EIGHT

Dean locked the car and followed, opening the main door to find Sam sat at the counter, talking to the waitress.

Dean plonked himself on the swivel stool next to him, looking round and smiling genially at everyone.

“He’ll have the biggest cheeseburger you’ve got,” Sam said quickly. “I’ll just have a coffee.”

“Sure thing,” the waitress said, winking at Sam and turning away from the counter. Dean watched her go, then whistled to himself in appreciation.

Sam turned on him immediately.

“Keep it zipped up,” he said shortly. “We’re eating, you’re not going to do anything embarrassing, and then we’re leaving for a motel with really, really thick walls.”

But Dean’s eyes were glued to the waitress and the way she skipped round the diner, smiling at everyone.

“Can’t help it, man. Upstairs, downstairs, everything’s back as it was,” he mumbled, pre-occupied. Sam slapped his elbow and he was brought back to the moment rudely. “Ow!”

“Stop it. Just eat. And don’t go feeling stuff,” Sam snapped.

Dean just let his eyebrows raise in surprise and a marked lack of concern, swinging the stool round to face the counter. He leaned his elbows on the glass top, then made the mistake of looking down. He started to chuckle and Sam’s eyes rolled. Twice.

“What now?” he demanded tersely.

“Dude! I really am a handsome devil,” he chuckled. His face fell instantly. “Human. Person. Man,” he corrected quickly.

Sam cleared his throat and looked away deliberately. It was silent between them, Dean lost in the uncertainty reflected in his eyes, until the waitress returned with a plate.

“There we go,” she said with a wide smile. “Anything else you need, honey, just ask for me,” she winked.

Dean just looked at her blankly. Sam nudged him.

“Thanks,” the older Winchester blurted, and she turned away again.

Sam looked at his brother but he just stared around the diner slowly, lost. He seemed to be looking at people as if he’d never seen one before, his eyes wide with curiosity, his eyebrows hitched together with the struggle to remember something, or perhaps work something out.

“Hey,” Sam said slowly, concerned. “Red meat.”

Dean looked back at him, and the completely empty look in his eyes worried Sam. Then he noticed Dean’s nose twitch before he looked down at the cheeseburger.

“Aw man,” he grinned, forgetting everything to pick it up and shove as much of it in his mouth as humanly possible.

Sam relaxed. A little.

Dean bit off much more than he should have been able to chew, but that in itself was nothing knew and it hardly mattered. He munched and wrestled with the mouthful until he had it where he wanted it. He managed to swallow half of it before grinning at Sam with half a mouth.

“This is the best cheeseburger ever!” he managed, and Sam smiled.

“I can only imagine,” he sighed, sitting back and reaching for his coffee. As he administered milk and stretched over for a spoon, a faint but nevertheless audible sound started up. He turned and stared at his brother with a menace he hadn’t used since the last demon they had hunted.

Before he had died.

Dean had his eyes closed, his face a picture of happiness. His jaw was moving slowly and he was moaning to himself in pleasure.

Sam looked with understandable concern at the middle-aged woman sat next to his brother at the counter. She did not look amused to hear a grown man make such suggestive noises over a cheeseburger. Sam reached out and thumped his brother’s arm.

“Ow!” he protested, his mouth still half full. But when his eyes flew open he found Sam looking back at him with Angry Eyes mixed with Mortification Scowl Number Three. “Ah,” he managed through a mouth of food, “looks like Snappy McScowly thinks it’s time to go.” He stuffed the remaining parts of the cheeseburger into his mouth and slid off his stool smartly. “Wew?” he mouthed past the food, his hands out in expectation.

Sam threw money on the counter before grabbing his coffee and downing it in one. It burned as it went down, but he refused to show it. Instead he nodded gratefully to the waitress, grabbed his wayward brother before he could draw some innocent bystander into a conversation, and marched him out of the diner as he munched and despatched the rest of his cheeseburger.

They reached the Impala before Sam let go of his arm tersely, shoving him toward the door and slapping at the back of his head petulantly.

“What was that for?” Dean whined, the tone so unexpected it made his younger brother look up.

“For being a jerk. Now get in the car,” Sam hissed.

“Who’s being a jerk?” Dean protested, hurt, and it made Sam stop dead. “You’re the one shoutin’ and thumpin’ and being the grumpiest kill-joy in the state, bitch!”

“So this isn’t some stupid prank of yours?” Sam demanded, leaning over the roof with an arm. “You’re not doing this purely to torture me?”

“Doing what?” Dean wailed, sounding remarkably like a small child who considers himself hard done-by, his hands out wide in what appeared to be honest confusion.

Sam studied him, and an awful, awful feeling began to seep into his heart.

I know that tone of voice. Haven’t heard it in… too many years, but I know it alright. He huffed to himself, his eyebrows fighting with each other for holding onto their sternness or flipping over into concern. He really has no idea he’s pissing me off, he realised. Something really did happen to him. Wherever he’s been and whatever he’s been doing, he’s having trouble being him again. And now he’s free-falling. Because maybe… maybe it really is him…

Dean’s brows were knitted together like a stormy Monday morning, and Sam huffed out a long sigh of regret.

“Look, man…” He looked down at the roof of the car, then back at his older brother. “Just get in the car. Now you’ve eaten - again - we need to find somewhere to sleep.”

“Ok, man, just calm down,” Dean said defensively, and Sam frowned to himself.

Does he have to sound like he’s twelve again? he protested, then just decided to let it go.

“Fine,” he allowed. “Just please, get in the car.”

Dean struggled with something for a moment longer, scratching his head. Then he shrugged, letting it all go.

“Ok,” he sighed, apparently past caring, pulling out the keys and unlocking his door. He wanged it open and slid in, leaning over to unlock Sam’s door. “Get in, Bigfoot. I’ll try not to offend your delicate sensibilities as I belch along to Kansas.”

“You know what, man? Today I don’t even think I’d mind if it was Metallica,” Sam sighed.

Dean grinned as he gunned the engine, listening to the melodious purr and feeling it tickle all the way down his spine. He reached down and turned on the cassette player before leaning over to rifle through the glovebox. He found his box of tapes and shoved it at Sam.

“Find me some Bon Scott,” he grinned, putting her into Drive and starting to pull out of the car park.

“You mean Brian Johnson,” Sam corrected, lifting up a tape. “Bon Scott died.”

“Yeah he did - still writes music though. Just for the lifts,” he added.

“What are you talking about?” Sam asked wearily, opening the cassette box and removing the recorded magic.

“I… don’t know,” Dean admitted, a cheery smile doing nothing to cover his blatant discomfort. “Bon Scott. Bon Scott…” he mused to himself. “Just the name seems… like really… I think I knew him,” Dean struggled, a decidedly puzzled look on his face.

“Oh yeah?” Sam challenged, pushing the cassette into the player. “Before he died? When you were like eighteen months old or something?”

“Naw - must have been when I wasn’t real,” Dean breathed to himself. “That’s why I can’t remember.”

Sam just sat back, clutched the box in his lap, and said nothing.

Sam opened his eyes in the darkness, looking up at the ceiling of the motel room and huffing. The unease, the quite discomfort, it was all so much darker and harder to ignore when the lights were out.

He sat up in bed slowly, eyeing the room and looking to his left instinctively. His big brother was asleep in the bed under the window. The moonlight was coming through from under the bottom of the thick curtains, casting pale silver light over the side of his peaceful face.

But it’s not right, he made himself think. It’s not. How am I supposed to just welcome him back, as if nothing’s happened? He wouldn’t trust me if I came back, so--

The realisation hit him with incredible momentum and his breath caught in his throat.

But he did.

He brought me back, he sold his soul to get me back. And forever afterwards, he’s believed it’s me and not some demon trick Old Yellow Eyes set up for us. He’s never flinched, or faltered, or considered the possibility that I could be… something I’m not. I mean, Jeez, he’s always so goddamn sure it’s really me - he’s more sure than I am. Doesn’t he deserve the same benefit of the doubt from me?

Sam got up silently, creeping over and sitting on the end of his brother’s bed. He lifted his feet onto the blankets, pulling his knees up to his chin and wrapping his arms round his legs. He sat and watched him, taking in the way he was spread out on his front as if not using any small portion of the mattress was simply unacceptable. He realised he was timing his brother’s breathing and made himself shake off the worry and stop it. He just watched.

No, not the benefit of the doubt. Trust. And my help. Cos like it or not, big bro, you do need my help on this one. You went to Hell for me. Least I can do is help you get your head straight best I can.

Dean stirred, his arms under the pillow shifting slightly as he mumbled something.

I am never admitting I sat here like this, he thought, shaking his head slightly. Four days. Just four awful, hellish days. And now he’s back and he’s mostly ‘real’ Dean again. Mostly.

He paid sharp attention as his brother shifted uneasily, his head moving up the pillow suddenly.

“Mmm-hmm-mm-fff,” he mumbled. “Michael - mmff - said…”

Sam froze.

Michael… He mentioned him before. Could it actually be the Archangel Michael? Seriously? So that means he wasn’t in Hell the whole time. Or was he? Did he just think that he wasn’t…

Dean tensed suddenly and Sam watched.

“Xaphan… meet again… hurt more than…”

What’s a ‘zaffan’? I am so checking on any names that fit any possible spelling of that word tomorrow.

Dean gave a great sigh, rolling onto his left side suddenly, his back to his brother. Then he fell onto his back and his eyes blinked open. “Sammy, get off ma feet,” he mumbled, raising a hand to rub an eye.

“You’re not asleep then,” he observed, feeling heat in his face. He went to move but Dean let his hand drop from his face.

“Wait,” he said quickly.

Sam realised two stark emeralds were watching him in the moonlight. Just the way they regarded Sam - the way they took everything in but gave nothing out - suddenly were more like his brother than he had ever seen.

It really is him, Sam smiled to himself. And the world has suddenly changed.

“You don’t have to do this, Sam. You don’t have to make sure I’m still here,” he ground out, his voice rough from sleep. Or something else. “I’ll still be here in the morning.”

“Who says I’m watching you? I’m scared of the dark, I wanted to sit in the moonlight,” he smiled cheekily. Damn! He got me! He never said ‘watching’, I did!

“Yeah? Well take this then,” Dean said, falling back to his front and fishing under his pillow.

“Aw man! The Bowie knife? Seriously - you still have that under there?” Sam teased.

“Old habits die hard, Mick Jagger,” Dean allowed. Hard enough to feel the pain, his mind added automatically. He pulled the large knife out and then rolled himself onto his back again. “Here. Keep it.”

“And what about you and your Precaution Complex?” he grinned.

“Don’t need it any more,” Dean admitted.

“Really?” Sam asked, twirling it in his hand. “Why’s that?”

“Got me something else,” Dean yawned, putting his hands behind his head and settling down, his eyes slowly closing.

“So come on then, what?” Sam asked. Dean didn’t answer for some moments and Sam tutted. He leaned over and poked at the blanket over his chest with the butt of the knife. One eye opened and Dean looked at his little brother. Sam eyed him. “What do you have?”

“Summin you don’t,” Dean muttered. “Now let me sleep.”

“What? What do you have?” Sam goaded, tapping him with the end of the knife handle.

“Quit it,” Dean sniffed irritably.

“Tell me what you’ve got,” Sam said simply, poking repeatedly. Dean’s other eye opened and he put a hand up to make a grab for the knife. Sam was too fast for him, yanking it out of his way. Dean huffed and tried again, but Sam waved it around out of reach quickly, jabbing it into his chest at every opportunity with a wicked grin.

“Stop that!” Dean growled.

“When you tell me what you’ve got,” Sam teased, stabbing.

“Sammy! Don’t make me kick your ass,” Dean protested, and Sam realised his older brother was genuinely out of patience.

“Alright,” he sighed, letting the knife rest in his lap. “I’m just… I can’t believe you’re really here, man.”

“I know,” Dean sighed, wiping his face over slowly. “Me neither.”

“Are you going to tell me what happened?” Sam dared quietly.

“Only if I want your nightmares coming back,” he said, trying a small smirk. It did something to alleviate the understated unease on Dean’s face, but nothing to improve the weary look in his eyes.

“Fine,” Sam shrugged, pretending it was unimportant. “Just wondered what the girls looked like in Heaven,” he added with a cheeky smile that showed too many teeth, and yet was completely endearing because of it.

Dean frowned at him in confusion, his eyebrows quirked up and his mouth a small thoughtful ‘o’ shape.

“Who says I went to Heaven?” he asked. “You really think those white winged dues would let me in a joint like that?”

“Yeah,” Sam smiled, poking him in the chest again.

“You gotta have big-ass wings to get in there,” Dean smiled, but then his face froze.

“What?” Sam asked softly.

“Big-ass wings,” Dean murmured, thinking. “Big-ass wings…”

Sam watched him, then tried a different tack. “Bobby reckons something reeeeal big went down and Michael himself came to get you out,” he said cheerfully. Come on, think I’m yanking your chain and let something slip - anything.

“Yeah?” Dean asked, his tongue running over his lower lip in thought.

“Yeah. What do you think?” he prompted.

“I think…”

His voice trailed off in thought, and Sam realised he was not going to get an answer, even if Dean could even think how to phrase one. He poked him, flashing another childish grin.

“I think that if you stick me with that handle one more time, seriously Sammy, you’re gonna be sleeping with it stuck up where the sun ain’t never supposed to shine,” Dean said firmly.

Sam couldn’t help it; he chuckled really quite loudly.

“What are you so happy about, Laughing Boy?” Dean asked, but he was smiling now. It was a secret smile, exactly like the one he had used at just ten years old, shushing six year old Sammy the night they had colluded to steal the cookie jar from the top of a father-guarded fridge at 11pm.

“Just that… you sound more like you, Dean. All day today, you’ve been getting more and more like you again,” he admitted. I didn’t want to see it before, I didn’t want to let myself believe. But I’m going to have to take it on faith, cos right now that’s all I’ve got. He frowned as he remembered his brother saying the exact same thing, but couldn’t place where or when.

“Great,” Dean shrugged, apparently past caring. But Sam knew him better.

“So come on then, what have you got?”

“If I tell you, can I go back to sleep?” he asked wearily.

“If you tell me, I won’t even ask you if you got a female angel’s phone number,” he chuckled.

Dean pushed himself to sit up slowly, eyeing him and shaking his head in wonderment. “Fine. I got me an idea that needs putting into action. And nothing’s going to stop me getting it done - especially not some spirit, werewolf, or small-time creature. There, that do you?”

Sam studied his face in the moonlight, trying to define if it were smug or confident. “What’s this idea?” he asked slowly.

“First thing in the morning, we find this demon’s sorry ass, summon it, kick seven shades of shit out of his nine circles of solitary Hell carcass, and find the passage in Latin that reduces him to pot-plant food,” he growled decisively.

“Lilith?” he guessed.

“Are you warming that Stanford brain of yours on ma blankets?” Dean asked sarcastically. “I said ‘he’, ass-hat.”

“Oh,” Sam nodded.

“No, it’s not Lilith. But she is going to get what’s coming to her, don’t you worry about that,” he said comfortably. “Someone else.”

“Seriously?” Sam havered, unsure whether his brother was in one of his metaphorical or sarcastic moods.

“Seriously,” Dean nodded, waving a hand at his younger brother to move back. Sam shifted and Dean pushed himself back under the blankets warmly, putting his hands behind his head and getting comfortable. He drew in a deep, relaxing breath, and sighed it all out slowly.

“So who is it?”

“Someone else,” he said before his eyes closed. “Some son of a bitch I owe some serious button-pushing payback.”

“Button-pushing,” Sam stated flatly. “What buttons did he push?”

“Only the ones that secured his end,” Dean sighed, before he appeared to drift off to sleep.

Sam stared at him for a long time, wishing he knew just what was going on in his brother’s head. Then he looked at the knife, grinned, and got off the bed slowly.

He shuffled back over to his bed in the darkness cautiously. He climbed in and secreted the hunting tool under his own pillow.

“Dean?” he asked suddenly, sounding very amused.

“Whut?” he grunted drowsily.

“Dean?”

“Whut?” he snapped, his voice testy.

“Dean!”

“Whut!”

“‘Night,” he said cheekily.

Silence returned to the room for nearly ten minutes. Then:

“Sammy?” Dean asked quietly.

“Yeah?”

“Sammy?”

“Stop it.”

“Sammy?”

“What!” Sam protested.

“Stop pestering me and get some sleep.”

“You’re an ass.”

“And you suck,” Dean shot back, but knew he couldn’t suppress the chuckle he could feel bubbling up.

“Hey, everything I needed to know about sucking, I learnt from my big brother,” Sam grinned in the darkness.

“Sam?”

“What now!”

“You’re pretty awesome,” Dean said quietly. There was a long pause.

“And so’s having you back,” he managed. “And maybe… maybe you, sometimes.”

“I know,” Dean grinned arrogantly, and Sam laughed out loud. “‘Night Sammy boy,” Dean added.

Sam smiled, closing his eyes and pulling the blankets up round him.

There was a barely concealed chuckle from the other side of the pitch room. The wind whistled through the slight gap in the window frame, rustling the curtains. There was the occasional sound of someone shifting under warm blankets. Presently there were the gentle sounds of two different brands of slight snoring.

The rest was silence.

THE END

When I started this as a one-shot, I had no idea I would get so attached to it and it would grow into 8 chapters. It's also the longest one I've written for SPN. Go figure, as the phrase goes...

I'm really sad to see this one end. However, all good things, and all that.

Besides, I have another off-the-waller coming soon.

insert wicked grin here