Supernatural Fan Fiction ❯ A Spear Has No Branches ❯ A Spear Has No Branches ( Chapter 1 )

Title: A Spear Has No Branches

Author: roguebitch

Rating: R for cussin'. Sam, Dean, Repairman Jack

Length: 4,905 words

Disclaimer: Not mine. Repairman Jack belongs to F. Paul Wilson and Sam and Dean belong to Kripke /CW. I'm just playing with them. I promise to clean them up and put them away when I'm done.

Beta: Again, <lj user=lady_fox> for the win! <lj user=piwacket> found the story too traumatizing to beta. ;->

Spoilers: AHBL1/2 and some of S3 for Supernatural, post-Harbingers in the Repairman Jack universe. Slightly AU. Character death - kinda.

A/N: This is a crossover with F. Paul Wilson's very excellent Repairman Jack series. Jack helps Sam with Dean's deal.

 

 

One month.

 

31 days.

 

744 hours.

 

Sam stopped himself from calculating out the minutes and seconds of life Dean had left to him before he was collected by hellhounds, or whatever the next version of the crossroads demon might be, since
Sam had killed the last one.

 

It was too depressing to contemplate so minutely, and it ultimately distracted him from his real work: saving Dean.

 

Sam had to keep reminding himself to slow down and be more methodical. Nothing was going to be gained by him being sloppy in his research. The feeling of time breathing down his neck could not be dismissed, but it could be ignored for as long as it took him to become engrossed in his research once again.

 

Sighing, he picked up Dad's journal. He'd read it so often that he knew the contents backwards and forwards. But one more time couldn't hurt.

 

Sam turned the pages, trying to read slowly instead of skim. The motel room was dark, with only the table lamp creating an oasis of illumination in an island of anonymity.

 

Dean was out hustling pool or fucking yet another random woman in a bar bathroom in a manic display of defiance at his death sentence. Sam didn't blame him; it was what Dean had to do. Just like this was what Sam had to do.

 

Sam's gaze skipped over the writing in Dad's journal with weary familiarity, tension gnawing at the pit of his stomach. He <I>had</I> to fix this, <I>had</I> to save Dean. It was Dean who had brought him back into hunting, Dean who balanced his brooding sensitivity with sarcastic action. Without Dean, Sam was half a person.

 

Without Dean, Sam would continue to hunt, but he knew his heart wouldn't be in it. He would be doing it out of obligation to the innocent, and to Dean's memory. He would screw it up somewhere along the line without Dean to watch his back, and end up killed.

 

Sam's gaze caught on a name he didn't think he'd seen before. In fact, this page in Dad's journal was entirely unfamiliar, which troubled him. Either he was doing so much research that he was starting to forget things (which was entirely likely, his head was so stuffed with lore he could feel his skull creak) or the page really hadn't been there before and had somehow appeared. Magically. Or by other means.

 

“Repairman Jack,” Sam read out loud. “'Fixes things. Call this number, leave a message.' Well, I got nothin' anyway, might as well take a shot.” He dialed the number in the book.

 

“Julio's,” said the voice on the other end.

 

“Uh, hi. My name is Sam Winchester. I'd like to leave a message for Repairman Jack?” Sam paced, his long stride carrying him from one end of the tiny room to the other in about four steps.

 

“What's your number, meng?”

 

Sam left his number and the man on the other end said, “He'll call you.” and hung up.

 

Sam felt at loose ends after that. He didn't know when this Repairman Jack might call, so he didn't know if he should get started on more research and risk being interrupted, or do something else. Take a shower, maybe. Organize the laundry. Sharpen all the edged weapons. Pray.

 

But then, he prayed all the time these days.

 

The motel door opened and Dean came in, reeking of smoke and beer, with a faint musky underlay of sex.

 

“Sammy,” he said by way of greeting, glance flickering from the table and Sam's research spread all over it, and Sam's face.

 

“Good night?” Sam responded.

 

Dean shrugged. “I guess so. You?”

 

Sam mirrored his brother's shrug silently.

 

“You look tired, Sam.” Dean said abruptly. “You should get more rest.”

 

Sam ran his hand through his hair. “I can't. I have to figure this out. Until I do, I can't sleep.”

 

“You'll sleep when I'm dead, huh?” Dean's tone was light, but his eyes were hollow.

 

“That's not funny.” snapped Sam, his stomach roiling. “How can you even joke about this?”

 

“What else am I gonna do?” Dean countered. “Seems like you've got the obsessed and brooding angle covered. What more do you want?”

 

“You could help me!” Sam shouted, his frustration peaking. “I've been searching the whole year, <I>by myself</I>, while you've been partying it up!”

 

“No offense, Sam, but I don't want to spend my last days on earth doing research.”

 

“If you'd help me research, maybe they wouldn't <I>be</I> your last days on earth.” muttered Sam.

 

“We've been over this, Sammy.” Dean's voice was weary. “I can't help you. It's part of the deal. The best I can do is try to enjoy my time left and give you the space that you need to help me.” Dean threw his coat over the back of a chair and sat at the end of his bed to take his boots off.

 

Sam deflated suddenly. “I know.” he sighed. “It's just - time's running out and I haven't gotten anywhere. I might have a lead on something, but I'm afraid to get too excited about it in case it turns out to be nothing again. I'm sorry.”

 

“If there's something out there, Sam, you'll find it.” Dean walked over to his brother and clapped him on the shoulder. “But I don't want you to beat yourself up if you don't.”

 

Sam looked down at his feet, not answering. Dean shook his shoulder.

 

“Okay, Sam?”

 

Sam shook his head.

 

“If I can't figure this out, I'll never be able to forgive myself.” Sam lifted up his head and looked straight at Dean.

 

“No, Sam.” Dean put his other hand on Sam's other shoulder and squeezed. “I know you're doing all you can. You can't be responsible for this. If you can't figure it out, then I want you to forgive yourself and move on.”

 

Sam blinked, tears stinging his eyes and nose. He shook his head again, negating the idea that he would ever fail, that he would fail Dean, that he would ever <I>forgive</I> and <I>move on</I> from the enormity of such a loss.

 

Dean dropped his hands. “Just try, okay? For me.” he patted Sam's cheek awkwardly and turned away, getting ready for bed.

 

Sam knuckled at his eyes and sniffled. He was weary to the bone of trying to outrace time and outwit the demon. He wanted nothing more than to fall into bed and sleep for a week. But that would be a week with Dean he wouldn't get back, a week without potentially pivotal research.

 

When he slept, Sam's subconscious supplied him with projections of what Hell would be like for Dean. Like prison for child molesters, like a cop in jail, the demons would be lined up to torture Dean and pervert his mind.

 

No, Sam would rather not sleep, not when there was something useful for him to do.

 

So, while Dean settled himself down for the night, Sam went back to work.

 

His cell phone ringing jerked him out of an exhausted stupor. He had passed out at the table, head on his arms.

 

“Hello?” he rasped.

 

“Sam Winchester? This is Jack. You called?” the voice was neutral, utterly forgettable.

 

Sam shook his head, trying to wake up.

 

“Uh, yeah. I found your number in my Dad's journal. He said you fix things?”

 

“I help people out,” the voice said guardedly.

 

“I'm hoping you can help me.” Sam replied.

 

“Winchester. Seems I've heard that name before,” mused Jack.

 

“My father was John Winchester.” supplied Sam.

 

“Yes, he helped me out some time back with a situation involving the Jersey Devil. You're his son?”

 

“One of them, yeah.” Sam tried not to be impatient with the establishment of bona fides, but he knew it was necessary for people in his (and, presumably, Jack's) line of work.

 

“You said was?”

 

“He died almost two years ago.” Sam said, and was shocked for a moment. Had it really been nearly two years? He'd been so consumed with Dean's deal this year that he hadn't even noticed the time passing.

 

“I'm sorry to hear that. He was a big help to me. What can I do for you, Sam Winchester?”

 

“Would it be possible for me to talk to you in person?”

 

“I can meet you tomorrow at one.”

 

Sam calculated mentally. They were in Pennsylvania, getting to New York City shouldn't be too difficult.

 

“Okay. I can do that. Where would you like to meet?”

 

Jack gave him directions to a bar called Julio's. Sam was to announce himself to the bartender, and that he was there to see Jack - “Just Jack.”

 

“Tomorrow at one.” Sam confirmed, shutting his phone. When he turned, he saw Dean, awake, watching him.

 

“You got somethin'?” Dean asked.

 

“Maybe. I have to go to New York City.”

 

Dean started to sit up, but Sam held out a hand to stop him.

 

“I think I should go alone.”

 

“What? No, you shouldn't. You don't know this guy.”

 

“Dean. He was in Dad's journal. He said that Dad helped him with the Jersey Devil. We're meeting at a bar, so it'll be in public. I think I can handle it on my own.”

 

Dean's brows were furrowed and his mouth set as he said, “I don't like it.”

 

“I don't like it either, but it's the only lead I have. And I have to go alone, otherwise the demon will think you're trying to get out of the deal.” Sam moved around the room, packing up his laptop, throwing books into one bag, a change of clothes into another.

 

Dean slumped back into his bed, frustrated. “You're right. God, I hate this! I can't <I>do</I> anything.” Dean slammed his fists into the mattress on either side of him.

 

“There's one thing you can do.” Sam replied.

 

“What's that.”

 

“Drive me to the bus station.”

 

**

 

Sam really didn't register the trip, aside from gratitude that he could sit on the bench seat in the back and stretch out his legs. After sitting, he opened his laptop, put in his earphones, and was lost in research once more.

 

Sam fell asleep again, his head against the wall that demarcated the restroom. He dreamed of Dean in a room, sitting in a wooden chair with his face in his hands while a demon dressed in their father's form whispered horrible half-truths in his ear. Dean's shoulders were curved in and he was hiding his eyes.

 

The restroom door banged and Sam startled awake, his laptop skidding off his knees. He grabbed it, which jerked his earphones out, and then juggled those.

 

Exhaustion was making him sloppy, and he was rattled by his dream. He carefully closed his laptop and put it in his bag, looking out at the city.

 

When the bus had left Pennsylvania, it was the dead of night. Now it was morning and the sun was struggling to fill the grey canyons of skyscrapers in the cold spring day.

 

Sam stared dully out the window, feeling hungry and weary. The bus pulled into Grand Central Station and he disembarked, looking for the subway. He had memorized the directions given to him by Jack, since he knew better than to walk around with a map and look like a tourist. He also wanted to check out Julio's before he went in.

 

Sam let himself be jostled down an escalator and into a subway car, and then back up into a working-class neighborhood. He crossed a couple of streets, keeping an eye on landmarks (Isher's Sports and a florist and a quickie mart) and numbers, until he reached a rundown-looking bar with “Julio's” painted on the glass front. There was a wasteland of dead ferns and other plants in the windows and Sam grinned to himself. Dead ferns would definitely keep the hipsters away. He pulled out his cell phone and called Dean to let him know he had arrived.

 

“You check the place out?” Dean demanded.

 

“Of course I did, I'm not a total moron. It's your kind of place, a real dive.”

 

Dean snorted. “Ha. So what're you doing now?”

 

“Backtracking to get some food. I'll call before I leave.”

 

“All right. Watch your back, Sammy.”

 

“You too.” Sam hung up and went in search of the diner he'd seen on his way to reconnoiter Julio's. He didn't eat so much as engulf the enormous breakfast he ordered while glued to his laptop. Afterward, he moved to a Starbucks and used their Internet.

 

Time moved so quickly these days, now that there was so little time to spare. When Sam next checked the clock, he had ten minutes to make his meeting with Jack. He packed up in a hurry and walked back to the bar.

 

Inside it was dark and smoky, with seedy characters holding up the bar near the door, and booths lining the walls. Sam walked up to the bartender, who was short and muscular, with a pencil-line mustache.

 

“You Julio?” Sam asked.

 

“Who's askin'?”

 

“I'm Sam Winchester, here to see Jack. Just Jack.” Sam felt himself fall into relaxed-ready mode. He wasn't in any immediate danger, but he felt like he needed his wits about him in this encounter.

 

Julio gave him the once-over, and then jerked his head to indicate a booth in the back corner.

 

“Thanks.” Sam said. He squared himself, and then walked over. The man sitting in the booth watched him calmly.

 

“Jack? Sam Winchester. Thank you for meeting with me.”

 

“Don't thank me yet, I haven decided if I can help you or not.” the man replied, but he smiled as he said it. “Please, sit down.”

 

Sam sat. He ordered a beer, let the man get a good look at him, and observed Jack himself.

 

Jack was, in all respects, totally ordinary. His hair was brown, his eyes were a confusing, changeable hazel, his features were regular, and Sam bet that, once he stood up, Jack would be average height. He could blend into a crowd and no one would ever remember him.

 

“Don't take this the wrong way,” Sam said. “Christo.”

 

Nothing happened.

 

“Feel better?” Jack asked. Sam nodded.

 

“Now tell me how it is you think that I can help you.”

 

“Jack,” Sam started, “do you believe in the supernatural?”

 

“You mean like magic, demons, things like that?” Jack replied.

 

Sam nodded again.

 

“Yes. I do.” was all Jack said.

 

“I need your help with a demon.” Sam continued.

 

“What sort of help?”

 

The story poured out of Sam: his death, Dean's deal, and the time counting down. How he, Sam, had been chosen to lead a demon army and maybe more.

 

As he spoke, Sam watched the other man's face. The expression didn't change, but Jack's eyes grew older and angrier as the story went on.

 

“Is there anything you can do to help me?” Sam finished, his voice tired and strained.

 

Jack took a long swallow of his beer. He looked at Sam with deep sympathy.

 

“God knows I'd love to help you. Especially given how your dad helped me out that one time. But Sam, I don't know thing one about demons.”

 

Sam felt as if a door had slammed in his face and he'd walked into it. “Oh. Well, thank you for your time -“ he started to get up and was halted by Jack speaking.

 

“Hold it, kid. I'm not done. I may not be able to <I>do</I>anything, but I have a little experience with your situation. Maybe we can compare notes.”

 

Sam sat back down. “Okay,” he said warily.

 

“What do you know about The Adversary?” Jack asked.

 

“Only what I've read: it's the opposite of good, wants to take over the world.” Sam started shredding the label on his beer bottle.

 

“It's not precisely good or evil. It's pretty much indifferent to our sense of morality. And it wants to take over more than just the world, Sam. It wants to possess this and every other reality. This demon army you're talking about is only a small part of its plan.”

 

“How do you know all this?”

 

“I discovered I'd been chosen to fight against it. Things…kept happening to me. I started losing my loved ones, one after another, starting with my mother, who died when I was a kid.”

 

Sam went very still. He felt a chill run across his flesh as Jack kept on talking.

 

“Then they threatened the woman I love, her daughter -- and our unborn baby.”

 

“What happened?” Sam whispered.

 

“Well, I was stuck. All the information I was getting told me that I was being honed to be the perfect weapon. But to be a perfect weapon, I couldn't have ties to anyone. I was told, `A spear has no branches.'” Jack took another swig of beer. “I don't know about you, but I don't like being ordered around. Or manipulated. By anybody.”

 

A smile ghosted across Sam's lips. “I think I know what you mean.” he said.

 

“I found out a way to communicate with one of the entities in the battle. Told it to leave me and mine alone or I'd shoot myself in the head.”

 

“Did it work?” Sam was riveted.

 

“Mostly. The baby didn't make it.” Jack's voice was flat.

 

“I'm sorry.” Sam offered.

 

“Thanks. But my point here is that I think our stories are similar. Aren't they? You've lost people in this?”

 

“Just about everyone, except Dean. And I can't lose him too.” Sam affirmed.

 

“Then you need to use every weapon that you have at your disposal. If you're being made into a weapon, then use yourself, too. You get me?”

 

Sam felt like a lock that had just been picked. Suddenly everything fell into place and certainty flooded through him. He nodded slowly.

 

“I understand you perfectly.” Sam said. “You've been more help than you can ever know.”

 

“Oh, I think I have a rough idea,” Jack replied. He stood up as Sam got to his feet. “Good luck. Call me when it's all over.”

 

Sam shook hands with Jack and left Julio's, his mind reeling. Now that he knew what he had to do, he had to find a way to keep it from Dean. Dean would definitely <I>not</I> like this strategy.

 

Sam pulled his phone out and dialed his brother.

 

“Hey,” he said.

 

“Hey yourself. You get anything?”

 

“I think I have a good lead to pursue. I'm on my way back to the bus. See you in a few hours.” Sam hung up and made his way back to Grand Central Station. Once on the bus, he fell into his first good sleep in months and didn't wake up until the bus was in Pennsylvania.

 

Dean was there, leaning against the Impala, arms folded against the chilly spring night.

 

“Must've been some good information.” Dean remarked as they drove away.

 

“Why?”

 

“You look different, less twitchy. Calmer.”

 

“It <I>was</I> good intel. And I'm not going to tell you about it.”

 

“Why not?” Dean actually looked sulky.

 

“Plausible deniability. So you won't get into trouble with the demon. The less you know, the more effective it will be at the end.” Sam glanced over at Dean. “Hey, you wanna stop somewhere and grab a beer? Maybe play some pool?”

 

It had been months since Sam had gone out with Dean. He had been so focused on his research that he couldn't enjoy it. Dean had eventually ordered him to stay at their motel because he was being a total cockblocking buzzkill.

 

“Wow, that must've been some information.” Dean remarked, beaming.

 

“Yeah…I need to blow off some steam.”

 

“That you do, Sammy, that you do.” Dean chuckled.

 

Later, as they were cleaning up the pool table, Sam couldn't look away from Dean and the vitality - the life - that radiated from him. Dean joked with Sam, flirted with the female onlookers, and lived each moment to it's fullest.

 

Sam could see why a demon would want Dean's soul. It shone in the darkest places. But Sam thought it looked better in Dean's possession, where it was meant to be.

 

**

 

Dean started to get a hunched, hunted look about him five days before the due date.

 

“Hellhounds?” Sam asked, and Dean nodded shortly. Impotent rage filled him - Dean couldn't even enjoy his last days on earth because he was being harried.

 

They stayed in after that.

 

Dean hadn't asked Sam about his solution after Sam's initial refusal. This was a relief to him, he was no good at lying to Dean, but it cut up his heart to see Dean going on as if the deal was going to go forward anyway.

 

Sam had made up a bag of goofer dust one morning while Dean was sleeping off one of their late nights. On another morning, Sam cleaned the Colt and reloaded it.

 

On Dean's (ostensibly) last day on earth, he and Sam went out for an expensive steak dinner with all the trimmings. Dean tried to give Sam the keys to the Impala, but Sam flatly refused. Then Sam asked Dean, only half-joking, if he should get them a pair of escorts, and Dean had smiled.

 

“Let's keep it to just the two of us, Sammy,” he said.

 

After dinner they returned to their hotel - Sam had insisted they stay someplace nice, and Dean had capitulated with only a little grumbling.

 

Dean moved around, sorting things into piles: to give away, to give to Sam, to throw out. Sam sat on his bed and watched.

 

“You really have a plan?” Dean asked suddenly. His face looked pinched and stoic.

 

“Yeah I do. But you have to do what I tell you, okay? No second-guessing.”

 

“Well, that depends. Are you gonna do something stupid?” Dean managed a crooked smile.

 

Sam smiled back and didn't say anything. He could feel the Colt tucked into the back of his pants and the weight of the bag of goofer dust in his jacket pocket.

 

They left the hotel at ten. Dean drove the Impala outside the city until they reached farmland. He kept making random turnings until he reached a deserted crossroads.

 

“When do you think the demon will come?” Sam asked.

 

“Midnight or dawn. Demons really like their drama.” Dean stated.

 

They got out of the car and walked to the center of the crossroads. Sam got the bag out of his pocket.

 

“Stand there and don't move.” he instructed Dean, and then poured the dust around them. Dean rolled his eyes.

 

“This is the plan? Some voodoo? I hope that's not all you got.”

 

“Dean. Trust me.”

 

Dean opened his mouth as if to argue, and then shut it. Sam stood up, tucking the bag back into his jacket.

 

“Sammy, if this doesn't work, I want you to know…” Dean's voice failed. His throat worked, but nothing came out.

 

“Yeah, Dean. I know. It's okay. It's going to work.” Sam kept his voice calm and even. He knew that belief was most of the battle with any sort of magic. Intent was all. Sam believe what he was doing would work. He needed Dean to believe it, too.

 

“Well, well. Isn't this touching.” a sultry voice broke over the moment. Dean and Sam turned and saw a very curvy brunette of the Catherine Zeta-Jones variety sway up to the edge of the circle. “You know, you didn't have to keep me out. I would've given you time for a last goodbye.”

 

“That's not what the circle is for.” Sam replied. “I want to speak to The Adversary.”

 

The demon threw back her head and laughed. “And do you really think it is at the beck and call of one such as you?”

 

“Nevertheless. I will speak to it.” Sam repeated.

 

“And what possible coercion could you offer me to act as your messenger? My purpose here is to collect Dean and his miserable little soul.” the Demon paced around the circle, and Sam craned his neck so that he could keep an eye on her.

 

Sam snaked an arm around Dean's chest and pulled Dean against him. He pulled the Colt out of his waistband and put the barrel under his chin.

 

“The message you can take to the Adversary is this: leave me and mine alone or it won't have either of us.”

 

“Sammy, holy shit, what the <I>fuck</I>are you doing?” Dean tried to struggle out of Sam's grasp, but Sam's arm was longer and he had desperation backing him up.

 

“Oh, Sam. That's very noble of you, really, but would you cheapen Dean's sacrifice by killing yourself?” the Demon stopped and let an amused smile curve her lips.

 

“I think if you take Dean and I end up useless to the Adversary, something much bigger and more frightening than you will be very unhappy with you. And you'll have to pay.” Sam replied.

 

“I don't have time for this.” snapped the Demon, and flipped her hands. A sudden blast of air dissolved the circle. She stepped forward and jerked Dean from Sam's grasp.

 

Sam pulled the trigger.

 

Sam could feel every fraction of every second of the bullet's invasion, from the burn of the powder on the underside of his jaw, to the spinning grind of it as it passed through his skin, muscles, meat, brain, shredding and liquefying everything it came into contact with. He felt his knees buckle. The agony was indescribable.

 

He saw, through tears of pain, Dean's ashen face and his mouth moving, shouting, “Sam, no!”

 

Sam saw, also, the Demon turn her head suddenly, and turn it back, her eyes black and bottomless with stars. She made a wiping motion with her arm.

 

The pain was gone. Sam took the gun from under his jaw and rubbed the skin. Nothing. Dean rushed him and grabbed his jacket and shook him as he pulled Sam to his feet.

 

“Never do that again, Sammy, never never,” Dean babbled as Sam gripped Dean's shoulders and looked over his head at the entity that had been the Crossroads Demon.

 

“Are you The Adversary?” Sam asked.

 

“I am only a small portion of its consciousness, dispatched to deal with this…mess.” the voice was distant and disgusted.

 

“Then you heard my terms. I don't care what you've got planned for me. If you take Dean from me, I won't do it.”

 

“Does that mean you will do it if I agree to the terms and let you keep your brother?”

 

“It means I've got free will, bitch, and I'll do as I see fit to keep the both of us safe.” Sam leveled the Colt at the The Adversary. “No more bargains. I'm done playing games.”

 

“Interesting.” The Adversary noted. “So rarely am I thwarted by lesser beings. I understand you. Your sibling's bargain is rendered null. I have informed the relevant beings. As for you, I cannot remove that which is a part of you. Remember that when you are exercising your…hm… free will.”

 

The Adversary moved its hand again in that wiping motion, and the Crossroads Demon looked out for a split second, until she, too, boiled out of her host in a cloud of black smoke.

 

The next little while was a rushed blur of calling 911 for the girl that was left after the demon was out of her, and Dean stumbling over to the Impala and throwing up next to it. Sam leaned next to him, shaking from the adrenaline comedown, and Dean came up and decked him.

 

“Ow!” Sam rubbed his cheek and looked over at Dean reproachfully.

 

“Now I know why you wouldn't tell me your plan. Jesus Christ, Sam, what the hell were you thinkin'? Is this the information you got from that Jack guy in New York? Because if it is, I'm gonna go up there and tear him a new one.” Dean's face was all twisted up with anger and worry. “I just watched you shoot yourself in the head! Do you have any idea how fucked up that is?”

 

Sam couldn't stop himself from grinning. He was pretty sure that having Dean rage at him for whatever reason would pall soon enough, but right now, it was music to his ears.

 

“Dean. You're free, man. It's all over.” Sam said. Dean lunged into Sam, holding him in a tight hug. Then Dean let him go just as suddenly, and stepped away, rubbing briskly at his eyes.

 

“Yeah, it is. For now. I almost don't know what to do. I spent the whole last year saying goodbye to everything, and suddenly I'm not leaving. I'm almost disappointed.”

 

Sam looked outraged, and Dean laughed. “I'm just kidding. Uh, Sammy,” Dean looked down. “Thanks.” He looked up again, his face full of the things he would never say.

 

“You're welcome.” Sam said, and he was actually saying <I>anytime</I>, and <I>welcome back</I>, and <I>I love you</I>, and <I>never leave me</I>.

 

“Can we just never have to do this again?” Dean continued, walking to the driver's side of the Impala.

 

“Well, if you won't make any more stupid bargains,” Sam responded.

 

“How about you don't get your ass killed, to start with?”

 

Sam shrugged, settling into the passenger's seat. “Sounds fair. What now?”

 

“That evil ain't gonna fight itself, Sammy. I'm back in the game. So let's go.”

 

“We've got work to do?”

 

“You know it.”

 

The Impala roared through the crossroads, obliterating everything in a cloud of dust as it headed for the future.