Characters: Dean, Sam, and OCs
Disclaimer/Summary: See Prologue
Part 1: Chapter 6-A
The good thing about there being only one hospital in a town the size of Lawrence was that Dean went to the same place for both physical therapy for his hand and to see Dr. Randall for his jaw. That was also the bad thing about there being only one hospital in Lawrence.
He had no time to catch his breath between moments of blinding pain.
He'd visited Dr. Randall first; the man commented on how well he was healing, how the scars on his face were barely visible and his range of motion was much-improved. Dean listened with half an ear, focusing only on the news about his jaw. After one final X-ray showed that the bones had healed as well as anyone anticipated they would, he was relieved to find out today was indeed been the day he would be free of the wire.
It was less painful than he'd braced himself for, but he definitely didn't want to experience it again anytime soon.
"We didn't use arch support due to the location of the fractures," Dr. Randall informed him. "If we had, you'd have needed to be sedated to remove them. As it stands, you are free from binding material, but your range of motion will be severely limited for the next couple of weeks. And, uh," the doctor smiled at him, "stay away from any bar brawls, okay?"
Dean knew the doctor fully believed that he would do everything in his power to avoid such situations. He also knew that if he continued to do his job, that wasn't exactly a given.
With directions for how to slowly increase his food intake and a prescription for pain killers stuffed into his pocket, Dean made his way down to the physical therapy clinic. Leaning against the wall of the elevator, Dean slowly worked his jaw, cautiously opening and shutting it as he ran his fingers along the thin scar.
It felt amazing to have such freedom over his face. He ran his tongue along the inside of his mouth, feeling the indents from where the wires had been imbedded, relishing in the smooth surface of his teeth. The doctor had been right: he wasn't able to open his mouth very wide without discomfort enough to make him wince. But he no longer felt like he was clenching his jaw.
He wouldn't be able to eat a hamburger or a steak straight away, but he was damn-sure going to get himself some pie for the day was out.
The elevator opened near the ER entrance and Dean made his way slowly down the hall, almost too caught up in his own thoughts to notice the ruckus that drew the attention of everyone else in the Physical Therapy waiting area. Hearing someone shout, Dean stopped walking and looked up. Near the entrance to the ER, two uniformed police officers were flanking the red-headed mechanic, Tommy, from Mason's garage.
Frowning, Dean moved closer.
"You got this all wrong, man!" Tommy was shouting, yanking his arm from one of the policeman's grasp. "I had nothing to do with this."
The other cop – managing to look board and irritated at the same time – cautioned Tommy. "Settle down, kid. You don't, and I may have to take you down to the station."
"Fine! Take me! Let me file an official report or whatever!"
"'Scuse me," Dean stepped forward, unable to help himself. "Everything okay here?"
Both policemen shot wary glances in his direction, but Tommy practically flung himself toward Dean.
"Hey, man! Hey!" He grasped Dean's shoulder, pulling him forward hurriedly, then turned back toward the police. "He can tell you. He saw me earlier."
One cop peered closely at Dean. "You saw this guy?"
Dean found himself wishing for Sam's restraining arm; it had kept him from getting involved in many an unstable situation in the past. He nodded. "At Mason's garage earlier today."
"'Bout what time was that?" The other cop flipped open a black notebook.
Dean shrugged. "Like…9? Ish?"
The cops exchanged a look. Tommy practically bounced on the balls of his feet. "See? I wasn't near her when this happened. I was freakin' across town. You need to let me go and go out and look for whoever beat her up."
Dean held up a hand. "Whoa, wait. I thought you were here for your grandma."
Tommy nodded. "Someone knocked her around pretty good," he told Dean. "Mailman heard crashing and shouting and found her out cold in the living room. Called an ambulance."
"So…why do they think you did it?"
Tommy sighed. "'Cause I live with her. And…," he trailed off.
"How 'bout you tell your friend how many times we've hauled you out of the Red Lion after you tore up the place, Tommy?" One cop asked, eyebrow arched.
"Broken anyone's jaw lately, Tommy?" The other interjected.
"Yeah, okay, so I've got a temper," Tommy conceded, biting his bottom lip nervously. He turned to Dean, gray eyes large in a face so pale his freckles stood out in 3D. "But not with my grandma, man! She's all I got!"
Dean tapped the air. "I believe you; calm down." He looked over at the cop standing behind Tommy. "Sounds like you guys got some work to do. I'll take him home."
The cop with the notebook shook his head. "Not to his grandma's. Place is sealed off for now, 'til we figure out what went on."
Dean shot a glance at Tommy, who was looking paler by the second.
"Sealed off?" Tommy managed. "Like…like crime scene tape and shit?"
The policeman raised an eyebrow. "An eighty-year-old woman was beaten unconscious, man."
"Well…where'm I s'posed to go?" Tommy asked, plaintively, sounding like Oliver facing the evil Bill Sikes.
The cops shrugged, then glanced at Dean. Swearing softly under his breath, Dean put his hand on Tommy's shoulder, thinking quickly.
"Hey," he said gently, grabbing Tommy's attention. "You got any friends? Anyone you can stay with?"
Tommy licked his lips, nervously. His eyes darted along the linoleum floor as if hoping the answer would be written there. He looked up, finally, relief plain on his face. "Mason," he said. "He's got a room in the back of the shop."
"Think he'll let you use it?" Dean asked.
"He's let me stay there before when," he broke off, shooting a furtive glance at the police. "Well, when I've needed to, uh…sleep off a few."
Dean nodded, glancing once more at the cops. "I'll take him back to Mason's."
The two policemen step aside, conferred, then with a final parting warning to Tommy, they left. The people openly watching the exchange resumed their disinterest the moment the uniforms departed. Dean took Tommy's arm and steered him off to the corner of the room, his PT appointment completely forgotten.
"You better be playing me straight," Dean warned the kid.
"Swear to God, man. I had nothing to do with it."
"Your grandma okay?"
Tommy sighed, running a trembling hand through his red hair. "She's pretty shaken up. Was talking kinda crazy when they let me see her."
"How so?" Dean frowned.
"Said she's been hearing voices. Said things keep disappearing from the house. Thinks someone is breaking in 'cause she keeps finding pictures off the walls, light bulbs and mirrors broken, random stuff like that."
Dean felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. "She ever complain about cold spots in the house?"
Tommy shrugged. "Yeah, but…dude, it's December. Old house and all."
"How about you?" Dean pressed. "You see any of this stuff?"
Tommy shook his head. "Naw, man. It always happens when I'm at work."
"Not even the mirrors?"
"Well, they're her little hand mirror things. She probably dropped them."
"Yeah, probably," Dean nodded, thinking. He needed to talk to Sam. "She staying at the hospital for a bit?"
Tommy nodded. "They want to give her a psych evaluation, I guess. She was plenty pissed when she heard that."
"I bet." He stared hard at Tommy for a moment, wondering if he was as savvy as Mason. "Where's your grandma's house, Tommy?"
Tommy answered automatically. "Over off of Peterson. Other side of the river. It's this old, stone farmhouse. Like old old."
Dean nodded, turning the kid and putting a hand on his shoulder. He really needed to talk to Sam. "Think you could drop me off at my place before you head to Mason's?"
"Huh? Oh, yeah, sure. Hey," he turned against Dean's hand, facing him. "Thanks, man. Really. The cops in the town don't really like me much." He stuck out his right hand to shake Dean's.
Dean glanced down, turning his own scarred hand over, then gave Tommy a smile, clapping him on the shoulder and lightly shoving him forward, avoiding the handshake. He wasn't ready for that yet.
"Don't mention it, kid."
Sam looked up from his email the minute he heard the front door shut.
He started from his room at a hurried pace, responding to the urgency in Dean's tone. It took him a moment to register that he'd heard his brother say his name without the clenched-teeth slur he'd gotten used to over the last six weeks. Rounding the corner, a hand gripping the door-frame of his room, he found Dean with his eyes, his first thought to look at his brother's jaw line as if he could actually see a difference there.
Dean shot a glance at him, pulling off his leather jacket and dropping it across the back of the couch.
"Dude, I gotta talk to you," Dean declared, crossing the room with barely a trace of his ever-present limp.
"What happened to your jaw?" Sam asked, though the answer was obvious: the wires had come off today.
"That's not important right now." Dean waved a hand in the air.
He stopped in the center of the room, his eyes tracking Sam's approach with a glint in them that Sam hadn't seen in..., well, months. Since long before Detroit. Since before they lost Jo and Ellen. Sam was so taken with the light he saw in Dean's expression he missed what his brother was telling him.
"Wait, what was that? You got a job? Where? Downtown?"
Dean frowned at him. "No, not a job. A job! A hunt!"
That caught Sam like a fist to the stomach. He actually had to take a step back before he answered. "You…you found a hunt? Where the hell were you?"
Dean stepped forward as if drawn by Sam's retreat. "At the hospital," he said. "This kid, Tommy – long story there, but I'll go into that later – his grandma was brought in after getting beat up pretty bad and by the description I'd say poltergeist, but we'd have to check for EMF—"
"Dean!" Sam barked, breaking in.
He took a step forward, his hand up in an effort to stem the sudden – and shockingly clear – torrent of words pouring from his brother. After weeks of barely speaking two words inside an hour, this rush of excitement from Dean was almost dizzying. Not only that, but Sam thought immediately of the email to Rufus and Sheriff Mills he was drafting back in his room.
The email saying that he and Dean were retiring and to share Bobby's books with other hunters, or libraries or researchers who might get some use out of them.
"What?" Dean replied, blinking at Sam uncomprehendingly.
Sam stared at his brother's guileless eyes, large in a face narrowed by circumstance, the scars around his left one standing out as a stark reminder of what had happened the last time they'd gone on a hunt.
"We're not…hunting," Sam tried, knowing his words sounded hollow against his brother's fervor.
"What are you talking about?" Dean scoffed, pulling his head back slightly in disbelief. "'Course we are. You're fit, I'm better—"
"The hell you are!" Sam snapped. "You just got wires taken off your jaw today, Dean."
Dean tipped his hands open in a shrug as if to say yeah, so but all it did was draw Sam's attention to his bandaged palm.
"You hardly sleep. You can't shoot, you can barely walk for more than a few minutes at a time without limping," Sam continued. "How the hell're you gonna go out there and fight some…some…spirit?"
Sam watched his brother drop his chin, his eyes losing their innocence and light in a heartbeat. He'd forgotten how dangerous Dean could look when he wanted to.
"I don't need my right hand to fire a sawed-off full of rock salt," Dean growled.
Shoving a hand through his hair, Sam shifted his weight and tried a different tactic. "How do you know this is even a hunt, huh? Could be some kinda of…domestic disturbance."
Dean lifted an eyebrow. "Pull your head outta your ass, Sammy."
"I've been reading the paper every day, Dean," Sam snapped. "I haven't seen anything that looks like a hunt."
"Because you haven't wanted to," Dean shot back, anger lacing his words, honesty finally coming forth. "If you wanted to bury our heads in the sand and live a Beaver Cleaver life then you probably shouldn't have settled in on the Hellmouth."
Sam rolled his eyes. "Oh, gimme a break."
"Domestic disturbance?" Dean stepped forward, no trace of the weakness that had been dogging his every step for six weeks. "Electrical storm? Animal attack? These are our trigger words, man."
Sam shook his head. "No, Dean."
Dean took another step forward. "I've been living your whole fantasy life here, Sammy, hanging in there while you started freakin' nesting," he spat the word, backing Sam up a step, "because I couldn't do anything else. I could barely breathe without help."
Sam blinked, feeling something begin to tremble inside of him as the realization that Dean had simply been lying in wait blossomed clear and bright inside his mind.
"But, I'm better now," Dean pressed. "And I'm ready to get back to our goddamn job."
"Well, I'm not!" Sam yelled. "I'm not okay. And I quit this job."
Sam was uncomfortably aware of how close his brother had gotten to him. It was as if he felt a current between them – a kind of static electricity that rolled and snapped inside of Sam's perception as emotions boiled. He knew instinctively that if he were to touch Dean right now it would set off something and he suddenly didn't care. He'd worked so hard all of these weeks to help take care of Dean without actually touching him, without accidentally triggering whatever that connection between them now was, that he wanted to test it again, to use it.
"You can't quit," Dean informed him, voice low and dangerous, eyes hot. "You can't walk away knowing what's out—"
"Nothing is out there, Dean!" Sam roared, reaching out and grabbing a fist full of Dean's shirt. At that Dean blinked, drawing his head back, a flash of fear slipping across his expression like mercury. Sam didn't miss the way his brother's eyes darted to his fist. "You just want there to be because you don't have anything else!"
Sam knew he'd hit below the belt, but he was too wound up to stop. He'd wanted an end to the hunt since the moment he saw his brother hooked up to machines – again – barely surviving.
Dammit, he needed to stop hunting, to end that part of their lives. If he started again now, he'd lose himself to it. He knew that with every slam of his heart. He'd tried in different ways to tell Dean nearly every day, but his brother hadn't listened.
And now he wanted to go back out into the world, fighting evil…for what? They didn't have to look for Dad, they didn't have to avenge Mom, their souls weren't on the hook, they didn't have a clear enemy to stop, there wasn't an angel intent on using them as vessels.
"If you would take one look around—"
"And see what, Sam?" Dean hadn't pulled out of Sam's grasp. He looked up at Sam's face, eyes challenging. "That the world's normal now? All the bad guys said fuck it and left?"
"Yes!" Sam yelled. "We beat them, Dean. We stopped it!"
Sam shoved Dean away, watching as his brother scrambled to catch his balance, his barely-healed hip not quite up to the task. Unable to help himself, Sam lifted an eyebrow and tilted his head as Dean staggered.
"Oh, yeah, you're up to fighting speed," he mocked. Dean's lips curled into a snarl, but Sam didn't heed the warning. "You ready to go a few rounds with a witch, Dean? Think those screws keeping your ribs from stabbing through your lungs'll hold up when some spirit tries to throw you through a wall?"
He stepped forward, mindless to the way Dean had squared his stance, eyes leveling. He was too caught up in how right he was about this. Dean had no business thinking he could head out there and do this job, not now – not anymore!
Dean was a taped-together jigsaw puzzle waiting for the next hard wind to blast him apart.
And Sam was damn sure not going to let that happen.
"How 'bout you make a fist for me, Dean?" Sam pressed, gesturing toward Dean's right hand.
"Fuck you, Sam," Dean snarled.
"No, really," Sam pressed, stepping forward until there was barely a person's width between them. "Grip a knife. Hold a gun. Something." Sam could see Dean trembling, a barely-restrained containment of rage. "You think there's a spirit out there? How you going to fight it off when you can't even make a fist?"
Sam never saw the swing coming. He'd been so focused on Dean's wounded right hand that his brother's left caught him across the cheekbone and sent him staggering. The impact was hard in and of itself, but the smack of skin-against-skin shook through him. It was too fast, too startling to really register anything but pain – and not physical pain, either.
It was an angry, impotent, haunted pain that left Sam spinning.
He put a hand to his cheek and caught his balance, shooting his eyes to Dean. His brother was pale, his green eyes large, but the angry set of his mouth told Sam that no emotional shock-wave was going to stop him from showing Sam just how unaffected he was by his new physical limitations.
With a gut-deep growl, Dean lunged at him. Sam had one second to react; he gasped, threw his hands up in protection, and managed to catch Dean around the wrists as his brother reached for him. The effect was instantaneous.
Sam felt himself falling backwards, crashing without pause against the wall that separated their small living room from the narrow hall to their bedrooms, Dean falling full-force against him, his eyes blind, his body shaking from the shock of contact with Sam.
They slipped to the ground in a tangle of limbs as Sam saw with profound clarity how true his words had been – and how cruel. The images that assaulted him were all of John: their father's journal, watching John's hands field dress a .45, showing Dean how to make silver bullets. He felt Dean drink in every spare glance of pride cast his way, felt his effort to hit every target, memorize every page of lore, get the spirit the first time out just to get another of those glances.
With a low groan of pained effort, Sam pushed outward, almost physically throwing the images away, and with them, Dean. His brother skidded away from him across the floor, the force of Sam's shove surprising them both. With a grunt, Dean crashed against the legs of the small table they'd set up in their kitchen, stopping his momentum.
Sam lay where he'd fallen, breath hammering out through parted lips, his ears ringing with the memory of his father's voice, his hands tingling where they'd gripped his brother's skin. He blinked, sweat tenting his lashes, and peered across the small room to where Dean lay. His brother was alarmingly pale, eyes still closed, left hand pressed flat against the floor, bracing himself away from the furniture.
Sam could see him shaking.
"Dean?" Sam rasped.
"Shut up, Sam," Dean gasped, pain weaving an almost visible pattern through his words.
"I'm sorry." Sam pushed upright on shaking arms. "I didn't mean—"
"Yeah," Dean rumbled, licking his lips and using his left arm to rise up until he could prop himself on his right elbow. "You did."
He hadn't, though. He knew there was so much more to Dean; he needed Dean to see that. He was just…he'd just been so….
"I was angry."
"You're joking." Dean opened his eyes, letting the sarcasm ease the tension in the room.
He sat up with a wince, leaning gingerly against the table. Sam knew his back had to be killing him; he hadn't hit hard, but Dean wasn't healed enough for any kind of physical force against his ribs.
"I shouldn't have said what I did," Sam confessed softly. "It was…mean."
"It was true," Dean muttered quietly. He looked over at Sam, resignation in his gaze. "I know you saw something."
Sam looked away. He couldn't bring himself to tell Dean about the images of John. It seemed that whatever he saw when they connected were subconscious memories; not Dean's exact thoughts but the ones fueling his emotions, his nightmares, his reasons for doing and saying what he did.
Dean had no way of knowing what he was revealing to Sam in those moments of contact; it was too hard for Sam to articulate something he knew would cause his brother pain. He knew because he'd felt it as keenly as if it had been his own.
"Doesn't matter," Sam said, keeping his eyes away from Dean as he slumped back against the wall. Out of the corner of his eye, Sam saw Dean pull his damaged hand into his lap, cradling it.
"I'm not like you, Sam," Dean said quietly. Sam waited him out. "I'm not gonna…find a job, find a girl, buy a house, settle down. I'm too…," he shook his head helplessly. "I'm no good to anyone. Not like this."
Sam went cold, thinking of the letter that he'd tucked into his back pocket. If I did have a choice in all of this, I would choose to find you.
"You never wanted this life, man," Dean continued, tipping his head back against the table and closing his eyes. "You've wanted out for so many years…."
And I'd choose to stay this time.
"We both can get out now, Dean," Sam all-but whispered. "This is our chance."
Dean opened his eyes, dropping his gaze to Sam, not lowering his head. "I'm never getting out, Sam. You were right. I got nothing else."
Sam stared at his brother, his eyes burning. Dean didn't shift his gaze away. The house grew quiet around them. A heavy quiet, weighted with all the things they weren't saying.
Sam could practically hear crickets chirping. In California.
"I can't do it anymore, Dean," Sam said, tears kicking the back of his voice. "I can't risk it."
Dean's brows pulled together. "Risk what?"
"I drank…gallons of demon blood, man," Sam said, watching as Dean flinched with the reminder. "And I healed faster than I should have because of it."
"You don't know that—"
"You are the righteous man, Dean," Sam interrupted. "Not me. The only power I have comes from darkness. I might be able to use it for the greater good, but not without destroying myself in the process."
"You can't tell me that's not true."
"The hell I can't," Dean shot back, the edge to his voice drawing Sam's eyes up. "Goddammit, Sammy, you are the best of us, don't you see that?"
Sam shook his head, feeling tears build, burning his eyes.
"That blood you drank? You did it to save the fucking world." Dean's voice became steel. "You were willing to fall into the Pit for everyone. Don't you dare think there's some kind of Dark Side in you. Not for one minute."
"I need this to be over, man," Sam confessed. "No more hunting."
"I know, but…Sam, we can't turn our back on the truth. We can't ignore it. I can't ignore it."
The need he heard behind Dean's words vied for strength with the opposite need Sam felt inside himself.
"What if you're wrong?" Sam asked. "What if they really are gone? What if we really did do it, and you go out there to hunt and…nothing?"
Dean swallowed audibly, looking down. "I don't know, man." They sat quietly for several minutes, then Dean lifted a shoulder. "I'm not wrong, though."
Sam huffed, shaking his head. "You're one arrogant son of a bitch, Dean."
Dean almost smiled.
"Promise me something," Sam said, pulling his legs beneath him as he prepared to stand.
"Just…say it first. Promise me."
Dean frowned, wary.
"You owe me this," Sam said, knowing he was on thin ice.
Dean owed him nothing. Every moment of care-taking Sam had spent on his brother over the last six weeks was in payment for the beating Dean had sustained to save Sam's life. It was in payment for sacrificing his own childhood to take care of Sam. It was in payment for Dean going to Hell to give Sam another chance. But if there was one thing Sam knew about his brother it was that Dean could never deny him. Not when he knew it was something Sam really needed.
And he really needed this.
"Okay," Dean replied, stretching the word out like caramel. "I promise."
"Try to find something else."
Dean stared at him and Sam felt something shift in his heart at the hopelessness he saw slide through his brother's gaze.
"You promised," Sam reminded him. "And I can help, you know. Lawrence isn't a bad town."
Dean sagged a little against the table. For a moment he looked small and sad and so utterly alone that Sam wanted to cry.
"Okay," Dean replied finally. "I'll try."
And though he heard the bleakness inside that promise, though he knew it echoed the promise Dean had made to live a normal life after Sam said yes to Lucifer, Sam smiled with relief, because Dean had said it. And he would always have that to fall back on.
He stood up and crossed the floor to Dean, holding out his hand to help his brother to his feet. Careful to grasp Dean's long-sleeve-covered arm rather than his hand, he eased his brother up, steadying him as Dean caught his breath. Sam could practically feel the muscles along Dean's back flinching as they stretched once more.
"Want the rice bag?"
Dean shook his head. Sam was about to press the issue, but decided better of it since he'd been the one to hurt Dean. Again.
"We need to figure out what is going on with us, Sam," Dean said softly, looking down at Sam's hand on his arm.
"I know," Sam muttered, reluctantly.
He almost didn't want to know. Their luck, it meant something more than either of them wanted to handle.
"Need to stop it or use it…or something," Dean said.
"Use it?" Sam frowned.
"Or something," Dean repeated. His voice dropped. "Figure out how to block you from seeing so much."
Sam's frown deepened as Dean stepped away from his grasp, moving around the table and pulling his wounded hand in close to his chest.
"I'll reach out to Rufus later," he offered. "See if he's found anything."
Dean nodded, gaze miles away, then, "Can I borrow your laptop?" he asked, unexpectedly.
"Uh," Sam blinked, thinking of his unfinished email. "Yeah, sure. Why? You going to Google amulet side-effects?"
"Funny," Dean said, looking at Sam. "I'm, uh… gonna get the Impala fixed tomorrow. Want to search up some parts."
The lie was so smooth that Sam almost didn't register Dean's tell: a slight lift of his chin so that his gaze was on Sam's cheekbone, not his eyes. He wasn't sure what his brother was really after, but he knew it had nothing to do with his car.
"Okay," Sam replied, trying desperately to think of a reason not to loan it to him. "I'll go get it."
"Oh, and Sammy?" Dean called, putting his hands to his lower back and stretching it a bit. "Know any place I can get a warmer coat?"
At that Sam almost grinned, tossing a quick look at his brother's ever-present leather jacket. "Yeah, I can think of a few." He glanced at the thinning scars along Dean's jaw. "One happens to be next to a bakery."
Dean glanced at him quickly. "Pie?"
"Supposed to have the best in town," Sam shared, the unspoken see, it can be good here plea shimmering around his words.
"I miss pie," Dean sighed as if the baked good were a long-lost lover.
"We can go tonight."
"Thanks, man," Dean replied, twisting his back until Sam heard a crackle of joints.
Sam went back to the bedroom, looking down at his email screen. After a moment's contemplation, he deleted the last three lines of the message, keeping only that he and Dean were retiring.
Taking a breath, he typed, "But just in case, can you ship some of Bobby's books that might have sentimental meaning to us? I'll list a few I can think of here. Also, you mentioned that you and Bobby got that amulet Dean used at Stull a long time ago. If you could send any information about it…anything at all…I'd appreciate it. Especially if there's anything in there about what happens if you…use it."
He then listed the books on spirits, demons, gods that he could remember off the top of his head, and the centuries old Bible he knew Dean had poured over several times after finding out their apparent destinies. He believed that he was right: evil had retreated after Armageddon was averted. But…he'd learned to hope for the best and prepare for the worst.
Even if the worst meant demons.
Don't you dare think there's some kind of Dark Side in you. Not for one minute.
He wanted his brother to be right. He wanted it so badly he had to press a hand flat against his heart to keep it from slamming so hard against his ribs. And what he was asking of Dean…it was not going to be easy for his brother to fulfill. Having some of Bobby's books around might make peace, and Sam was going to need that if he was going to get Dean to accept a future without hunting.
Continued in Part 1: Chapter 7
a/n: As you've probably picked up by now, I'm working to get them to a point with the choices made in Part 1 that they have an entirely different set of circumstances surrounding them when Part 2 begins. I hope you're entertained - I thank you for your time and for your gift of a review.