Title: Falling as the World Falls Down
Word count: 5250
Warnings: Boyking!Sam, sort of character death (it's Supernatural, what do you expect?), dub-con
A/N: Written for evilsam_spn's Summer of Evil Challenge. Inspired by Wagner's Ride of the Valkyries.
Summary: Post season-five AU. In which Sam swoops to Dean's rescue - literally - but Dean isn't sure he likes where this is going.
The first time the angels and demons tried to start the apocalypse, Dean fought tooth and nail to stop them and had to watch his brother sacrifice himself to save the entire world.
The second time the angels and demons tried to start the apocalypse, Dean didn't even bother.
Dean fought, of course. He had a freaking black belt in fighting losing battles and just because he'd decided that the entire supernatural world could cram it up their collective asses didn't mean he was just gonna roll over and die.
The whole human race was running scared and Dean, at least, knew how to fight these bastards. And he still had people to protect, even if he felt Sam's loss like a missing leg: Bobby, Lisa, Ben. No way was Dean going to let himself get killed without saving them first.
So yeah, Dean fought. But what Dean didn't do was fight on the front lines. The angels tried to get him involved, God did they ever. Even Cas, though at least he didn't agree with all the winged blowhards who thought Dean'd be a decent meatsuit for any old angel now that their heavyweight champ was cooling his heels in the Cage with the devil and Dean's brother.
But Dean was fucking fed up of being a pawn in some big, apocalyptic game of angel Parcheesi, so the whole lot of them could just kiss his lily-white ass. Cas included, no matter how much it sucked to lose yet another friend. Dean was impressed he had any left.
Cas' Mr. Clean impersonation in Stull Cemetery had erased the Enochian sigils on Dean's bones, which made him an easy target for any angel who decided to pop by, so he'd had Bobby Macguyer up a couple of angel-blocking medallions to keep him on the down low. It meant that Dean clinked when he walked, but he could deal with that. The element of surprise wasn't really important on the battlefield.
For the most part, the angels and demons were mostly concerned with beating the tar out of each other and had only incidental interest in killing humans. Humans mostly died when they were in the way - like that massacre in Sweden - or got caught up as collateral damage - like Tokyo, and New York, and all the other cities that no longer existed.
Most of what Dean did was protect civilians when the hard hitters got too close and, if necessary, draw attention away from the weaker human settlements by causing a little bit of mayhem somewhere else in the state, country, whatever.
The fact that this was a fight that the human race couldn't win, that the world was never going to get any better than this, was something that Dean tried not to think about.
He made sure to check in with Lisa every couple of weeks or so, but tried to stay off the radar as much as possible. He was sick of watching people get used as threats against him. Bobby he talked to much more regularly; Dean didn't want to know what Bobby would do to him if he thought Dean was trying to protect him.
So Dean settled for cruising around the country, looking for people in trouble and trying to stay away from the unholy war being raged all around him. It was amazing, Dean thought, how adding an apocalypse and subtracting Sam could make what he was doing now feel so very different from the life he'd lived Before.
Dean's luck finally ran out in Maine, of all fucking places. A quick pit stop in some Podunk town so far north it was practically Canada turned into a shitshow of epic proportions when the powers that be decided to have a throw down right in the middle of town. Dean found himself darting in and out of empty houses with an angel sword in one hand and Ruby's knife in the other like he was in some kind of zombie survival game, which really wasn't as cool as it ought to have been.
Okay, it was still pretty cool. But the lack of extra lives sucked balls. Also the 'probably going to die' bit.
He was racing down a street when the scuff of noise around the corner gave Dean half a second to check his speed before he ran full tilt into a half dozen douchebags in meatsuits. They looked startled by his sudden appearance, though that surprise quickly morphed into a pleased satisfaction that Dean was heartily sick of seeing.
Dean Winchester: ultimate supernatural cracker-jack prize.
"Christo," Dean said. Nothing. Angels then. Goodie.
"Dean Winchester," a smoking hot chick with skin the colour of mocha said, smiling. "Raphael will be most pleased."
Dean firmed his grip on his angel sword and offered her a cocky smile. "Yeah, no. I don't think so, sweet cheeks."
Her lips thinned into a displeased little moue and Dean stabbed her in the chest.
After that, it was nothing but the whirl of bodies and blood as Dean fell into the familiar rhythm of fighting for his life. The blade flashed silver in his hand as he wove in and out of the grappling angels, jaw tight and mind fixed determinedly on nothing but survival. He'd got much better at fighting solo in the months since the end of the world started, though six-on-one really wasn't his idea of good odds.
"Human scum!" one of the angels snarled as Dean slashed a line across his face with the demon-killing knife. It didn't do much, of course, but a knife in the eye had to suck even for a pumped-up angel douchebag.
The angels pulled back slightly, obviously realizing that the frontal assault wasn't the best plan they could have come up with. Two of them were dead, with another nursing a useless arm, and Dean figured that now was as good a time as any to get the hell outta Dodge.
He threw them a smile that was all teeth and bolted down the street, hyperaware of the clatter of curses and footsteps chasing after him. He ducked down a side street without slowing, counting on instinct to lead him through the mess of empty streets and tumbled masonry.
A massive detonation shuddered through the ground and Dean stumbled, Ruby's knife tumbling from his fingers as his hand slammed against the floor. His knee cracked hard off the uneven pavement and Dean swore, hissing with the ache as he tried to force himself to get moving before his fan club caught up. A second shudder made the world roil and Dean so didn't have time for this crap.
He heard the angels draw up behind him, just as another group of angels and demons burst onto the scene ahead of him - through a fucking building, the crazy bastards - swords and vitriol flying in a chaotic melee that made Dean's chances of not getting stabbed and/or captured seem suddenly much slimmer.
"Fuck," he growled, snatching up the fallen knife and pushing himself upright despite the still-shaking ground beneath him. If Dean was going to die here, he was going to do it on his feet.
He spun just in time to avoid a hand lunging to grab his arm and backpedalled hurriedly, trying to pull a wall at his back while his eyes darted back and forth between the two groups of supernatural bastards boxing him in. Some of the new group had noticed him standing there and Dean refused to panic when a couple of them broke off from the fight to stalk towards him. His initial bunch of angels approached from the opposite side.
Blades held steady and firm in his hands, Dean bared his teeth at them. Bring it.
None of them were going for the kill shot, Dean realized after a few minutes of ruthless hack and slash. Made sense for the angels - they were still expecting him to be a prom dress, after all - but Dean couldn't figure out what use the demons might have for him. Gloating material, maybe.
Their collective desire not to take his head off his shoulders made it easier for Dean to fend off their attacks, but it didn't take a genius to know that he wasn't getting out of this. Dean was badly outnumbered, he had no plan, no escape route, no backup, and he was already getting tired.
A demon wearing middle-aged trucker darted in close, black eyes glinting and hand raised to Force toss him against the nearest wall. Dean ducked low and came up swinging; he took the guy out at the knees, only to grunt with the impact when someone tried to get him in a freaking half nelson. He slashed, frantic and hurried, and managed to wiggle free, chest heaving. A hand landed on his chest and Dean looked up to see that it was the demon he'd just maimed, grinning at him with blood-slicked teeth.
Well fuck, Dean had time to think before the demon flexed his fingers and sent Dean flying through the air.
Right onto an angel sword.
Dean's breath punched out of his lungs with a sick, choking gasp. The world went quiet and distant like he'd just been dunked underwater and Dean could hardly breathe around the pain of the blade angling up under his ribs.
He crumpled, legs suddenly nerveless, and the blade made a wet sucking sound as he fell off it. Hot blood was soaking through his shirt, sending wet heat chasing the sudden coldness racing through his veins, and Dean's hands came up reflexively to stem the flow. His fingers weren't working right.
Something grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and Dean struggled weakly, mind screaming at him to escape while his body hung limp.
An unholy shriek shattered the air and Dean's hind brain winced away from the predatory violence in that call. Shadows fell across his face and Dean dragged his head up to see a group of winged shapes streaking down from the sky, swords held high.
Avenging angels, some part of him that was still awake enough for irony said, and he couldn't help smiling at the sheer bullshit that was his life. Had been his life. Whatever.
Dean hardly noticed the hand ripping away from his neck. He wouldn't have noticed it at all if not for the way he ended up face-first in the dirt and the blood without the support of those iron fingers. Something was screaming but Dean didn't care; his eyes slipped blessedly shut and his hands slipped laxly away from the hole in his gut. Dead again. If he was lucky, maybe this time it would stick.
The screaming stopped.
"There you are," a voice said, warm and intimately familiar. Dean could have cried with happiness. Strong hands hooked under his armpits and hauled him up, which should have hurt like hell, but Dean supposed he was beyond that point by now. "Let's get you home," the voice continued, and Dean would have protested that he didn't have one, but the truth was that it was wherever the owner of that voice was. Always had been.
The last thought that Dean had before death swallowed him up was that this was the nicest thing that the world could have done for him at the end: letting him believe that Sam had come to lead him to Heaven.
Dean didn't wake up in Heaven. At least, not the Heaven he remembered.
He was lying on a massive four-poster bed with wine red sheets and a mattress that Dean thought was probably illegal, it was that comfortable. The sheets were rumpled, which wasn't surprising, and the indent of a head on the other pillow, which was. The thought that he'd had someone lying next to him while he slept lit an uneasy fire in Dean's gut.
He sat up cautiously, not especially shocked by the complete lack of pain that accompanied the motion. After the lives Dean had lived, he figured he'd earned the right to be cavalier about the spontaneous disappearance of life-ending wounds. It happened often enough.
One look around was enough to make Dean absolutely sure that he'd never been in this room before, even though Heaven was supposed to be an eternal rerun of 'Dean Winchester: The Highlights'. Because Dean didn't care if he'd been whammied or bleeding out of multiple orifices at the time; he would sure as fuck have remembered a room like this.
Everything was sort of beige-y coloured, with a handful of reds and oranges and browns thrown in to add some spice to all that waiting-room chic. The furniture was all washed oak and looked way more expensive than IKEA. In addition to the bed, which took up a damn lot of space, there was a big corner desk covered with papers and stacked books, a pair of bedside tables, two chests of drawers, an overfull bookshelf and a closet. The closet had classy venetian doors on it and was wide enough for Dean to suspect that it was one of those walk-in ones.
There was a window on the wall opposite the bed, blinds pulled down, and a sinfully large TV off to one side. A half-open door was on the side wall to Dean's right. There was a picture frame on top of one of the chests of drawers, but the glare from the overhead light made it impossible for Dean to see the picture it was holding. A couple of boring art prints and a photograph of the Grand Canyon hung on the walls.
All told, it looked like someone's bedroom, if that someone was fucking loaded and really liked earth tones.
"This is freaking weird," Dean said to himself.
"Dean?" a voice - Sam's voice - asked, sudden and jarring in the empty room, and Dean nearly had a heart attack until he realized it was coming from the other side of the door.
"Someone there?" Dean called back once he'd found his voice. Just because it sounded like his brother, didn't mean it actually was his brother. He'd learned that one the hard way.
There was the brief sound of running water - must have been an en-suite bathroom or something, though that just made Dean wonder where the door was - and then Sam's stupid, familiar face poked out, smiling broadly. "You're awake!"
Dean let out a loud breath as Sam walked in. "Fuck, Sam, I thought I'd never… oh Jesus Christ, you've got wings."
Sam's mouth quirked into the expression he always made when he was humouring Dean. "Should have known that would be the first thing you'd focus on."
"It's a hard thing to miss," Dean shot back, trying not to sound rattled.
It was true. The wings were as oversized as Dean's brother, poking up above his head at the top and the bottommost feathers trailing on the ground at the bottom. They were mottled brown and white, like a barn owl, and Dean had the sudden, inane thought that Sam matched the décor. They looked surprisingly natural.
"Fair enough," Sam said, still looking amused. He walked unhurriedly over to the foot of the bed and stood there for a moment, drinking in the sight of Dean. "Dean," he said, sounding supremely satisfied.
Dean wasn't sure he liked this. He felt frozen in place by Sam's gaze, pinned. "Yeah, it's me. And who the hell are you?"
"It's me, Dean. It's Sam." That was Sam's earnest face, already begging Dean to trust him.
"Like hell I'm gonna believe that," Dean snapped. He wished he could gain control of his limbs long enough to get out of this damn bed. "Last I heard, getting possessed by the King of Hell was a one-way ticket."
"Lucifer's gone," Sam said calmly. Too calmly, in Dean's opinion.
So Dean scoffed. "Gone. Right. What'd he do, take up ballet and dance merrily off into oblivion?"
Sam's grin was hatefully familiar. "Not quite. Turns out the Cage isn't really built to hold human souls. It took… a while to figure it out, but I finally escaped. Lucifer's right back where he started. Only now he's got Michael to argue with for the rest of eternity."
"You know me better than anyone else in existence, Dean," Sam interrupted. "Stop thinking so much and just let yourself look. You know I'm me."
"I don't know anything," Dean said, though he could hear the hesitation in his own voice. He hated himself for it. "The wings aren't helping your case there either, Hawkman."
To Dean's eternal fury, all Sam did was tilt his head in the quizzical way that Dean had been seeing all his life. "Do they bother you? They were kind of a side effect to getting out of the Cage. I thought you'd like 'em."
Actually, Dean did think they were pretty sweet, but he wasn't about to admit it. "You telling me you flew out?"
Sam grinned and God damn if it wasn't a patented, face-splitting, dimple-popping Sam Winchester smile the likes of which Dean hadn't seen in far too long. "Neat, huh?"
And Dean couldn't resist that look any more now than he'd been able to when they were kids. "Sam," he said, several lifetimes worth of emotion in it.
Sam was sitting on the edge of the bed in an instant; he practically collapsed on top of Dean as he pulled him close, squeezing him hard enough that Dean thought he was going to rupture something.
"I've been looking for you for months," Sam said, choked. "Was starting to think I'd never find you. God, Dean, I missed you so much."
And it would have taken a harder man than Dean Winchester to look this gift horse in the mouth. "You too, Sam," he said, gripping back just as hard. "You too."
Dean's clutching fingers brushed against the feathers sprouting out of Sam's back and he laughed, a little hysterically. "Wings, Sam? Really?" He detached himself from the hug to look at Sam. "How the hell are you gonna fit in the Impala?"
Sam chuckled as he brought up a thumb to dash away the suspicious wetness gathering in his eyes. "Think it's kind of a moot point now, Dean. S'not like you can drive it anymore."
Just like that, the euphoria drained out of Dean. He slumped back against the headboard, trying to come to terms with the fact that it really was a done deal this time. "You telling me that Heaven won't let me keep my baby? I always knew God was a bastard."
"We're not in Heaven."
Dean's skin went cold. "Then…" He didn't want to ask. Not if the answer was what he thought it was going to be.
"We're in Hell," Sam said, because Dean's life never got tired of kicking him in the balls.
"Oh," Dean said. And then, because it seemed more appropriate, "Fuck."
"Surprised you didn't figure that out yourself. Normally you're quicker on the uptake." Sam glanced around the tidy little bedroom that was apparently in Hell. "Though I guess this doesn't look much like the parts you've visited."
"Sam," Dean said, with what he thought was admirable patience. "You mind telling me what the fuck is going on? How are we in Hell but not strapped to a His and His pair of torture racks?"
Sam's lips curved into a wicked, self-satisfied smirk. "Because I took over."
"You what?!" Dean jolted in shock and would have been up and out of the bed in an instant if not for the sudden restraining weight of Sam's hand on his chest. "Son of a bitch! Let me up, you immortal bastard!"
"Chill out, Dean, it's not what you think. Being Lucifer's vessel jump-started my batteries, is all. And there was a power void after the whole not-Apocalypse, so I decided to step in. It's fine."
"Fine? You call this fucking fine? Give me back my brother!" Dean stared at Sam, waiting for Lucifer to drop the act and start taunting him with Sam's face.
Instead, Sam sighed. "What's it gonna take for you to believe it's me? Because I'm getting kind of sick of the denial."
"Den- Jesus Christ, Sam. Yesterday I was trying to keep from getting turned in shish kebab and now I'm sitting in some weird room in fucking Hell while you tell me that you're the Grand Pooh-Bah of the demons and, oh yeah, you've randomly sprouted wings! I think I'm allowed to be a little skeptical that you're you!"
Something dark flashed in Sam's eyes that made Dean's righteous indignation falter. "That is not my fault, Dean. I've been looking for you ever since I got out. I'd have come and got you before the fighting even started, but all those spells you wrapped yourself in hid you from my sight as well as the angels'."
Dean's hand made an abortive twitch towards his neck, instinctively reaching for the collection of medallions that he already knew weren't there anymore. Sam watched evenly and Dean forced himself to arch an eyebrow. "You dissing my bling, little brother?"
Sam snorted. "As if you even know what bling means. You won't need them anymore. I've redone the sigils that Castiel carved onto your bones," Sam continued easily. "With some minor adjustments, of course. The angels aren't going to bother you anymore."
"Do-" Dean had something stuck in his throat, was all. He was not nervous. "Do I want to know what these 'adjustments' are?"
Sam shrugged. His wings made a rustling sound as they mirrored the motion. "Nothing big. Wards against other peoples' compulsions. Homing spell so I can keep track of you. Summoning call for when I need you. Stuff like that."
"Oh." Dean coughed and changed the subject. "So how'd you find me, then?"
To Dean's surprise, Sam's eyes went wide, wet and sad. "You died."
Dean blinked. "I what now? Again?"
The shadow of a smile curled Sam's mouth. "Again. I tried you find you before it happened, honest, but you're too good at fighting demons - kept killing them before they could report back to me. They wouldn't have hurt you."
"You do realize it's because of a demon that I wound up dead in the first place," Dean pointed out.
Sam's jaw tightened. "I know. He's going on the rack for forty years and then I'm giving him a promotion."
"A promotion?" Dean repeated. "For killing me?"
"For letting me find you before the angels got their filthy hands on you," Sam corrected. "I wish there'd been some other way, but all that really matters is that you're here."
"So… since I died and woke up here, does that mean I was earmarked for Hell? Even after everything?" Dean's mouth twisted at the thought. Deal or no, he would have thought that stopping the apocalypse would be worth at least a few 'good person' points.
Sam shook his head. "Your deal ended when Lilith died, remember? Your soul would have been bound for Heaven-"
"Would have been?"
"-but the valkyries get first dibs on slain warriors and I had them watching for you."
Dean held up a hand. "Wait, wait. Slow down, superhero. Say that again."
"Since you were killed on the battlefield, the valkyries get to decide whe-"
"Valkyries? Like the winged chicks in Norse myth who bring people to Vahalla valkyries?"
"That's them," Sam said. He looked pleased that Dean knew so much about them, as though Dean hadn't taught the little shit how to read mythology in the first place. "Only Valhalla's not the best term for where they take souls. The valkyries are actually the origin of the Greek myths about harpies."
"So they drag dead people off the battlefield and then torturing their souls for eternity," Dean said. "Sound like the life of the party."
"They don't torture all the souls," Sam said, with a touch of asperity. "They really do collect souls for the final battle, although Ragnarök isn't exactly what the Norsemen thought it would be. Neither culture got it quite right."
"Nothing new there," Dean muttered. Sam's hand was still flattened over his heart and Dean wanted to squirm away from the heat that Sam was putting off. His Sasquatch brother had always run hot, but this was ridiculous. "So tell me again what I'm doing here?"
Sam looked startled. "Because it's where you belong," he said, as though it was obvious. "With me. I'm building an army of demons and fallen souls to take out Heaven once and for all. You're going to help me lead it."
Dean couldn't help it; he laughed. "You get a bird brain to go with those wings? I'm not fighting for Hell."
"You're fighting for me," Sam said, with a pissy little frown. "You've always done that."
"Not when you were King of Hell! The angels are dicks, but that doesn't mean I want the demons to win either."
Sam's eyes flashed oh fuck, yellow, no, not yellow, amber, like motor oil before it went black, fuck fuck fuck and Dean's breath escaped him in a rush when Sam's hand on his chest turned into a crushing weight that pushed down on his ribs hard enough to make them creak. Heat flared across Sam's palm, searing Dean's skin even through his shirt.
"It's not about the demons, Dean," Sam hissed, in a dark, deadly serious tone that Dean had never heard before. He shifted up on one knee, towering over Dean in a way that he usually avoided. "It's about me. And the fact that you're mine."
Dean stared up at his brother, wide-eyed and breathless. Sammy he wanted to say, but his lungs wouldn't cooperate.
"I did this for us," Sam continued. "You really think the world was going to let us be together? Ever? It's done nothing but try to tear us apart and I- I'm just so fucking… sick of losing you."
Sam's voice hitched, the aggression melting abruptly out of his spine, and Dean was suddenly left with a hulking mass of weepy little brother that he didn't have the faintest idea how to handle. Apparently being King of Hell came with split personalities not caused by demonic - or angelic - possession. Because Dean might never have seen Sam like this before, but Sam had been right: Dean knew his brother down to the ground.
And, for better or worse, this was his Sam. Or, most of him, at least.
Sam sniffled, like he was eight instead of twenty-eight, and Dean dared a comforting pat to Sam's hand. "We'll figure it out," he said, because Dean was nothing if not idiotically optimistic in the face of certain doom. "It'll be okay, Sammy."
Sam offered a watery smile. "Yeah." He wiped a hand over his face, visibly pulling himself together. "God, what's the time? I should get back to work."
Dean raised an eyebrow. "You have work?"
"Running Hell's a busy job," Sam said. His smile was somewhere between shy and amused as he added, "You wouldn't believe the paperwork."
"Bet you're right."
Sam finally lifted his hand from Dean's chest, leaving tingling skin in his wake, and, bizarrely, used it to pat Dean's knee. "You going to be okay until I come back or should I send someone with food?"
Free of the pressure of Sam's hand, Dean sat up straighter. "You're leaving me here?"
Sam shrugged. "It's either that or chain you to the throne. I figured you'd rather stay behind today. Leave that for when you've settled in a little."
"You think?" Dean managed, around the massive ball of shock in his throat. "You're seriously locking me in my room?"
"Our room," Sam corrected, happily. An emotion that Dean categorically refused to identify sharpened Sam's face. "The bed's been way too big without you."
"Ri~ight. So, um, how are you going to get out without a door?" Dean asked.
"Oh, there's a door," Sam said calmly. "You just haven't earned it yet. I can't have you wandering off unsupervised. Not until you accept your position."
"And what position is that?" Dean asked, even though he really didn't want to know, thanks very much.
"You belong to me."
"I don't," Dean said, more weakly than he'd meant to.
Sam, by contrast, sounded infinitely confident. "Yes, you do. Dad gave you to me when we were kids and I'm not giving you back. You're my good little soldier and you're going to do what I want."
Dean stared at him, speechless and horrified.
"You've always done everything for me, Dean," Sam said, gentle and coaxing. "This is just the next step. Nothing to be worried about. Someday you'll look back on this and laugh, you know."
"Don't get too confident there, Sammy," Dean forced himself to say.
Sam smiled, shaking his head fondly. "Always making things so difficult for yourself, Dean. I'll be here every step of the way. And I'll let you out when you're ready." Sam's hand brushed the side of Dean's face and Dean startled, shying away automatically from the unexpected touch.
"Shhh," Sam soothed, like Dean was a skittish colt. He smoothed his thumb across Dean's cheek in a slow, deliberate caress. "It's all fine now. I've got you."
"Sam," Dean said desperately.
Sam leaned in and Dean was still frantically trying to think of an innocent reason for it when Sam's mouth pressed against his, the lightest of caresses.
Dean breathed a startled complaint into Sam's mouth that Sam ignored entirely. The hand on Dean's cheek turned into an vice holding his head in place and Sam leaned in again. "My Dean. So pretty when you're panicking."
This time was considerably less chaste: Sam was slow and thorough. He didn't go for any tongue action, which Dean approved of wholeheartedly, but it still felt like Sam was carving out his insides and filling him up with nothing but Sam, Sam, Sam. Every time Dean shifted, trying to pull away, Sam's grip tightened, holding him still. Helpless, Dean had no choice but to lay there so that Sam could take what he wanted from him.
Which, Dean was terrified to realize, was apparently everything.
Dean's head was spinning with confusion and an alarming lack of oxygen by the time that Sam released him, just as unhurriedly as he'd started. Sam's eyes drifted open and he smiled a happy smile that was at frightening odds with the ravenous gleam in his eyes. "You have no idea how long I've wanted to do that."
Dean stared at him.
"You okay?" Sam asked, as calmly as if Dean had stubbed his toe.
"No!" Dean burst out and didn't get any further because Sam waved his hand and Dean's voice vanished.
Sam smiled gently at him. "We'll talk about this later, okay? You've had a tough day and neither of us want you saying something you'll regret."
Dean glared at him.
Sam, the bastard, just patted Dean's cheek before rising to his feet. "You get some more rest, Dean," he said, and Dean immediately felt the overwhelming drag of fatigue pulling him towards unconsciousness. The sweep of Sam's speckled fathers mirrored the wash of fluid amber that drowned out his eyes when he smiled at Dean and said, with frighteningly genuine fondness, "I'll be back before you know it."
And, for the first time in his entire life, that was just what Dean was afraid of.
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