It’s a familiar feeling, this power. An old friend, dusting itself off from the depths of his memories; a hand on his shoulder that guides him. A voice that whispers in his ear and says you deserve this. You deserve to see them kneel.
The inside of the bar has gone absolutely still. People gasp for breath, blood flows, and the stink of sulphur is thick in the air. For this single moment, the entire world seems to be holding its breath. Sam casts his eyes across the group of demons scattered around the room, each rooted to their place and watching him with something he can only read as fear, and he feels… he feels.
This is something he hasn’t felt in a very long time.
He remembers when this was supposed to be his destiny. Plucked from his cradle to lead the forces of Hell against all who opposed them; to be the boy king. He remembers the demon blood pumping hot through his veins and he remembers how fucking good it was, being able to curl his fingers around that intangible thing and do absolutely whatever he wanted. It was a feeling of infinity, and it was a feeling of dizzying importance. Of a million years of infinitesimal choices that brought him to where he was supposed to be.
Here and now, it comes to him again, easy as breathing. He doesn’t have the patience to wait out this fight, or to watch his friends and family get hurt any longer. He doesn’t have the time to waste here when he needs to be scouring the face of the Earth for his brother. He needs this to stop, and-
And his voice is enough. His command. And fuck, does it ever feel good when they listen.
Watching black smoke spiral out of the building feels a bit like getting high, leaving Sam dazed and warm and filled to the tips of his fingers with nervous energy. With the need to do more, to lean into this, to embrace the power and take the next step further and-
“Sam?“
And then Mom calls for him, and Jack’s still unconscious, and Bobby’s bleeding pretty bad, and Sam- Sam’s still coming down from this heightened sense of existence, and he sees something in them, too. His family and friends. The same thing he saw in the demons, if a slightly different flavour. Fear. "You good?”
Sam breathes out hard and he shakes out his shoulders and he spares a final glance for the abandoned meatsuits on the floor. He thinks about the demons, fleeing with their tails between their legs, out to spread his message to every awful thing that lives in Hell. His shiny new doctrine, freshly minted for all to see. He thinks about the way he used to be able to crush a demon’s entire being with a stray thought; about feeling the last, horrific flash of life before he extinguished them entirely. Rendered powerless.
This new power, he thinks- this one where his words alone have the very same effect; where he can dismantle the entirety of the forces of Hell with his voice– is somehow even better.
“Yeah,” he says, and for the first time in weeks, he almost means it. “I’m good.”
Sam startles, blinking out of his reverie. He knows he’s staring, but he just can’t help it. It’s been three long months without his brother, three long months with an insane archangel in the driver’s seat of his brother’s body, and he can’t look away. He’s so grateful for every single part of him– the grey hairs, the deep lines carved into his cheeks, even the weary set of his shoulders.
Sharing a nightcap before bed, Sam has to admit that he’s drinking slowly. He’s so afraid of letting Dean out of his sight that it’s embarrassing, but he needs to be able to see him. He’s been dreading their separation at bedtime all day, all during the drive back to the Bunker.
Sam nods his head vaguely, a very unsure answer to Dean’s unsure question. They both know he’s not okay. They both know Dean’s not okay. They’re much better than they were, but there’s something they need. A hug, or a touch, a reconnection of body, mind and spirit. But they still, after all this time, don’t know how to ask for it.
“Missed you,” Dean says quietly, with a soft little Sam-only smile.
Sam breaks first. He falls forward out of his chair, landing hard on his knees in front of his brother.
”Missed you, big brother,” he sobs, wrapping his long arms around Dean’s waist, burying his tear-soaked cheeks into his brother’s belly. “Missed you so bad, Dean. Don’t leave me again, p-please, I– I can’t– I’m not– you’re everything, and I–”
“Sammy,” Dean murmurs, his rough hands gentle in Sam’s dirty, unkempt hair, shushing him gently as Sam sobs and sobs, pouring out his grief into the hands of the only person who could ever hold it. “Look at me, Sam. Look at me, baby.”
The pet name causes Sam to slowly pick up his face from Dean’s stomach, sniffling and looking as all-around pathetic as he feels. A 35-year-old man needing his big brother this bad is such a joke; he’s so useless and–
That thought is cut off by the light press of Dean’s lips against his. He gasps wetly against Dean’s mouth, balling his fists into Dean’s shirt. He’s wanted Dean for so long he stopped hoping for it, for fear of not having it killing him.
“Michael was always reading your mind,” Dean tells him around sweet, life-affirming presses of his soft mouth. “Imagine my surprise when he picked this up– that, that you wanted me like– like–”
“Like this?” Sam murmurs, climbing into Dean’s lap, folding his long limbs so he can eat at his brother’s mouth, drink from his lips, live off his sustenance alone.
Dean groans as Sam’s tongue trails the seam of his mouth. “He told me how you felt to– to hurt me, to make me turn away from you. But, god, Sammy– it– it just made me stronger, made me that much more determined to get back to you. So I could–”
“Have me?” Sam guesses. “God, Dean. Have me. Have me. I’m yours– to, to have. So have me.”
Dean moans against Sam’s pleading mouth, and he does what Sam asks. He has him.
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