Officer Nelson Fuller is sitting in his squad car along Route 4. It's almost midnight; no one's going to drive through the speed trap at this hour, but he goes where the sheriff sends him. He's been here a few hours already and the only car to pass by belonged to his cousin Vic, who knows not to speed through this particular stretch. Only thirty minutes left sitting out here and he's contemplating polishing off the half dozen donuts Carol sent along with him when he catches movement out of the corner of his eye, at the edge of the woods. There's a full moon tonight and it reflects off a white night gown, muted reds and blues and pinks surrounding it.

There are figures on the edge of the woods, moving closer to the road. Small forms he doesn’t even recognize at first, thinks he’s seeing things until he realizes he recognizes them: the kids, all the town’s kids.

They’d disappeared a month ago, all of them, all at once, during the town meeting. Nelson doesn’t have any kids (that he’s aware of) but he remembers that night. He remembers the Caseys getting home first, they only lived a block over from the town square, and Mrs. Casey’s screams echoing down the streets. He remembers the answering cries as each family went home to find their children’s beds empty. Way Nelson’s mama tells it, it’s exactly like thirty years ago, before Nelson was born and his mama went in to kiss her daughter goodnight and found nothing but an empty bed. And her mama before that, her aunt and uncle grave and silent at every family gathering, the five kids they’d had before her birth a gaping hole in the landscape of family portraits.

They've never come back before. No one's ever seen the kids who disappeared again but here these kids are. Sarah Casey is first. She’s dirty and rumpled, still in her nightgown, with scabs on her knees that look new. She’s holding the Miller baby, who looks to be crying its head off. The Hammond twins, Mike and Jamie, follow her. Slowly, some alone and some in pairs or groups, they’re all there, by the side of the road, shivering and holding on to each other.

A guy comes stumbling after, bloody and mangled enough that it turns Nelson's stomach, makes him aware of the knot of sugar and dough churning. It’s a small town and sure, they’ve had more than their share of weird, but blood? Not in greater than average quantities. Average being accidents with scissors and kitchen knives and the like. Nothing like this. This guy’s been torn to shreds. He’s clutching the Parker’s youngest, turned three the day before he vanished. The guy sets the kid- Nelson thinks his name is Josh- gently on the ground before he collapses to his knees.

Nelson’s out of the car then, gun cocked and ready and trained on the guy. He can count on one hand the number of times he's had to pull his weapon and point it at a person. It's not something he has to do much and he's always been pretty thankful for that. The kids are in a circle around the guy, a protective little clump and when Nelson calls Sarah’s name she doesn’t say anything. None of them do, they don’t respond to anything Nelson says, but they don’t look hurt and there’s still a bloody guy on the ground. His leg’s crumpled at an unnatural angle beneath him and Nelson can't look at it; it makes him want to vomit. Nelson crouches down next to him. He sees the guy’s lips moving, breath stirring the dust. He leans over the guy, ear turned toward his mouth. "Sam," the guy is saying. Over and over and over again. "Sam. Sam. Sam."

He recognizes the guy now, showed up in town a couple of days ago, alone and in a sweet black Impala. He introduced himself around as Roger Daltry, not that anyone believed him. They were backwater but they weren’t that backwater.

"What happened?" Nelson asks. "What happened to you?" His hands hover over the guy and he’s had first aid training but he doesn’t trust himself with much more than a paper cut. The guy is non-responsive, Nelson remembers that phrase well enough from watching ER with his mama.

Sarah’s at his side, looking down at the guy. "He wouldn’t leave without Josh," she says, her voice distant, emotionless.

Nelson looks at her, crouched down over the guy. Nelson's right at level with her eyes and he turns to her, touches her arm but she still won’t look at him. "Where were you?" he asks, but she doesn’t answer.

The guy’s still breathing, still muttering the name Sam and Nelson wonders if that’s his real name. Maybe he thinks this is it and he wants Nelson to know who he is, like last rites or something. Nelson isn't Catholic. "Sam," he says, loudly, right in the guy’s ear. "I’m going to radio for an ambulance, hang in there."

---

Sam snuffles into yet another tissue and throws the phone on the opposite bed. Busy signal again, electronic voice telling him, "This phone is outside of its service area." He hasn’t gotten through to Dean since yesterday. He sneezes twice, his entire body seizing each time, and curses the bionic cold he caught from little Timmy (who was not trapped in a well, but had problems with the ghost of his dead baby sister). What a great fucking thank you for saving my life, here have my germs. There’s crap all on television, soaps and infomercials about Chuck Norris’s latest exercise machine. Maybe the fever's making him delusional, but he's pretty sure he could take Chuck Norris without using his crappy machine. He’s tired of wiping snot and spit off the monitor of the laptop every time he uses it and squinting at the screen makes his head ache worse.

"Simple job, my ass," he mutters. Two days, Dean told him. He won't be overdue until after tomorrow. He called yesterday to whine bitterly about being sick and just hearing Dean made him feel better for a little while. Now that it's finally over, he knows he'll always have Dean there with him. But that was yesterday, and Dean hasn't answered since.

Dean had promised it was just a research trip, just a look into what was going on; he’d even said where he was going but Sam can’t remember now, can’t think past the headache gnawing at his brain. Makes him more irritable and unreasonable and it’s on that he blames the small knot of worry in his gut.

He picks up the phone and tries again.

---

The guy had screamed and passed out when they stuck him on the gurney, must've jostled his leg too much. Nelson watched the kids the whole time, thinking they'd be scared. They didn't even flinch.

Nelson's following the ambulance now, he’s got six of the kids in the car with him, the sheriff sent the wagon down with the ambulance to transport the rest to the hospital. Nelson hasn’t clocked a lot of time with kids but he knows just from seeing them around town they're normally a little more alive than this. He eyes Brody Jenkins in the rear view. Just last month he had to have a talk with Mrs. Jenkins about Brody putting dye in the fountain in the square. Now he's just sitting there, staring out the window, like he's waiting for someone to flip his "on" switch.

He leaves them with Amy, the nurse at the front desk, and heads back to x-ray. The guy’s awake, but he isn’t much more responsive than the kids are. He answers any direct question with something akin to confusion, and still the only word he says is "Sam." Nelson watches the doc set the guy’s (Sam’s?) broken wrist. Turns out his femur’s broken, which accounts for the stumbling and the unnatural angles his leg makes with his body. They’re going to have to put him under for that, put a pin in or something, and Nelson isn’t going to stick around for that. Those surgery shows on the Discovery Channel make him queasy.

He steps in, prints the guy’s left hand (his right is the one in the big yellow cast). He tucks the ten sheet in his pocket and turns to head out, but the guy’s hand clamps on his arm. "Sam," he says, again, urgently this time, like it’s slipping away from him, like if he doesn’t hold on he won’t have it anymore.

"Right, Sam," Nelson says. He puts his hand on top of the guy’s, pulls at his clenching fingers a bit. "We’ll figure it out, buddy."

He seems content with that, lets go and lays back. Nelson stops at the door, turns back but the guy’s not watching him anymore. His eyes are on the window, the pale sky at sunrise. "Sam," he says.

---

Sam coughs into the phone, great big hacking cough that does nothing to relieve the tightness in his chest. Two days now and the worry isn’t small anymore and it’s getting close to panic. They haven't spent two days apart since Sam reached down and dragged Dean out of Hell. Sam doesn't want to think about that, ever again: the certain knowledge that his brother was dead, nothing Sam could do about it, no way to save him. He doesn't want to think of what he had to do, what he had to become, to save Dean. The experience left them changed, different, more dependent on each other, more wrapped up in each other than before. It's two days now and it feels like he's lost an appendage, his arm, something that should be firmly attached.

Sam has trouble remembering life without the low level of Dean's activity around him: cleaning guns, tinkering with car parts, cleaning and recleaning the armory, working his "charm" on women. The room is too quiet, too big. Dean should be climbing up the walls, all manic energy and stir crazy, begging Sam for a job, something to hunt and kill. Instead it's Sam crawling out of his skin with worry.

Bobby had been there when Sam saved Dean, had thrown them both in the car afterwards and taken them back to his place to rest. Of the few people he knows to call, Bobby’s least likely to make fun of him for the low-grade panic. He knows what they're like now; he's seen."I’m not exactly worried," Sam says, "but he hasn’t answered his phone since the day before yesterday."

"Well, kid. Maybe he just gets crappy coverage."

"What if it's not that."

Bobby tsks into the phone. "Don't go borrowing trouble just yet. It seems to follow you boys enough on its own."

"You think I'm overreacting?" Would have figured Bobby'd say that, and Sam's not entirely unwilling to rule that possibility out.

"I think you're both not rational about each other anymore. Listen, he's done plenty of solo hunts. He’s fine. Quit calling me, you woman. And take some Nyquil."

"Thanks, Bobby," he says, into the dead air.

---

Two days later, they've moved the guy into another hospital room and Nelson's outside looking in. Outside Dean Winchester’s hospital room. Dean Winchester had been a wanted criminal, suspected of murder, bank robbery, attempted murder, maybe a couple of other things he’s forgotten already. Had been until a couple of years ago when he died in a helicopter explosion, of all things. In FBI custody and everything, taking him off to maximum security for the rest of his life. Extremely dangerous, the old rap sheet had warned, but Nelson can’t get the picture of Dean cradling Josh Parker out of his head. Gentle hands setting him carefully on the ground before collapsing himself.

"He doesn’t remember anything?" Nelson asks the doc.

"Nothing," the doctor says, facing the others huddled in the hallway. Nelson’s got company on his room-side vigil. Mike Anderson, the town’s lawyer, nothing but grown kids and no grandkids and no personal stake and very little sympathy. (Nelson could picture Anderson's mother, the saintly elder Mrs. Anderson, carefully planning around the disappearances without telling anyone she was planning around the disappearances. Nelson wonders why more people didn't do that, why there are ever any kids at all when the thirty-year mark comes around. He guesses no one wants to believe it in it, so they don't.) Mr. Casey's there too because he’s the mayor and owns half the town, and the sheriff (whose name is Mayberry, if you can believe it).

And Nelson, because he found the guy, he supposes. "Guess he's not dead," Nelson says. Nobody laughs.

"So what exactly do the kids remember?" Anderson asks.

Casey tells them what Sarah told him. "At first," he says, "they didn't remember anything, not even their names. Then this guy comes." He points at Dean. "Starts fighting the thing. She couldn't remember what he was fighting, just that he was. And she watched, they all watched. The longer he fought, the more she remembered and the more confused this guy became. She said he'd stop sometimes, like he didn't remember he was supposed to be fighting. Now it's just the month she's missing, all of them are missing."

"And he ended up with nothing," the doc says, nodding towards the window. Dean's flicking through the channels on the television. Nelson can tell he’s got one eye on them and their whispered conference.

For a minute they don't say anything, any of them, like talking about what happened in the woods, how it couldn't, shouldn't be possible will make it any more or less of a reality.

Sheriff Mayberry leans forward finally and tells them, in whispered stops and starts (depending on the traffic of the hallway) the story of Dean Winchester, about who he'd been and what he'd done. He'd been on the phone for days, Nelson helped him track down phone numbers and such. He called Deputy Hudak in Minnesota and Detective Ballard in Maryland and more besides and while he can’t credit some of the stories they told, he knows the police file on Dean isn't the whole story. Entire histories spin out between the accusing lines of official reports all telling the same story: that Dean Winchester had been some kind of hero, some kind of savior, a ghostbuster and Zelda Rubenstein rolled up in one, before his end.

"Then the feds showed up," Mayberry says. Two FBI agents chased the story into town, following the hit on the national database when Dean’s prints came back. They want to know how this tiny town ended up with the prints of a dead man and they don't take kindly to stalling. Mayberry's been keeping them holed up in the motel. "They won't be put off much longer. What do I tell them?"

"Nothing for now," Casey says. "We need to think about this."

"He isn’t worth the trouble he’s bringing down on us, that he’ll bring down on us," Anderson starts. He opens his mouth like he wants to say more but Casey cuts him off.

"Not worth the trouble?" is all he says, but it’s quiet and angry, a glare from red-rimmed eyes. Nelson can tell there’s still a lot of heartbreak underneath it, still a lot of questions about where Sarah’s been for a month, what’s been done to her.

Anderson doesn’t have the grace to look ashamed but he drops it anyway.

"He saved our kids," Nelson says, looking between Anderson and Casey. Casey nods. "He's dead anyway, the feds think so. I say we leave his file like it is. Give him a new name, a new life."

"For how long?" Anderson asks.

"As long as he needs it," Casey says.

"What if it's forever?"

"Then it's forever."

Anderson’s small beady eyes are calculating. "At the cost of the town? We'll all go down if he's found out. Harboring a fugitive, and a deceased one at that."

Mayberry steps in, calm and gentle hand hard on Anderson’s shoulder. "We owe him, as long as he needs."

"What are you going to tell the FBI?" Casey asks.

Mayberry shrugs. "I’ll think of something."

"I can't hear this," Anderson says. Nelson pictures him putting his fingers in his ears and humming. It makes him want to laugh. "I'm washing my hands of it right now. Casey, as your lawyer, I advise you do the same." He stalks off.

Casey shakes his head. "Anything he needs," he says to the sheriff. "I'll cover it. Physical therapy, an apartment, hell, groceries. I've got it covered."

The sheriff nods and Casey shakes his hand before he walks away.

Nelson and Mayberry are left alone. "He kept saying 'Sam'," Nelson says. "Any word on who that is?"

"His brother," Mayberry says. He steps a bit closer to the glass, like Dean is an animal he’s watching at the zoo. "Also presumed dead, same explosion. No notion of whether he's alive or not, but the way Hudak and Ballard tell it, you never see one without the other. Dean came here alone, could be the brother actually died."

"Guess we'll keep an eye out," Nelson says. He's not sure why he fought so hard for the guy—for Dean, why he stood up to Casey and Anderson. There's something about Dean, something that Nelson trusts without questioning. He just hopes it never bites him in the ass.

---

Five days and Sam hacks the cell tower to track Dean's phone. He tries to quell the sick, panicky feeling, the part that immediately conjures up the worst possible scenario and paints it, Technicolor, in his mind. The phone doesn't show up and he tries to tell himself it doesn't mean much, that there are a million reasons it wouldn't work. He's just not sure he listens.

He calls Mike, their new techno-geek. They'd saved Mike's ass from a "ghost in the machine" type situation a couple of months ago in Utah. Sam finds it both funny and annoying that ghosts and spirits are also catching up to the technological age, and this particular one had been a new breed of awesome. It had earned them Mike's eternal gratitude, which mostly meant they got slightly snarky answers to whatever computer questions arose that Sam couldn't handle on his own. Mike's no Ash, but he's handy to keep around and Dean's never been one to turn down someone who feels they owe him favors.

Sam doesn't want to tell Mike how long Dean's been gone. They haven't known Mike that long, he's not sure Mike would understand. "So, what can I do?" Mike asks him.

"I just need to find him."

"How'd you misplace him? I thought you guys were, like, Siamese twins or something. Attached at the hip."

"Long story."

"All right, all right. You try GPS on his phone?"

"The cell tower didn't kick anything back."

"Could be underground, underwater. Smashed to bits."

"Right, considered those, thank you."

"Well, sunshine. Let me see what I can do for you." Sam can hear clicking in the background. "I can write a program, search news bulletins and arrest records. It's not much, but at least if he gets picked up, you'll know. I'd think someone coming back from the dead would be big news."

"Yeah," Sam says. "That's good. You think of anything else, come up with anything, just call me."

"Will do."

---

Dean still answers to Sam. They'd talked about telling him who he really was; Sheriff Mayberry says if he remembers being Dean at any point, that’s fine, but better not to jog his memory. They don't want to make him feel like he's got to run, got to be on the move before he's healed properly. The town can treat him better than the road will. Better to give him a quiet place to rest, recuperate, get through the physical therapy the broken femur requires. Nelson had been the one to tell him the carefully concocted lie: that he’d been in a car accident, that none of them knew him or where he came from, that his ID burned up in the explosion that totaled his car. (The car, and it had pained Nelson to have any part in this, the car they sold for parts, because it stood to reason the FBI knew what kind of car Dean drove, and you can’t hide a ’67 Impala forever.)

The sheriff asks Nelson to keep an eye on Dean. Nothing like daily visits, but that's what they turn into. The first time he stopped by, Dean had been so grateful to be interrupted in the middle of One Life to Live Nelson only know what it's called because he's got a mother who spends a lot of time home during the day. Dean had known far too much about the interweaving story lines for his own mental health and Nelson figured any distraction was a good distraction.

Once a week turns into two, three times. Soon it's every day. He swings by before his shifts sometimes, brings Dean coffee from the outside, better than anything he can find in the hospital. He’ll come by on his lunch break, or on the way back to the station from a call. He’ll stop on his way home, sneak in a burger and some fries from the diner down the street.

Nelson greets him the same way every time. "Sam," he’ll ask, "what do you remember today?" For the longest time, the answer is always nothing.

---

Whatever Sam was sick with has finally worked its way through him, leaving him on the far side of sick feeling a little fragile and a little empty, and he’s pretty sure he dropped at least ten pounds. With the sickness gone there’s room for more fear, more worry mixed up in his gut so he still can’t keep food down. He doesn’t want to think about what he’d trade for just the certain knowledge that Dean is okay somewhere, perfectly fine and just not calling. He’d kill him, sure as anything, but at least he’d know.

It hurts, sharp pain in his chest to think that Dean would do that, that Dean could do that after all they've been through. Say a quick "thank you" for pulling him out of hell, for securing his soul, before running off to parts unknown. He tells himself the only way Dean would do that was if Dean had convinced himself it was best for Sam, to give Sam that shot at a normal life Dean is so convinced he wants. It's not right, it's not fair, it makes Sam sick to his stomach to think about, that he's so easy to leave behind. He wonders if this is how Dean felt dropping Sam off at the bus station, headed for California. Leaving Dean with Dad to deal with all the supernatural shit, the ghosts and demons while Sam tried to live a normal life. At least Sam said goodbye first. He knows he wouldn't do that now, couldn't do that now. Too much has happened, too much has drawn them together, woven them so inextricably up in each other, and that's what makes Sam think this is more than Dean not calling, than Dean leaving him behind.

He bullies Bobby (and honestly, it doesn’t take much) into driving his truck down to Texas to pick him up and let him borrow a car. Bobby knows a guy in a yard in Texas who lets them have a battered old GTO for cheap. "I can use it later," Bobby says. "When you've found him and we get the Impala back together."

"Yeah." It's all Sam can say.

"You need help?" Bobby asks him, and Sam jumps on it, says yes. He almost didn't because part of him (hopes) he’ll find Dean holed up with a girl, cell phone dead because he lost the charger. He’ll never hear the end of it if he pulls out all the stops. But honestly, he'd give anything to have Dean make fun of him, because at least Dean would be here, talking to him.

He sends Bobby west while he heads east. Still can't remember the name of the tiny town, but he works in an ever widening circle from the motel Dean left him in. Couple of towns, some cow country, not much else and nothing comes up. No Jim Rockford checked into any of the hotels in any of the towns. Though if Dean were really running away, he wouldn't be using that name.

Eventually Sam gives up on that area, broadens the search, keeps looking in every town he stops in. He sends Bobby into New Mexico, up into Colorado. It doesn’t matter anymore if it’s close to where Dean was supposed to be or if it’s even in the same part of the country. There’s not much to go on (and not like they can put Dean's face on a milk carton) and after a few months Bobby drifts back home. "Dean would never," Bobby starts, and Sam won’t let him finish.

Sam never stops. He follows cases around, things reported and he thinks (hopes) some day he’ll run into Dean on one of these hunts, and Dean will have some reason for never coming back to that hotel room. He hates hunting alone. It reminds him of those three months, chasing the Trickster around the country. The Trickster said he'd been preparing Sam, giving him a George Bailey glimpse of what life would be like without Dean. Like he'd been doing Sam some huge fucking favor when all it did was make Sam more determined to keep Dean alive. Turned out nothing could have prepared him for that month after Dean really died, that short month that seemed to last forever. Nothing could have prepared him for watching Dean die, ripped to pieces by the hounds. No glimpse, no vision, no warning.

Afterwards, he hadn't let Bobby burn Dean's body because he knew he'd get Dean back, that Dean would need it. He had to think every day when he woke up, when he showered, when he ate breakfast, that Dean was in Hell, suffering for saving Sam's life. He never wants to feel that again, that crushing guilt, that overwhelming hurt. It makes him crazy to not know where Dean is, to wonder if it's happened again. The hope and the dread war inside him, tear him apart. Dean gave up his soul for Sam and even though Sam dragged him back out, saved him too, he'll never stop repaying Dean. He'll never stop trying to measure up to Dean's sacrifice. He's been afraid to let Dean out of his sight since then, like Dean can't even go to the bathroom without help anymore, and maybe that's what made Dean stir crazy enough to leave Sam in the hotel room, chase after ghosts on his own.

Sam knows, he's always known, that the only way he'd end up living this life alone would be if Dean were dead. He never wanted to do this, not by himself. Up until Jess he hadn't wanted it at all. He used to be able to picture that life, the lawyer, the wife, the kids, the white picket fence. He hasn't thought about it in years, it feels like. It doesn't matter that he never wanted this; it all comes back to the beginning. Dad needed him then, Dean needs him now. He can't stop hunting, to stop looking for signs and clues.

Months later and he stops into tiny towns in Idaho and still he stares after every guy around six feet tall that he sees.

Sam calls Ellen. The new bar isn't the Roadhouse, isn't even called Harvelle's (but Sam can't remember its new name, it'll always be the Roadhouse), but it's still something of a haven for wayward hunters and he knows she still has a kind of network going. She spreads the word with what hunters she trusts and promises she'll keep in touch, but nothing comes of her inquiries, nothing comes of anything. Sam calls almost every day and he'll give this to her, she keeps answering. Lately he can tell she doesn't want to hurt him and she doesn't know how to tell him to stop.

---

It shouldn’t really surprise Nelson that Dean fits in as well as he does. Given what he knows of Dean’s history, he figures Dean’s the adaptable sort, full of charm and bullshit, but still likeable for all that. Mr. Casey sets Dean up in an apartment, and some of the other parents donate furniture, and the Hammond’s bookstore won’t take his money, and he hasn’t paid for a meal in the diner since that night. People greet him on the street by name and the kids follow him everywhere he goes. He's seen Billy Evans, all of four years old, sitting silently across from Dean in the diner. Just sitting there, eyes on each other while Dean chews his burger and Billy sips on a root beer float.

Nelson calls him up now, instead of stopping by. One thing to stop by an impersonal hospital room, another thing to visit an apartment and Nelson hasn't been invited. "Hey, Sam, what do you remember today?" he asks.

"That your official question?" Dean asks the first time. "You the designated guy to check on the amnesia patient?"

"Uh."

"I'll know if you lie."

Dean's smiling and Nelson knows Dean's just giving him shit, that he's bored and wants someone to talk to. So he keeps asking.

It’s nothing for the longest while, and Nelson can tell that frustrates Dean, that he's lived a life he doesn't remember. Then it’s some things, little things like a blue toothbrush, little plastic wrapped cups, worn linoleum, a hunting knife. He describes the inner workings of a car engine one day, how the belts and the chains and the pistons all work together to make the car actually move. Nelson feels bad all over again about the Impala. He hopes if Dean ever gets his memory back that he’ll be the forgiving sort.

He tells Sheriff Mayberry about the car, the sheriff tells Casey, and after that Dean’s got a job at the local garage, greasy blue cover-all with the name "Sam" on a patch on the front. He can't do much at first, still hobbling around a bit. He refuses to use the cane the doctor gives him, would stand up and walk around more than he does but Joey, the manager, makes sure he doesn't move much. They get him doing simple jobs until he can get around better. Sarah Casey stops by every day on her way home from school, just to say hello.

---

"Listen," Bobby says, dragging the words out like he doesn’t want to say them. "There’s Impala parts, just parts, mind you, that’re coming through the yard. It’s not enough to really know, but they’re from a ’67, and the side panels I got today are black."

The phone bites into Sam’s hand as he clenches his fist. He never wanted to give up hope, he thinks he never did, riding the roller coaster from angry to scared to angry to depressed. It's been so long, it's been months, months he's spent all alone, when he's never been alone in his life. Only this time there's no direction for his anger and pain, nothing to hunt down to oblivion, nothing to live for. Dean isn't dead, Dean can't be dead. Sam dragged Dean out of hell himself, it's not fair, it's so not fair if it was all for nothing.

He opens his mouth to respond to Bobby but for a moment he isn’t sure he trusts himself to speak. The Impala’s sold, sold for parts, and as much as he wants to believe Dean’s still out there, still alive, he’s pretty sure it can only mean one thing.

"Hold onto them," he says finally. He isn’t sure why, why he needs to look at them, what he hopes to glean from them. He isn’t sure he could identify the car from its parts the way he knows Dean could. (Can, he tries to tell himself.)

"Will do," Bobby says thickly. He knows what this means as well as Sam does. "I’m trying to track their sales history, see where they came from."

"Let me know if you find it."

"You’ll be the first. Sam-"

He doesn’t know what Bobby will say. I'm sorry? Sam doesn't want to hear it, doesn't want the sympathy, doesn't want to commiserate, doesn't want to unite in grief. He isn't giving up. "Don’t, Bobby. I’ll be there."

---

Every day Nelson calls him up, and every day Dean tells Nelson the new things he remembers. "I stayed in a hotel once? I think it was once. It had the ugliest orange wall paper." "I have this leather jacket." "I hate pickles." "I had this football," he says one day. "I don’t remember throwing it, really. Just that I had one."

So Nelson asks him about the game last night. Turns out Dean knows terminology like "fourth and ten" and "false start" and loves to watch all the games on the huge sports cable package Casey set him up with. On the huge flat screen that Casey set him up with. Not that Nelson's envious at all.

The daily phone call becomes a conversation and then one day, after an invitation and some wheedling from Dean, Nelson brings a six pack and a bag of pretzels to Dean’s apartment and they watch the Giants kill the Patriots. Dean, who can’t decide who his team used to be and who it should be now, gets so mad at a blown call that he chokes on a pretzel and Nelson laughs so hard he cries. He pounds Dean on the back till he’s red in the face.

It surprises Nelson, after the Monday nights become a regular thing and Dean decides that he’s been a die-hard Cowboys fan since birth (which means it’s okay for them to continue watching games together), it surprises Nelson when he realizes that they’re friends.

---

Sam wants to feel something when he sees the parts. Wants to pretend that they’re his, that he’d know them from any other part littered across the yard. All the way to Bobby's he'd pictured the car in his head, listened for it, remembered its smells, leather and sweat and the coppery scent of blood. He thought he would, thought he'd know somehow. He knows Dean would've. The car's been home to him all his life, the only home he's known. The sound of the road lulled him to sleep as a child. The smell of the leather seats, tacky against his thighs and Dean sprawled across the seat next to him, both of them sweating in the hot summer sun while Dean explains once again why they can't join the little league team like all the other kids. The creak of the door as they fall into the front seat, the sound that means they survived one more round. Those mean something to him, even if he can't recognize their disparate parts. But not being able to is just another disappointment, feels like another dead end.

"I just don't know," he tells Bobby. "I can't-"

Bobby's hand comes down on his shoulder, warm and heavy. "I know, kid. No reason you should, really. I've been under the hood of that car almost as much as Dean has and I have no idea either. I'll keep collecting the parts. Maybe he can rebuild it."

Sam closes his eyes against that, against that hope and the parts of home scattered around him. Closes his eyes against everything. "Yeah," he says finally.

It doesn’t really matter whether he knows those parts are theirs or not, he’ll check it out anyway. He's been on this trail for months as it's gotten colder and colder. This at least is a direction, something concrete, a paper trail. More than he's been following since the beginning.

"Sale originated in a place is called Jefferson," Bobby tells him. "I've looked it up. Town's not much bigger than a postage stamp, only got about 500 residents."

Bobby’s voice is muffled over the pounding rhythm of Sam's heart, the rushing sound in his ears. "But I stopped there, they said they hadn’t seen him." He remembers the cop he talked to, young and green and more innocent than anyone they’ve run across in years. Name was Fuller or something. Sam hadn’t given his name, no reason to think they knew Dean's. He'd played it off like a big city cop, hoping to impress information out of a small towner.

"Well, they saw his car, that’s where the sale originated. Did you tell them what he’d been driving?"

"I had to’ve." He spreads his hands against the side panel. Hot bite against his hands, it's been sitting in the sun. His fingers leave smudges against the smooth black.

---

Often Nelson runs into Annie, the woman Casey pays to run errands for Dean, who still has trouble getting around on his leg. He's known her most of his life, hard not to in this town, but she was four years behind him in school, just on the edge of anyone he'd notice. Shocked the hell out of him when she starting stopping by; she was much shorter and ganglier once upon a time. She’s pretty now, Nelson figures, if you go for the curvy, knock-out brunette types, and Nelson definitely does.

Annie ends up hanging around the apartment more often than not, doing the dishes after Dean makes lunch or dinner for them, because while he's handy at the stove he hates the clean up. She joins them for football night occasionally but doesn't quite match the level of devotion (or passion) that Nelson and Dean have for the game. She plays a mean hand of poker and has arranged game nights three Saturdays running. Nelson likes that she gives as good as she gets and refuses to take any of Dean’s crap on the bad days. The pain, sometimes the lack of mobility make Dean cranky, a reaction Nelson definitely understands. Dean tries to do too much for himself, resists Annie's help a lot. It hadn't occurred to any of them that Dean would be so resistant to hand outs, but he is.

He can tell it’s a good day today, he hears them laughing as he knocks on Dean’s door. Annie opens it, fresh faced, eyes sparkling as she giggles. "Great," she says, pushing open the door so Nelson can pass through. She leans down quickly to grab the cat (the stray the kids found and gave to Dean. Dean named him Colt) as he tries to dart past. "Now you can tell Sam he’s full of crap. There’s no way that Richard Bartel was a better rookie QB pick than Caleb Haney."

Dean grimaces. He’s sitting at the table, pushing the remnants of dinner around on the plate with his fork. "Yes there is!" Dean says, stabbing his fork in Annie's direction. "Haney plays for the freaking Bears! C’mon, where’s your Texas pride?"

"It chased that fine ass north, my friend. Right, Nel?" She nudges him with her elbow.

Nelson flushes and nods and tries to ignore Dean's mocking look of betrayal. "The lowest circle of hell," Dean mutters, "is reserved for betrayers."

Annie gapes at him. "How do you even know that?"

Dean laughs. "Special on the History Channel."

Nelson's tongue feels glued to the roof of his mouth, a typical response to almost any pretty woman, and lately to Annie in particular. Annie and Dean start laughing again and Nelson gives a weak smile.

"I’m on my way out," Annie tells Nelson. "I’ve got class at four." She grabs her bag off the counter, cards her fingers through Dean's hair- longer now since they found him- as she passes. She presses a quick kiss to the top of his head.

Dean shoos her away, still chuckling. She stops in front of Nelson on her way to the door and his heart pumps a little faster; he can feel the beginning of another blush. She leans up and gives him a quick kiss on the cheek that he feels everywhere, all over his body. He doesn’t (can’t) say anything as she slips out the door.

He looks up when Dean coughs a little pointedly and Dean gives him a bright smile. "You’ve got it bad," Dean says. Nelson nods. He never wonders if Dean resents his crush on Annie, maybe wants her for himself. Dean never seems to notice the women that circle around him, caught in his orbit. And they do circle. Nelson's secure enough in his manhood, he can admit Dean's pretty hot. The women of the town seem to agree with him, but it's like Dean can't even see them. Not at the hospital, not at the garage, not at the diner. Like some part of Dean is waiting for something else, even if Dean doesn't know it.

---

It takes Sam two days hard driving to get from Bobby's down to Texas. The GTO he's been borrowing from Bobby isn't the Impala, doesn't have the same sense of familiarity, but he still catches himself walking up to the passenger door more often than not.

He doesn't stop much. Dean called him a princess about eating at the best of times and now the thought of food makes him want to hurl. He's too wound up to sleep, might as well keep going so he does. Over and over, the endless miles, he runs through all the things it could be, all the scenarios that could have played out. Dean dead, Dean held hostage. He once told himself that Dean left him, dropped him in that hotel room and left because maybe if Dean weren't there, Sam would go back to that real life Dean expects for him. If anyone knows how to run and not be found, it's a Winchester. It made him angry and sad and he can't, won't, believe that of Dean.

It's the Impala that hurts the most, gives him the most pause. They'd been running from the cops and the feds for years and they'd never dumped the car before. Even if Dean were hiding from Sam, he'd never get rid of it. And so all the scenarios Sam has dreamed up that end with Dean still being alive and whole at the end are just that: dreams.

And that? Is everything Sam's been denying for the year since he saved Dean, for forever. If there's a problem he will fix it, he'll solve it, and he will get Dean back. There isn't another option.

He crosses the Red River into Texas at dawn on the third day, only an hour after that into Jefferson. It's a small town, quaint, not entirely unlike any other town they've spent more than a few days in. The police station isn't hard to find, located at the corner of the town square, couple of squad cars parked outside.

He's had two days to think of how to play this, what to say, and he steps inside the glass doors and it's that kid, that kid from before behind the counter and he forgets his carefully prepared story, forgets everything. This guy, this guy knew, knew even back then where Dean was, what had happened and for a minute Sam's so angry, so bitter and pissed off he can't even speak. The cop's staring at him and he shakes it off, walks up to the counter, presses his hands carefully against it. "I'm Sam Winchester," he says. "You sold my brother's car."

It's almost a cliché, how wide the cop's eyes get at that, and Sam would laugh under any other circumstances. "How'd you," the guy starts, but seems to catch himself. "I remember you," he says instead. "You said you were a cop from Dallas."

"I lied. So did you. Where is he? What happened?" he asks. He wants to ask more, wants to elaborate, wants to tell the kid exactly what he wants to know, but he can't push the words out of his throat anymore.

"He's here," the cop says, and Sam's legs can't hold him anymore.

---

Of all the fucking ways this could have played out, Nelson's pretty sure he'd have picked this one dead last. Something that would keep everything more at a distance, like a letter or an email, a series of scribbled post-its, even. Sam's got his head in his hands and he's gasping so hard Nelson's sure he'll fall apart any minute now. It's too close, too much, and it makes Nelson feel guilty as hell that he's been here, making friends with Dean, laughing and sharing jokes and watching football games while Sam's been racing around the country trying to find him, obviously thinking he was dead.

It doesn't even look like Sam anymore, not like the guy in the suit that showed up two weeks after that night, right before they sold the Impala. That guy had been huge, had stood tall and proud, arrogant but only in the way that meant he knew his place in the world and felt comfortable in it. But this guy? This Sam? He's still tall but he's dropped weight and muscle. He seems smaller somehow, not just physically. Lost, bowed under by the weight of the world. Nelson's seen his mama talk about his sister, pain and anguish like it'd just happened last night but hidden, locked up because she didn't want to scare Nelson. Sam looks like that. Like just breathing is effort enough.

Nelson moves slowly around the counter, cautious like Sam's a wild dog and Nelson figures he's probably about as dangerous. Especially now. "He's fine," Nelson says. "Dean's fine. I mean, he's got no memory, but he's fine." He's close enough now that he rests a hand on Sam's shoulder, just to see if Sam would let him. He drops it quickly enough when Sam flinches away, hands dropping down to clench into fists at his side.

"What happened?" Sam asks again, teeth clenched and menacing, like he'd bite Nelson if he didn't have the right answer.

"We don't know for sure," Nelson says, hands held in front of him, palms out. "We just. We guessed."

"What did you guess?"

Instead of answering, Nelson calls over his shoulder for Collins to watch the front. "I'm taking my break," he says, guiding Sam out the door. He looks around for a quiet place to sit once they're outside. It's early still for people to be out walking, no one to overhear so he leads them to a picnic table at the corner of the square. Sam doesn't sit, even when Nelson does, even when Nelson spreads his hands out and starts to talk. It all comes tumbling out, their pied piper theory, the night Nelson watched Dean walk out of the woods, selling the Impala, everything. By the end, Sam has moved closer to the table, sits down at the edge of the bench. "We didn't know how to contact you," he finishes with. "We didn't even know if you were alive. That helicopter explosion. I mean, you're both supposed to be dead."

Sam's hunched forward over the table, back lit by the weak morning sun. "He doesn't remember anything?" he asks quietly.

"Not much. And, well. One thing," Nelson says. It hurts a little to say this part. "He held onto a name, coming out of the woods. It was the only thing he said for days. Your name," Nelson says. Sam's eyes well up at that, the anger falling away till only the pain remains. Nelson looks away for a bit, watches the trees in the square swaying in the breeze. "It's what we call him now," he adds. "We thought, in the beginning, that it might have been his. He didn't have any real ID on him, just a bunch of fake credit cards, box of counterfeit stuff in the glove box. I printed him and we found out who he was, but it just seemed easier to keep calling him that."

"I want to see him."

Nelson nods, checks his watch and stands. "Yes, yes of course."

---

Sam follows the cop across the square, into the tiny diner he'd grabbed lunch in all those months ago. He hadn't taken much notice of it, hadn't thought about it at all, but now he looks around, pictures Dean in the booth by the window, sitting on a stool at the counter. Flirting with the waitress as she refills his coffee. He catches his breath at the image.

"Two coffees, Shelly," the cop says, falling into the booth near the window. He sits so Sam can see outside, and he watches Sam like he's waiting for something, expecting something. Sam stirs sugar into the coffee Shelly brings him. He wants to speak again, ask the cop where Dean is, when he's going to see him, but if he opens his mouth now he's not sure what will spill out. He feels like he's choking down a cry, a scream, a horrible lump at the back of his throat. He swallows coffee past it and waits.

More people out and about now and Sam watches their faces, their hair blowing in the breeze as they pass by the diner's big picture window. It's the habit of months, nearly a year, to watch for men, men of a certain height, a certain build and Sam's so used to them not being who he's looking for that it takes him a while, until he's already passed out of sight again, before he realizes that it finally is. Dean.

He can hear the cop scrambling out of the booth behind him, he doesn't remember getting from the booth to the door, to the street. He almost calls out, he's about to yell, "Dean," as loud as he possibly can, but the cop beats him to it. "Sam," the cop says, and Dean turns.

The sun is behind Dean and for a minute he's a dark shape outlined in light until he's closer, shaking the cop's hand and his features take shape and form. A part of Sam never stopped believing, hoping and he's been thinking about this, about what he'd say and how he'd yell at Dean for leaving, for getting lost, for keeping Sam up at night worrying. It's all he can do to keep standing, it's all he can do to not scream, shout, dance around. His heart pounds in his chest, his fingers itch to reach out, drag Dean close, beg Dean to never leave again. But Dean's eyes flick over him and there's no hint, no spark of recognition, and part of that excitement dies. Sam was prepared for it, thinks he was prepared for it, but it hurts more than he ever would have guessed, a sharp knife in his gut.

Dean and the cop are still talking, just small talk, ribbing about a game. Dean looks at Sam again. "Nelson, who's your friend?" Dean asks the cop.

"Uhh," Nelson looks at Sam. They hadn't talked about what they were going to do, say.

Introducing himself to his brother. God. Sam reaches out a hand. "Sam..." and he catches himself, "son. Jack Samson." Dean's hand is warm around his, calluses where they've always been. Sam holds onto his hand a little too long, it's past awkward when Dean has to pull his hand away.

"We were just getting breakfast," Nelson says to Dean. "Want to join us?"

"Sure." They go back inside, Dean sitting next to Nelson across from Sam and Sam can't stop staring at him, can't stop watching the way he moves, the way he talks. There's something different about him, and for a while, for a long while Sam can't put his finger on it, can't figure out what it is until Nelson says something, until Dean laughs. It's not a laugh Sam has ever heard before. There's no bitterness or self-deprecation. It's just a laugh. The smile that goes with it is so open and happy it makes Sam's belly hurt.

There are actual physical differences too, his hair is longer than it's ever been and Sam had no idea it would be slightly wavy. It's obvious that Dean's getting a lot of sun by the cluster of freckles across his nose and cheeks and he's got a shiny pink scar fading under his right eye but it's mostly the things that he's not. Not shuttered and sarcastic and he's having a conversation with Nelson about his day and he seems interested in what the cop has to say in response. He actually blushes when the pretty blond waitress brings him a slice of homemade pie ("Pie for breakfast?" she says, in mock disapproval), he only smiles his thanks and doesn't look down her top or comment lewdly on her legs. Other customers greet him by name, Sam's name, and Sam wonders if this is who Dean could have been, would have been, if not for their father, if not for Sam. It makes Sam want to cry.

He watches Dean's hands, Dean's mouth as he chews, the way Dean rests his elbows on the table or leans back against the seat, cataloging all the differences, all the similarities. Sam was sure he knew all there was to know about Dean, Dean's moods, Dean's habits, Dean's quirks, the way Dean would sprawl across a surface, claim it as his own. But sitting here now, watching Dean move in this space, he finds he can't remember if Dean had ever arched his eyebrow like that before, if the questioning tilt to his head was the same angle it'd always been. Dean locks his fingers together, rests them against the pie plate. Sam feels like his memory is the one that's lost. So many things he'd taken for granted, hadn't even thought to memorize. He watches them now, memorizes them now, tries not to tell himself it's already too late.

Dean glances over at him every now and then and Sam's always looking right back. He can tell it's making Dean uncomfortable but he can't seem to stop.

Dean looks over his shoulder as a woman comes in, young and blonde and Sam waits for the leer, for the comment, but there's nothing. There's a kid on her heels, too young for school, hair pulled into tight pigtails and a pink shirt on. She makes a beeline for Dean soon as she clears the door and Dean, without even pausing, like he expected this to happen at any moment, holds his arm out, lets her slip under it. Her mother turns to look for her and smiles when she sees Dean, turns back to ordering her breakfast at the counter. Dean pulls the girl up onto his lap, never breaking stride in the rant on some football player and why he should get traded next season. She settles in, rests her head in the crook of Dean's shoulder and sits quietly, tiny hand fisted in Dean's shirt, brown eyes carefully fixed on Sam.

Dean turns to Sam finally, conversation with Nelson played out, finds him watching the little girl. "This is Jenny," he says, looking down at her. Jenny smiles up at Dean, oddly quiet for a little girl, but Sam doesn't have a lot of empirical experience with them. "So, what're you doing in town, Jack?" he asks. It feels almost like a confrontation, but he looks Sam in the eye, for all the world like he's intensely interested in Sam's answer.

"Research," Sam says. Nelson nods quickly.

"Research on what?" Dean asks.

"Small towns. It's for my sociology thesis. For my masters."

"Towns don't come much smaller than this," Dean says. He's not open and friendly with Sam the way he's been with Nelson. It makes Sam angry, resentful that he has to prove himself to Dean again.

He remembers a den of vampires in Indiana, town had 36 (live) people left in it by the time the Winchesters rolled in following the myths and the newspaper reports. Dean had taken twelve of them out by himself, so intensely proud he wouldn't shut up about it for weeks after, but he wouldn't remember that now. "You'd be surprised," is all Sam says.

"Maybe." Dean shrugs. "Anyway, I've got to get to work." He sets Jenny on the floor, whispers something in her ear that has her giggling and running across the diner, throwing herself at her mother's legs. It's slow getting up from the table for him and it isn't until Sam's watching him cross the diner himself that he notices Dean's favoring his right leg. Dean turns at the door, waves at Nelson, says, "See you around, Jack," and then he's gone.

---

Sam looks ill, pale and quiet after Dean leaves. Nelson hadn't figured what it would be like, witnessing that first reunion, and he wishes now that he hadn't. The look on Sam's face, that whole time, Nelson's not generally the crying sort, but it'd been a close thing, watching Sam. He doesn't know if Dean could tell, he's generally sort of oblivious to that kind of thing. Watching Sam watch Dean, track his movements, the shape of Dean's hands as he gestured, mimicking a particularly amazing tackle they'd seen Monday night. It made him uncomfortable in ways he can't really describe; it made him want to go home and hug his mother.

Nelson folds his hands, rubs his thumbs together. He's not exactly sure where to go from here, what to suggest, and it's Sam dropping his head to his hands, like the only thing keeping him up is all the coffee he'd poured down his throat at breakfast, that makes him decide. "Hey," he says. "We can get you a room. You can get some sleep, take a shower."

Sam's amenable (he nods at least, though he doesn't say anything) and Nelson gets him set up in the Greers' bed and breakfast a few blocks off the square. It's pretty close to Dean's apartment, which will hopefully be a useful feature. Nelson's sure he can get Casey to cover the room for Sam and if he can't he'll talk to the sheriff, maybe get the station to cover it. He doesn't want Sam to have to worry about it. It's the least they can do.

Sam looks empty, drained when Nelson hands him the key, like standing there, staying upright is taking all of his concentration. Nelson takes the key back, leads Sam to the room, just to get him situated, he thinks. Settled in.

He stands in the doorway, hat in his hands as Sam steps inside. It's an embarrassingly kitschy room, knick-knacks carefully arranged and a ten point rack mounted on the wall. Nelson's never really been one for Texas flag quilts or Texas shaped ashtrays. Sam doesn't seem to notice, just drops his duffel bag near the bed, stands facing the corner, back to Nelson.

"I, uh." Nelson waits for Sam to turn around, but when he doesn't he continues. "We've got some of your brother's things, personal effects. We gave his necklace back after he got out of the hospital, couldn't see much harm in it."

Sam nods, but he still doesn't turn around.

"The rest are back at the station." Nelson gestures with the hat, even though Sam's not watching. Gives him something to do with his hands. "Maybe a dozen ID cards, some clothes."

"I want them," Sam says, so quietly Nelson steps forward a bit, just to see if he'll say more.

"Sure thing," he says. "There was also quite the arsenal in the trunk. It's all back at the station in lock up. We didn't really want to sell it along with the car."

Sam laughs but it isn't happy, it's a broken, wet sound and Nelson realizes with some horror that Sam's crying, shoulders shaking, folding in on himself. Nelson's hands clench around his hat. He's been here, watched naked emotion before. Can't be a cop (even in a small town) and not see this. He thinks he should be comfortable with it, but he's not. He thinks he should be used to it, but he's not. He wants to step inside, cross the room, put his hand on Sam's shoulder. He wants to tell Sam he understands. He wants to apologize.

Nelson looks down at the hat, brim bent and twisted in his fists. He reaches for the door handle, pulls the door slowly closed. "I'll just, uh," he says, but he shuts the door without finishing. He doesn't know what he'd say anyway.

He stands in the hallway, back to the door. Just for a minute, five. He carefully releases the fists he's made around his hat, straightens out the brim. He wipes carefully at his own eyes before he steps outside.

He calls Dean later, wonders if seeing Sam, talking to him, might have triggered anything. "Anything new today?" he asks, but Dean says no.

---

Sam showers, scrubs at his face until it feels like he's peeled off a layer of skin. He feels stretched over the mouth of a wide, yawning pit that he could fall into at any time. He's been feeling more and more like that, since he rescued Dean, like everything is going to catch up with them at any moment. He doesn't like what he becomes, what he allows himself to do when he goes there, lets that wash over him. It's more than he can afford, more than he can deal with right now. He needs to pull himself back from the edge.

He calls Bobby first. "Fuck, kid," Bobby says, heavy into the phone when Sam tells him about the amnesia. "Not anything?"

"It was like meeting a stranger with his face," Sam says quietly.

"Fuck," Bobby says again.

"Yeah." Sam scratches his foot against the bearskin rug spread in the corner. "Listen," he says. "You think you could come down? I want to go into the woods, make sure that thing is dead."

"The piper?"

"If that's what it is, yeah. I don't want to do it alone."

"Hell no, you don't want to do it alone. Give me two days."

Sam hangs up with Bobby and falls onto the bed. He watches the ceiling fan for a little bit, the way the light moves across the walls. He's not tired, he's not hungry. He picks his phone up again and calls the station. He gets the sergeant at the desk to put him through to Nelson. "Tell me what he's like now," he says when Nelson answers.

"Uh…" Nelson starts, like a mental shrug. "I don't know how it's different from before. He's funny, I guess. Knows how to crack a joke. Got the craziest laugh when he lets go."

"Yeah."

"What was he like before?"

Sam throws his arm over his eyes, blocks out the light. "I don't know," he says. "He was my brother." It feels weird and horrible to talk about him in the past tense. "Stubborn and stupid and really annoying. He's a 'shoot first, ask questions later' kind of guy. Screw the consequences. Always gets him in trouble."

Nelson laughs a bit, snuffling into the phone. "He's still like that. Got into it in the bar across the way. The guy was still on crutches, hobbling around. Way it was told later in lock up, he threatened to rip the screw out of his leg and shove it through Joe Don's heart, if he didn't leave Shelly alone."

"What'd he do to his leg? Why does he limp?"

"It happened that night. We don't know what the fight was like, but he came out pretty messed up. Broke his femur, that's what the limp's about. Got that pin in there, holding everything together. Doc doesn't know, but he thinks he might limp for the rest of his life."

That'll slow him down in a fight, is the first thing Sam thinks. If he ever hunts again, is the second.

"Broke his arm too, but that healed pretty quick. We've had someone looking after him," Nelson continues. "Getting him groceries, that kind of thing. I mean, he couldn't get around real well at first and now, with the car gone. It's still easier just to have her do it."

Sam just nods, listening. Not sure what he can say, what'll spill out. He keeps biting back things, mad as hell at Nelson for being there, for telling him about all these things that Sam wishes he'd seen, wishes he'd known about, but he's more grateful than he can say that this town has taken care of Dean. The contradiction's ripping him apart.

"I'm sorry about the car," Nelson says again.

Sam shrugs, even though Nelson can't see him. No use arguing about it, blaming. It sucks to lose the only home he's known, the familiarity of a lifetime. But Bobby's keeping the parts, calling around for others. Dean's rebuilt it before and maybe, maybe he'll be around to do it again. Weighed against getting Dean back, Sam would sacrifice the Impala again, absolutely. "You did what you had to," is all he says.

"Maybe. Why didn't you tell him who you were?"

Sam rubs at his face. He doesn't know why, exactly. Except he does, when he thinks about it. Dean had looked relaxed, carefree, happy, carrying on casual conversation that had nothing to do with ghosts and demons and death. That's all Sam has to offer him, the only life Sam has left. He's never seen Dean like this, not really. Pale imitations of happy, maybe, but nothing genuine, and Sam is not going to be the one to ruin that for Dean. He's not going to be the one to take it all away. "I wanted to," he says finally, quiet and slow. "But he's so different. I didn't want to mess him up."

"Can't be that different," Nelson says. "Has he always liked football?"

"Yeah."

"Poker? Pool? Coke over Pepsi?"

"Yes," Sam says.

"He stops sometimes on the street, carries groceries across for old women, pulls kittens out of trees. Small town hero type stuff. I mean, just ridiculous stuff, because it makes other people happy. Last month, when Justin Gedder got laid off, he and his wife found enough cash in their mailbox to cover their mortgage, their bills for that month, enough left over after that to buy groceries. Now, he's never taken credit for it, but Annie told me she drove him past their house, wouldn't tell her why. He takes care of people, giving back. Has he always been like that?"

Sam thinks back to woods and a campfire, quiet conversation in between racing around the woods after the wendigo. We're doing this for them, Dean told him, pointing at Haley and Ben. "Yeah," he says.

"I guess my point is, he's still who he was."

Sam shakes his head. "But he's not," he says. "He's happy here."

And apparently Nelson doesn't have a reply for that.

---

Nelson brings Sam to breakfast the next morning. Billy's sitting in the booth with Dean, telling a very animated story that Dean seems to find absolutely riveting, for all intents and purposes. He smiles at Nelson but not at Sam, coming up behind. "I'm just about done," Dean says. "I was late yesterday."

Billy slides around the booth, plunks down next to Dean when Nelson motions him to. Dean scoots to make room, shoves some waffles in the kid's direction that Billy starts picking at. Dean's hand rests on the back of the kid's neck, like it just fits there.

Nelson makes the universal sign for coffee at Shelly as he and Sam slide into the opposite side of the booth. "Casey's not going to fire you," Nelson says. "You can be a little late."

Dean scowls at that which, hey, a little weird. Something to ask him about later. "I'd rather not," Dean says.

Nelson glances over at Sam, hasn't said a word since they walked in. Nelson wonders if he's always been this quiet. He's watching Dean intently, looking for differences? Similarities? There's something in his eyes, something quiet and sad and deep. Nelson notices that Dean is carefully (or not so carefully, if Nelson picks up on it) avoiding Sam's gaze.

Billy's mother comes over to get him, he's on his way for a hair cut and a picture for the grandparents, she tells them, plucking him (unresisting, for once) out of the booth on her way to the door. That seems to be Dean's cue because he stands shortly after and with a "see you around" to both of them, heads off to work.

Nelson moves over to the other side of the booth, so it's not weird with him and Sam on the same side, like they're on an early morning date. "I don't know what's up with him, he's not normally like that."

Sam shrugs, picks at Dean's left over waffles. "I wouldn't know," he says.

"You can't-" Nelson starts. Can't what, compare the two? Compare them and find one lacking? Because it's not fair?

"I think I can."

But Nelson's already stopped. None of it is fair. None of it is right. Who is he, really, to tell Sam how he should react to anything? Nelson's never been through this, anything remotely like this. He doesn't have the right. "Sorry," he says. "This is new for me." One for the record books, if you could possibly record something like this.

Sam doesn't look up from the cup of coffee Shelly's placed in front of him. "Me too," he says.

"So," Nelson draws out the word, coughs into his hand. "What other things have you, you know, hunted?"

Sam starts with the wendigo, its long fingers and twisted face, the frantic cries it imitated in the night, how it used to be human years ago. He talks about shtrigas and their long hooded cloaks, the tearing feeling of your soul being sucked out of your body. Werewolves and their incredible strength, the difficulty of finding enough pure silver to make bullets. Demons that will lie right to your face, wearing the skin of a loved one. Ghosts and spirits, their patterns and their anger, all the ways to protect yourself against them, all the ways to put them to rest.

It's clinical and dry the way Sam describes it, like it's all old hat, just another day in the life. Nelson had enough trouble wrapping his mind around a pied piper, enticing the kids off to do God knows what with them in the woods. He can't imagine all this other stuff, all the other things he should be worried about. It makes him panic just thinking about it and he spends a lot of time that day trying not to look into the darkened corners of his office, trying to ignore the hair prickling on his neck.

That night he and Annie have dinner at Dean's. Dean's getting better at timing the rice, the first few times he hadn't left it on long enough: the grains were little hard pellets, sharp enough to cut Nelson's gums on the first bite. It's hard to screw up stir-fry, but Dean manages on occasion. Nelson thinks about getting Dean one of those automatic rice cookers for Christmas, if only to wheedle more dinners out of the deal.

Nelson almost trips over the cat when he grabs a beer out of the fridge. He ends up clutching the counters, leaning around Annie who is carefully chopping green peppers under Dean's strict supervision. Her hair smells fantastic and Nelson's sure he spends a little too much time appreciating it while Annie laughs at his clumsiness. Dean's giving him the older brother stink eye when he leans back.

"I'm thinking," Nelson starts, hoping to distract Dean, "that I might invite Jack, that grad student, to poker on Saturday."

Maybe it's only because he's watching for it, but Dean's face screws up a bit in mild distaste before smoothing out into careful disinterest again. Nelson smiles at Annie's enthusiastic nods. "Why?" Dean asks.

Nelson shrugs, pops off the top of the beer. "He's new in town, needs to start somewhere with his research."

"No memory," Dean says, like it's news or something. "I can't possibly tell him anything useful."

"Actually," Annie says, adding the peppers to the mess already in the pan, "I'd think you'd be perfect. Small town life is all you know. You don't remember cities, you're a blank slate of small town!"

"Maybe. He's just." Dean turns back to the cutting board, fiddles with the knife.

"He's what?" Annie prompts.

"He's just weird, okay?"

Nelson flinches on Sam's behalf. He guesses it would look that way to someone who doesn't understand, doesn't remember. "He's not weird-"

"Dude, he spent all of breakfast yesterday staring at me."

He missed you, Nelson wants to yell at him. And yeah, maybe Sam's a little creepily intense about the whole thing, but Nelson's never lost anyone so maybe that's normal. Dean doesn't remember losing anyone either, who is he to judge? But Sam doesn't want to tell him, and it's another secret to add to the list of things he can't mention in front of Dean, that he knows more of Dean's history than Dean does. It's a burden Nelson doesn't want.

Annie pokes at his frown with one oniony finger, steps back and flicks him with the towel and he jumps, spills his beer all down his shirt. She laughs so hard she falls against him while she's attempting to mop up the beer and Nelson abandons his bad mood for the feel of her shaking with laughter against him. Dean throws his hands up at the pair of them and pokes at the contents of the pan with his spoon.

---

It's another day until Bobby comes into town. Another day of watching Dean from across the diner because Nelson doesn't come that morning to act as a buffer. Sam pushes eggs around on his plate and tries to ignore the sympathetic looks that Shelly and the other waitress give him. There's a kid at Dean's booth again, slightly older but it's a weekend and school's out. She's poured a pile of salt on the table and is making pictures with it while Dean watches.

Dean glances over at him occasionally and maybe Dean used to be easier to read, but he can still tell when Dean's about to look over, the tensing in his shoulders as he swivels his neck. Sam mostly manages to be looking at something else every time but he can tell it's beginning to piss Dean off. Normally something he'd be all for, but it's not even remotely the same.

He rides the wave of melancholy that thought produces until Bobby rolls in, middle of the day, fresh from two days driving.

"You look like shit, kid," Bobby greets him, pulling him into a rough hug.

Sam clings for a moment, unembarrassed. Bobby's the closest thing to a father he has anymore, was pretty close even when John was still around. It doesn't surprise him at all that Bobby lets him hold on, pats him on the back easily, like Sam is still a five year old in need of comfort.

When Sam finally pulls back Bobby doesn't say anything, even when he turns away to scrub at his eyes.

Bobby waits till he turns back around. "So where is he?"

Sam checks his watch, it's after lunch on a Thursday. "Should be at the garage. He works there," answering Bobby's unspoken question. "Local guy got him a job. This town, they're grateful. They've been taking care of him."

"No reason they shouldn't, he saved their asses."

"Not everyone expresses gratitude like this."

"You sound like you're trying to convince yourself."

Sam shrugs. He takes Bobby by the garage, stops to let Bobby out so he can go in, buy a quart of oil and get a good look. Sam waits in the car, the longer it takes Dean to associate Bobby with Sam the longer Bobby will get to actually talk to him. He's in there for a while and Dean follows him out to the street, easy smile on his face. Dean claps him on the back as he shakes Bobby's hand. By the time he gets back over to the car, Bobby's pissed, angry and slightly bewildered.

"He looks-"

"Happy. I know."

"I was going to say different. Weird."

Sam laughs, feels it grate in his chest. "Yeah."

"It sure did a number on him."

Sam nods. He had Nelson show him the exact spot on Route 4 that Dean came out of the woods. The trail is more than six months old and he and Bobby spend more time than they'll admit to stumbling around looking for the thing. They find it just as dusk is settling, the light failing. They didn't grab flashlights from the car but Sam has Dean's lighter in his pocket.

It doesn't look anything like he'd expect. The Pied Piper of Hamlin, from the pictures, had looked like a man. A man in tights, sure, but still an average man. This, it might been a man once but it's twisted now, foreign, elongated arms and twisted legs, pointed ears extending above the rounded curve of its skull.

"God, that smells," Bobby gasps, taking loud breaths through his mouth.

"Yeah." Sam kicks at it with his shoe (despite Bobby's protests) and it flops over, face down and Dean's knife, the knife he keeps under his pillow, the knife he never goes anywhere without, is sticking out of the thing's back. Sam doesn’t even have to think about it, he reaches down and pulls the knife out, scrapes pied piper goop off on the ground.

"You'll want to get that disinfected or something."

Sam laughs, twice in one day now. He'd forgotten what the impulse felt like. "I've got bleach at the room," he says.

He starts clearing the underbrush from around the piper and Bobby leans down to help. It's been a wet month in east Texas so Sam's not overly concerned about accidentally starting a forest fire, but they leave a substantial ring of dirt around it just in case. Bobby douses the thing with the gasoline he'd been lugging around and Sam lights it up and they both stand and watch it burn.

"I've got to tell you," Bobby says, eyes on the fire. "I've researched this thing, the piper. All the lore says this memory loss is permanent. Once it hits you it's done, it's over."

"Nelson told me he's remembered some things, that's why they got him the job at the garage."

"You told me what Casey said, about how the kids got their memory back. The lore's not to specific on these things. But I'd say it only had a limited range, wasn't prepared for Dean, used to dealing with kids that don't fight back. Maybe it couldn't get him properly, maybe some of the smaller things have always been there, he just didn't realize it at first. But who he is? Who you are? Those are big things, I don't think they're just gonna shake loose. I just don't want you to get your hopes up."

His hopes. Sam wonders about his hopes. He thinks of Dean's face, talking to Nelson about football, his blush when Shelly brought him the piece of pie that morning, his hand on the kid's neck at breakfast, strong and sure. And all of these things, all of these things done without the desperation, the worry that characterized Dean before. It's just like it was facing the end of Dean's year, willing to give anything for more time. Sam wants, he wants so badly for Dean to be happy, to have peace and rest and maybe this is his chance. "Maybe it's better this way," he says.

"Better? How the hell?"

Sam keeps his eyes on the flames dancing over the piper. "He's happy here, Bobby. You've only seen him for a little bit, I've been watching him for days." Sam's not sure Bobby would have cataloged all the differences he's seen, even given a year. He doesn't expect anyone to understand. "He's given so much, doesn't he deserve this?"

"What about you? What do you deserve?"

Not this, not peace or happiness, but he can't say that to Bobby. He knows what he deserves, what's waiting for him: flames and hellfire. He knows that feeling now. Whatever the demon did to him, good or bad, it marked him for life, and for death. He doesn't answer Bobby, but he doesn't have to.

"God. You're just peas in a pod." Bobby sounds disgusted. "You and your sacrificial lamb of a brother. Too wrapped up in each other to even see daylight. Don't you get it?" He steps closer to Sam, into his face. "You make each other happy. You've been miserable, making yourself sick worrying for him and now you're just going to leave him here?" Bobby crowds closer with each word, by the end he's right in Sam's face, hands gripping his shirt.

Sam tugs at Bobby's wrists, gets right back in Bobby's face. "He doesn't remember me! You said he'd never remember!" He's yelling, it feels so good to yell at Bobby, to yell at anyone because he can't yell at Dean.

"That doesn't mean you leave him." Bobby's quiet again, he lets go of Sam's shirt, smoothes out the wrinkles his fists made.

"He left me first." He feels like a sullen child admitting it, saying it aloud, and it's something he'd only ever tell Bobby.

"Don't play that game. He had no way of knowing what would happen."

"He was just supposed to research, to scout it out. He's the one that ran half-cocked into the woods."

"You'd have done the same damn thing! You know you would have. Coming to this town, seeing those families mourning their kids, tugs at your heartstrings. You'd have done the same damn thing."

"Maybe."

"Don't maybe me, kid. I know you. I know both of you, damn bleeding hearts."

"Then you know, you know he's earned this. What good am I to him here?"

"I don't know anything, except you can't leave him here. This life would drive Dean nuts. Not knowing where you are, if you're okay, he couldn't handle that."

"But-"

"I know he doesn't remember. I'm just saying, he can't be entirely a blank slate. He's gotta be the same, deep down, even if he doesn't know how he got that way. Maybe there's something in him that wants something different."

Sam doesn't reply to that. He and Bobby watch the piper burn down to nothing, a loose pile of ash and burned grass that will grow over come next spring. Sam drives them back into town.

---

Nelson stops by the garage at noon, not a lot of around in the middle of the day. He's brought Dean lunch before, or met him for lunch there when Annie brought something by. Dean likes to keep an eye on things; he sticks around when everyone else leaves.

Nelson's mother pressed fried chicken and potato salad on him when he left the house this morning, more than he'd ever eat and he hates to waste his ma's chicken on the ungrateful losers around the station who make fun of him for still living at home. They sure aren't going to reap the benefits. So he stops by the garage.

Dean's finally mobile enough to get his hands dirty, able to stand long enough to actually fix something. He's tinkering with something on Mrs. Henderson's Camry when Nelson walks up, paper sack of chicken and salad in hand. Dean has a soft spot for his ma's chicken.

"That better be what I think it is," Dean says, sticking his head out from under the hood.

Nelson grins as he shakes the bag. "You know it."

"Awesome." Dean scrubs at his hands with an oily cloth, seems to realize the futility of the gesture and heads over to the sink in the corner.

Nelson reaches out to fiddle with some shop tool but it's oily like everything else and he ends up next to Dean at the sink. "You remember anything new lately?" he asks.

"Nah. Well. I mean, just little stuff still. I had this really huge knife. What the hell I did with it, I don't know."

"Hunting, maybe?" Nelson says. "Like deer."

Dean laughs. "What else would I be hunting?"

You have no idea Nelson thinks. And shudders because thanks to Sam, he does. They've just spread out on the rickety table in the office, chicken and salad and two cans of Coke from the fridge in the back when the bell on door chimes and Sam walks in. Awesome, Nelson thinks. What he says is, "Hey, Jack" and he kicks Dean under the table when Dean groans quietly. "You're like a child," he hisses to Dean.

"Hi," Dean says around a mouthful of food. He kicks back under the table; fucker's wearing his steel-toed shop boots and Nelson yelps.

Sam just waves awkwardly. "Listen," he says. "I was wondering if I could come by sometime, maybe interview you for-"

"I don't think-" Dean starts.

"That would be great!" Nelson says, louder than both of them. He ignores Dean's elbow to his ribs and Sam's slightly uncomfortable stare. "He's here a lot. Or at his apartment a lot. He'll be at his apartment this Saturday, for a poker game. I meant to tell you the next time I saw you. Which is now, I guess." He can feel Dean staring at him and he isn't sure if it's for the word vomit or the invitation. Probably both.

"Yeah, sure," Sam says. "I guess I'll-"

"Bring beer," Dean says.

"Uh, okay then."

Nelson smiles in what he hopes is an encouraging (and not slightly demented) fashion as Sam turns to leave. Dean rounds on him as soon as the door closes, smacks him on the back of the head.

Nelson rubs his head. "What was that for?"

"Why'd you have to invite him?"

"I told you I was going to!"

"I just didn't think it would actually happen!"

"Because I normally suck so hard at follow through?"

"That's what I hear from Annie."

"Dude." It's a low blow. Dean winces like he knows. Nelson wonders what it is about Sam that makes Dean feel like he's backed into a corner, like he needs to swipe out.

"I know, I know. Sorry. Just. He's a freak."

"Cut him some slack. What's your problem anyway? You need more friends. You only hang out with Annie and me."

Dean pushes back from the table, paces behind the counter. The more agitated he gets the more pronounced his limp is, and it's worse now then Nelson's seen it in weeks. "I have friends," he says. "I have friends everywhere I go. The whole fucking town is my friend. I don't pay for half of the things in town, I don't even pay my own fucking rent. I get this paycheck and I have nothing to do with it." He stops pacing to smack his hands down on the counter, stare right at Nelson. "Clearly I have friends."

Nelson just blinks stupidly a few moments. He wasn't expecting anything quite like that. "Well," he says finally, clearing his throat. "One more can't hurt then."

Dean huffs at him, honest-to-God huffs at him before he limps back over to his seat and plops down. "I'm not making any promises," he grumbles.

Nelson throws his paper towel in Dean's face. He grabs it back before Dean can retaliate. "Seriously though," Nelson says. "What is it about Jack specifically? You don't balk at meeting new townspeople."

Dean shrugs, picks at the chicken bones on his plate. "It's the way he looks at me," he says finally. "It makes me feel guilty. Like I did something wrong and don't remember. I don't know." His hands are open, empty, palms up on the table. "He just seems so sad."

Nelson picks at his own chicken and doesn't meet his eyes.

---

Sam wakes up the next morning to pounding on the door. It's so weirdly normal, he can remember many, many times that John woke them up this way on the road, plenty of times Dean has jarred him awake for one reason or another. Bobby's on the other side of the door, holding his bag, keys in his hand.

"Hunt in Mississippi," he says. "Ellen just called."

Sam's already turning from the door. "Let me get my stuff," he says.

"For what?"

He stops, turns back to Bobby. "I'm coming with you."

"Hell you are."

"You shouldn't hunt alone."

"This isn't my first time at the dance, kid. I can take care of myself. It's just a spirit, fuckin' cakewalk. Besides, what'd I say about leaving Dean?"

"But you-"

"Listen. I'm not what he needs, another person he suspects may or many not remember him hanging around town. One guy showing up, flimsy excuse for research, one's easy to explain, but two? Town this size? You stay here. Talk to him. You both need it." Bobby comes closer, lays a hand on Sam's neck. "You're lost without each other, anyone can see."

"Dean's not lost."

"Scratch the surface a little bit."

Sam nods. He's not sure what he'd say if he tried to speak. He likes the idea that this life is perfect for Dean, he wants it to be true. He watches as Bobby walks away.

He sleeps until it's time to get up for the poker game. He sleeps a lot these days, now that the desperate voice in his head telling him find Dean, to find Dean now has finally quieted. He showers, grabs the cleanest thing he can find from his duffel. He picks up a couple of six packs at the corner store on the way to Dean's apartment. It's within walking distance, so he leaves the GTO.

Annie answers his knock; Sam met her in the diner a couple of days ago. He thinks Nelson must have told her at least part of the story because she'd put her hand on his, squeezed a little when she'd introduced herself. He wonders which parts she knows. Tonight there isn't anything in her smile but a welcome and Sam smiles back, steps inside. "I've got things," she says, making big gestures with her hands, towards the kitchen. "I'll send Sam out," she calls over her shoulder.

This is his first time in Dean's apartment, what with Dean avoiding him since he came to town. He isn't entirely sure what he was expecting from it, a place decorated entirely by Dean. A pyramid of beer cans, a black light, velvet posters? Sam looks around and it's… nice. Just that. Framed prints on the wall, matching furniture, a potted plant in the window. Sam feels something brush against his ankles, he looks down to see a cat making figure eights around his feet.

"That's Colt," Dean says, watching from the door.

When no more information is forthcoming, Sam asks, "Where'd you get him?"

"Couple of the kids brought him to me, dirty and banged up. Found him outside the bookstore."

Sam leans down, scratches his fingers around Colt's ears. "Friendly."

Dean eyes his cat. "Not normally."

"Where's everyone else?" The cat flops onto his hand, purring loudly. He laughs, makes cooing noises at him until Dean breaks and comes in the room.

Dean picks Colt up, holds him away from Sam. "Dude, stop. You'll strip him of his manhood."

"He's neutered, right?"

"Yeah?"

"Then, dude, he's already stripped of his manhood."

Dean laughs, easy and comfortable, and Sam doesn't feel like he's crashing the party anymore. "I guess," Dean says. "Anyway. Nelson and Annie are in the kitchen. Annie's got some dip thing. Nelson's got a little crush, so he's 'helping'." Dean makes air quotes. "Steve and Ron couldn't make it." Dean starts flipping through a stack of CDs. After a minute he seems to find what he's looking for, puts in the player. Sam snorts, he'd recognize the Greatest Hits of Journey anywhere.

"What?" Dean asks.

Some things don't change. "Nothing."

"Host picks the music."

Some things really don't change, and maybe Bobby's more right than Sam wants to admit. "Guest shuts his cake hole?"

Dean laughs. "Something like that." He steps over towards the table and starts clearing car parts off it. Sam tries to help but Dean stops him with a hand on his wrist, warm fingers against his skin. What the hell, he thinks, there's a warm rush in his chest and he fights the urge to clamp on to Dean's hand. His heart is pounding. Dean shook his hand before, outside the diner, but this feels different.

"There's an order to these. They have groups," Dean says, like nothing happened and for him, maybe nothing did.

"Sorry."

There's a sideways squint from Dean as he rearranges the parts on the coffee table in front of the massive TV. "It's okay."

"Uh." What do you say, he wonders, to reacquaint yourself with someone you've known all your life. All of Sam's conversation topics are a bust, anything he's thought about recently is finding Dean or hunting.

Dean beats him to it. "So what questions did you want to ask?"

"Questions?"

Dean gives him a look now like he's afraid Sam might actually be mentally impaired. "For your thesis?"

"Oh. Well." He asks the first thing that comes to mind. "Mmm… have you always lived in a small town?"

"I don't know."

Of course Dean doesn't know. "How can you not know?" he asks, just to see what Dean will tell him.

"Can't believe you've been poking around here longer than five minutes and haven't heard through the rumor mill."

"About what? I haven't heard anything."

"Got amnesia," Dean says. He taps his forehead. "Don't remember a thing past waking up in a hospital room seven months ago." He pulls a deck of cards from a side table and sits down at the table, starts shuffling.

"Weird."

"Yeah. I guess." Dean shrugs. "Anyway, I don't see how I can be much help to you."

"No, I guess. It's okay. You can tell me what it's like for you here now. Do you like Jefferson?"

"Don’t have much to compare it to. Nice enough anyway. The people here are ridiculous. Very giving."

"Do you think it would have been different, if you'd been in a city?"

"Don't know. Probably get shoved into a system of some sort, unless I got insanely lucky."

"You've heard of the system?"

"I've got a TV, dude. I watch it occasionally."

"Right. So. You like it here."

"Yeah, and it's been good. I mean, people take care of me, I take care of them, it's been working out, you know?"

Sam smiles. "Yeah, I know."

Dean looks at him, doesn't say anything, just looks at him until Sam squirms a bit. "What?" he asks.

"Nothing," Dean says. "Just. It's the first time I've seen you look happy since you came to town."

His hands are clammy, what the hell. "I. Well." Sam doesn't get to finish whatever sentence he'd been about to stumble his way through, Annie and Nelson choose that moment to come out of the kitchen bearing chips and dip and a round of beers. It's a quarter ante, dollar limit to raise and Sam's never played for such low stakes. He's pretty sure Dean hasn't either and apparently musical taste isn't all that Dean held onto. He steadily wins through the first hour or so, trash talking Nelson who couldn't bluff to save his life, and Annie who doesn't like to trade in cards because she feels sorry for them.

"You feel sorry for them?" Sam laughs.

"I just don't like telling a card it isn't good enough for me!"

"But it isn't!" Dean lays his hand down on the table; he won again, the smug bastard. "You haven't won a thing all night!"

"I did once!"

Nelson flicks his cards at her, they skim across the table. "The rest of us folding because you started purring to your three aces doesn't count."

"I got four quarters out of the deal."

"Three, one of them was yours," Sam says, and Dean nods and points.

"He's totally right," Dean says.

Annie snorts as she gathers the cards, her turn to deal this hand. "Well, whatever. I got the money in the middle and that is winning."

The beer keeps coming, they plow through what Sam brought but it turns out Dean had a stockpile all along and it seems to be never-ending. Everything gets funnier and lighter and the weight Sam's been carrying around, the grief and the pain, it all seems to melt away. He imagined family would be like this, when he was growing up. Sitting around a table, playing games and not cleaning weapons, laughing and teasing and not conjugating Latin verbs. He wonders if he could fit into this picture, Dean and his friends, this small town. If Dean would let him.

---

It's like fitting puzzle pieces together, Nelson thinks. He's never had siblings, just an older sister who was taken by the piper before he was born, so. Not really. He's had friends with siblings and he feels like this isn't all that normal. It's weird watching them. He doesn't even know if they realize, recognize the rhythm they fall into, the back and forth of their comments, their teasing. The look Dean will give Sam right before he says something that has Sam choking beer down over laughter. The way Sam looks to Dean every time when he wins the pot, looking for approval is all Nelson can guess.

Like they've never been apart, like Dean still remembers everything and watching this, Nelson can understand what Sam is missing. He wonders if Dean even realizes it's happening, feels the connection between the two of them, the way they fit together. Looking at Sam, he's pretty sure Sam does.

The end of the night comes some time after the beer finally runs out and Annie's head begins its final slow fall to the table. "So tired," she mutters around something like sixteen yawns. She's spent the night in the guest bedroom before when game night's gone this long and they've depleted the entire stockpile so Nelson helps her up from the table, gently steers her in that direction. She stops halfway there, hand on his face. "You're nice," she says, smiling. She reaches up on her tiptoes, kisses him soft and slow.

All he can say, think, is "Uhhh." She pats his cheek and steps into the room, leaving him staring at the door.

Dean's too drunk to do anything but smile at him when he turns around, back into the living room. "Nelson and Annie, sitting in a tree..." he starts and Sam, who slithered off his chair ten minutes ago and is sprawled on the floor on the other side of the table, joins in. Nelson's pretty used to the drunk wrangling job and he mostly doesn't mind it. He's just glad he doesn't have to book any of them. Paperwork sucks.

"C'mon, Jack, let's get you home." He tugs on Sam's arms, pulls him into a sitting position. There's no way in hell he'll get him standing if Sam doesn't help at least a little.

"Got it," Sam says. He gets his feet under him, pushes when Nelson pulls and looks bewildered a few seconds later when he's on his feet. "Whoa."

"Air's thin up there, isn't it?" Dean says, laughing at his own joke. Sam nods.

Nelson props Sam against the wall for a minute and turns to Dean. "I'll make sure he doesn't trip on something and die," Nelson says. "You good here?"

"I think I can find my bed, yes." Dean stands a little unsteadily, leans against the wall on his way to his room.

"C'mon, dude," Nelson says, tugging him away from the wall, through the front door. "I'll walk you home."

"Worried about my virtue?" Sam leans against the railing outside and Nelson keeps an eye on him as he locks Dean's door.

"Just about you tripping over your own gigantic feet and cracking your skull open," Nelson says cheerfully, reaching out to take Sam's arm.

They start down the sidewalk, it really isn't far to the bed and breakfast. "I don't. I can walk fine." Sam pulls away for a minute to prove it, placing each foot with exaggerated care.

"Yeah, you're doing great."

Sam stops for a minute, looks back at the still lit windows of Dean's apartment. "Have he and Annie ever...?"

"What? No!" Nelson's perhaps a little too forceful. "Just. No. They're just, well, friends I guess. I mean, she's paid to do things like grocery runs but she comes over for poker on her own."

Sam nods, hair flopping over his forehead. He starts walking again.

It's gearing up toward summer, the night wind's warmer than it has been all season and Nelson can't wait; he loves summers in Texas. He's convinced you haven't really lived until you've cooked an egg on the sidewalk. They're almost to the driveway of the B&B now, Nelson's hand on Sam's back, guiding him along. He almost doesn't hear Sam's question.

"Has he?"

"What?"

"With anyone?"

"You mean dated?"

Sam nods.

"No. Not that I've seen, and I see him almost every day. He was pretty banged up for a while and just, hasn't seemed interested since. He's pretty oblivious about everything. Not that there's any lack of willing volunteers. Shelly, for instance."

"He likes her pie."

Nelson laughs. "Sure seems to."

Sam stops again, in the driveway. He inspects the moon, the stars, the shadows cast by the lone street light on the block. "He wasn't like that before. He noticed everyone."

"He seemed like that kind of guy, the two days I saw him before this happened."

"I wonder what..." Sam trails off.

Nelson wonders too, how much your environment can change who you are, how some things can be exactly the same and others not. "It's not something he talks about, really. Not something we've talked about." They're moving again, up to the door. The Greers give the guests a key to the front door, so they can come in after hours. No sense locking out your customers, Mrs. Greer says, and she doesn't want to impose a curfew. Still, Sam's way too drunk to figure out two keys, and he shoves them at Nelson after a minute of fumbling. "You hold up the wall," Nelson says, and chuckles when Sam seemingly applies himself seriously to the job.

"He never was one for talking," Sam says as he presses back against the side of the house. "Except when he was. He liked to pretend."

Nelson's sure that made perfect sense to Sam.

He gets the door open, ushers Sam inside (the wall's fine now, good job) and up the stairs to his room. It's just as neat as it was the day he checked in, Sam clothes carefully folded on top of the small chest at the foot of the bed. "You normally this eerily clean?"

Sam nods. "Dean's the messy one."

For a moment, as he's untying Sam's boots, making sure he's got a trashcan next to the bed, Nelson wonders about them. Brothers versus brothers. It's not something he's entirely unfamiliar with, even in this backwoods town. He's got a cousin on his father's side who moved up to Massachusetts to marry another dude and Nelson has always figured God had bigger fish to fry. What with spirits and ghosts and demons they're chasing after, he's not going to give Sam and Dean any crap about it.

But it seems to fit, now that he thinks about it. Sam's desperation, the shattered way he looked when he came into town. The way he's been following Dean around ever since, just on the periphery of Dean's awareness, even when Dean didn't want him there. God, the way he'd looked tonight when Dean laughed at his jokes, smirked at him, like that much from Dean was all he needed in life.

Maybe it's not normal for brothers to be wrapped up in each other. Maybe that's not what they are.

It's all a little much to think about now and Nelson's too drunk for it anyway. But still, he has a feeling, and he thinks he knows what Dean's been waiting for.

---

It hurts to open his eyes the next morning. Sam hasn't let himself go like that in a while, definitely not since long before Dean left and he's not used to it at all. He drags himself out of bed, brushes the taste of ass from his mouth. He showers quickly and dresses and heads for the diner, hoping Dean will be there.

He is, and Dean nods Sam over to his table as soon as he walks in. It's a Sunday so Dean doesn't have work and Sam doesn't have anything so they sit and stare blearily at each other over their pancakes. It's the Winchester hangover special, but Dean wouldn't remember that. Sam thinks he should maybe stop keeping score.

Dean drinks as much water as he does coffee. "My liver is very unhappy," he explains.

Sam's hands shake as he forks bites of pancake into his mouth. He holds one out for Dean to inspect. "I think my arms are still drunk."

Dean laughs but then winces like it pains him. Sam pulls out the bottle of aspirin he brought along to breakfast. "Need some?"

"I've already taken six, I guess two more couldn't hurt."

"Where's Annie?"

"Went home. Not interested in food yet, I think."

They don't talk much after that, both content to sit and let the aspirin and starch work their magic. It's a companionable kind of silence, one that Sam doesn't feel the need to fill with chatter and noise. His headache agrees with him. It's a silence he's comfortable with.

They're just pushing empty plates toward the middle of the table when a kid from a nearby table wanders over. She climbs up into the booth next to Dean, tucks herself into his side. "Lizzie," Dean says. "Jack. Jack, Lizzie."

Sam smiles at the girl and she smiles back, shyly, and presses her face into Dean's arm. "You seem to know a lot of the kids in town," Sam says.

"They're the ones that found me," Dean explains. "Stayed with me until the cops came."

"All of them at once?"

Dean shrugs. "Guess they were out on a nature hike or something."

Sam nods as if that were remotely possible. If Dean hasn't put too much thought into why a group of children were wandering around Route 4 in the middle of the night, he's not going to push it.

Dean yawns again and Sam (because that shit's contagious) yawns too. "I think my liver is now demanding sleep to function," Dean says, rubbing his stomach.

"That's not where your liver is."

"It's where it hurts."

Sam can't argue with that logic. Dean sends Lizzie back over to her parents, who smile and wave. Sam's found that when you eat with Dean, you don't have to pay either, so they just stand and leave, though Dean has to stop on the way out and say hello and shake some hands and introduce Sam a couple of times.

They're both headed in the same direction; Sam slows down a little to accommodate Dean's pace. Dean brushes up against him occasionally, following the rhythm of his stride and Sam figures out when it's coming but he doesn't move away. He's hyperaware of his entire left side, every inch of skin that touches Dean's. Their fingers brush together couple of times and Sam's thinking it's not accidental. He's not sure what to do with that.

"Does it hurt?" he asks, pointing at Dean's leg.

"Not much anymore. Physical therapy kind of sucked but it's mostly fine now."

Sam nods and they're quiet for most of rest of the walk. Sam thinks he can count on one hand the number of unhurried, mostly pleasant (if he wasn't so hung-over) walks he's been on his lifetime. The pace of their real lives is so much more frenetic and frenzied, timed to lunar cycles and spells and the number of hours it takes to get from one state to another without using major highways. Sam thinks he could get used to this, and then he thinks it might be useless to.

"Listen," Dean says as they're about to part ways. He touches Sam's wrist, just under the cuff of his shirt. "Come over for dinner. You can ask more questions."

"Annie gonna make something?"

Whatever look Dean's giving him is lost behind the sunglasses. "Dude, I can cook. I'll make something. It'll just be us, Nelson works a weird schedule on Sundays. Annie's got church."

"Yeah, sure." He's not sure how this is going to go without a buffer, and he should probably come up with some questions to ask. But he walks away lighter than he's felt in months.

---

Nelson waits until almost noon to call Annie. He knows she wakes up early after drinking, but she's hardly ever up for a conversation before lunch. But still. Burning questions on his mind.

"Did you mean it?" he asks, first thing, awkward and rushed and slightly squeaky, like he's all of fifteen and talking to his first big crush.

"Mean," she yawns, "what?"

"About me. Being nice." He's glad they aren't face to face. He couldn't have done this face to face.

"Uh. Yes."

"Really?"

"Nelson! I've always thought you were nice."

"You've never kissed me after saying it before."

"Meant that too."

He doesn't have anything to say to that, like his brain lost contact with his mouth somewhere along the way and the babble going on in his head is (thankfully) not transmitted.

"Hello? Earth to Nelson?"

He finally manages to get "yeah?" out, forcing it past his lips.

"So you going to take me out or what?"

"Yes?"

"That a question?"

"No, it's a yes."

"Perfect." She gives him a time and place that he's sure he writes down somewhere, tells him it's nap time, and hangs up. He does the first thing he can think of and goes over to Dean's. "I've got a date with Annie," he blurts, the second Dean opens the door.

"You dog, you," Dean says, laughing as he lets Nelson in.

"I don't even-" He stops. Dean's apartment is generally pretty clean. Dean subscribes to the "if it's in neat piles it isn't actually messy" method of keeping tidy and for the most part, it works for him. But his apartment is clean today. "Dude, did you mop?"

"Yeah."

"Do you own a mop?"

"Annie brought me one." Dean keeps walking into the kitchen and Nelson follows and Dean's got ingredients laid out on the counter. It's not entirely unusual but Dean knows he and Annie can't come over and Dean doesn't normally pull out all the stops for himself. He sure doesn't clean.

"Dude," Nelson says, and Dean stops a second, like he's gotten caught at something. "Who are you having over?"

"Just Jack. He's got more questions." Dean keeps chopping at some sort of vegetable Nelson's not sure he could identify. "So," Dean continues, "where's Annie taking you?"

And then it's Nelson's turn to evade direct questioning.

---

Sam ends up sleeping for a vast majority of the day. He wakes up groggy and still tired some hours later but it's too much to fall back asleep so he gets up, showers and shaves and brushes his teeth three times. The pancakes and the coffee breath have compounded the problem of his mouth tasting like ass.

He boots up the laptop (Mrs. Greer sprang for WiFi, she wanted to join the digital age as well) to do some of his own research on the piper. He trusts Bobby but he's also sure he'd like to read it for himself. Most of the lore he's come up with so far reinforces what Bobby told him and today's no different, every source, every time. It's not like the lore has never been wrong before, it's not like he hasn't pulled the answer out of his ass at the last minute before either. He spent a year trying to get Dean out of his deal and three days actually doing it, he's not quite ready to believe that this is it. Still, he thinks that someday he'll have to process that Dean will never remember him, but not today.

He heads over to Dean's apartment later, as the sky's darkening into night. He's never had to schedule dinner with his brother before. Never had to schedule dinner with anyone he wasn't dating (or pretending to date) before. It's hard to shake the feeling that he's on a date. Brother, he tells himself, over and over. This is your brother.

"Come in the kitchen," Dean says as he answers the door. "I'm not quite done. You like spaghetti?"

"Sure." He follows Dean into the kitchen, expecting a jar of Ragu and a bag of spaghetti noodles but Dean's actually chopping things up, adding them to a pot and actually making the sauce. Sam's pretty sure he's never seen Dean mix ingredients in his lifetime.

"You like to cook?"

"Sort of grew out of necessity. I like variety. Get tired of diner food." Dean licks the spoon in the pan, taste-testing. He offers the spoon to Sam but Sam, thinking of the date cliché, declines. Dean goes back to chopping peppers. "So, you have more questions?"

Sam leans against the counter, watches the slide of the knife through the peppers, the easy rhythm Dean falls into. "Not for my thesis, really."

"But others?"

So many, but he goes with the one he wants to know the answer to the most. "I was wondering how you came up with the name Sam."

"Sure," Dean says. "Nelson told me it was the only thing I said, over and over. I just kept repeating it for days." Dean brushes against Sam as he turns back to the stove and adds the chopped peppers to the sauce. Sam tries not to jump at the same time that he tries not to lean into it. "I mean, it had to be my name, right? Because no one ever came looking for me and I think," he pauses for a second, "I hope that I'd never leave someone that important to me." He stirs the sauce, leaning over to sip some from the spoon again.

"Maybe they think you’re dead," Sam says.

Dean shrugs. "Could be. Anyway, I'm sure it's my name. It feels right when I say it. Like it's part of me."

It hurts so much to keep quiet right then. Sam says, "Bathroom" past the lump in his throat because he can't stand to look at Dean right then and not tear him apart. He closes the bathroom door behind him, he can't scream like he wants to but hits the counter a few times, hard enough to bruise.

Dean doesn't say anything when he comes back out.

Talk turns to other topics then, Dean asks Sam about school and Sam tells him real stories about Stanford and some fake stories about a masters degree. Sam asks Dean about cars and he gets a detailed account of the Chevelle SS Casey's having him rebuild in the shop.

"Those the parts you had on the table last night?"

"Yeah. I've been remembering little things every now and then. One time it was working on cars so they set me up with a job at the garage."

Sam hopes they can find all the Impala parts for Dean, or replacement Impala parts. He does not want to picture how that conversation will go down if pieces of it are totally gone. Dean serves up the spaghetti and they have water instead of wine ("Because, dude, my liver so does not need that yet.") and they never run out of things to say.

Dinner that night becomes breakfast the next day, lunch the day after that and the next few weeks are like that. They'll meet for breakfast or Sam will go by the diner for lunch and Shelly will press Styrofoam boxes in his hands, ask him nicely if he'll run Dean's lunch over to the garage. Sometimes Nelson will be there, sometimes Annie, sometimes it's just the two of them and Sam's pretty sure he's never talked this much to Dean in his lifetime. It's awesome and sad at the same time. He waits for some spark of recognition, for Dean to remember. He keeps hoping.

---

Sam's always around now and Dean always looks happy and it gives Nelson plenty of time to spend with Annie and everyone's pretty pleased with the situation. Dean still seems pretty excited and flirty about it all, so either Nelson's "gay for each other" assumption is correct or Sam's the densest guy ever. Could go either way at this point.

There's another poker game and this time Steve and Ron are free and when Sam can't walk home at the end of the night, he crashes on Dean's couch, which is widely known to be the largest couch in existence and therefore the perfect size for a sasquatch like Sam. Nelson (who slept in the guest room with Annie and will swear on a stack of Bibles to his mama that sleeping is all they did) stumbles into the living room and Colt's sitting on Sam's neck and purring. Dean's up shortly after, throwing coffee grounds into a filter and Nelson makes them all eggs and toast. Dean finds out Sam's never watched a baseball game in his life and throws pieces of chewed toast at him over the table until Sam gives up and agrees to watch a few games next week when the season starts.

It's the happiest Dean's looked since he woke up in the hospital and it's definitely the happiest Sam's been since he got here. Nelson watches them smile across the table at each other. Totally not brothers, he thinks.

He thinks it even more the next week when Sam's due to come over. Nelson and Dean are a little less discriminate about their favorite baseball teams. They'll watch the Texas Rangers any time they're on (because they have their home state pride) but Nelson's not so willing to give his heart to a team that hasn't been to the playoffs since 1995. He and Dean have been watching since spring training and even though it's something of a cliché by now, Nelson's going for the Yankees. Dean hasn't decided yet. "I'm weighing my options," he says.

"Fair weather fan!" Nelson accuses.

"Says the guy rooting for the Yankees."

They're arguing in the kitchen, Nelson fiddling with a dip Annie left for them, "Just a snack," she'd said, like any of them are in danger of wasting away. Dean's watching, "supervising" the use of his kitchen implements, when Sam knocks on the door.

Nelson hears them shuffling around in the other room, the slow, uneven measure of Dean's steps. Dean's being unnaturally, nervously loud, Nelson can clearly hear him ask Sam if he wants a beer and Nelson's totally not snickering at him when he comes back in the kitchen. Dean looks agitated, one step away from pulling his hair out. Nelson's pretty sure he knows why; he bites his lip to keep from smirking. Nelson's been waiting for this moment since that dinner. Dean's been getting this way around Sam for a while now. Nelson thinks it's fantastic.

He watches out of the corner of his eye as Dean fumbles in the fridge for beer. Dean is never awkward or clumsy and it's all the more amusing that he almost drops it on the tiled floor when he tries to pop the top off. "Fuck," he whispers.

"What is with you?"

Dean inches closer to Nelson. "I think I'm nervous."

Jackpot. Nelson smiles. "About what?"

"Dude, I think." Dean swallows audibly and a light flush creeps up his neck. "I think I'm gay."

Nelson tries so hard not to laugh at that. So very hard. He's not entirely certain he succeeds. "Why do you think so?"

"Didn't I just say I was nervous?" Dean makes a show of going to the door way to the kitchen, presumably checking to see if Sam's still on the couch. He turns back into the room. "I don't know what to talk about. I don't know where to sit. I can't seem to stop wringing my fucking hands. I want him to like me, for crying out loud. I'm worried he won't like me. That is so gay!"

"How long you been thinking about this?"

Dean shrugs. "A while. Couple of weeks anyway."

"Since Jack started hanging out with us?"

"Maybe? Stop making that face!"

Nelson coughs to cover the laugh. Smirk must have slipped out. "You haven't had problems before tonight," he says. "Totally normal. I mean for you."

"It was different!"

"How?"

"I don't know, it just was. I mean, I guess it's been there for a while? But just now." He shrugs, makes a face that Nelson's not sure he can interpret.

"Sooo... what's he wearing?"

Dean punches him in the arm and the next couple of questions are lost in scuffling. Dean fights dirty for all he moves slower and Nelson's couple of years breaking up bar fights are nothing to Dean's muscle memory.

"You guys all right?" Sam calls from the living room.

"Fine," Nelson says from Dean's armpit. "We'll be out in a second." He bites at Dean's arm, which earns him a smack on the head but it gets him out of the headlock. His high school wrestling coach would be appalled at his tactics. So, primary objective achieved even if his ears are now ringing. Dean's not even breathing hard, the bastard.

"Anyway," Nelson says, straightening his shirt, smoothing down his hair. "Would it bother you if you are?"

Dean pulls another beer out of the fridge and pops the top off that one without any trouble. He takes a sip while he considers the question. "What if I wasn't before?" he finally says. "That would be weird, right?"

"I'm pretty sure you can't have changed that much."

Dean nods, takes a sip of beer. "Nature versus nurture," he says sagely.

"How do you remember things like that and not your own name?"

Dean shrugs. "I don't know where the thoughts come from, they just appear."

Nelson rolls his eyes. "Is it guys other than Jack?"

"Keep your damn voice down!" Dean hisses. Nelson'd asked the last question at full volume. Dean waits a minute, listening for reactions from Sam. "And no! Not so much." He goes to peer into the other room, Nelson sees him wave awkwardly at Sam before turning back. "I guess he's probably wondering where his beer is."

"Do you want me to go, leave you two alone?" Nelson couldn't stop the smirk if he wanted to. Lots of smirking tonight, but Nelson figures if Dean's going to be this awkward and spastic about dating Sam, then it's going to be a permanent expression.

Dean throws the bottle caps at him. "God no. What if I can't find anything to talk about? Stay here. Make conversation."

"We're watching a game."

"So make sports conversation." Dean goes into the other room.

Nelson says hi to Sam, sets the dip and crackers on the coffee table. He sits on the Laz-E-Boy while Sam and Dean share the couch. "So," Nelson asks. "Do you like sports, Jack?"

Dean glares at him. Sam just eyes him oddly and says, "sure."

Nelson watches Dean lean over to explain rules to Sam, a light hand on Sam's knee or arm. Sam twitches at first but later, two or three beers and five innings into the game Sam's leaning into the light touches. He watches Dean more than he watches the game and Nelson's relatively certain he still couldn't explain the difference between a strike and a ball, even though Dean's been explaining it for fifteen minutes.

It's been funny, these past few weeks. He's mostly convinced himself they aren't brothers and watching Dean fall for Sam (again) has been like a watching sitcom unfolding in front him but he hasn't been thinking about it from Sam's point of view. He seems happy, happier than he'd been before, certainly, but for the first time Nelson contemplates what a mind fuck it must be. Would be anyway, he guesses, even if they were only brothers, even if this kind of love wasn't part of it. But now, it's like worrying that they will fall in love with you again, be in love with you the same way. And it's not as cute anymore, now that Nelson wants it to happen for them, for both of them.

---

Sam's pretty sure Dean's flirting with him, possibly has been for weeks, ever since the poker game. It's not the loud, more than over-the-top way he cat calls to women in bars, not anything nearly so obvious. But it's not the smooth, slick way he comes on to the women they help either, like it had been their idea all along. It's quieter, natural, just soft little touches, nothing he would ever have expected from Dean, who's never been what anyone would describe as subtle.

Dean shifts closer and Sam thinks about moving away, sliding down the couch but it's Dean. Part of him wants to take Dean anyway he can get him because this could be all he ever gets. All the research he's done, medical and mythical, and there's nothing he can do to fix it, no spell or ritual cleansing.

Nelson leans over in the fourth inning, nearly falling off his chair, when Dean hits the bathroom and grabs everyone another round. "Weird, isn't it?" he asks, voice a loud whisper.

Sam's heart pounds in his chest, clammy hands and everything. He hadn't honestly thought at all about how this must look to Nelson. What, he almost wants to say being hit on by my brother? Follow it up with a nervous laugh. "Listen-"

Nelson shakes his head, holds his hand up. "Dude, you don't have to explain, it's fine. I mean, I figured it out."

"You did?"

"Yeah, I mean, 'brothers'." Nelson makes air quotes. "It's cool. No one'll hassle you."

It's not like they've never been mistaken for a gay couple before. Sam never thought he'd be grateful for that. It makes him kind of nervously queasy. "We're in Texas."

Nelson laughs. "There are gay people in Texas."

"I'm not. Uh. Okay." Nelson leans back in the recliner as Dean comes back in the room.

Dean hands Nelson his beer and then flops on the couch, as close to Sam as he can get without actually sitting on top of him and Sam can't complain, won't complain.

It's Dean's quiet rumble in his ear as he explains the strike zone and Sam, who played baseball in high school and still remembers most of the rules, lets it happen. Apparently he's the only one who knows how wrong Dean hitting on him is.

He's pretty sure he shouldn't be thinking, as Dean leans in again, about how amazing his brother smells. He's sure he shouldn't. He's also pretty sure he shouldn't remember how Dean smelled before, but they spent years being confined in small places together, and that's what Sam tells himself. It's different now from before; now there's no gunpowder or cleaning oil, flowery odor of cheap motel bar soap. He's pretty sure Dean's wearing cologne and he smells vaguely like cooking, like tomatoes and olive oil. But underneath everything, it's still Dean, that smell that has nothing to do with where they are or what they've been doing, the smell that just is. He spends the next three innings breathing Dean in.

Dean gets up again in the seventh inning stretch. "Never liked this song anyway," he says.

"God Bless America?" Nelson says. Sam had almost forgotten he was there. "That's both sacrilegious and anti-American."

"Call me a communist," Dean says, heading for the kitchen.

Nelson leans in again when the door closes. "Anyway," he says, like their conversation never stopped. "We're small town, but we're 'progressive'." He makes air quotes again. "I mean, not that we've actually had a gay couple living in town, but we're friendly people. Look how well everyone took the whole 'protecting a wanted man' thing." More air quotes. Sam thinks it must be a new favorite gesture.

"He saved their children, it's not the same thing."

"Still."

Sam just nods as Dean comes back in. "Talking about me again?" he asks.

"Nah," Nelson says, scratching at his belly. "I was telling Jack the long and storied history of the seventh inning stretch."

Dean nods importantly, Sam does a mental count of the beers he's had and the total isn't so bad. Dean's tolerance must be shit these days. "It's for bathroom breaks," Dean says.

"Eloquent," Nelson says.

"I'm all for economy of words."

The last two and a half innings are a lot like the first six and a half. Sam has never actually watched baseball (except for a game he's playing) because it's boring but this time (clearly) is a little different. Dean makes it different. Dean doesn't stop touching him and as much as Sam's waiting for the punch line, he's also leaning in, asking for more, and Dean happily obliges.

Despite helpful bits of advice shouted at the screen from the peanut gallery (Nelson and sometimes Dean, though Dean is distracted more often than not) there are no hits in the last inning, three quick outs and the game's over. Nelson's gone as soon as the team leaves the field, early morning, he says.

Sam doesn't watch him leave, he's got his eyes glued to the screen while he concentrates on every bit of himself that is in contact with Dean and Dean is sprawled back against the couch, pressed up against Sam's side. Dean turns his head and Sam turns his and it's so close Sam feels the gust of breath on his cheek when Dean talks. "So are you a fan for life?"

Dean's hand falls on his thigh, warm and heavy, and Sam pays more attention to that then the question. "Maybe," he says finally. "Who should I be rooting for?"

"We don't have teams in baseball, we just watch for fun."

"Fun? It's four hours of tedium interspersed with twenty minutes of excitement."

"You're looking at it wrong." Dean leans forward, like he's going to tell Sam a secret, and Sam almost can't hear his whisper over the rushing in his ears. "It isn't about excitement. It's about the battle."

Closer and closer, he's never talked to Dean from this angle before, this proximity. "The battle?" he asks, and prays to God he didn't squeak it out.

"You know, the batter knocking the dust off his cleat with the bat, taking extra practice swings, stepping in and out of the box, trying to psych the pitcher out. The battle."

It's hard to have a conversation this way, this close. It's hard to even think. "You have put way too much thought into this."

Dean laughs and hearing it, seeing it from right here, it's like standing too close to the sun. "Maybe," Dean says softly.

Sam's brain skips, caught on the smile and the laugh and they sit there, breathing each other's exhaled breaths and in a minute, he knows Dean is going to kiss him. Sam can't decide if it's the best or the worst idea in the entire world.

Sam stands, forestalling a decision but he's pretty sure it's already too late to run away. He doesn't make it to the door. He doesn't make it a step away from the couch. Dean stands, blocking his way and Sam would have to leap over the coffee table to get out and he knows, he knows he doesn't want to. This, this is more like the Dean he knows, who steps in and takes what he wants when he wants it. Dean moves in close, closer than he could get on the couch and Sam's hands come up to rest on Dean's waist. The light from the kitchen is behind Dean and Sam can't see the scar on his cheek and even with the longer hair he can pretend, for a minute, that this is his Dean, who never takes no for an answer, never backs down from a fight.

Dean doesn't press all the way in, almost but not quite, like he's leaving Sam an escape route, enough room to push away. But Sam doesn't want it, doesn't need it, not really. Dean slips his hand up Sam's neck, runs his thumb down Sam's jaw line. "I want..."

Sam tries to shake his head, tries to break eye contact. Brother brother brother he thinks, chants, but he just doesn't care anymore. "I don't think-" he starts.

The hand on his neck tightens, pulls him down and maybe Dean's not so different after all. "Just let me," Dean says. "Can I?"

"What if," Sam says, pulling back just a little. "What if this isn't who you were before?"

Dean makes a sound like a frustrated growl. "I don't care."

Right then, in that moment, Sam doesn't either. Some time before now, before right this minute, this- Dean- became all he'd ever wanted.

"Okay," he says, and he barely gets the words out. Dean's up on his toes then and his lips nuzzle Sam's, like he's got all the time in the world, nothing to do and no one to see and in a space all his own. It's slower, it's softer than anything Sam could have imagined. They've both been waiting for weeks, it feels like, and there's a perfect sense of everything falling into place, of fitting together.

Dean pulls back, far enough for words to fit between them, far enough to look in Sam's eyes. There are questions on Dean's face, in his eyes that Sam doesn't want, doesn't know how to answer. So he doesn't say anything. He does leans down, hands tight on Dean's waist, fisting in his shirt. Dean's hand clenches in Sam's hair and this kiss is anything but slow, anything but soft. It's the weeks of building and anticipation. It's hard and aching and perfect. There's a hard desperate edge to it as Dean's mouth opens under his, as their tongues slide together.

It lasts forever, until Dean softens under him, sweeps his hand down Sam's back, soothing and gentle and the kiss slows again. Sam pulls back to breath, forehead pressed to Dean's. Dean's mouth is moist, eyes glazed and fuck, it's all because of him. He did that.

"I should go," he says.

"You don't have to." Dean presses another quick kiss to his lips.

Sam pulls away, hides his face in Dean's neck so he won't kiss Dean's mouth. "I do," he says, lips brushing Dean's skin. "I need time to think."

Dean squeezes his shoulders, wraps his arms around Sam's neck. "Me too, I guess," he says. He follows Sam to the door, kisses him again, soft and quick, before he lets Sam open it. "Not too long, okay?"

Standing in the doorway, one foot out and one foot in and no idea where he wants to be, Sam reaches out, brushes his hand over Dean's cheek. It's nothing Dean would have let him do before, not a gesture Dean would have let him make. He doesn't know what to make of the differences, of the similarities. "Not too long," he says.

Dean closes the door after him and for a long time Sam just stands there, back to the apartment, facing the street. His mouth is still wet from Dean's; he licks his lips and tastes what can only be Dean and it's the weirdest fucking thing. It should make him feel sick, guilty, but most of the guilt comes from not feeling bad.

Sam starts out for the B&B, hands in his pockets. He closes his fist around his keys and that seems like a great idea, just getting in the car and driving, fast and far. Somewhere that he won't have to make decisions or tell Dean no. He's running by the time he gets there, sprinting, like something's chasing after him, like he has to get away. He leaves rubber on the asphalt as he peels away, feels the weight of Mrs. Greer's gaze as she peers out the downstairs window. He drives without destination, the only intent to get as far away as possible, to not have to think, to not have to see Dean and wonder, want things he can't let himself have. He drives until it's daylight again.

He calls Bobby as he crosses the state line. Bobby answers after the first ring.

"You've got to tell me-" Sam starts, but he chokes up on the rest of it, words tripping over the lump in his throat.

"What's wrong?" Bobby asks.

Sam wishes he could tell him, Sam wishes he could tell anyone. I kissed my brother, he wishes he could say. I want to do it again. "You've got to tell me," he says instead, again. "Can we fix him? I mean, there's got to be something, some spell, incantation, weird crystal rock, something."

There's no sound from Bobby at first, just a long sigh.

"Anything," Sam says. "Please."

"There's nothing, kid. I've looked everywhere, in everything. I've called everyone I can think of."

"I've heard that before."

"Damn it, this time it's true. There's no loophole, no one to negotiate with. It's already dead and burned and the memories didn't come back."

"So this is it. We just give up, leave him like this."

"Hell no, you don't leave him. He just. He's not gonna remember you. He won't know who you are. You can tell him."

"It's not the same thing."

"I know. Believe me, I know."

You can't, Sam wants to say. They lost the same person; this Dean is not their Dean. That without his memories, without knowing what he means to Sam or what Sam should mean to him, what they've been through together, this is a new person, not the brother he knew at all. Dean couldn't possibly mean the same to both of them. He pulls over to the side of the road, rests his forehead against the steering wheel. "What do I do?" he asks, small and broken. He's never in his life wanted an answer to that question more than he does right now.

"Get to know him."

Sam nods, says, "Yeah" because he remembers that Bobby can't see him. He doesn't want to say he's resigned himself, because this doesn't feel like that. This feels like something inevitable, something he's been working towards his whole life, something he couldn't give up, even if he wanted to. Even if Dean wanted to. He hangs up the phone and turns the car around, heads back into town.

---

Sam's not at the diner the next morning. Nelson stops in for coffee and a donut (because cop or not, donuts are delicious) and Dean's in the booth with Sarah Casey, who's talking at an energetic pace about her tee ball game on Saturday. There's hand flailing and for the hand flailing alone Nelson keeps about ten feet away. He watches Dean's face and figures that all of that nodding and smiling cannot just be for tee ball. Something happened last night. He stays at the counter until Mrs. Casey gathers Sarah on her way out the door.

He drifts over to the booth in her wake. "I've got the stroll today," he says, "you want to make the rounds?"

Dean smiles up at him like Nelson offered him a lifetime supply of pie, and not the opportunity to walk around town in circles. "Sure thing."

It's a beautiful day, sunny and warm, and they can't make it but a few steps before they have to stop and say hello to someone, shake someone's hand as they pass. Nelson wants to wait for a clear patch before he starts in with the questions. Dean looks ridiculously happy about something and Nelson wants to know exactly what. Before he can ask anything though, Dean says, "You're not going to make me talk about it, are you?"

"No," he says quickly, sheepishly. And then amends, "Well."

"Dude."

"All right." Nelson rolls his eyes, feeling extremely put upon. It's not like he can talk to Sam about this stuff, not really.

"Awesome."

They're heading around the square. The stroll is what Mayberry calls town patrol. Someone's got to do it every day and every fourth day it falls to Nelson. Even though nothing ever happens in this town. Except Dean.

"How's the leg?"

Dean looks down at it, considering. "Fine," he says. "Little stiff."

"So did you-"

"Nelson."

"I'm just curious!"

"Fine. Okay. Yes. Yes! Happy?"

Nelson pumps a fist in the air. "Yes! Are you?"

The smile on Dean's face stiffens a bit, loses something. "I don't know. It ended weird."

"Dude, if this is going where I think-"

"Get your mind out of the gutter, asshole." Dean scowls at him. "He just said he needed to think about it. Then he left."

"So, you think what?"

Dean shrugs. "I don't know. He seemed interested but then he bailed."

Nelson stops, puts a hand on Dean's arm. "Sam, you have to have seen the way he looks at you."

"How?"

Nelson fumbles for an accurate description. Like he loves you. "Well. Just not like a guy that isn't interested, okay?"

A smile plays at the corners of Dean's mouth, curving them upward. "Really?"

Nelson rolls his eyes. "Yes, you big girl. Just give him time." They start walking again. "So," Nelson says, "are we going to double date?"

"You are such a woman."

Nelson punches him in the arm but jumps away before Dean can retaliate. The fucker hits hard.

"So what's going on with you and Annie?"

Nelson's turn to flush and stammer, but he finally gets out, "We're at about the same place."

"Dude, you guys move at the pace of glaciers."

He doesn't know how to explain it to Dean, to explain it to anyone in words, really. He doesn't want to rush it, he likes where they are now. It kills him, sure, he really very badly wants to sleep with her, but he knows they'll get there and he's in no rush. "We're happy."

"I can see that. You're disgusting."

"So are you."

They both realize they're standing in the street smiling at each other at the same moment. Dean clears his throat and Nelson makes the "how 'bout them Bears?" joke that Dean, of course, doesn't get. So Nelson explains and then they talk about baseball and the NBA playoffs (Dean likes the Spurs and Nelson's with him if the Mavs don't pull it out in the last game) and anything but their respective love lives. Nelson thinks they've probably used up their relationship discussion allowance for the year. Still, it's just good to see Dean happy, to see him excited about something.

Dean veers right at the garage, he's still got a shift to work that afternoon, and Nelson keeps going, appreciating the sunshine, the warm breeze, the pretty day.

---

Sam gets lost a couple of times on his way back into town. He'd been taking turns without thinking earlier and he's paying for it now. It's late afternoon when he pulls up to the park just off the town square. He hasn't slept since two nights ago, hasn't eaten since the night before but it's late enough that Dean will be off soon so Sam sits on one of the benches to wait for him.

He isn't there long when Sarah Casey comes walking over from the beauty parlor across the way. Her sandals make loud flapping noises against her feet as she crosses the street and sits next to him.

"My mom's getting her hair done," she says, swinging her legs. "She let me get a pedicure though, what do you think?" She kicks her foot out, splaying her toes.

Sam takes a quick glance. "It's great."

"School's almost out. I'm playing tee ball this summer."

Sam makes a noncommittal noise.

She stops swinging her feet, lets them dangle over the sidewalk. "He didn't leave the apartment much before. We'd take turns."

Sam looks at her now, for the first time. She's so quiet and serious for a child. He wonders what she was like before. "Take turns?"

She nods. "But you'll be with him now, right? I mean, you're always around him these days."

"Were you all keeping him company? Is that why one of you is always around?"

"We didn't want him to be alone," she whispers. "He didn't leave us alone, and he was so sad when he woke up."

"Do you remember anything that happened?" he asks, and he feels like a jerk for making this kid remember, for asking her to talk about it, but he wants, he needs to know what Dean might remember.

"It was the bogeyman, wasn't it?" she asks. She's so young.

"Yeah," Sam says. "It was. But he's gone now, he can't hurt you anymore."

"I know," she says. "Sam had this really big knife. I was trying to get Josh out of his cage and the bogeyman was there. And then he wasn't." She starts to cry, tears pouring down her face but she doesn't wipe at them, doesn't seem to notice.

"Hey," Sam says. He scoots closer to her on the bench, wipes at her tears with his thumbs. "It's okay now."

"I know." She wipes at her face now, sniffs heavily. It's over as quickly as it began. She's calm and almost happy when she looks up at him again. "You being here is good."

Dean being here was good. If Dean hadn't come here these kids, this girl, they'd never be seen again. They'd have died out there in the woods. He just wants Dean to be happy, to have the chance at a normal life he'd never take for himself. He'd decided to leave Dean here, but he hadn't thought of the cost. If Dean stays here, if he never hunts again, more Sarah Caseys will die. We're doing this for them. It's selfish to leave him here and it's selfish to take Dean with him when he goes. But if Dean stays here, he's the only person who wins.

Mrs. Casey comes out of the beauty parlor then, calls to Sarah from across the street. Sarah waves at him as she hurries over to grab her mother's hand.

Sam waves at her as she rounds the corner. Her tears are still drying on his hands and he wonders how he can possibly make this choice. He's sitting there long enough to fall firmly on both sides at least four times each, arguing back and forth with himself.

There's laughter and the chatter of children before Dean comes around the corner. He doesn't know that he's ever heard that sound, that rolling belly laugh come out of Dean before, but it's loud enough now that it echoes across the square. It makes Sam smile and it makes him want to laugh. Dean's got a small crowd around him, one of them has climbed up his back, clinging to his neck like a little monkey.

And it's watching that, seeing Dean happier than he's ever seen him, more carefree than ever, that Sam decides. Dean saved these kids, just like he saved Michael and Asher and Lucas and Ben. He's paid enough for this chance, done enough, and Sam can be selfish enough to give it to him. The others out there that may suffer for it, they're hypothetical and Sam doesn't have to think about them, not really. He has to think of Dean, who has suffered enough, lost enough that he deserves this chance to rest.

The kids start breaking off as they cross the square, heading to various shop fronts and their waiting mothers. They're all gone by the time Dean stops in front of him. He's not laughing anymore, but the happiness hasn't fallen away.

"I haven't seen you all day," Dean says. He looks a little nervous now.

"Been thinking."

"How'd that go for you?"

"Pretty well, actually."

Dean smiles now, soft and hopeful. "Really?"

And Sam smiles too. "Yeah." He'll take what he can, what Dean will give him, while he's here and he'll try not to have any regrets at the end. It's an attitude he knows Dean would approve of, given at least half of the facts, and he's happy enough with it. Dean holds out his hand to pull Sam off the bench and Sam takes it.

---

Nelson's been stuck on desk duty all afternoon and for the last twenty minutes of it, he's been watching Sam sit on the bench outside and brood. He can't tell from here if it's good brooding or bad brooding and whether or not he's decided to stick around for Dean. He doesn't want to see either of them hurt anymore.

He knows the minute Sam sees Dean, his entire face changes, and it's just like that morning in the diner, Sam's first day in town. It's like Sam's only half a person, half alive when he's not with Dean, and it makes more and more sense, the way Sam looked when he first got here. He wonders if Sam even realizes.

Dean comes into view, stops in front of Sam and pretty soon they're both smiling and Dean reaches out, grabs Sam's hand and pulls him along in the direction of Dean's apartment. Dean never drops his hand, at least not before they round the corner and Nelson can't see them anymore. Nelson had never really been worried that Sam wouldn't take what Dean was offering, not really, but he's pretty sure he just witnessed confirmation. It's possible it's a little ridiculous that he feels responsible for both of them, for their happiness, but he can't help but feel a little verklempt that his boys are on the road to happy again.

The phone rings while he's having his chick flick moment. "Deputy Fuller," he answers.

"You sound so official," Annie says, laughing in his ear.

"I do my best."

"You ready for tonight?"

Their big date. "Yes?" he says.

"Hope you have your dancing shoes on."

"We're not actually-"

She laughs again. "We might."

So much laughter today, and Nelson joins in with it all. He can't see any reason not to.

---

Dean doesn't drop his hand the whole way to his apartment. Sam's never held Dean's hand like this, for this long and he looks around, waiting for the nooses and the pitchforks and the fire. But there's nothing, no one seems to notice or care.

It's awesome and freeing and they barely make it through the door before Dean's got him pressed up against it. Sam splays his legs a little so their mouths are level and Dean takes advantage, kissing him quick and deep and dirty. Dean's arms circle his waist, tangle in the fabric of his shirt, splay warm and hot against his spine. Sam cups his hand around Dean's head, fingers threading into his longer hair and kisses him back, mouths open and wet. He licks into Dean's mouth, chases the laughter and the smile with his tongue.

They kiss until they have to come up for air, gasping breaths filling the little space between them and then they kiss some more. Dean's hands are restless on him, shaping his arms and shoulders, fingers carding through his hair and Sam realizes that Dean's learning him by feel, by touch.

They kiss until Sam gets light-headed and dizzy, pulls back to rest his forehead against Dean's, so close his eyes cross trying to meet Dean's. His head is spinning and it could be hunger, could be the need for sleep or air, but Sam doesn't think so. Dean pulls back further to really look at him and his hands come up to cup warm and firm around Sam's cheeks, brush his thumbs over the circles under Sam's eyes.

"You look tired."

"I'm fine."

"You look like death warmed over."

And Sam (who has actually seen death warmed over) laughs.

"Hey, c'mere," Dean says. He slips his hand into Sam's and tugs him over to the gargantuan couch. He nudges Colt off the cushion and says, "Down," to Sam.

Sam goes, he's too tired to resist, but he doesn't release his grip on Dean's hand. "Don't go," he says, and he feels slightly pathetic but he's reached out, he's taken this now and he doesn't want to let it go.

"I'm not," Dean says. "Just let me-" He pulls his hand away and kneels at Sam's feet to start tugging at the laces of his boots. Dean kicks his shoes off, easy as that because he's not wearing his boots, the ones he used to wear every day.

Dean straightens when he's finished, drops Sam's boots to the floor. Dean's still at his feet, standing over him, like he's trying to figure out how they fit together. Sam grabs his wrist, tugs him over and tucks him against the back of the sofa.

Dean brushes his mouth against Sam's again, licks against Sam's lip, the sharp line of his teeth. It's a different angle lying down and Dean uses his whole body, rubbing his leg against the outside of Sam's hip, fisting his hand in Sam's hair. Sam can feel the hard line of his cock. He knows Dean's interested but Dean doesn't seem to be in a hurry to do anything about it right now.

They're kissing, just kissing, still kissing, and Dean makes these soft noises in the back of his throat, not quite moans and Sam chases after them, licks into Dean's mouth, presses him further back against the sofa. He's comfortable and tired and safe and they kiss forever, until the kisses slow down and it's just their faces pressed together and they fall asleep like that, Dean's mouth against his cheek, his hand tucked just into the back of Sam's pants.

It's late when he wakes up again, or early. It's all a matter or perspective. There's a circle of drool on the arm of the couch under his cheek and he moves out of it, wipes at his face. Dean's tucked into him hogging most of the couch and Sam's ass is hanging off the cushion. Colt has wiggled in between them; he starts purring when Sam moves, like he's reminding Sam that he's available for petting. Sam strokes his head for a few moments before he shoos him away.

Sam scoots back onto the couch, tugging so Dean's half on top of him. Dean barely wakes up during this process, just makes sleepy noises until they're settled again. Sam falls asleep again with Dean's warm weight sprawled over him.

They fumble awake the next morning, neither one of them really used to waking up with someone. Sam stretches and ends up falling off the couch, smacking his elbow on the coffee table on the way down. Dean's still laughing when he leans in to kiss Sam, close-mouthed, because, "It tastes like something crawled in here and died, dude."

They brush their teeth (Sam borrows Dean's toothbrush) and Dean dresses for work. They stumble blearily in the direction of the diner and plop into their booth.

"Usual, boys?" Shelly asks them. Dean blesses her children and her children's children when she hands them coffee and she blushes, stammers out a thank you, you're welcome, don't mention it.

"Usual's fine," Sam says.

Dean wraps his hands around his coffee mug, cradles it near his face. He meets Sam's eyes over the cup and Sam almost fumbles his coffee.

Sam smiles and Dean smiles and for once, he's the one that put that look on Dean's face.

---

Nelson thinks he'd been mostly kidding about the double dating, but Annie thinks it's a fabulous idea and that’s how they find themselves at the ritziest place in town a couple nights later. Ritzy for Jefferson isn't much, none of them are particularly dressed up. Nelson's not particularly sure that Sam and Dean own "dressed up."

He told Sam they wouldn't get hassled and for the most part, Nelson's sure they won't. Still, it feels like a test (even more so than them walking across the square holding hands) when they walk into the restaurant and Dean puts his hand on Sam's back as they walk to the table. They get a few looks, which Nelson expected, but no one walks out, no one stands up and starts inaccurately quoting bits of the Bible at them, and Nelson's pretty pleased with his town.

Dean and Annie keep the conversation rolling and they all laugh so much their abs hurt later and Nelson's a little unsteady on his legs on the way out. They all judge that one to be a success and while they go on individual dates (or so Dean tells Annie who tells Nelson, Dean's decided he cannot have relationship discussions with Nelson anymore) they also go on a couple more double dates. It's like poker nights all over again except more intentional and therefore better.

Nelson takes Annie into Dallas one weekend, to a ritzy place where they actually do have to dress up and Nelson breaks out his suit and tie and Annie has this amazing black dress. Nelson's got reservations at a hotel after. He's not one to kiss and tell but he's pretty sure Dean knows what went down. He comments (often) on the huge, stupid grin that sits on Nelson's face for the next four days.

Annie decides a picnic sounds like a fantastic idea and Sam admits to Nelson later that he's pretty sure he's never been on a picnic in his life, unless eating gas station food on the side of the road counts. Nelson thinks it doesn't. Annie packs the basket, assigns Dean the task of supplying the blanket and Nelson offers to drive.

"What do I do?" Sam asks.

"Eat," Annie says, pinching his arm. "Need to put some meat on your bones."

They set the date for next Saturday. The day dawns beautiful and sunny and just this side of almost too hot. Annie rolls all the windows down in Nelson's car on the way over, pulls her hair up in a ponytail when it whips around her face. A scuffle breaks out when they pull up in front of Dean's, neither one of them is too interested in having to walk up and get him. "Coin toss?" Annie suggests, and Nelson loses.

The inside is dark after stepping out of the bright sunshine and Nelson almost walks into them, pressed up against Dean's door, doing things that would make Nelson's mama blush, blanket in a heap at their feet.

Nelson picks it up and flicks at them with it. "You guys are disgusting," he says, "C'mon." He grins as he turns around.

It's gearing up to be a hot summer but it's not as bad away from the concrete in town. Annie lays the blanket down in the shade near the river and sets up against the tree with a book while the boys splash around in the water. She's got everything laid out for them by the time they heave themselves over the bank, dripping and exhausted. They eat as much as they possibly can and Sam falls asleep with Dean's head on his stomach. Nelson wakes them up later to drive them all back to town.

Word gets around town pretty quickly and Nelson ends up having to explain his "brothers" theory (pretty much confirmed by Sam) to Casey and Mayberry, once they hear about it. Anderson really did wash his hands of the whole situation, Nelson hasn't heard anything from him since the meeting in the hospital corridor. Casey and Mayberry both greet the information with identical 'huh's and carry on about their days.

---

It's Annie's idea to go see a movie and for reasons Sam's not entirely sure of, they all decide to let Dean pick it, which is how they end up at the late showing of something involving zombies and scantily clad women. So it's completely inconceivable that Dean would lean over, twenty minutes into the whole thing, and nuzzle Sam's neck.

Sam prides himself on not screaming like a little girl, but he does jump and drop his bag of M&Ms which Dean is so replacing later. "We are in public," he says, hissing at Dean. "In Texas."

Dean flips up the armrest between them and Sam's stomach fucking flips. "There's a grand total of only us here," Dean says. "Loosen up."

The only other time Sam has ever made out in a movie theater was Marly Scott, tenth grade. They were leaving the next day and Sam didn't tell her and he hadn't kissed her yet so he waited for the lights to go down and made his move. She seemed willing enough to miss out on the movie Sam had paid for in the first place. It was all perfect, Marly was a fantastic kisser, until the guy sitting behind them dropped (or dumped, Sam was never really sure) his Coke on their heads and Sam had never made out in a theater again. Dean's right, no one's around to dump Coke on them. Still, "We'll get shot," he says.

Dean's got his mouth against Sam's ear, Sam was sure he'd been leaning too far away for that to happen. "It's dark. No one's here." He palms Sam's thigh, fingers tracing the inside seam upwards.

"Ngyah," Sam says, admittedly not an intelligent response, but Dean's hand is almost touching his dick and he thinks he'll be forgiven for the lack of witty comebacks.

He feels Dean's smirk against his lips.

Later, he remembers a few screams, maybe an "unngh" or two from someone playing a zombie. Nothing else (although he's not sure a movie like that really exists for the plot). He does remember the soft weight of Dean's mouth against his, the grip of Dean's hand on his thigh.

Annie and Nelson look pretty satisfied with themselves as well as the credits roll and the lights come up. Doesn't look like any of them were watching the movie. They basically paid money to sit in a dark room and make out. Dean grabs his ass as they're leaving and Sam decides he really can't be bothered to care.

It's warm and dark when they come outside, just the four of them out on the streets at this hour. The little theater isn't all that far from Dean's apartment. Nelson and Annie take off from the theater for her place but Sam and Dean stroll slowly back, arms brushing as they walk.

Two hours of Dean's hand almost right up against his cock and now the slightest brush of Dean's arm against his makes him catch his breath. They've done nothing but kiss so far and Sam knows, knows for certain that tonight it's going to be different. It's not going to be enough. It's a slow walk home (an amble, if you will) and by the time they get to Dean's apartment Sam is cross-eyed, he's so hard.

Dean's just as desperate, he's on Sam as soon as he gets the door open, panting kisses into his mouth. His hands slip under Sam's shirt, palming his ribs, rubbing up his sides. Dean pulls back far enough to get the shirt off and then yanks his own up over his head before he presses back in, skin against skin.

When Dean's kissing him, it's easier to forget what it all means. When Dean's up on his toes, tongue sliding against Sam's, hand curled around the back of his neck, he doesn't have to think about what anyone else would say if they knew, if they found out. What Dean would say. Bobby thinks, the doctor thinks, even Sam thinks that this is permanent, that Dean won't ever remember who he is, who Sam is to him.

It's the hardest thing to let go. He isn't entirely sure he'll ever be able to completely. But with the weight of Dean against him, the hot press of Dean's chest against his, Dean moaning into his mouth, Sam feels that part of that burden lift, evaporate. It doesn't matter, it shouldn't matter at all if it's what Dean wants. If it makes Dean happy.

"You are, right?" he says into Dean's mouth, pulls back just enough. "You're happy?"

They're close enough that Dean's eyes cross as he tries to glare at Sam and it looks incredibly ridiculous but Sam doesn't laugh, just waits for the answer. "Yeah," Dean says. "Delirious. Why-"

But there's no easy answer for that and Sam catches the question in his mouth, tongue sliding back against Dean's. He backs Dean into the wall, knocks one of the tastefully framed prints askew with his hand. He strokes his hands over Dean's chest, up his back, finds scars he doesn't remember from wounds he never saw, never helped patch up. Just another reminder that this is someone different, someone new.

Sam can feel the hard length of Dean's cock against his, grinding together between them. Dean breaks his mouth away from Sam's panting. "Bed," Dean mutters against Sam's cheek. "If this is going where it's going, I want it to get there while I'm lying down."

Sam nods, one hand clenched around Dean's arm, one tangled in Dean's shirt against his back. "Yes," he says. Dean pushes at Sam's shoulders, giving himself room to push away from the wall.

"Well, c'mon." Dean tucks his pointer fingers into Sam's belt loops and tugs Sam along. Sam's smiling against his mouth when Dean kisses him, still walking backwards. It's not a big apartment but it feels like forever before they get to the bedroom, before Dean hands fumble at the buttons on his pants. Dean wraps his hands around Sam's cock as soon as he gets them undone and makes this sound- half sigh, half moan- like he's been waiting to do that all night.

Sam leans down, catches the end of the moan on his tongue. Dean keeps one hand on his cock and slips the other down the back of Sam's jeans, splays his fingers against the warm skin of Sam's ass. Dean's pants are still on, hard cock tenting the front and that seems wrong so Sam starts working at the buttons. Lack of blood flow to his brain makes his hands feel huge and clumsy and the button on Dean's pants is complicated and Dean laughs into his mouth as he reaches down to help. "Smooth," he says.

"Shut up," Sam says, mouth open against Dean's neck. They both trip a bit stepping out of their pants, leaning against each other. Dean's cock is warm and thick in his hand and he thinks he should feel weirder about this than he does, because it's not weird at all. It's amazing.

"Down, lay down," Dean says. He shoves Sam backwards so he sprawls over the bed. It's big and wide, way bigger, way more comfortable than anything he's slept on in years. Sam spreads out in the middle and Dean stretches out over him, fitting himself between Sam's legs.

"Have you ever?" Dean mutters against his shoulder.

"Uh." Sam tries to think about the question, about the answer to the question. Dean's cock lines up with his and Sam thrusts up and wonders how he's supposed to think about anything except how awesome this is.

Dean stops sucking a bruise into his neck and rises up above him. "Dude."

"What?"

"Have you?"

Right. Question. "No. You?"

"You're kidding, right? How the hell would I know?" Dean arches his back enough that his cock slides into the crease of Sam's thigh, slick with pre-come and perfect. "We should have been doing this forever ago. Like your first day in town."

"Do you have-"

Dean leans over, digs around in his nightstand and comes back with lube and condoms, laying them on Sam's chest. "You do not want to know the conversation I had to have to get these."

"Yeah? Where'd you go?"

"Drug store on Main."

Sam pictures Inez, the little blue haired lady behind the counter and shudders. "Ugh-" he starts, but Dean chooses that moment to thrust again, smearing slick over Sam's stomach and Sam can't think, can't picture anything but him. He takes the brand new tube of Astroglide and hands it to Dean. "I've heard you can never use too much."

Dean doesn't take it. "I've been thinking about this," he says and at first Sam thinks it isn't going to happen. He's not sure if that's relief or disappointment but whatever it is, Dean sees it on his face. "No, no," he says. "Just. I want you to. You know."

"You want me to fuck you?" he blurts out. His heart's racing in his chest.

Dean closes his eyes for just a second. "Yes, absolutely yes."

When Sam thought about this at all (and it's been all he can think about the last few weeks) it's always Dean fucking him; he never thought about fucking Dean. It feels wrong somehow, like if Dean does remember somehow the memory of Sam fucking him would be worse. "No, let me," he says and presses the lube into Dean's hands again.

"But seriously, I want-"

It's the most ridiculous argument they've ever had and that includes a lot of ridiculous arguments. "D-Sam, let me-"

Dean shakes his head, nuzzles into Sam's neck and Sam feels the words pressed into his skin. "Seriously, dude. I want to. I really, really want you to do it to me, okay?"

"What if-"

Dean pops back up, hard and frustrated and his face is inches from Sam's and Sam has nowhere to look but right at him. "Shut up. Shut up already with the what ifs. Like I don't think about this every day. What I was like before. I am sick to death of what ifs." His hands come up, tight on Sam's face, cupping his head and Sam can feel them tremble just a little. "Even if my memory comes back right fucking now, I am still going to want to do this. So shut up and fuck me already."

Good enough for him. He flips them over, spreads Dean out against the sheets. The lube is slick on his fingers when he opens the top and he's touched his brother a lot of places sewing him up after hunts, but Sam's never touched him there. It's like nothing he'd have expected, smooth and warm and Dean's mouth falls open when Sam crooks his finger.

Dean's quiet, soft little moans and whispered words that make no sense, don't have enough volume to make sense. Sam's heard Dean, actually seen him on several memorable (and only because they were horrifyingly scarring) occasions. Dean's usually pretty vocal, lots of muttered "baby"s and "oh yeah"s and it's all over pretty quick. Dean's never been one for lingering, just makes sure everyone's satisfied and moves on.

He's nothing like that, this is nothing like that now. Dean's hands run smooth and warm up Sam's back, over his sides and there's nothing rushed, nothing hurried about it. Dean's mouth is open against his, tongue brushing over Sam's and it's comfortable and warm and hot all at the same time.

Sam moves down Dean's chest, runs his tongue along the lines of Dean's scars and some day, he'll get Dean to tell him what he remembers of them. If he remembers anything. He bites at the jut of Dean's hipbone, licks up the jagged scar the surgery left. He opens his mouth over Dean's cock and breathes on it just to hear Dean whimper, to feel Dean clench his hands in Sam's hair. Sam's done this before, had someone's cock in his mouth, but it's never been Dean's cock and it's never meant anything even remotely like this.

"Jack," Dean says on a long exhale.

It makes him stop, just for a moment, and he presses his face into Dean's hip, just trying to catch his breath. He's never wanted to hear his name so badly in his life. He hadn't forgotten, really, but he hadn't wanted the harsh reminder that this isn't his brother, either. They wouldn't be doing this if he was, and Sam doesn't ever want to stop. "Hey," Dean says, hand on Sam's face and Sam doesn't want to make eye contact now.

He puts his mouth on Dean, swallows him down and Dean convulses above him, pulling too hard on his hair. Dean's warm and heavy on his tongue, salty and smooth and perfect.

"More," Dean says between panting breaths and Sam slicks up another finger. He presses them in together, relaxes his throat against Dean's quick thrusts. He scissors his fingers inside Dean, stretching him open, slicking him up. "Now, fuck me now," Dean says and pulls at Sam's shoulders. Dean grabs a condom, rips it open with his damn teeth and rolls it down Sam's cock.

Sam's given guys blowjobs, been on the receiving end too, but he's never fucked another guy. "It might be easier on your-" he starts, because he's heard a few things.

"Like this." Dean stays on his back and spreads his legs wider.

"But-"

"If you don't shut up and fuck me now I'm going to kill you."

"Yeah, okay," Sam says, tucking in closer to Dean. Dean hooks his legs up around Sam's waist as Sam settles between his thighs. His cock's up against Dean's ass. "Look at me," he says.

Dean looks at him, puts his hand on Sam's neck at looks at him the whole time Sam presses in. He winces at first but digs his fingers into Sam's ass when Sam tries to stop. "Don't," Dean says. "Keep going."

So he keeps going, further into tight heat and he watches Dean the whole time and by the time he's all the way in, as deep as he can go, Dean's mouth has dropped open and it isn't pain anymore, not pain at all. "God," Dean says, eyes sinking shut.

"Okay?"

"Shut up, I'm fine. You?"

It's so far beyond okay, and maybe that's what Dean means. Sam leans in, bends Dean almost in half but he wants to get his mouth on Dean's, wants to lick his mouth open. Sam pulls out just a little, just enough that Dean moans into mouth when he pushes back in. "Faster."

So Sam moves faster, harder, grinding Dean down in the mattress and he doesn't take his mouth off Dean the whole time. Dean's got a hand around his own cock and Sam pushes it away; he wants to be the one to make Dean come. He licks up Dean's neck, bites at his ear and Dean shouts Jack's name when he comes and Sam mouths Dean's name against his neck and wipes them both off with a corner of the sheet.

They fall asleep like that, Sam sprawled over Dean, one arm trapped beneath Dean's neck. It's not a perfect moment, he's hungry and his leg is cramping and his ear itches and he doesn't want to move Dean to scratch it, but it's the best moment he's ever had.

The sun slanting in his eyes wakes him up the next morning. Dean's hand is tight in his hair and Sam spends a few minutes panicking about Dean remembering. What would he say? What would he do? Who knew what the hell could be a trigger.

"I can hear you thinking," Dean says, deep and rumbly under him. "You okay, Jack?"

And it's so nonchalant, like it's nothing at all, or nothing horrifying, and it's stupid anyway. They've never done this before, nothing to remind Dean of anything. "M'fine," he says. "Hungry."

Dean's stomach rumbles in answer but Dean's arms and legs tighten around Sam, pull him back down when he tries to get up. "I think we should do this again," he says.

Sam sinks back down, noses into the longer hair behind Dean's ear. "Fine," he says, "but this time it's my turn."

They don't leave the bed for hours.

---

Nelson's on his second helping of pancakes when Sam and Dean come stumbling into the diner. They sit across from Nelson and Dean is practically in Sam's lap. You'd have to be blind or stupid (and Nelson is neither one of those things) to not know someone got lucky last night. They don't talk a lot, just nod and smile at Shelly when she brings them coffee and pancakes.

Sam begs off early, something he's got to go take care of. "So..." Nelson starts, as soon as Sam's left.

"Yeah?" Dean looks up from his eggs, sees Nelson's face. Sadly, he's never had much of a poker face. Dean narrows his eyes. "I thought we were never going to have a conversation of this kind again."

Nelson shrugs. "So you did."

"Dude."

"Was it awesome?"

Dean drops his fork. "Are you sure you're straight?" he asks as he leans across to steal Nelson's.

"Yep."

"Then yes, it was awesome." Dean grins then, big shit eating grin and Nelson grins back. "You're ridiculous," Dean says.

"Maybe. Annie wants to go out tomorrow night, can you guys swing that?"

"I'm good, I'll talk to Jack."

They go out the next night, and again two nights after that, and on Saturday they go bowling and it turns out Sam and Dean really, really suck at hitting pins with a giant weighted ball.

"No technique," Annie says mournfully.

"It's all in the wrists," Nelson says, demonstrating with his. Dean snorts into his beer and Sam laughs and beats on his back.

"We'll work on that," Dean says once he catches his breath.

Nelson watches them together, and not just at the bowling alley. In the diner, in Dean's apartment, walking down the street. They're more in tune than they ever were, more aware of each other without even thinking about it. Sam hands things to Dean before he even thinks to ask for them, like they've moved beyond communication at all. Nelson wonders if this is what it was like before.

It makes him happy for them in ways he can't actually describe, and every time he's tried Annie calls him a huge ball of melted cheese. He can't help it. He's happy Dean's happy, he's happy Sam's happy, he's happy they still make each other happy. The haunted air Sam's been dragging around since the day he showed up has finally thinned, if not left completely. He knows enough about their lives to know they've never had a home like this, a place like this to fall back to. Dean has it, the town has promised it to him for as long as he wants, but Sam doesn't, not really. Nelson wants to give it to him.

He wants to hold onto both of them, all of them (Annie and himself included) exactly as they are. To hold on to poker nights and movie nights and awful nights at the bowling alley and long breakfasts at the diner where Shelly smiles indulgently while they laugh loud and long enough to be heard across the square.

He wants all of that. He just needs to figure out a way.

---

"You smell like the bottom of an ash tray," Dean says, lips grazing just under his ear. Sam shudders. No way should those words whispered across his skin be that hot but they are.

"Fucking bowling alley," he says. "Shower?"

"Yeah, c'mon."

"Together?"

Dean smirks. "Sure. I'll wash your back, you wash mine." Dean's already halfway across the apartment.

It's not the biggest shower in the world, but Sam stopped fitting under most showers without bending his knees back in middle school. They've done this before, after hunts when they were covered in blood and guts and couldn't stand on their own. He's pretty sure they'd never both been naked before. Always boxers or bathing suits to maintain the last shreds of privacy. No point now, he guesses.

There's some pinkish shower gel in here, flowers and coconuts on the label. Sam holds it up, quirks a grin at Dean.

"Don't even," Dean says and takes the bottle from him. "Annie's been doing all the shopping. I haven't had any say on my toiletries since I got here."

Sam ducks his head under the water, braces his arms against the wall and he's not expecting Dean's slippery hands on his back, slick with soap and water. They slide up over his shoulders and down his arms, dig into the taught muscles in his back. Sam tips his head back and the water sluices down his front, drips off the end of his cock. Dean's hands cup his ass and Sam pushes back into them. "Do it," he says.

"Have you?" Dean whispers against the back of his neck.

"No but I don't-"

"I don't want to hurt-"

Sam reaches back to grip Dean's hips. "We've already been through this once." He slides his ass against Dean's dick and Dean's hands skitter across his shoulders; his fingers dig into Sam's skin.

"Yeah, okay."

"Just okay?"

"Okay I really want to fuck you."

"Okay."

"Just watching you breathe makes me hard." Dean's soap-slick fingers press against Sam's opening. He mouths kisses against Sam's neck and shoulders as his fingers slip inside.

Sam doesn't say anything, can't say anything. Dean's plastered hot and wet against his back, fingers crooked inside him and it's more than Sam can take and it's not enough at the same time. He rests his forehead against the cool, wet tile and arches his back. Dean replaces his fingers with his cock and Sam’s arms slip, his face ends up under the spray. It feels like he’s drowning, mouth open to take gasping breaths and water streaming in. Dean slides all the way in, till his chest is tight against Sam’s back, and he reaches up, takes a handful of Sam’s hair and tilts his head back, out of the water. "Watch it," he says.

Sam jumps, gasping again when Dean’s hand looses its death grip on his hip to reach around and grasp his cock. It’s almost too gentle at first, like Dean’s not sure what to do with it, how to get the rhythm right as he slides in and out but he gets it finally, synchronized. Sam yells as he comes against the tile.

---

Casey’s the only man in town Nelson can think of to call about getting Sam a job. He’s pretty sure they’re getting close to encroaching on the man’s good will, but Nelson figures it never hurts to ask. He calls Casey up on Sunday after church.

"Why can’t he get his own job? He doesn’t have amnesia." Casey doesn’t sound annoyed really, it's more of an honest question and Nelson breathes a little easier that Casey’s not shooting him down immediately. There’s still the question of the Winchesters (or whatever their real names are, because Nelson’s not so sure anymore that it’s actually Winchester) being presumed dead and if not dead, wanted for murder. And the town doesn’t really owe Sam the way they owe Dean, even if it is sort of a package deal with the two of them. It makes him laugh a bit to think of what Anderson will say about it when he hears. Harboring two fugitives now, instead of one.

"He doesn’t have much of a resume, " Nelson says. "Ghost hunting and demon exorcising isn’t exactly office work."

Casey harrumphs into the phone. "Well how do you know he wants to stay? Doesn’t he have that hunting gig?"

I want him to. Annie wants him to. Dean wants him to. But those are probably not good enough reasons for Casey, so Nelson doesn’t say them. They might not be enough for Sam either, but Nelson has to try. "He might consider it," he tells Casey (and hopes himself), "if he knew he had a place to stay, that people wanted him around."

"I'm not going to throw him a parade or anything."

"No, sir."

"I'll look into something for him though. I don't suppose he knows anything about cars?"

Nelson's pretty sure Sam knows enough to change the oil, but he's not part of the car engine the way Dean is. "Not enough. But I know he was pre-law back at Stanford a couple of years ago."

"Yeah? How far did he get?"

"Far as I know he was set to graduate the next semester, dropped out in November when their dad went missing and his girlfriend died."

"I wonder if he'd be interested in finishing up."

"You can do that?"

"I don't know that I can, but I can make some calls."

It's more than he'd expected, more than he'd hoped for. "Thank you," he says, though he knows it's not enough.

"Thank me when I come up with something."

---

They're watching the Yankees absolutely kill the A's. Nelson cheers every time they score a run even though well into the sixth inning, it's not really a surprise anymore. Sam's ready for the distraction when Dean leans into his shoulder.

"I can't help but notice," he says, "how close we are to Dallas. Why don't we get tickets to a Rangers game? They're playing the Rockies next week."

Sam nods even though the very suggestion makes him panic. Jefferson's been a tiny bubble he felt he could keep Dean safe in. Dean doesn't remember enough. He wouldn't know to be leery of cops, that he should keep his head down in crowds. All it takes is one overzealous cop, some off-duty FBI agent catching the game.

"But you're supposed to be dead," Nelson says when Sam corners him in the kitchen. "No one is looking for you. Your pictures aren't even posted anymore."

It's useful to have a cop as a friend. Still. "It doesn't matter-"

"So wear a hat and sunglasses, it works for celebrities all the time."

"No, it doesn't."

"Sure it does. Come on, the commercials are over, lemme go! You'll be fine."

Annie gangs up on him too and Sam can't exactly explain to Dean why it isn't a good idea, so they drive over to Ranger Stadium the next week. They get seats up in the nosebleeds and Sam tries not to flinch every time he passes by stadium security. It wouldn't have been an exciting game before last season, Dean tells him, but the Rockies won the pennant and are suddenly good for the first time. Sam's not entirely sure he cares, but he doesn't mind Dean leaning in to explain.

"What about the Rangers?"

"They've always sucked," Dean whispers, looking around to make sure he's not overheard by some die hard fan looking to pick a fight.

"Then why do you care?"

"Two words: Nolan Ryan."

"He playing?"

Dean rolls his eyes. "I'm taking your man card away." But he explains anyway, well into the second inning, and Sam nods along, even after he stops really listening.

Sam's never understood the draw of watching baseball, even with Dean whispering the rules in his ear, and it's mostly a boring game until the bottom of the sixth when Hurley hits a grand slam and their entire section surges to their feet, tripping over each other trying to catch the ball. Annie's too busy waving the foam finger she brought from home, screaming at the top of her lungs as Hurley takes his bases, following the others across home plate. Nelson jumps over some little girl to grab the ball over the railing and just nips it out of the air to the chorus of groans from everyone else in the section.

"Seriously, best game ever!" he yells as he sits back down, waving at everyone over the big screen.

"Yeah, it was very manly, the way you plowed over that little girl," Annie says, smacking his arm.

"She was fine! She said she was fine! And look! I have a baseball!" Nelson holds it up again, like he still can't believe he caught it.

Dean turns to Sam, wicked gleam in his eye. "He's got a baseball," Dean says.

"Yep."

"C'mere."

Sam leans into Dean and Dean leans back and they kiss quietly and slowly in the middle of the stadium, until Annie whacks Dean on the arm with her finger. "Get a room! We're here to watch a game!"

Dean smiles and puts his hand on Sam's knee and they both go back to watching. It hadn't occurred to Sam to look around, see if anyone noticed before but he does now and no one's even looking in their direction. They didn't notice or they don't care, and Sam's just fine with either option.

---

They go bowling again—Annie's threatening to make them all league shirts with the name of the diner on the back—later that week. Nelson bowls a 242 the first game. Sam and Dean bowl a 73. Combined.

"Next time I'm going to get you bumper lanes," Nelson says around a mouthful of bar food. "This is pretty pathetic."

"Laugh it up, big guy," Dean says. "Someday I'll find something you're bad at."

"Golf," Annie says, ducking the French fry that Nelson hurls at her. "He sucks."

"Well who doesn't?" Nelson says.

"I wonder if I suck at golf," Dean says. "Maybe I'm secretly a pro and I just don't know it."

Sam snorts around the last of his beer and Nelson rolls his eyes. "Whatever, Tiger Woods," Nelson says. "We're out of beer. Loser buys."

Dean flips him off as he heads to the bar with the empty pitcher. Annie sets up a new game in the computer and goes to find a heavier ball. Nelson slides over a few seats to sit next to Sam. "Been meaning to tell you," he says. "Casey called me this morning."

"Yeah?"

"He wants to offer you a job in his law office. Clerking or something, he says."

Sam doesn't respond at first. Nelson's considering repeating himself when Sam finally says, "He what?"

"Only if you want it. We just want you to know you belong here, if you want to."

"I don't know-"

"He doesn't need an answer now. Just think about it. You don't have to leave here. Even if you just use this as a base of operations, you can keep hunting, whatever you need to do. You don't have to work for Casey; I just thought it would be easier for you if you had a job. I don't want you to feel like you've got to leave. We don't want you to."

He waits for Sam to say something, to look at him again. When Sam doesn't, he continues. "Don't worry about Dean," he says, even more quietly. "He'll always have a place here, no matter what."

"You can't promise forever," Sam says. "Not for the whole town."

"I can promise until people forget. Only four of us really know who you guys are. I mean, the others know enough to not go searching for family or something, to be leery of guys coming looking for Dean, but still. It'll pass into local legend eventually. It already feels like Dean's always been here."

Dean is coming back now, full pitcher with him and Nelson claps a hand on Sam's shoulder. "Just think about it, okay?" He picks up his bowling ball and turns to Dean. "Ready to be humiliated?"

---

Just think about it. Like it isn't all Sam can think about, setting up a home with Dean in this tiny town, white picket fence and everything. He imagines stability, routine that doesn't involve killing things, owning a vacuum cleaner, for God's sake.

Dean hasn't talked about remembering anything for a while, not even the little things like toothbrushes and wallpaper, and it makes Sam wonder if the memories have tapered off. He wonders if Dean's not remembering or just not talking about it. If Dean's not remembering, maybe this really is it, all that Sam can expect from him. It's not so bad. Dean won't ever remember being in Hell. He won't remember losing Mom and Dad, trading his soul for Sam's, watching Sam die. He won't remember carrying Sam out of the fire—either time—or saving all of those people. You win some, you lose some, Sam thinks, and it's a sucky trade but a fair one.

Dean remembering and just not telling him, it's too much trouble to borrow, too many things to worry about.

Dean decides he wants to cook dinner later that week instead of meeting Annie and Nelson somewhere, and Sam doesn't have any objections. He watches as Dean moves around the kitchen, moves around Sam, like he's always belonged here, and Sam's never questioned leaving Dean behind. Dean deserves this. He just doesn't know if he does, if he deserves Dean.

"Are you happy?" he asks Dean.

Dean drops the knife he'd been spreading mayo with. "You keep asking me that," he says, but he doesn't sound angry or exasperated.

"I just want to know." Dean turns to him, presses up against him. "What if you never remember?" Sam says. "Are you happy staying here?"

Dean shrugs and slips his hands under Sam's shirt, spreads them against his spine. "Who says I have to remember? I don't need my memory to wander into the big, bad world." He leans forward to nip at Sam's jaw. "But yeah, I'm happy here."

Dean kisses him then, leaning into him enough that the sharp edge of the counter bites into Sam's back but he doesn't move, doesn't say a word. He barely even notices. He never really thought about Dean's mouth before, about his lips, but now it's all he can focus on, all he can think about. Dean moans into his mouth and Sam opens and swallows it up.

"Your sandwich," he says, pulling back just a little. "Are you-"

"Leave it." Dean steps back and Sam leans after him but Dean's not running away. He slips his fingers into Sam's belt and pulls him back toward the bedroom.

"The mayo will go bad," Sam says.

"Annie will buy more."

And then Dean makes him forget about the mayo.

Sam's not sure what wakes him hours later. He's left staring at the ceiling, watching the play of shadows from the tree outside. He wonders how this town can be so quiet, why they aren't bothered by more than the pied piper, why they don't worry about what else could be out there. He almost misses Dean's quiet moan, then a soft muttering under his breath. "Sam," he says to Dean, but Dean doesn't answer; he isn't awake.

"Sam," Sam says again. He puts his hand on Dean's shoulder but Dean shrugs it off and flinches away. Then louder, "Sam."

Dean hitches over and falls asleep again facing the wall.

Sam listens for him a bit longer. He wonders what Dean could be dreaming about, memories or creations of his subconscious. Maybe he'll ask Dean in the morning, if he really wants to know. He stares at the ceiling and it doesn't make any sense, but he starts thinking about the mayo, the uneaten sandwich in the kitchen. He can't go back to sleep until he puts the mayo jar up, throws the sandwich away.

Colt's in his warm spot when he comes back to bed and he falls asleep to the soft vibration of his purrs.

---

Nelson throws the game controller down. "Dude, look alive! You weren't even in that round."

He and Dean started an elaborate Halo tournament with ever changing rules (One eye closed! Only one hand on the controller!) back when Dean couldn't get around so well. It took Dean a while to pick it up—"What? I've never played before! I think."—but he'd gotten good enough that they were mostly pretty evenly matched. With Annie and Sam around they don't get a lot of time to themselves, just him and Dean, and Nelson had kind of missed it.

Dean yawns elaborate and loud and tosses his controller on the coffee table. "I'm just tired."

Nelson takes a long look at him, bags under his eyes and all. He isn't really one to judge; he keeps Annie up late all the time. Still, he expects Dean to have more stamina than that. Late nights are kind of his forte as a hunter, even if he doesn't remember them. His body should. "Pathetic, it's only what, 7:30? Past your bedtime already?"

Dean flicks his ear and Nelson yelps and smacks back at him. "Shut the fuck up," Dean says.

Nelson edges away, trying to make it harder for Dean to retaliate when he says, "Jack been keeping you up?"

Dean eyes the distance between them and must decide it's not worth the effort to move. "You know, I swear you're more interested in my sex life than I am. It's starting to get creepy."

Nelson rolls his eyes. "Whatever. I just have some newfound respect for Jack, is all."

"Damn right you do." Dean picks up the controller again. "Now stop distracting me, let's play."

---

Sam really likes fucking Dean. Likes is probably an understatement; it blows his mind that he can slip his hand under Dean's shirt to smooth over warm skin, that Dean locks his legs around Sam's waist and says things like harder and faster, that Dean drops to his knees in the shower, water beating down over both of them, to run his tongue up the underside of Sam's cock. He's inventive in ways Sam could have predicted. He likes to see how quickly he can make Sam come—a minute thirty-two from soft to finished was his personal best—slick hand pumping Sam's cock through his open fly. He likes to try new positions, things he looks up on the internet, and it used to annoy the fuck out of Sam when Dean would steal his laptop to look at porn, but he's thinking he doesn't mind as much anymore.

And there are also things he doesn't expect. Like the time they spend the entire afternoon in bed, Sam slowly rocking into Dean, as slowly as he can manage, and it feels like it takes forever for him to come and when he does it's a slow burning flame up his spinal cord. Dean likes to sit on the couch with him and sometimes they watch TV and sometimes they make out for hours, until their lips are chapped and bruised and Sam has to clap his hand over his mouth to get Dean to stop.

It's enough right now to know he makes Dean happy, that Dean's contentment in this place is tied up in Sam. It's enough to make Sam stick around, to make him want to give this a try.

He'd believe they could make it, that they could be happy, if it weren't for the nightmares. They're getting more frequent and they're getting worse. Dean wakes himself up yelling most nights and Sam's got bruises up and down his side from Dean's flailing.

Dean doesn't want to talk about them and Sam doesn't want to ask. "I'm fine," Dean says the first time he wakes himself up. He rolls over again, away from Sam. "Go back to sleep."

Sam can't bring himself to ask. He doesn't really want to know what Dean sees. What if he dreams about hunting? What if he dreams about Hell? He should want to know, but he doesn't. It all seems too much to talk about in the daylight, when it seems so far removed, and it's definitely too much at night, when he can feel the pounding rhythm of Dean's heartbeat in his fingertips.

As the weeks pass they get more intense; it's harder to wake Dean up during them. Sam falls off the bed a couple times, dodging Dean's arms and legs and once, he wakes up with Dean's hands around his throat. And still, he doesn't ask, even though it's getting harder to ignore. He wishes he could; he wants to. He wants Dean and this life and a clerking job in a tiny law office. He wants poker nights and bowling leagues. But if Dean remembers, he can't have any of it. He can't imagine Dean forgiving him, and he can't imagine Dean forgetting. Sam's not sure he can live like that. And maybe he's triggering it, maybe being so familiar, part of Dean's every day life, maybe it's bringing it back faster now, and if Sam leaves it'll slow down. Maybe.

Dean wakes up with his alarm every morning, but it's harder and harder to get out of bed. Sam's gotten soft, living in Jefferson, getting all the sleep he needs. Late nights are harder, less than eight hours of sleep is just impossible. Still, he doesn't think it's that bad until Nelson corners him in the diner one morning.

"He just about bit my head off when I said good morning. You guys okay?" he asks.

"Yeah. Just. Nightmares."

Nelson squints at him. "Seriously? You guys are walking around like the living dead because of nightmares?"

"Yeah. It's Dean."

It doesn't register for a minute; Sam guesses Nelson doesn't think about it that much anymore. "You think, you think they're memories?"

"I don't know what to think."

"They're bad, aren't they."

"Yeah."

"What could he be remembering?"

Hell. But he's never told Nelson that part. He's never told Nelson the one thing he hopes Dean never remembers. He doesn't think Dean would want him to. "Anything," he says. It's partly true.

It takes Sam almost fifteen minutes to wake Dean up that night. He dodges elbows and knees to press Dean into the mattress, hold him down and yell in his ear. He can feel the minute Dean wakes up, all the tension in his body drains out and he's panting, trying to catch his breath like he's been running.

"I can't," Dean says, between breaths. "I can't do this."

This is it then, Sam thinks. "Tell me."

"It's never the same. Different things every night. Some things I recognize, like ghosts and shit."

"Yeah?"

"Things that look human but aren't, they're twisted somehow. And. I chase after them. I kill them. I burn they're bodies when I'm done."

"They're just dreams."

"And tonight." Dean breaks off then, like it's all too much to say. Sam can barely hear Dean over the pounding of his heart. "There were hooks. In me."

Dean once described Hell to him. It wasn't anything Sam asked him about but too many late nights and shots of tequila and Dean sat down in a bar and told him the whole thing. Sam spent the next three hours throwing up. Just hearing about it. He knows the hooks weren't all of it, the giant spiderweb of cables. Not that they weren't enough.

Sam tucks his forehead against Dean's. Dean hadn't remembered that, hadn't had to live with it for so long now. He wishes Dean had never remembered, that he could have left Dean here untouched by their life before. Sam doesn't want to believe he caused this, that he triggered these memories, but he can't help it. It fits too perfectly, that they're finally happy and it all goes to shit. It's all their life has been up to now.

But maybe, maybe if he leaves, maybe if Dean doesn't have this constant reminder of the way life used to be around him all the time, maybe the memories will slow down. Maybe they'll stop entirely. It's too much to expect, almost too much to hope, but Sam's willing to grasp at straws. It's no less than Dean would do for him, no less than Dean has done for him.

It's time. He feels like an asshole, leaving Dean to deal with this by himself, but maybe if he leaves they'll stop entirely. And maybe if he leaves Dean won't kill him when all his memories come back. He can't help Dean back into the life he wishes Dean could leave.

"What the hell kind of person am I?" Dean whispers.

No, no. This is exactly what he didn't want. He puts his hand on Dean's face, guides it up to his. "They're just nightmares," he says against Dean's mouth. "That's all. Nothing more."

"Nightmares," Dean says, like he's testing the word out.

"Yeah. Just your subconscious fucking with you."

"You think?"

"Yeah," Sam says and Dean lays back against the pillows.

They're quiet for a while, both watching the ceiling fan. As soon as Dean falls asleep Sam will leave. "I can't close my eyes," Dean says quietly. "I keep seeing-"

Sam leans over quickly and kisses him. He doesn't want to hear about what Dean's nightmare, Dean's memories. Dean responds quickly, desperately, taking handfuls of Sam's hair to hold his head in place.

"Okay," Dean says. "Yeah. That works."

They're already naked, Dean just pulls Sam down on top of him, spreads his legs, offering himself. And Sam wants to, one more time before he leaves. One more time to remember.

It's not their best, not their longest, but it's theirs. It's Sam's to remember forever: Dean sprawled beneath him, tight heat gripping his dick. That it's Dean, even a Dean who doesn't remember.

Sam holds Dean after and Dean lets him, head tucked under Sam's chin. He can feel when Dean falls asleep, the heavy weight of him against Sam's side. He pulls himself away and it feels like the hardest thing ever. Fumbling in the dark for his clothes, he keeps checking to see if he's woken Dean up, but Dean doesn't move. It doesn't take long before he's back on the street again, leaving Dean's apartment for the last time.

He never unpacked most of his things. He hasn't even been in his room in ages, not since he and Dean started. He writes Dean a note on the pad of paper Mrs. Greer left on his nightstand. All the things he could say melt down to one simple concept, his reason for doing any of this: I want you to be happy.

He leaves it with Dean's knife, the one he pulled out of the piper all that time ago, on the end of the bed. Dean will find them, he knows. Dean will come looking for him.

He doesn't look to the right of the left as he drives out of town, just ahead of him. Straight ahead.

---

Dean's phone call wakes Nelson up the next morning. "He what?" Nelson says loudly, when he's still half awake. Annie stirs beside him and she doesn't need to be up for hours so he flips over and starts whispering. "What happened to Jack?"

"He's gone," Dean says and he sounds hollowed out, empty. "Come to the Greers'."

Dean's wrecked when he gets there. Nelson had thought Dean looked like like the living dead before, but Nelson had been joking then. This is worse. Dean's holding a piece of paper in his hand that he passes to Nelson. He takes the note and stares at it for a few long minutes. Happy, what does that even mean?

"Did I know him?"

Nelson panics at that question. Sam left and didn't tell Dean, can Nelson tell him now? And then he thinks, Fuck that, Sam left him to deal with this mess. It's going to end badly though. This is the part where Dean finds out he's been lied to for almost a year. This is the part Nelson hopes Dean can forgive him for.

"Nelson, did I-"

"Yeah."

There's no expression on Dean's face when he hears that, and that scares Nelson more than anything. Like he was expecting it, or like it couldn't possibly get worse. "He didn't want to tell you," Nelson says. "He just." Nelson waves the note. "He just wanted you to be happy."

"Happy. He kept asking me-" Dean laughs, a harsh, mirthless sound. "What a fucking joke." Dean's sitting on the end of the bed, cradling his head in his hands. "They aren't dreams, are they?"

"What dreams?"

"These nightmares. Killing people, things." He waves a hand. "Monsters. They're not just dreams."

"No," Nelson says. "They're not."

"What the hell?" Dean stands up then, starts pacing the width of the room. "What the hell do I. Who am I? Are these things real? I feel like I'm going nuts."

"You're not; they're real."

The look on Dean's face is almost comical, it's so startled. "Have you seen one?"

"No, but you and Sam-" Nelson doesn't catch it until too late. He can't hope Dean didn't notice.

Dean's stopped pacing. It's like all the air's been sucked out of the room; Nelson can't catch his breath suddenly. Dean turns to look at him and Nelson can't meet his eyes, can barely look at his face. "He's Sam."

Nelson nods.

"The name I wouldn't let go of, kept repeating. That's Sam. That's him."

Nelson's eyes are burning. "Yeah."

"Fuck."

Nelson looks at him then, right in his face. The lost, dead look in Dean's eyes makes him flinch. He's never seen Dean look like this. "I'm sorry-"

"If he's Sam, then who am I?" Dean gets closer then, right in his face, and Nelson's never been scared of him before, never seen the hard killer he knows has to be in Dean for him to hunt. "Nelson. Who am I?"

"Dean."

Dean looks like Nelson sucker punched him and Nelson almost wishes he had. Maybe Dean would hit him back and he'd have more of a reason to feel this miserable.

---

Sam's not sure how long or how far he drives. Even what direction. He makes sure he stays between the yellow lines and figures that's good enough.

He's never been so without a plan in his life. Anytime they'd left a town, there'd always been somewhere else to go, something else to hunt. Things to look for and uncover. There's nothing now. He knows where Dean is, what he's doing. He doesn't want to go to Bobby's yet. Bobby will ask questions he doesn't feel like he can answer. He can't go to Ellen for the same reason.

He drives and keeps driving and tries not to think of anything at all, which is just an exercise in futility. Night passes into day and he wonders when Dean will wake up, if the alarm clock will be enough, how long it will take him to check Sam's room at the Greers', if the memories will stop coming back now. He can't go far enough that Dean wouldn't be able to find him, if he remembered how. He can't go fast enough that Dean can't catch up, if he chases Sam. He doesn't really want to. He just wants to put space between them, enough space that Dean can look across it and forgive him.

Normally he can predict, with unerring accuracy, Dean's reaction to any given situation. Not this time. He's never let Dean down like this before, never given Dean reason to hate him. He doesn't know this Dean like he knows his Dean and he doesn't know how he'll react. If Dean comes in, gun cocked and takes aim, Sam's pretty sure he'd just stand there and take it. If he never sees Dean again, he might just do it himself. He doesn't want to think about it.

He drives until he starts falling asleep, drifting onto the shoulders of the road. He's on a little two-lane highway and he pulls over, parks the GTO in a field. The backseat is ridiculously cramped, even when he rolls the window down and sticks his feet out. He wonders what Dean's doing now. He falls asleep staring out the back window up at the tiny sliver of new moon. It's daylight when he wakes again and he climbs into the front seat, starts the car, and drives away.

---

Nelson doesn't see Dean for a while. He figures Dean's still going to work; he guesses he would have heard about it by now if Dean stopped showing up. But he doesn't want to bother Dean at the garage.

Annie goes over there with groceries. She walks straight into him when she comes back, wraps her arms tight around his waist. "He let me into the kitchen," she says. "The whole place is a mess."

"I believe it." He rubs his hands up and down her back. She doesn't lift her head yet.

"No, you don't understand. He's got paper all over it, taped against the walls. Like, pictures, little scraps of notes. He's drawing the things he sees in his nightmares, I think. When I asked about them he told me to leave."

"Is he still having them? The nightmares?"

"Yes," she mutters, face against his shirt. He doesn't ask her any more questions.

It's hard not to be mad at Sam. Nelson guesses he understands why, that Sam honestly think he's helping. Sam knows Dean better than Nelson does, even this Dean. He'd expect Sam to know what to do. Instead it's like he broke Dean, wound him up and left him to careen wildly through his resurfacing memories alone.

So Nelson calls him later. He figures even if he can't do much to help at least Dean will know he's not going through this alone. He's kind of surprised when Dean answers, but not by the question. "What can you tell me?" Dean asks. "What do you know?"

"About hunting?"

"No, about me."

There are so many reasons this is probably not a good idea. "I don't know-"

Dean chokes off a laugh. "Don't, man. Don't lie to me."

"I don't know much, I was going to say. Just what I read."

Dean is quiet for a minute, nothing but soft breath on the other end of the line. "It's more than I know."

So Nelson tells Dean everything he knows, which is basically what he read on the rap sheet at the police station.

Dean doesn't respond right away. "I don't remember any of this," he finally says. "Why don't I remember? Why toothbrushes and not Sam?"

"The doctor said it would come on its own. You can't force it."

"It's not happening fast enough."

"You're going after him."

Dean nods and Nelson knows he's already lost Dean. As soon as he gets enough back, he'll leave, he'll chase after Sam. Even if he never remembers enough, Nelson's pretty sure he'll leave anyway.

---

Sam's asleep in his car somewhere in the middle of Iowa (or another state with a lot of corn fields, he's not entirely sure) when Bobby calls him. He almost doesn't answer.

"How's the weather in Texas?"

Sam's pretty sure he could lie to Bobby and Bobby would believe him—or at least pretend to—but Sam just doesn't see the point. "I'm in Iowa," he says.

"What're you idiots doing there?" Bobby pauses for a bit, waiting for Sam. Sam's not sure how to tell Bobby he abandoned his brother and just as he's about to attempt, Bobby continues with, "Does Dean remember? Why didn't you call?"

"He remembers some," Sam says. "He started dreaming about Hell."

"Shit. He there? Let me talk to him."

"He's not." Sam swallows. "He's not with me."

"Well fuck, kid. What'd I tell you about leaving?"

"It's best this way."

Bobby barks a harsh laugh into the phone. "You don't even believe that."

"I just wanted-"

"Shit, I know. For him to be happy." He sounds disgusted. "You've probably torn him up but good, leaving him just when he's starting to remember. What happened?"

"Bobby, I can't"—get the taste of my brother out of my mouth—"tell you about it." His breath is hitching, he's about two steps away from losing it completely.

Bobby knows. "Come to the house."

Sam can't even count anymore the number of times Bobby's patched them up after the big hunts. He's not sure this qualifies, but he wants to go anyway. "Yeah," Sam says. He'll be there by morning.

---

Sam's been gone a couple of weeks when Dean stops going to work. Nelson knows because Casey called him at the station. Carol's got a little crush on Casey and couldn't help squealing when she told Nelson who was on the phone for him.

"I'm not going to fire him," Casey says. "I owe him as much as I ever did. He's just never been late, never missed a shift before. What's going on?"

"He's remembering more of his old life," Nelson says. "It's been rough."

"Well. Tell him to take what time he needs."

"Will do."

He doesn't want to call this time. He hasn't seen Dean face to face since that morning in Sam's room at the Greers'. He makes the walk from the station, rehearses what he wants to say, what he expects Dean will say. Thinks up ways to get himself in the door. By the time he gets to Dean's he's gotten himself so pissed he doesn't trust himself to open his mouth when Dean opens the door.

Which is fine, because Dean says, "Come in," and turns away.

Nelson's looking for anything like Annie mentioned, weird drawings taped to the walls, little scraps of paper with frenzied writing. But there's nothing. The apartment looks like it always has. Little messier, sure, since Annie hasn't been over, but there's nothing like she described.

"Look at this," Dean says. He's holding a notebook out for Nelson to take. He flips through it at Dean's urging and this is where he finds the pictures, the notes, all in order and organized and neatly written in cramped letters.

"What is this?" Nelson says, looking up from an entry—complete with drawing—about chupacabras.

"It's everything I remember." Dean rubs at his face. He looks tired, worn out, like he poured himself into this thing. "About hunting, weapons, methods of protection."

"What are you going to do with it?"

Dean shrugs. "Keep it as reference material?"

Nelson puts the book down on the kitchen table and Dean immediately picks it up. "Casey says you haven't been going to work."

"Can't." Dean closes his eyes, rubs at his temples like Nelson does when his head hurts. "I keep trying to remember. It comes faster when no one distracts me."

"Is that all you've been doing? Sitting in here picking your own brain?"

Dean drops his hands then, looks straight at Nelson. It makes Nelson uncomfortable. It never has before. "I need to remember, Nelson. I need to."

"Sam-"

Dean flinches. "That's not my name," he says.

"Dean, then. I want to help you." He tries to take a step closer, for what he isn't sure. Dean backs away.

"You can't," he says. "Just leave me alone."

So he does, he leaves Dean there hunched over his notebook, more alone than Dean's been since he got here.

---

Bobby gives Sam his space. One look at his face, it seemed, answered anything Bobby could have asked. Sam doesn't leave his room for the first couple of days, only eats when Bobby shoves food through the door. "Just something," he says. "You can't live on your bleeding heart angst alone."

He stares at the ceiling a lot, counts cracks in the plaster to clear his mind. He thinks about calling Jefferson, asking for Nelson at the police station, but he knows he's let everyone down and he's not through running from that yet. What could he ask, anyway? Has he remembered? Has he told you yet? That we really are brothers? That you lied to him, but I lied to everyone? He's probably lost the right to ask.

Eventually, boredom and the need for sunlight drive him from the room. Bobby doesn't say much as he passes through the living room. "Thought I'd have to pry you out eventually."

"Nope."

Sam goes outside, pokes around the scrap yard. The Impala parts are where they were last time, almost in the shape of an entire car. "Got most of them now," Bobby says, coming up behind him. "I think most of them are yours, even. Just waiting on a few engine parts to come available." He steps around Sam, rearranges some of the smaller things he'd laid out on a worktable. "You boys can start on it soon, I expect."

"We'll see." Sam doesn't know how that'll happen. Doesn't really want to think about Dean coming back just yet and what that'll mean for him.

He stays for a few weeks, drinks most of Bobby's beer and eats all of the food in the pantry. He messes with the Impala parts, tries to remember Dean sitting on the roadside, telling him how the engine fit together. He knows Dean could do this, build it back from scratch, but he can't. He can change the oil, fiddle with the radiator, nothing too complicated. The car needs Dean.

He needs Dean.

One afternoon, sun hot on his shoulders—too hot for early fall—he's had enough. He can't go to Texas, he can't stay here.

"So what are you going to do?" Bobby asks when Sam tells him.

"Not sure yet," he says. "Hunt, I guess."

Bobby claps a hand on his shoulder, looks up into Sam's eyes. "You sure, kid? You know you can stay here, long as you need."

"Yeah, yeah I'm sure. I don't know what I need, but it's not here."

Bobby nods, gives him a hug, waves from the front porch as he pulls off in the GTO. He stays in motel rooms this time and remembers to ask for a single. He'll never stop being able to picture Dean filling up the extra space.

After a little while, he can get himself to stop thinking about it all the time. He takes simple jobs, ghost in Jackson Hole, follows reports of a poltergeist into Montana, about as far as he can get from Texas.

And he waits.

---

Dean leaves on a Thursday. Later that will somehow seem significant to Nelson, that it happened on a Thursday, but that morning it could have been any Thursday in the history of Thursdays.

Annie slaps him awake, flat hand on his ass on her way to the shower. She wakes up earlier than he does on Thursdays, got some early morning class. He squirms in the sheets, they've somehow tangled around his legs enough that he feels like a caterpillar. Eventually he lifts his head to blearily peer at the clock on the nightstand. He thinks about following Annie, sharing the shower, but the bed's too warm and his pillow's too soft. He doesn't have to be up for an hour. He digs deeper under the covers and listens to her loud, slightly off-key rendition of the Hallelujah chorus.

He almost doesn’t hear the knock on the door over the shower and the singing, but it repeats a few seconds later. Nelson disentangles himself from the sheets and drags himself out of bed, shoves his feet through the boxers on the floor and drags a t-shirt over his head. He yawns hugely on the way to the door.

Dean's on the other side of the door and before he even opens his mouth to speak, Nelson knows it's Dean, finally Dean and not Sam looking back at him. He hadn't been before, when he showed Nelson the journal. Getting there, but not quite. He's hacked his hair off again, like he was when they found him and it makes him look sharper, harder. He's also dropped a few pounds since Sam left and he stopped eating pancakes at the diner every morning. There's a lean, hard edge to him, a wariness that the other Dean didn't remember to feel. It almost hurts Nelson to look at him. "Dean," he says, without a hint of a slip up. This isn't Sam anymore.

Dean nods.

Nelson steps back a bit, gestures Dean inside. He hears the water shut off in the bathroom. "We've got company," he calls.

"This early?" Annie calls back. "Who is it?"

"It's just me," Dean says, loud enough for Annie to hear, and she comes out a bit later in her fraying pink bathrobe, hair wrapped up in a towel. She stops just inside the room.

"You're leaving," she says, eyes on the bag at Dean's feet, on his face.

"Yeah," Dean says. "Casey's letting me borrow a car, I'm heading out in a few. I just wanted to say. Goodbye, I guess. And thank you."

Annie's eyes are brimming over and Nelson knows how she feels. He's manfully biting the inside of his lip to keep from crying his own self. She steps forward to hug Dean and Nelson can hear her whispering. "I'll miss you," she says. "Your ass is totally better than Caleb Haney's. Say hi to Jack for us."

Dean leans back. "Sam," he says. "His name is Sam."

"Right," she says. "Nelson told me."

Dean looks at Nelson then and Nelson remembers the first time he saw Dean, stumbling out of the woods, the first time they watched football together, the first time Dean laughed at one of his stupid jokes. Dean steps toward him and Nelson leans into Dean's manly, back-slapping hug and he can't quite help himself; he clings for a minute, hands caught in the back of Dean's shirt. He's never had a best friend before, no one to say goodbye to. He can count on one hand the number of people he'd be willing to die for and he knows, with a certainty, that Dean is one of them now. He never expected friendship to hurt like this.

They both let go shortly after the hug becomes awkward. Nelson's hand brushes against a gun tucked under Dean's shirt and it really is a different person in front of him. Nelson steps back to find Annie's hand waiting for his and he grabs it. "You know where you're going?" he asks Dean.

"I've got a good idea." Dean looks at both of them. "I don't." He shakes his head and starts again. "I don't know when I'll be by here again."

"It's okay," Nelson says. He's not sure he ever expected to see Dean again, once he left. "Just. Take care of yourself."

Dean nods. He picks up his bag and turns toward the door. He's reaching out, hand on the knob when he stops, turns around. Nelson's not sure what to think, what to feel. Dean drops his bag and reaches out, reaches back. His hand lands heavy on Nelson's shoulder, fingers gripping the base of his neck and for several long moments that's all Dean does. Looking into Dean's eyes, Nelson isn't sure what Dean sees, what Dean is looking for, but Dean must find it because he nods. Dean's eyes are brighter than they had been, wet. "Thank you," he says, and it's different from the way he said it to Annie.

Then Dean picks up his bag again, and he's gone.

Nelson turns to Annie, pulls her close and tucks her toweled head under his chin and just holds on for a minute, until she pulls away to watch out the window. "Nelson," she says. He goes to the window. There's a group of kids around Dean's car, like they knew somehow. They wave as Dean drives away, and a few of them run after his car, and Sarah Casey is holding a cat carrier. Nelson guesses cats aren't so handy to travel with. They watch until Dean turns onto Main and they can't see his car anymore. He never looks back.

It's later that day, when he's heading into the station, that he realizes Dean didn't even leave his contact information. No way for Nelson to call him and see how he's doing. He doesn't even make it to through the door; Mayberry's been waiting for him. "Pawn shop got broken into," Mayberry says. He doesn't have say which, they've only got the one, run by Anderson's younger brother. "Couple of shotguns, a pistol. Couple of rounds for each."

"You don't think-"

"Yeah, I do. He left cash on the counter, enough to cover the weapons and the repairs to the lock. Why he couldn't just wait for it to open I don't get. He over at the garage this morning?"

"Actually..."

Mayberry stops in his tracks. "He left."

Nelson nods. "This morning."

"Hell of a way to say goodbye."

Nelson thinks of the awkward hug, the way Dean didn't even turn to wave at the kids. "It's his way," he says. "He doesn't say goodbye."

---

Sam takes out the poltergeist in Bozeman, not so easy but at least it was quick. He calls Bobby on the way back to the motel, just to let Bobby know he's alive. He goes back to the room to shower, wash all the dirt and the sweat and whatever it was the thing had poured over him as he was knocking the last bag into its corner. He's just pulling a clean shirt over his head when there's a knock on the door.

He's not sure what he expects when he opens it, but he's pretty damn sure it isn't Dean. Dean who bursts through the door and punches him, quick in the jaw, holding nothing back. It would've had him laid out on the ground if Dean hadn't grabbed his arm and shoved him against the wall and Sam's jaw aches but he doesn't even notice it when Dean kisses him. It isn't gentle, it isn't kind, but it's exactly what Sam wants. Incoherent noises that sound like a plea, and he knows they're coming from him.

Dean pulls back, breath harsh against Sam's face. "You asshole," he says. He leans in again, licking and biting at Sam's jaw, his neck, before he pulls Sam's shirt up, steps back to get it over Sam's head. "I want-"

Sam opens his mouth but Dean shakes his head. "Shut up," he says. "Shut up shut up shut up. It's my turn."

So Sam lets him, lets Dean pull his clothes off, lay him out on the bed. The ugly bed spread is scratchy against his back. Dean stands over him for a minute, just looking, and Sam's cock is hard and leaking against his belly already and he can't meet Dean's eyes. Dean pulls off his clothes, crawls over Sam until he's straddling Sam's thighs and Sam clenches his hands in the blanket to keep from touching him. It's Dean's turn, Dean's turn to do anything he wants and he wants to give that to Dean since he took it away the first time.

Dean's hard too, he leans down over Sam and their cocks rub together and Sam's mouth opens on a small whine. Dean laughs against his neck, sucks a kiss against his shoulder. His hands are everywhere, nails scraping up Sam's sides, fingers curling under Sam's ass; Sam's are still clenched in the blanket.

Dean must notice something's off, he sits up again. "Sam," he says, and Sam's feels his face crumple, his eyes burn. It'd been so fucking long since he'd heard that name from Dean, the way it's meant, with all the meanings and the layers behind it. "Sam," Dean says again. "What-"

"You said-"

Dean touches his hands, pulls them out of their death grip on the bedding. "Touch me," he says.

Sam's hands clench around Dean's skin now, finding all his favorite places: the jut of Dean's hip bone, the smooth skin of his under arm, the fine hair dusting his thigh. Dean breathes encouragement into his ear, kisses him, runs his tongue along the edge of Sam's teeth, still rubbing against him and they come like that, spilling between them.

Dean gets up after goes into the bathroom, comes back with a wet washcloth and wipes them down. He sits on the edge of the bed after, like he's trying to put distance between them, and Sam feels slightly ridiculous still spread out naked on the bed. He sits up, pulls the bed spread over himself. Sam's not sure how to start this conversation. Sorry? But it's not his conversation to start.

Dean's still naked too and from here Sam can see the large knot of scar tissue where they went in to place the pin in his leg.

"Looks like I found you," Dean says.

Sam's hand reaches out to touch, but he lets it fall to the bed spread. "How?"

"Bobby. Well, and Mike. Tracked your GPS."

"So you remember."

There's the lopsided, self-deprecating smirk Sam knows, and Dean looks down at his hands. "Yeah," he says. "Enough."

"Dean, I'm sorry-"

"It's weird," Dean says. "It's like I have two sets of memories in here, two people. There's me and there's him. I can remember what it feels like to not remember. I can't explain it better than that. To not know what's out there, what we do. To think that evil only comes in human form."

Dean turns to him then and in his face Sam can see all the ways this has changed him, all the ways he's Dean and Sam at the same time. It's marked both of them, Sam thinks; he's changed from the person he was as well. It gives him a measure of hope, that there's a town somewhere that knows who they are and accepts them that way, that knows what they've done and forgives them. Sam feels like he can reach out now and he slides his hand over Dean's shoulder. Dean falls into him, just collapses onto Sam and Sam catches him, holds him up.

"I just wanted you to be-"

"Happy. I know. I got your note." Dean's closer now, lips against Sam's ear. "You're such an idiot," he says. "You are what makes me happy."