him, and it… the shape-shifter… it said you were going to leave when you found that out, and my dad and Rick, they always told me that - that nobody was ever going to want me, and I believed them for a long time until you came and I thought I left that behind but then after that hunt it made sense that it wasn't me you ever wanted and I c-couldn't watch you - and I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I-I know I'm being selfish. I'm so sorry. You lost your brother, and I'm…" He huffed mirthlessly, loathing himself. "And I'm worrying about myself. God, they were right all along, weren't they? They were always right, always, always -"

He tried to shove himself away from Dean (he doubted he'd want to be this close to him after that) but found that he was trapped beneath his arms, and found that even after getting so worked up during his rambling confession, he was still beaten, his eyes heavy and begging for darkness and rest, his gaze crossing over as his body seemed to want to fall through Dean, shaking with sorrow and desperately controlled tears.

"Man, I had no idea you – I wish you'd told me," Dean's soft voice wafted above him, rumbling in his chest against Sam's ear. "so that I could have told you what bullshit that all was. God, Sam, you don't need to be anyone else for me to keep you around. You're already good as you are. You're already wanted, and that's not going to change. They were wrong, Sammy. I told you this before, and I'll tell you this again. They. Were wrong. About everything. You're not selfish. Far from. You're good, okay? You're good and smart and enough." Sam swallowed down a choked sob, Dean's shirt dampening, and he heard a sad sigh that told him that Dean had already heard how hard he was trying to keep it together. Dean's arms tightened around him, one hand coming up to push through his hair. "I'm not going to leave you. There's nothing to realize, kiddo. I'm not going to leave you, and for god's sakes, you better return that favor because you scared the hell out of me. It's okay, Sammy. It's okay…"

Sam closed his eyes, sniffing a long inhale in.

"We good now?" Dean asked, squeezing him lightly.

Sam nodded, but he wasn't sure if Dean could feel it, so he said, "yeah…" which came out more as an indistinct, slurred mumble. He wanted to think about Dean's words, wanted to remember each and every one of them and hold on to them for the rainy days when he'd doubt everything about himself.

But his eyes kept slipping shut, his mind drifting towards dreams and away from reality. His body still ached, but his heart was lighter than before (there was no shadow cast over the back of his mind, of fear and anticipation of everything falling apart), feeling whole and grounded by the fingers brushing through his hair and the steady, thundering car under them that was as much of a home as the person whose heart was beating under his ear.

In the last dredges of delirious awareness, he found himself thinking about Adam for some reason, an imprecise, formless face with only vague details of blonde hair and bright green eyes from Dean's descriptions of him, and he wondered if he was looking down at his big brother from the heavens, and what he thought of Sam, and if he was waiting for Dean and whether he was happy up there or not (he hoped he was). He wondered if he had ever thought about how lucky he was when he was alive, being given Dean as a brother to take care of him and look out for him, like Sam did now (every day, he thinks to that. Every single day. Always).

Brother.

But Sam wasn't really his brother, was he? He wished he was. He wished he was Dean's brother too.

"You are," a soft whisper breezed over the top of his head, and Sam's mind jerked back briefly into the living world. He didn't even notice he had said that out loud.

He mumbled back something, something about not being Adam. He didn't know what he exactly said, and with how worn out and incapable he was of moving his mouth too much, he wasn't sure if Dean did either.

But then he murmured, "That's okay. You can just be Sammy. I -" He paused and Sam tried to keep himself awake long enough to hear him finish. After a while, he muttered something that sounded a lot like 'fuck it' and said, "I… I will still love you, kiddo."

Sam smiled softly and, as if that was what he had been waiting for all this time, finally let himself go into beautiful oblivion.

…

Epilogue

November 2005

Another set of coordinates sent by John, who had disappeared two months ago and had only been communicating with them through texts of numbered directions to their next hunt, led them to a spirit that had been haunting a house in Framingham, Massachusetts for the past ten years, murdering a total of two families in inexplicable, freak accidents that have left the law enforcement stumped.

Mary Stone was murdered in a macabre manner along with her husband and children, and had been the one who couldn't let go and so became violently possessive of the house where many memories of her loved ones resided, forcing everyone who tried make the place their own to the same fate that she and her family had suffered.

After the most recent family found John Reyes, the father, killed horrifically in his bloodied shower while the mother was out for a jog, they went to investigate. Cold spots, strange sounds, smells, accidental sighting of a female ghostly figure ("we believe you, Mrs. Reyes"), all signs there. Finding out her story from an old news article and discovering that the attacks were happening in the same, age-ascending order as the one Mary's family had died in (father, mother, eldest to youngest child), Sam and Dean set off to Edgell Grove Cemetery to burn Mary Stone's body. However, then came a call from Mrs. Reyes, telling them that there was another attempt at her life, making them realize that her spirit was attached to an object.

The hardest thing was finding the locket which held a picture of her children, fallen behind the drawers. They had looked meticulously all over the house for something that might have been forgotten or kept by the prior families, but there was no such thing that could have been significant to Mary, anything that was related to the ones she loved.

Thinking that it must have been something that she kept close to herself, and the room in which the murder had occurred in, they figured that it had to be lost somewhere in the bedroom, somewhere that nobody looked, and after surrounding Mrs. Reyes and her two daughters and one son in a circle of salt, went ripping the place apart. Finding it (not without a few disturbances) and burning it in the trashcan with a lighter, they watched as the ghost of Mary Stone went up in flames, shrieking, and finally at peace.

Now they stood outside the house, bruised and exhausted but feeling accomplished, the first glimpse of the rising sun appearing just now as streaks of orange and red colored the yellowed sky above them. Mrs. Reyes's eyes, although were heavy with the loss she hadn't had the time to mourn, were soft and wet, her grateful smile crinkling the corners. Her children stood beside her, her arms around their shoulders as she thanked them again and again. They didn't know what to say in return, struck speechless at the unusual display of appreciation and acknowledgement for their work, and so they smiled awkwardly and nodded.

"I guess you aren't FBI agents, are you?" Emily, the sixteen-year old daughter asked. "And your real names aren't Hunter and Byers. The FBI wouldn't know so much about monsters, like you guys do."

"No, I guess not," Sam said, giving her a half-smile. "My name's Sam Winchester."

And then he looked at Dean, standing beside him, and for some reason, Sam felt like it hadn't been like that for five years but their whole lives. His smile widened slightly at the thought, and at the words that came out next, "This is my brother, Dean."

The End

Author's Note: WOW. This is it. It's finished. Two stories... finished... did you guys like the ending? I thought the idea was adorable! Sam changing his last name to Winchester and calling Dean his brother (the way they were always meant to be, right? :D).

Thank you so much to all of you who've read this story until the ending, for sticking with it up until here, for all the tags and the smiles from the lovely reviews that made me squeal every time. To everyone who remained since the budding years, 2012, I am honored and completely speechless, because to have stayed and remembered and been interested in this story, even after all the gaps in between, just astounds me. Thank you, all of you, for making this such a great experience with all your love and support. And I hope I made you feel something with this story, that you enjoyed this journey too. I love you all. You're awesome, each and every one of you.

Thank you

Ghostwriter

AmaraRae

babyreaper

Tie-Dyed Broadway

AlElizabeth

YesteryearsGirl

RaisingAmara

ncsupnatfan

StyxxsOmega

reannablue

ArtistKurai

lenail125

for your comments in the previous chapter. :)