mickeym

~~~~~

They lay in bed that night, separate beds and separate bedrooms, staring at each other across the hall. It's not much of a distance but it feels like miles. Sam wonders what Dean would do if he got up and crossed that distance; if he climbed into bed with him. They wouldn't even have to have sex, though fucking Dean into a blissed out stated sounds pretty good, actually.

Sam just wants to hold Dean close. Touch him gently, reverently. Stroke over the planes of Dean's chest just to touch him. To ground himself.

He blinks when Dean shifts in his bed, kicking the covers down. In the cool moonlight streaming in through partially open curtains, there it is. Dean's rubbing himself, hand cupping and stroking, nothing between his hand and his dick but thin boxer-briefs.

This is how it started, all those years ago. Them lying awake in separate beds in some long-forgotten motel room, staring at each other, watching each other jerk off.

Sam kicks his own covers down and pushes his shorts down too. He's half hard, cock plumped but not erect, though it lengthens and thickens as he cups and rubs, reaching down to roll his balls. Across from him Dean's moved onto his back, cock standing tall while he strokes slowly up and down, drawing it out.

"Dean."

"Shh. Just--shh." Dean strokes a little faster and turns his head so he's looking at Sam. Staring at him. Sam feels hot, flushed all over, but he nods. He can do quiet.

It's been a long time since Sam jerked off; before he was in the hospital, before all the crap with Lucifer. He goes from mostly hard to right there in just a few strokes, blood pounding through him hot and fast. Dean's arching upward to meet his hand and Sam loses track of his rhythm for a minute watching his brother, the way his back bows, the way his skin seems to shimmer, bathed in streaks of light and shadow. When Dean spreads his legs and reaches down between them Sam shudders and grips himself tighter, harder, hand moving faster on himself.

He wants to be there, nudging Dean's legs apart. Wants to be the one to touch that small, pink hole and work it open. Wants to press himself inside and join them—

He cries out when he comes, caught off guard by the suddenness of it. It feels like electric shocks sparking through him and he jerks himself faster, grunting when liquid heat spatters over his hand and his belly. When he's done coming he turns to watch Dean, sees him arch upward hard and sharp as he comes.

They come down together, soft strokes and touches in tandem, eyes never leaving the other.

Sam falls asleep with his come drying on his stomach and the sounds Dean made, the way he looked so beautiful, front and center in his mind.

~~~~~

Sam wakes up scratching at his stomach, and grimaces at the sticky mess dried on his skin. First order of business for the day is take a shower, and at some point he should probably unpack his duffle and get himself settled in. Make a routine for himself the way Dean has.

Thinking about his brother makes Sam linger in the doorway, eyes tracking the length of him. Dean's on his stomach, one arm flung out, the other tucked up under his pillow. He still has his shorts on – he never kicked them off, unlike Sam – but they don't hide anything; instead they accentuate the curve and swell of his ass, the strength of his thighs.

Sam watches for another minute, leaning against the doorway. He holds his breath when Dean rolls over, mumbling something so low Sam can't make out the words, but Dean doesn't wake up. Just shifts around before settling back into sleep, skin gleaming in the early morning light, the dark lines of the anti-possession tattoo pulling Sam's eyes to it like a beacon. He touches the spot on his chest where his rests, fingers tracing the lines while his eyes follow Dean's, thinking of the day they decided to get them done.

"You're sure about this?" Dean hung back, hovered just out of the doorway. Above the door was a neon sign proclaiming Tattoos While U Wait, which made Sam snark about the improbability of there being any other kind.

"Charms can break, fall off, whatever." Sam tipped his head toward the door. "A tattoo is pretty much forever."

"Yeah--yeah." A quick nod, then Dean shouldered his way past Sam to push the door. "You coming, or what?"

The paper with the design crinkled in Sam's pocket; he'd given himself a paper cut rubbing his finger against the edge over and over. He kept rubbing, just enough angle to feel the paper press and push against the cut. Enough to feel that spark of pain, to send endorphins skittering through him.

"Sam." Dean held the door open, scowl fixed firmly in place as if to tell Sam this was your idea, dumbass, now get in here.

"Yeah. Coming." He dragged his fingertip across the paper again, letting the quick swirl of pain clear his head. A corner of it was red with blood when Sam handed the design over to the tattoo artist; he shrugged at the grimace the guy gave him. "Must've cut myself, sorry."

Tattoo guy -- his name turned out to be Drew -- gave a shrug back. "Happens, no big. Wicked design," he said idly, staring at the paper. "Way cooler than promise rings. So who's first?"

Sam looked at Dean, who stared back before swinging himself into the chair. "Guess I will."

Neither of them bothered to correct anyone anymore, about their status as a couple. Dean didn't really seem to care, and it was superfluous to Sam, since they were.

Drew looked between the two of them, then nodded. "Right. So where you want it?"

Dean gestured to the spot they'd agreed on -- just above and a little to the right his heart. Sam couldn't remember why it seemed important to have them in roughly the same place, but it had. He closed his eyes against the visual of himself laying against Dean, head resting on Dean's chest so he could listen to his heart beat, steady and solid.

Not enough time left, never gonna be enough time.

The drone of the needle buzzed inside Sam's head until he wasn't sure if he was hearing it, or feeling it; it shivered all through him, hot and electric until his blood felt like lava boiling through his veins and his dick hung heavy and full between his legs, throbbing in time with his pulse.

The heat in Dean's eyes scorched Sam; tendrils of fire licked over his skin everywhere Dean looked.

The droplets of blood that welled to the surface made Sam want to lean over and lick. He wanted to taste the heat, the pain; wanted to roll them around in his mouth and swallow them down.

Dean's eyes were all black pupil, just a thin ring of green around them. Sam watched him swallow and wanted to put his mouth to Dean's throat; wanted to feel the muscles working and taste the salt on his skin.

It felt like forever and no time at all before Drew bandaged Dean up and turned to Sam. "Same thing, same spot?"

Sam nodded and pulled his shirt off; smiled briefly at the whispered "Jesus!" from Drew. His smile grew when Dean narrowed his eyes and scowled in Drew's direction.

"Down, boy," he said, settling himself down into the chair. Dean turned his scowl toward Sam but subsided, sitting back on the chair Sam recently vacated.

"You keep staring at me all the time, I'm gonna start getting a complex." Dean's voice is rough and sleep-heavy, but it jerks Sam out of his memories, embarrassment and arousal surging through him in equal measure.

"I, uh." Sam gives a shrug, trying to play it off. "I was just thinking. Got caught up in it. Sorry."

"Good thinking?" Dean sits up, scrubbing his hand over his face and then through his hair.

"Yeah, I guess." He hesitates before taking a step forward. "Last night—"

Dean shuts him down before he gets any further. "Sam, no. We—shouldn't have done that. We shouldn't start that up again."

The words feel like acid falling on him, sharp and burning, and Sam flinches. "Why not? We're not hurting anyone. Not hurting each other."

Dean shakes his head. "You, we, got the chance to have that normal you always wanted. Us…that ain't normal, dude."

"I don't care." Sam stares at Dean. "You never cared before. So what changed? You just woke up and decided you didn't want—me—anymore?"

"I don't." Dean's voice is even, his gaze steady when he meets Sam's.

Sam crosses the space between their rooms, and is up in Dean's space before Dean can react, kissing him hard, pushing for entry. It takes only a moment before Dean opens to him, all wet heat and slick tongue, a soft whimper following him when Sam draws back, panting.

"You're a fucking liar," Sam says, his mouth still burning. They stare at one another for a long moment before Sam turns on his heel and heads for the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind him.

~~~~~

They don't talk for the rest of the day. Dean shovels down some breakfast then slams out of the house and disappears into the garage, and Sam leaves him alone. He spends the day upstairs in his room, sorting through his clothes and the few possessions he's hauled around with him over the last five years.

Sam's sitting on the edge of his bed, paging through a notebook he found at the bottom of his duffle, trying to decide if there's anything worth keeping it for, or just to toss it in the trash, when he has a flash of a moment when he was Lucifer, or Lucifer was him it was the same thing, wasn't it? Just a flash, and his head is full of bloody visions and hatred so strong it feels physical.

He remembers that, remembers feeling it creep through him, icy-cold and hot all at the same time, burning him either way, consuming him. Lucifer didn't just want to wear him, he wanted to devour him.

The visions are gone as quickly as they came, leaving Sam sitting on his bed trembling, fingers white where he's clutching at the notebook in his hands. He throws the notebook against the wall, wishing he had something big and heavy that would leave a dent, a hole, some visual sign of his anger.

Dean's sitting at the kitchen table when Sam goes downstairs to get something to drink. He's obviously been in for a while, sitting there with two empty beer bottles in front of him, and Sam wonders why he didn't hear him.

"You're right," Dean says after a few minutes of silence, while Sam moves around the kitchen making some sandwiches.

"About?"

"Calling me a liar. It's not that I don't want—you. Us."

"So what is it, then?" Sam turns to look at Dean; watches him pick at the label on one of the bottles. "You can't really care if we're normal or whatever, can you?"

Dean shrugs. "I don't…want you to have any regrets. Things got so fucked up, Sammy. These last few years, I mean. It was, I don't know, it was something we both…needed, wanted, all we had was each other, right? But it doesn't have to be like that now. It's, we're not gonna be on the move all the time—"

"Dean." Sam waits until Dean finally looks up at him. "Do you want someone else? Seriously. A girlfriend, boyfriend, whatever? Never mind if this is normal or good for us, or right, wrong, anything. Do you want someone else?"

He holds his breath waiting for Dean to answer, half afraid Dean will actually say yes, whether he truly believes it or not. But then he sees Dean shaking his head, lips forming the word 'no', though no sound is actually coming out.

"I don't, either, okay? It might've started as—whatever it started as, but it's so much more than that now. And you gotta believe me, you're all I want, all I'm ever going to want."

Dean mumbles something Sam can't quite hear, though it sounds suspiciously like, "fucking emo shit, Jesus," but he doesn't care. Doesn't care about anything past the warmth spreading through him, and the knowledge that this isn't going to be them turning to each other because there are no other options, but rather them saying they don't want other options.

~~~~~

Having therapy three times a week sometimes feels like too much, and sometimes it doesn't feel like it's enough. Sam always feels wrung out no matter what they talk about, and group often leaves him depressed and twitchy on top of angry.

"Why depressed?" Dr. Daniels asks him, when he mentions it.

"I'm not sure. It just feels like we're all in this room, spilling our guts and pretending to care about the others' problems, and it's depressing. I don't really care that Dave's having trouble staying sober, or that Annette's tried to kill herself, or whatever. I mean, I'm sorry they're having to deal with that stuff. I don't, it's not that I don't care, but Christ, the world just nearly fucking ended—" Sam sighs. "And I sound like a completely selfish, self-centered dick right now, don't I?"

Daniels smiles. "I wouldn't say that. And what's wrong with being selfish, or self-centered, sometimes? Do you always have to give something of yourself to everyone around you?"

"No, but that doesn't mean I have to be an ass, either."

"Do you think you're being an ass? Have you told either of them, or anyone else, that you don't care?"

"Of course not." Sam's horrified to even think Daniels might think he'd done that.

"So, thinking something that you keep to yourself, that makes you a selfish person?"

Sam scowls at Dr. Daniels. "How long does it take for shrinks to learn the art of twisting words around?" Daniels just smiles calmly at him, damn him. "No, okay? I don't want anything bad happening to them, and I'm sorry when it does, but not caring about a stranger's problems doesn't make me a bad person."

"But it still makes you angry."

"Everything makes me angry, to some degree." Sam shrugs. "Dean eating bran cereal for breakfast annoys me some days, because even though I'm glad he's taking better care of himself, it's like he's turned into this whole different person I don't know, and the changes make me mad at the same time I'm glad he's doing them." He throws his hands up. "See? I'm just contradicting myself all over the place."

"Human beings are a mass of contradictions, Sam."

"I hate it."

"I know you do."

"Am I ever going to be free of this stuff? I mean, I have all this crap inside me, good memories, things that make me feel safe…but at the same time I feel like there's this huge black pit there, waiting to swallow everything up."

Daniels shakes his head, and makes a note in Sam's chart. "I hope we can get you free of it someday, but sometimes it doesn't go away, you just learn to live with it and ignore it and lead your life around it." He makes another note. "How are you and Dean getting along? I know you said there was some tension there."

Tension. Sam snorts. The one thing he hasn't been able to share with Dr. Daniels is his less-than-brotherly relationship with Dean. Somehow, triggering and then stopping the Apocalypse seems easy to talk about in comparison to being in love with his brother.

"There are days I want to hug him, and days I want to kill him," he says finally – and that's true enough. "He's taking guitar lessons now, and I'm really happy he's found something to do that makes him happy, but he has the attention span of a gnat on the best of days, and sometimes he'll play the same couple of chords over and over again until I want to throttle him or throw the guitar away."

"Have you talked about Bobby yet?"

"No." Sam looks down at his hands, then back up at Dr. Daniels. "I know he won't bring it up; he's waiting for me to. And I want to know, I'm pretty sure I already know, because if Bobby was alive we'd have talked to him, or Dean would talk about him, whatever. But as long as I don't ask Dean won't tell me, and then I don't have to know for sure. Won't know for sure."

"Putting it off isn't going to help you in the long run, Sam."

"I know." Sam swallows roughly and twists to look at the clock on the wall. Ten more minutes, thank God. Or whoever. "But you understand…he died because of me. They all died because of me."

It's not the first time he's said it out loud; Dr. Daniels has made him do it several times. It doesn't hurt any less, no matter how many times it's been.

"But didn't you tell me more would've died – possibly everyone – if you, and Bobby and the others, hadn't done what you did?"

"Doesn't make it any better, Doc."

"They must have thought the possible sacrifice was worth it, though, or they wouldn't have been there with you."

"I guess." Sam shifts uncomfortably thinking of all the people who'd died because of him and Dean, and their destiny. Mom, Dad, Jess. Jo, Ellen, Brady, Castiel, Bobby, Pastor Jim, Caleb. Andy, Ava, Jake, Lily, and all the other psychic kids who'd been twisted and tormented. All the people who died from the Croatoan virus. The body count really stacked up when Sam thought about how some of it could've been avoided – or not, depending on if you bought into the destiny thing – if he hadn't trusted Ruby or if Dean had killed him (or not brought him back), or if they'd talked to one another instead of going off in different directions.

"Sam?"

"Yeah, sorry. Just thinking."

"Regretting?" Daniels cocks his head like he can see inside Sam's, and damn, that's an uncomfortable thought.

"No—yes. Kind of? I don't know. I know I've said it before, it's the whole destiny crap that really pisses me off. All the rest of it, if it was random chance that kept stuff happening…but supposedly, assuming the angels can be trusted on this, it was meant to play out the way it did from the get-go, and I just can't let go of that. I can't reconcile that with the loving God who created everything. I think about it and I wonder why us, what was the point – of anything – and that's usually when I realize my head is pounding and my chest hurts."

Dr. Daniels nods. "I want you to start keeping a journal, Sam. Write all of that down, get it out of your head. It might surprise you how much of a difference it makes to see it, rather than having it just spin around without anywhere to go."

"Are you going to read it?"

"Not unless you want me to. This is just for you, for your benefit. Use it to record when you're upset, what you've been thinking or doing. What memories trigger panic or anxiety, or the nightmares you have. If you write it down, rather than trying to just remember it, you might start to see patterns we can work with."

"Okay." Sam makes a mental note to stop at the drugstore and get a notebook, then looks at the clock. Dr. Daniels is already closing his file. "Guess I'll see you in a few days, huh?"

Dr. Daniels holds out his hand and Sam shakes it, trying not to show how glad he is that this hour is over. "That you will. Have a good day, Sam."

"Thanks, Doc. You too."

~~~~~

He's inside his head, inside his body, and Lucifer's there with him. Laughing at him. Mocking him. You all think you're so wonderful, so special, so beloved. You're nothing but twisted, murderous, savage monkeys. You lie and you cheat, you steal and you whore, and then you go to church and beg forgiveness so you can do it again. You don't want forgiveness, you want forgetfulness. And you are what my father cast me out for? You're what replaced me and my brothers and sisters as the favored ones in his eyes?

Lucifer shows him his parents sobbing over an empty crib, a baby lost long before it was to be born. There was another one before you, but there couldn't be more than you and Dean, so it was gone without another thought. Just like *that*. Lucifer snaps his fingers, makes a sound like tiny bones breaking, snapping, twisting, and Sam howls with rage. Good, Sam. Good. That rage is beautiful, wonderful, it warms me through, welcomes me. You know what I am, Sam? I am rage. I am that blackness inside you, that empty spot you've been looking forever to fill. You tried with school, you tried with Jessica. You tried with your own brother, lying with him as a man lies with a woman. Nothing fills that empty place, does it? The only thing that ever filled you up, made you complete, was me.

Lucifer's laughing as Sam screams, shouts "No!" over and over again.

Sam wakes to the sound of wood splintering and cloth tearing, and the light coming on burns his eyes, makes tears spring up and slide down his face. All he can see is Lucifer's blackness around him; all he can hear is Lucifer's laughing, mocking voice, words slicing into him until he's bleeding ribbons of evil, oozing darkness that swallows him up again.

"Sam!" He hears his name, but can't connect it to anything that makes sense in his head. Over and over, just his name, Sam, Sammy, Sammy, Sam like a litany. Or a prayer. Breathless and warm, full of life and love, nothing mocking or taunting. Just pure emotion, warm and caressing. "C'mon, Sam, c'mon," and there it is again, washing over him, soothing him.

The rage lifts, slides away from him slowly, and his vision clears from black and red to normal. He's on the floor, back against the bed, the nightstand in pieces around him. His hand aches, throbbing hotly in time with his heart. And on his knees in front of Sam is Dean, eyes wide and not a little scared, so pale his freckles stand out like drops of blood—no, it is blood.

"Did I hurt you?" Sam asks hoarsely, chest aching with fear, because this has been his worry all along, that he would hurt someone. That he would hurt Dean.

Dean shakes his head. "Hurt yourself," he says thickly, and nods toward Sam's throbbing hand. He turns it over to see cuts all along the side and over the palm, some still oozing blood. "Think you broke one of your fingers," he adds, and Sam sees then yeah, his ring finger is sitting at an odd angle. "Jesus, Sam. You scared the ever-lovin' shit out of me."

"Sorry," Sam manages. He feels dizzy, and completely out of it. "Dean, I'm sorry, I didn't—"

"Shh. It's okay, it's okay. Let's get you cleaned up and—do you want to go to the ER? Or I can splint it, and we can go tomorrow."

"You do it. I don't need a doctor." It doesn't even hurt, yet. He can feel the throbbing, but it seems distant, almost like he's removed from it. It's gonna hurt like a bitch when the endorphins wear off, though.

"You'll need a doctor's note to get off work."

"Don't need to get off work. It's fine." He's crying now, tears hot and wet against his cheeks, and Dean leans in close and holds him while Sam cries. Lucifer is fucking gone, why does he still have all this shit in his head? Why can't he forget it, let it go, move past it? "I’m sorry," he tells Dean again, over and over.

Dean just holds him, letting him sob it out, then tucks Sam back into bed with him when he's done, wrung out, worn out, numb from everything.

~~~~~

His finger is broken in two places.

Sam sulks all the way to the Urgent Care center, because dammit, it's not like he and Dean aren't totally competent in emergency medicine. But it turns out he can't work with his finger splinted like it is, so he needs the doctor to write him off work. That's the downside to going legit and normal – having to deal with all the bullshit like doctor's notes and bosses and crap like that.

Dean drops him off at home and heads for the worksite, Sam's work excuse folded into his wallet. Sam's left with a television with no cable, an internet connection that only works intermittently, and enough Lortab to keep him loopy for a couple of days. Because oh, yeah. Once the endorphins wore off last night, the thing hurt like a mother.

He crashes on the couch after taking another pain pill, with a movie running in the background because otherwise it's too quiet in the house. His brain won't shut off, though, so by the time Dean gets home Sam's high on pain meds and out of his mind with fear and anger.

"What if we didn't actually get rid of him?" Is the first thing he says when he sees Dean. "I swear it feels like he's here in my head all the time, like I can't get rid of him."

"He's gone, Sammy." Dean looks tired, worn out from the episode last night, and a trip to the doctor today, and then working on top of it. "We locked him back into his prison, and he's not getting out. He's gone, okay?"

"But I feel him, I swear I do."

Dean shakes his head. "You're just—he was inside you, that whole possession thing. That's what you're feeling. I still—"

"You still what?"

"I still feel Michael's presence sometimes. I know he's not inside me, but sometimes I feel like I'm not alone in my head. It's a weird feeling."

"Fucking hate it," Sam mutters, struggling to get up off the couch. Dean tugs him back down and holds him there. "Lemme go, I need to go, need to get up."

"No, you really don't. You're stoned, or something, you need to stay put. You eat anything today?"

Sam shakes his head. "Don't think so."

"Okay, first order of business, then. I'mma order Chinese food for us, 'cos I'm not in mood to cook, and you don't need to be anywhere near things that could cut you or burn you."

"Not gonna hurt myself." Sam scowls. "'M not a baby."

"No, you're not a baby. But you are stoned outta your gourd, dude. You'd probably chop your finger off, or burn the house down, and I like it here. I don't wanna move."

"I'm really sorry 'bout last night, Dean." Sam lets Dean shift him around until he's stretched out on the couch again, sighing when Dean draws a blanket up over him.

"I know you are, Sammy. S'okay." He kisses Sam on the forehead, then brushes a kiss across his mouth before moving away. "I'm gonna order dinner now. You sleep a while, okay?"

"Mmm." He is sleepy, anxiety draining away again. "Dean?"

"What?"

Later, he knows he only asked because of the whole stoned-on-painkillers thing. If he'd been in control of himself… But he can't stop the words now. "Where's Bobby?"

It's dead quiet from behind him, and Sam starts to move, needs to look to see if Dean's still there, if he heard him, if he's going to answer him. Dean's voice stops him, though, low and heavy with resignation.

"I'll—we'll talk about it later, okay? When you're not so loopy."

"Promise?"

"Yeah, Sammy. I promise."

~~~~~

Eating helps a lot. By the time he's finished his veggie lo mein and hot and sour soup, Sam feels a whole lot better than he felt earlier. He's lucid and calm, and even if his finger hurts, it's nothing compared to some wounds he's had, so he stashes the Lortab in the bathroom cupboard and switches to Tylenol. Dean steals bites of his lo mein, but Sam sneaks a couple bites of his sweet and sour chicken, so it all works out.

They've got a movie in – the same one Sam had on earlier, that he knows he didn't watch. One of the classics that never fails to make both of them snicker and snort, National Lampoon's Animal House.

The guys on-screen are chanting "To-GA, to-GA" when Sam hits the pause button.

"Hey, I was watching that," Dean says. He pokes at Sam's thigh. "What's up?"

Sam takes a deep breath. He really doesn't want to do this, but he really needs to. "You promised to tell me what happened to Bobby."

He hears Dean whisper, "fuck", under his breath. "Yeah. You sure?"

Sam nods. "I need to know."

"I think you already know."

"Yeah. But. I need to hear it." Doesn't want to, but needs to. He needs the closure.

Dean looks at him, the words plain to see even before he opens his mouth. "He's dead, Sammy. Him and Cas both."

"I knew Castiel was." Unfortunately, that image probably isn't ever going away. Sam swallows down the pain and sadness and anger, and looks at Dean. "Was it—was it me?"

"Son-of-a—no. Sam, none of it was you, okay? Lucifer, wearing your face, but not you. I know that, Cas and Bobby knew that. Adam knew it."

Adam. Oh, God, he'd forgotten about their brother. Another body to add to the ever-growing count. "What—happened? To Bobby?"

"I don't know exactly how he died, Sam—"

"No, I mean, afterward. Did you bury him?"

Dean shakes his head. "I cremated him, and Chuck took the ashes back up to South Dakota, to put them beside Bobby's wife. He took Adam's, too. I know they barely knew each other, but figured it's close enough to family."

"Was there—what about Cas? Or, Jimmy, I guess?"

Another shake. "There wasn't anything left."

"Oh." Sam swallows over and over to push down the rising nausea, then breathes in and out through his nose, slow and deep, until the nausea passes. "I. God."

"It's why I didn't say anything." Dean puts an arm around Sam and pets his hair, fingers sifting gently through the long strands. "I didn't, I knew you probably knew, but it didn't seem like you needed details, and you were having so many problems dealing with what you did know—"

"Chuck's okay, though?"

"As far as I know, Chuck's just fine." Dean grimaces. "I made sure he wasn't anywhere near where stuff was going to happen, and why you didn't know anything about him or where he was gonna be. Didn't want to give Lucifer any more of an edge than he was going to have."

Sam nods. He barely remembers anything before Lucifer took him, anyway. Or rather, he remembers things, obviously his memories are (mostly) intact. But the events right before he said yes, and for a period afterward, those are hazy. Or non-existent.

"For the record? I still think it was a stupid idea," Dean tells him, tugging gently on a handful of hair.

"Which part?" Sam leans his head against Dean's and closes his eyes. The whole plan, if that word even really applied, had been crazy. Crazy to a degree they'd never experienced before.

"All of it. But especially the part where you led the Devil to the edge so we could push him in."

"Had to," Sam mumbles, closing his eyes. "Wasn't gonna work any other way." He feels Dean nod against him. "Hey, what about Crowley?"

"No idea. Bastard shazamed out of there as soon as it was obvious Lucifer was present. He's slick enough I imagine he slipped away and has started rebuilding his empire. Or whatever he called it. But I don't know for sure what happened to him, and I don't really care."

"Bobby got his soul back, right?"

"Yeah, he did. No worries there." Dean presses a kiss to Sam's forehead. "Why don't you take a nap, Sammy? I'm gonna finish watching the movie, and then we can go to bed."

Sam smiles, eyes already closing. "Sounds good."

~~~~~

Construction work isn't really working for Sam. It's not that he can't do it – he's pretty handy in general, can hammer and paint and whatever with the best of them. He likes that it wears his body out, but it doesn't do anything for his mind, which leaves him in the really awkward position of being dead tired physically, with his mind still racing, thinking over things, regretting choices and decisions he's made and done.

"I think I'm gonna look for another job," he tells Dean one morning over breakfast.

"Man's work too much for you, Samantha?" Dean's lucky he's holding his coffee cup, or Sam might have smacked him upside the head for that.

"No, dickhead. But it's not doing—I need something that's gonna make my brain too tired to think."

"You're still having nightmares." Dean says it as a statement, not a question, and Sam just nods. "About Lucifer?"

"Sometimes." At Dean's skeptical look he amends it to, "Okay, most of the time. But not always. And it's not just Lucifer, it's just all the stuff. From way back on forward, y'know? I still dream about Jess on the ceiling sometimes, and wonder if I'd done something different – stayed then, or if we'd come back early. I wonder if Dad hadn't decided to drop out of sight without a word if that would've affected anything. So yeah, it's all kinds of shit. And therapy keeps it all stirred up, so I feel like it's always front and present." Sam drops into his chair and pokes at his toast. "So, I just need to get me something that's going to make me think more and not leave me so much time to think about all the shit I'd just as soon not think about anyway."

"Ooookay." Dean slurps his milk when he eats cereal, and it's another one of those things Sam wants to thump him for. "Got any ideas?"

"I was thinking of checking out the used bookstore down on Coventry. It's had a help wanted sign in the window for a couple of weeks now."

"You're like the stereotype of a geek, you know that? Ow!" Dean jerks his legs back when Sam kicks him in the ankle. "See if I play footsie with you anymore."

"You weren't playing footsie, you were tapping your foot against mine. Annoyingly," Sam adds, when Dean smirks.

"Whatever, bitch. You know you love me."

"Hmph." But Sam doesn't deny it, and he lets Dean get away with stealing the last piece of toast off his plate.

"So you gonna come into work with me, turn your notice in?" Dean has a bit of raspberry jam on his thumb, and before he can lift it to his mouth to suck it off, Sam's doing it for him, tongue swirling teasingly around the tip before releasing Dean's hand back to him. "Jesus, Sam."

Sam grins. "Give you something to look forward to, for after work. And yeah, I'm gonna go in with you. It'd be rude to just not show up."

"Yeah, your crew leader probably wouldn't like it much."

"You're my crew leader, jerk."

Dean leans across the table and kisses Sam quick and dirty, then gets up from the table, collecting his dishes. "And I wouldn't like it if you just didn't show up." He pauses at the sink and half turns back toward Sam. "You thought about going back to school? You're what, like one semester short of graduating?"

"Something like that." Sam frowns at Dean. "What brought that up?"

"I don't know." He shrugs. "I've just been thinking about it. About stuff. You know, all the crap that gets stirred up in therapy." He flashes a grin at Sam. "You always wanted a safe, normal life. We got that now, more-or-less; you could finish school, be a lawyer or whatever."

"I don't know about lawyer, now." Sam gathers his own dishes up to take to the sink. They need to get going so they're not late to the worksite. "That seems like so long ago."

"But something. You could do anything, Sammy."

"I'll think about it." Sam sets his dishes next to Dean's and steps in close for a kiss. It's slow and sweet, Dean tasting strongly of coffee and raspberry jam. Sam cups Dean's face and kisses him until he doesn't taste anything but Dean and his lips tingle. "Gonna be late for work if we don't hurry."

Dean snorts at him. "Kisses like that don't make me inclined to wanna be on time." But he's gathering up his jacket and hardhat as he talks, and Sam follows suit.

On to Part Four