Archive of Our Own ^beta

And Jacob was left alone; and there wrestled a man with him until the breaking of the day.

Genesis 32:24

“Wish it didn’t look so much like a coffin.” Sam ran his fingers over a rough-welded edge. Muttered, “Stupid.”

Cas squeezed his arm. “Sam.”

“We could trick it out, I guess.” Dean ducked his way into the hold. Steel grate stairs clanged with his steps. “Make a little, yellow submarine?” Hands up, thumbs out, he framed the picture.

“That’s not funny.” Sam swallowed.

Dean shrugged. “I know.” Grin slipped. “Heya, Cas? Could you—?”

“Of course. I’ll wait for you on deck.” Cas climbed up, closed the hatch behind him.

“Sammy—”

“Dean…” Sam faltered. “Go ahead.”

“You’re gonna be okay, man.”

Jaws locked, Sam’s eyelids sank.

“You will. You’re gonna find a girl—”

Sam choked.

“—maybe one of those Elseworld hunters, you know.”

“Dean, please.”

“And you gotta take care of Mom.”

Blood hammered in Sam’s ears. Dean swaggered around the box. Traced wards. Licked his lips. Overconfidence he only ever showed when he was petrified. He stopped at Sam’s nine, driver’s side, and Sam seized, lungs rebelled.

“Dean.”

“That all you can say?” And the smirk, big-brother ballbuster was real.

Sam curled fists in Dean’s lapels. Dragged him so their noses brushed. Dean’s breath steamed on his face. Sam mapped freckles and lines, lashes and eyes. He’s not even forty years old, he’s got half his life—

Dean grimaced. Eyes fluttered shut and he rocked.

Sam bumped their foreheads. “How are you—”

“I got him.” Dean slid a palm up Sam’s chest.

Sam kissed him. Dean groaned, opened up and took two handfuls of hair. Sam nipped.

Dean rumbled, “You serious?” He sidestepped, whirled Sam into a steel container. Jammed his thigh between Sam’s legs. “Actin like a horny teenager, I swear to—”

Sam pulled Dean’s fly apart. Shoved his hand in; Dean hissed. “Didn’t hear you complaining at the last truck stop.”

“Last three truck stops,” Dean growled. “My point.”

Forty-six road-hours, four fucks. Quick and dirty-desperate, dark alleys and men’s rooms. Backseat—by some miracle—before they gave up, swapped handjobs, and Dean locked the angel cuffs on, before he went to sleep.

Sam palmed Dean’s jaw. Lapped at him. Breakfast bacon, coffee and toothpaste. Beards rasped, teeth clicked. Dean surged into him, thickened in Sam’s hand. Sam walked Dean backward. Dean pulled hair, pinched and batted but Sam steered him behind a tall gray cargo container. Shoved him down on a shrink-wrapped pallet.

Dean hooked an eyebrow. Tugged Sam’s t-shirt and Sam ducked, let Dean strip him. Sam wiggled out of his jeans while Dean untied bootlaces, wrestled his shirts off. Sam pounced. Thumbed the red-raised weal on Dean’s bicep. Fuck, but he’d had enough monster-marks on his brother’s skin.

Dean smiled. Sad, soft grin. In between Michael’s attacks he looked—well not peaceful, but—at-peace maybe. Tight lines around his eyes smoothed out like Sam hadn’t seen since… Stanford? Done this dance so many times, staring down the barrel of eternal damn—

“You’re thinkin too loud.” Dean rippled, sweat and skin.

They’d finally found privacy, here in the cargo hold. First night, Dean spread Sam out, pet and stretched and coaxed him like a virgin. Kept him on edge until Sam sobbed, swore and begged. Dean laughed. Laid down on him and stroked him, outside and in. Bruised Sam. Mouth and fingers, chest and hips and thighs.

Dean locked teeth on the darkest spot, mirror of Sam’s ink. Sam moaned into it.

Flashed back.

Suction, spark.

Shivering coughs outside Reverend Roy’s revival.

Dean groped, slipped between Sam’s cheeks.

Cooling pool of blood and Lilith’s sulfur stench.

Stinging sore, fucked raw.

“You love chick flicks.”

“Do it.” He rocked down on Dean’s hand.

Dean bit his lip and leaned back. Muscles strained under his skin. Tattoo, faded black-blue-gray. Edges fuzzed and soft. Tears welled as Sam traced the lines and flames. Dean flipped, upended them, crushed Sam under him. Sam clamped on. Wrapped his arms and legs around, bared his throat. Dean licked, kissed, and bit, tormented Sam. Starfield negative, purple rings dotted pale skin.

Sam grit his teeth and took in every tickle, tease, and sting. Dean nosed between his ribs and Sam squirmed. Supposed to say: Knock it off! Get on with it! but Sam trailed fingers up Dean’s spine. Soaked in him. Stretched for him, hissed with the ache.

“Sammy.” Dean retreated. “I don’t—”

“Don’t you fuckin dare.” Sam sprang up, shoved Dean down. Climbed on him. Dean’s face screwed up and Sam breathed, opened on Dean’s dick. Legs trembled and arms burned. Sweat poured down his back.

Dean dug bruises in his thighs. Rocked with him, blazed in him. Concentration, flushed face, bitten lips. “That’s it, Sammy.” Expert hands tugged, squeezed and twisted. “Gimme that load,” and Sam let go. Dean bucked, jerked, and they slammed together. World spun. Dean rolled him under and Sam pulsed, tender and empty.

Not for long. Dean pushed in, fucked Sam ferocious.

Sam spewed, “Yes, Dean.” And, “Come in me. Fuck me.”

Shudder-thrusts, Dean pounded. Muscles bulged, eyes smashed shut. Sam grabbed for him, ground on him. Dean came, gritted teeth and muttered filth.

Palm behind Dean’s neck, Sam towed him in. Kissed him deep. Dean slid off to one side. Sam pressed to his chest.

Mom knocked at the hatch. “Hey, boys?”

Sam would’ve panicked, if he’d had a scrap to spare.

“The captain says we’re close to the coordinates. He’s gonna send a crew for the box.”

“Yeah, Mom. Thanks,” Sam said.

Dean tried to shove him off but Sam pinned him, dragged out one more breathless kiss.

Dean climbed in. Sat and squirmed. “Roomy.”

Birds cried overhead. Salt wind lashed Sam’s face. They formed up like a funeral line. Of course, in their lives, the corpse sat up talking.

Jack stepped up first, buried his face in Dean’s collar and sobbed. “I’ll find a way, Dean,” he promised. “I have forever; I’ll get you out.”

“Sure thing, kid.” Dean rubbed his back, scratched in his hair.

“Both of us,” Cas stepped in.

Sam’s stomach crawled right up in his throat. Of course they would. Even if Sam failed. Someday, long after his bones turned to dust, Jack and Cas—or, hell—Billie or Chuck or Amara would…

Dean slung an arm around Cas, dragged him in and banged a fist on his shoulder.

“Stay outta trouble, Cas. I mean it.”

Mom touched Dean’s face. “My sweet boy.” Dean’s lashes tilted up and decades melted off him. “I love you, Dean. I am so sorr—”

“Mom.” Dean threw his arms around her. Eyes squeezed. “Promise me, you’ll go make the life you always wanted. Get outta hunting—”

“Honey, I will never stop.” She glanced at Sam, Cas, Jack. “We. Will never stop.”

Dean swallowed. Taut jaws carved canyons in his cheeks.

Sam leaned down, slid his arms around.

Dean cradled his neck. Patted his back and circled. “You look out for them.” Sam scrubbed his tears in Dean’s shoulder. “Chief.”

Sam pressed a quiet kiss to his brother’s cheek. Whispered, “I love you too.”

Dean thumped him. “Yeah, I know.” He turned Sam loose. “Oh, shit! Almost forgot!” Dug in his pocket.

Car keys arched, gleamed in the sun. Sam caught them. Dean-hot metal gored in his palm. Sam gripped tighter.

Dean clanked his knuckles on his prison. “Let’s do this.”

Sam drew one long breath.

Dean squirmed and rooted, like he was gonna get comfortable. Cas helped close the lid. Last sliver of light, Sam's last look.

Dean winked.

Sam barely breathed. Drove bolts through Dean’s drill holes. Ratcheted nuts in place. Strung heavy chains and padlocked cinder blocks. Dean, for once in his life, shut the hell up. Sam could’ve kissed and killed him for it. No chance he’d finish this, seal Dean away, not if he had to…

Winches spun up. Belts screeched and chains clanked. Harness straps around Dean’s box pulled taut. Mom hung onto Cas and Jack. Sam balled fists.

His phone rang. “Dean, what—”

“S’a smooth ride, man, but the headroom sucks.”

Tears spilled down Sam’s cheeks. Gears groaned and the box stopped eight, ten feet above the deck. Dean swayed. Motors chugged, and the arm arced toward the water. Angular momentum pitched him wide.

“S’like the swings ride at the fair.” Dean sounded thready, far away.

Sam ground his teeth. “You hate the swings.”

“Yeah, I do.” Dean might’ve grinned. “Hey, am I on speaker?”

“No…”

Crane arm shut down. Winch fired with a chug and Dean descended. “I like the funhouse, Sammy, y’member? That one Tunnel of Love?” Slack let out and the wind picked up and Dean wavered and spun. “Yeah, okay, pro tip. No pukin in the box.”

Sam shoved down mental pictures of snapping chains, slipping straps. Dean going under whole would haunt Sam forever. If he went under broken… Cold sweats. Sympathy nausea or—

Dean touched down. “Whoo!” Splashing noises. “S’fuckin cold!”

“Dean, I…”

“Kinda hoped these wards’d be watertight.” Shivering, chattering teeth. “Sammy—”

Silence.

Sam ran for the rail. Leaned out, far as he could, howled for his brother. Willed his voice to carry. Cried, finally, watching the box slip under the waves. Bubbles rose and broke, and Sam fought down all his future nightmares: visions of Dean, desperate for air, drowning forever.

Sam rubbed his forehead, wiped his face. Pressure built in his head, ears rang. Guts churned, and spit flooded his—

Boom!

Steel and water gouted skyward. Blue-white Grace light. Blazing, blinding—

Yea, he had power over the angel, and prevailed.

Hosea 12:4

Sam gags. Dried blood, decomp stench.

“Oh no you don’t.” Dean’s voice, but…

Sam blinks, eyes adjust. Moonlight sparkles through a rose window. Teeth chatter and breath steams.

“I was so close.” Michael softly snaps his fingers. “Little… trick I picked up from my little brother.” Quick wink, hyena’s smile.

Archangels. Sam lurches to his feet.

“It’s too bad, Sammy.” Michael stalks for him. “I tried to be nice.” Sam skirts towards the door. “Gave you all those farewell tours.” Back hits the wall. “I meant to let you live to watch your world burn.” Dean’s hand curls around Sam’s throat. “Watch your brother burn it.”

Michael lifts and Sam thrashes. Kicks and punches but fire spreads in his chest. Black spots dim his vision. Dean’s green eyes, cruel. Beautiful mouth pinched in a mocking grin. Sam’s strength bleeds. Tears fall as his body shudders—

Sam’s skull explodes in agony. Grace erupts and Michael drops him.

Black and black and black. Heya, bunk-buddy! Light play, rippling oil slick. You miss me? Red eyes flare. Nick’s face takes shape.

Sam screams. Dean falls, dead weight against his chest. Doors crash open and freezing winds rip through. Leaves and papers fly; snow peppers Sam’s face like salt shot.

“Sam! Dean!” Castiel swoops in. “You’ve been trapped here for weeks.”

Mom and Jack.

“Are you all right?”

Bobby and Charlie.

“Boys?”

Garth and Donna.

“Tracked your cellphone—”

Jules and Maggie.

“Get those heaters in here!”

“Ward the doors!”

Sam lays Dean out, slow and easy on a church pew.

Jack puts his coat under Dean’s head. “Sam, what happened? Michael snapped and you both—”

“Yeah,” dry. “I guess all your uncles wanna be tricksters.”

Jack tilts his head.

“I’m sorry.” Sam swallows. “I just… I haven’t pieced it all together.”

Hunters flock around, hot coffee and mylar blankets.

“Michael’s monsters—”

“—skirmishes—”

“—perimeter—”

“—here and the Bunker.”

Cas lays a hand on Dean’s forehead.

Sam coughs. “Is he…”

“Yes,” Cas says. “It seems your brother has expelled Michael.”

“Does that mean…” they’ve gone through all this, and Michael’s out there and Dean—

“He’s fine, Sam.” Cas meets his eyes. “He just needs rest.”

Jules takes command. “All right, we need boots out there. Get word to the sentries, eyes on the monsters. Three-man teams. Volunteers?”

“Mom?” Sam asks. “Where’s the car?”

Garth steps up, scratches behind his neck. “That other Bobby busted me outta the trunk. We-uh. We had to hotwire—”

Dean’s gonna flip his shit. Sam grins and tears sting. “Thank you. All of you.” He pulls his family around him. “I need…” Glances back at Dean. “We’re gonna…”

“I understand, Sam,” Mom says. Jack and Cas nod.

Roomful of hunters watch him. Some sly, some not. Bloody and beat-up, shivering cold. Whole new world of far from home.

“You guys…” Risked their lives for him. “How about you regroup, back at the Bunker?” They don’t need to hold this church anymore. “Just keep, doing what you’ve been doing. It’s…” Sam smiles, thin but he means it. “I’m a phone call away. I promise. We’ll be—”

“Sam.” Cas grips his shoulder. “See to your brother.”

“We’ve got this,” Mom says.

“Bye, Chief.”

“See ya.”

And, “Take care.”

Cas carries Dean. Sam gets the car door, helps slide him across the backseat.

“So listen.” Sam flinches when Cas shuts Dean inside. “I’m gonna drive to the nearest flophouse, ward us in.”

“Sam—” Cas starts.

“We can’t afford to have anyone else off the board.” Sam cuts in. “We can’t afford to have us off the board, but—”

“I only meant to wish you luck.” Cas hugs Sam, stiff as ever.

Sam pats his back.

He checks in, carries Dean to bed, sinks to the edge. Sam runs hands through, tugs at his hair.

“Weeks,” Cas said.

Dean snores. Restless in Michael’s three-piece suit. Sam eases him out of the jacket. Takes off his shoes and his sharp-creased pants. Tie loose, vest and shirt undone. Dean paws for him, snuffle-snorts. Clocks Sam right in the head.

Sam chuckles. “Okay…” Dumps his boots and jeans. “Okay.” Settles against Dean’s side.

Midmorning sun slants winter-gold through the curtain crack. Sam slips out from under Dean’s arm. Grumbling, and Sam grins.

Dean’s upright and demanding breakfast by the time Sam’s showered.

Truck stop. Dean wolfs down eggs, hash browns, and pancakes. Country ham and bacon. Dean’s heel taps, judders the table. Neck tendons stick out and he chews with his mouth shut for once.

Sam signals the waitress he conspired with. “Hey, uh.” Bumps Dean with his foot. One slice of cherry pie, to go. “Happy birthday.”

“Really?” Dean reels in the plastic clamshell. Cups both hands around.

Sam nods.

“Sammy.” Dean beams.

Southbound. “Back in Black,” on blast, good sign. Blue skies, blistering cold. Ice crusts in the windshield corners, defrosters outgunned.

Dean turns the volume down. “He played me, Sam.” Thumbs drum the wheel. “Soon as that box went under, I was like, ‘you son of a bitch.’”

Sam hooks toward him.

“Billie got the drop on me; she coulda reaped us both where I stood. Slit my throat and took his Grace, I mean…” Dean shakes his head. “Ohhh, but nooooo, gotta go back in that water, come on!” Cheeks cave in. “You said it yourself, man; there ain’t no such thing as a mal’ak box.”

“Yeah, well…” Sam grimaces. “I think the box was real.”

Dean’s eyes flick over.

“I’d-uh… seen those wards before.”

Bright noon, Dean’s tongue glimmers. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Would it have helped?”

Dean shrugs. Wind blasts snow across the road. Car rocks as he fights through a slick spot. “I’m gonna get us a room; this shit’s ridiculous.”

He cranks, “You Shook Me All Night Long,” and heat swamps Sam’s cheeks. Two days ago—or, ten days—who fucking knows? Fake Tijuana traffic jam—

“He gets off on it.” Dean shifts; legs spread. “He knows what you are too, you know. What we are.” Hips tilt. Sam’s pulse kicks. “What we had to be.”

Yeah, Sam knew. He spent enough time, trapped with a near-enough copy.

Dean cuts off the highway for a billboard: “Les Chalets Sur Le Lac! Year-round Hunting and Fishing! Summer Skiing! Winter Skating!”

Dean sticks with the signs. Steers between snow-choked trees and the frozen shore. Les chalets are more of a circle of campers than lakefront cottages, but they’re cozy. Solid walls and propane heat.

Duffels down, locks and salt and wards secured, and Dean’s on Sam. Flannel buttons clatter on the vinyl floor. He sweeps, drops Sam to the loveseat. Kneels across Sam’s thighs and kisses rough.

Sam plants a hand on his chest. “Dean, I have to—”

Dean straightens up. “Is this a boner-killer, Sam? Because, priorities.”

Sam can’t help but laugh. “I mean. It’s not… trivial informa—”

“Is it actionable?”

“N-not, right this—”

“Save it.” Dean cups Sam’s jaws, tilts back his head. “Feel like I ain’t had you alone since—”

Jack was born? Probably also a boner-killer.

“I wanna shower.” Dean hoists up, offers Sam a hand. “You in?”

“Yeah, okay.”

“Awesome,” Dean breathes. Loveseat creaks.

Sam follows him toward the little hallway. Patented salacious grin gets Sam riled, even now. He pulls Dean close, gropes for his fly. Dean chuckles and Sam drops. Cold hands fight Dean’s double-knot boot strings. Dean scratches, pats in his hair.

“You could help,” Sam grumbles.

Dean grins sideways. “I like watchin you work.”

Sam rolls eyes, and Dean licks lips, and ho-ly-shit that’s unfair. Shiny and swollen. Deep-cut smile lines. All those freckles Sam’s practically named. Dean hooks an eyebrow and Sam stands. Peels off Dean’s shirts, drags him in. Hand curves down his bicep, feathers over flexing muscle—

“Dean.” Smooth skin. “The scar.” Off-balance.

Dean spins him into the wall. Hooks Sam’s belt loops and rubs up on him.

“Dean, the scar.” Teeth knock. “It’s gone.”

“Don’t care.” Denim whispers, metal glints. Dean shoves a hand down Sam’s pants.

Sam stiffens. “But—”

Dean flicks his wrist and Sam gasps. “Spear was part of the con.” Dean bites hard, Sam’s bottom lip. “Had to be, it was a bone for Chrissakes.” Dean jerks him rough; Sam groans. “Will you stop with the thinking now?”

Bathroom door, shower curtain, steam. Soap and kisses, half a scuffle. Dean pins Sam to the fiberglass and rakes teeth down his neck. Suction, merciless where his shoulder joins and Sam yelps.

Dean growls, “Got used to seein my marks all over you.”

Goosebumps rip and Sam rolls. “I miss em too.”

Dean buries fingers in his hair and paints him with kisses. Nips at Sam’s earlobes, licks behind. Sam covers Dean’s hands and hangs on. Dean mouths along Sam’s collarbones, tongues at his tattoo. Flat-swipes a nipple and Sam jerks. Hard enough to hurt, jammed against Dean’s hip. Sam moans; Dean torments him. Bites and licks and scrapes with his stubbled chin. Sam wriggles under him and Dean grins.

Lashes flutter. “Wanna eat you alive, Sammy.” Tender skin above Sam’s armpit, Dean clamps down. Sucks sharp and kisses soft. Sam’s jaws lock, dick jumps. “Bruise you up good, pump you full of my come.” Dean grinds, writhes against him. Scatters bruises over him until the water cools.

Dean dries Sam’s hair. See-saws down his back, under his butt.

Sam sways for the bedroom. Clears the threshold and Dean tackles, plants him face-first in a stiff bedspread, saggy mattress. Dean rides, hard and sticky against his thigh. Sam breathes out, sinks in.

Dean marks and massages him, high on his shoulders, under his ribs. Spreads Sam’s legs and works between. Sam moans, fists in the pillows. Tickle and pain, Dean’s breath, expert lips. Fingernails and sweaty palms draw Sam to his knees. Dean squeezes, separates Sam’s cheeks. Licks, strong and soft and wet.

Sam quakes. Toes dig in the mattress. Dean eats him out from his balls to his tailbone, trickles spit and circles, worms his tongue. Fingers curl around Sam’s hips. Push-pull and guide him, hold him hard. Sam’s thighs burn, back bends. Hair clings to his face.

Dean slips a finger in. “Ohhh-hoho fuck, Sammy, you are tight.” Sting in his asshole. Sam wobbles. “I’m gonna make you walk funny for a week.”

Bedsprings squeal. Soft click. Lube drips cool and Dean glides. Rubs Sam’s rim and pushes slick in. Strokes Sam’s thighs, scratches his back. Sam aches, ripples for it. Shivers, sweats, and leaks on the bedspread.

“Dean.” He crawls toward the headboard. Folds and flips and pulls Dean down, thrusts against him. Kisses, licks behind Dean’s teeth. Legs curl around, Dean chuckles. Drifts. Drags his lips underneath Sam’s jaws, below his ear and down his neck. Wet fingers tease him open. Sam groans, hangs on, claws at his brother’s back. “I want—” Sam scrabbles, at the edge. “I can’t—”

“Hang on, Sammy, I got you.”

Rumble-moan. Dean’s fingers leave and Sam grabs his knees, ass up off the mattress. “Hurry.”

Dean smirks, whole and alive. Freckles and lines but his scars— “re-hymenated.” Sam’s eyes roll.

“What?” Dean’s cock shines in his fist.

Sam bucks, makes the bed squeak. Dean squints; Sam spreads wider.

“Fuck,” Dean mumbles. Then, heat.

Sam grits teeth, breathes—

“Look at you—”

bears down and opens.

“takin my cock so pretty.”

Sam moans. Dean lights up his insides, fucks him slow and shallow until he’s buried. Bends down, catches Sam by the lips.

Sam’s turn to smirk. “I just took your fourth virginity.” Stifled laughter. “On your fortieth birthday.”

Dean groans. Jams his dick in, grinds it deep. “Well this forty-year-old virgin’s got Viagra, so if you wanna go…”

Sam clutches Dean’s neck, kisses for real. “Shut up and fuck me.”

Dean bitches, “You’re the one doin all the yappin,” but he moves. Tilts his hips, makes Sam shake.

Forehead to forehead, Dean fills him up. All he can see or feel or breathe. Doesn’t take long. Dean, crushing, crashing into him, over and over. Bed frame bangs and springs screech. Sam roars, shoots all over himself.

“God, Sammy.” Dean pulls out. Sam moans and clenches. Dean wedges Sam’s cock tight against his and jerks off. Sam rocks into it, buzzes, claws at Dean’s chest. Dean shrinks, belly curls and shoulders climb for his ears. Eyes squeeze shut.

Softening, sensitive, pushing pain. “Mark me, Dean,” Sam breathes, “blow on me, give it to me.”

Dean comes saying his name.

Second shower gets cold too fast for any fun. Dean sulks, toweling off until Sam says, “Go eat your pie.”

And Dean lights up. “I forgot my pie!”

Sam shakes his head. Spins up his towel and snaps Dean’s ass as he walks away.

Dean jumps. “Not nice, Sammy. I’ll have my revenge.”

Sam turns on the TV. Dean microwaves his pie. Tussle for space on the lumpy fold-out. Beers clink.

“Dammit, I forgot to get a fork.” Dean stares down at warm and gooey cherry.

“Dumbass,” Sam says. “There’s probably something in the car—”

“Fuck it.” Dean digs in. Scoops up filling on two fingers. Garbles, “Happy birthday to me.”

Sam laughs, eyerolls, and headshakes all at once.

Fruit and crumbs cling to Dean’s lips. Pink slicks his fingers. Dean makes sinful sounds, orgasmic faces. Sam mocks him but has to adjust his underwear.

“Have some.” Plump, perfectly glazed cherry perches on Dean’s fingertip.

Sam snags it with teeth.

“You suck,” Dean says.

“Um, no.” Sam chews. “S’why you’re pouting.”

“I do not pout,” Dean pouts.

Sam gets him by the wrist. Slips his tongue between Dean’s sweet-sticky knuckles. “Nah…” Sam smacks his lips. Dean eyes him sideways. Sam leers. “That.” Points at Dean’s mouth.

Dean grins. Sam attacks. Drives him into the cushions, nibbles and kisses from nose to chin. Dean’s left arm hooks lazy around him. Scratching, circling, and petting. Making out quiet in front of the TV. Sam keeps with it until his lips go raw, until he can’t taste anything other than Dean…

Whose growling stomach puts an ignominious end to their interlude.

“Dude.”

Dean spreads his palms. “Okay, one, can’t help it. Two, we didn’t eat—I mean eat—for what, a month?”

Sam shoves off him. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You love it.”

Sam rolls his eyes.

Dean gets up. Digs in the antique fridge through their gas station food. “You?”

“Just another beer.”

Dean throws one over. “Hey-uh.” Frozen burrito goes in the microwave. Sam watches Dean’s bare back, taut shoulders. “You bring in the angel cuffs?”

Sam blinks. “You really think you’re gonna need them? Cas said—”

“Yeah I know what Cas said, but he cleared me before, and look what happened.” Dean turns. Leans on the counter. “I just…” Jaws work. “What if he’s…” tap at his temple. “Or, he can get back in, like last time?”

“Dean—”

“I dunno how I beat him, man; it was like, he flinched or—”

“Lucifer came back,” Sam blurts.

Dean stares.

“S’what I was trying to tell you. He…” Sam sighs, “sent me a vision. Red eyes, rising up out of the Empty—”

“Get the fuck outta here.”

“I know. It’s—”

“Complete bullshit? Sammy, allll this. Alllllll this! Was to wax that dickbag, once and for all! How in the—” Dean shakes. “Fuck!”

Sam lets him steam. “My guess?” he cuts in, quiet, “It’s Jack.”

Dean squints.

“He brought Cas back. What if his stolen Grace…?”

Dean scrubs a hand across his mouth. “Okay.” Microwave chimes and he flips his burrito. “Let’s say—ow-ow-ow!” He sucks his fingers. “Let’s say you’re right. He got distracted, and I put him out.”

“That’s what it looked like.”

“How come he didn’t… y’know… scramble my eggs?”

“I don’t think he can,” Sam says. “I mean. He could, but…” Sweat breaks, even now. “Uh. Lucifer,” swallow of beer, “messed with me. All the time. Said he—said we—needed my anger.”

“So, they need us alive.”

“It makes sense.” Sam shrugs. “Their whole, perfect vessel thing’s gotta mean more than just meat.”

Dean paces. “Well, at least we’ve got a clear next move.”

Sam looks up.

“Build that fuckin box, huh? Double-wide. Stuff both those sons of bitches in there.”

Sam drinks to that.

And on that day, shall the Morning break, and conquer the Void. And the Prince shall surrender his Sword.

The Journals of Donatello Redfield: Cycle of Worlds