Jun. 13th, 1992

collegedropout: credit = ??? (pic#7056336)
Sam wakes beside Dean's dead body, gutted of Lucifer, lost and confused and trying to remember how words work -- he cries instead for a while: heavy, miserable tears, because Dean's dead and he can't remember why or how, just knows he should have been there to help him, should've done something to salvage him. He's got a broken neck, Sam can tell when he lifts him and shakes him gently. Crushed throat. Dad's never taught them first aid for this, just how to make a pyre, because they're too far gone now.

He puts a hand on Dean's old cheek, and summons the tattered remains of Lucifer's grace, whatever's left, anyway. It's easy to give Dean life, and the throat mends and lifts, spine repaired. Warmth drains back into Dean's skin and Sam breathes in relief. The hunt didn't kill him. That's good, isn't it? The hunt didn't kill him. He stands up, the knot in his stomach telling him Dean wouldn't want to see him anyway; he's a bad brother, he runs, he always runs.

He walks away.

Cas will find Dean later, the ex-angel scratched up but otherwise alive. Shockingly. He couldn't explain it -- but for some reason, just before the demons moved in to finish them all off... well, they just. Sparked out of existence. As if burned out of the bodies. Risa and Chuck hang back to help the few vessels that survived their possessions, while Cas carefully shakes his friend awake.

"Dean. Dean. It's over."

He may only be partly angel, but he feels it. He knows.

Lucifer himself is no more.


Sam walks.

He knows he did something bad, and he's scared of being in a panic room again. It's hard to remember where the panic room even came from; the memories are all fragmented, like every other part of him. He does remember having a home, in California. Maybe he should go back there, back where he remembers the best. The croats all avoid him, all step away from him when he asks them for directions. Someone panicked shoots at him, hits him twice in the chest and calls him the devil. The pain is temporary.

He apologizes earnestly for scaring them, and asks which way it is to Palo Alto, California.

Terrified, they tell him. He can't blame them for being scared. He's not a good person, he knows that much.

Later, as he huddles in the darkness of an old apartment, he sweats and shivers and the bullets pop out of his chest. Plip, plop. He sings old cassette tap songs as he waits, Seger and Led Zeppelin. The storm comes in heavy this night, and it's only when he can't stand the sound of his own guilty thoughts that he wanders out into it, letting the heavy raindrops clean his limp locks. The jacket of the white suit has been abandoned in a town before this one, with a note: 'To anyone who needs it.'

He doesn't feel cold. The bullet holes are just little fissures in his skin now, blood washing down his clothing and painting it different pinks.

Maybe there's something worth living for in Palo Alto.

He can't remember what exactly, but it's not like he can go back to Dean. He made too many mistakes. Dean would rather he be dead. That's what Dean wants to do, isn't it? Kill him. That's what he can remember. Dean wanted to do it. He remembers that much. Wanted it so bad, could see it in his eyes. From what he could see out of his own eyes, anyway. Screaming and clawing for consciousness, never reaching it. He swallows hard, rubbing the heel of his hand into his eye.

Don't look back. In California, he can finally rest. Heaven or Hell, doesn't matter.

But he'll find rest.