Lost Time Chapter 27/27

[dime_liora]

Title: Lost Time Chapter 27/27
Wordcount: 8,867
Rating: NC-17
Pairing(s): Dean/Sam, Gabriel/OFC
Warning(s): Violence, Sex, Expletives, Mentions of an Abusive Relationship
Notes: Still very AU. If you like this, thank sammichgirl, who told me it was time to make it public. :) If you don't it's totally not her fault.
Summary: Sam Burton has an average life, a foul-mouthed sister, and a dream of putting his past behind him. All of that changes when Dean Winchester comes to stay.

First part
Previous part

Dean bursts out of the front door fast as lightning and the room waiting for him on the other side is opulent and gorgeous. There's a man he doesn't recognize waiting there, and Castiel is standing behind him looking stern and calm.

"What-who the fuck are you? Why isn't this outside?"

The bald and slightly heavy angel smiles once, indulgently, and then steeples his fingers. "Dean Winchester. After all this time. My name is Zachariah, and this-" he gestures expansively and crinkles his nose in what is obviously supposed to be some sort of grandfatherly charm, "-is Heaven."

Castiel's face is…odd. Tight in a way the angel has never been before, and Dean gets the specific vibe that Cas doesn't want to be there. That he'd rather be anywhere else honestly. It's almost like guilt.

"Heaven. Why the hell am I in Heaven? I need to be on earth. Sam is-I need to find my brother."

Zachariah's face shifts for a second, and then his tone is indulgent and slightly wheedling. "Yes of course. Well, you see Dean Samuel is currently engaged in very important business, and it behooves everyone for you to be here instead of there."

"No. No it behooves everyone for you to send me back down to earth so that I can get my little brother. You know, before I get pissed off and start smashing shit." He eyes ones of the expensive looking statues pointedly, but the angel seems unimpressed. Castiel shifts once and catches his eye, but Dean can't figure out what message he's trying to convey. The only thing he can think right now is that his brother faked sleeping, faked taking the sedative, and that he's out there grief-stricken and alone. Unprotected.

"Dean. Please let's be logical here shall we? You took an oath to serve Heaven, and at the moment the way you do that is to stay here until Samuel has finished his task." With a slow wave a plate of bacon cheeseburgers and a bucket of ice covered beer appear on the table in between them. "I promise it won't take too much of your time, and you'll leave completely relaxed and refreshed. Aren't you tired Dean? Tired of the constant pressure and disappointment? Tired of taking care of Sam and that girl he replaced you with? Well this is your chance to take a small vacation before the real trouble starts."

There's a fifty-fifty shot that his jaw muscles are going to simply snap from how hard he's clenching them. "Hey. Asshole. I'm not tired of anything other than your bullshit. Now wave your hand or snap your fingers or whatever and send me back so I can get Sam. I'm not joking around with you anymore." It may be childish, but he sweeps the plate off the table to prove his point. Somehow the angel's dignity doesn't take much of a hit despite his slacks being spattered with mustard and cheese.

"I can see you're upset. I'm just going to give you a little time to cool off." With that he's gone, and Dean's alone with Castiel. He takes the six steps necessary to grab the angel and shake him. Rumpled trenchcoat sliding under his fingers as he tries to impress his concern through physical contact.

"Send me back Cas. I need to go back."

"I am afraid I-Dean this is out of my hands. I cannot help you. This is what must happen."

"What? What is this?"

For a second, a terrible and infinite second, Dean is sure he won't answer. The head tilts, the eyes are heavy and almost sad, and if Dean believed Castiel could feel he would label this as a mixture of guilt and misery.

"Sam is slated to break the last Seal. He will do so in an attempt to protect you from the fate Ophelia has suffered."

Dean catches on faster than he thought he could. Certainly faster than Castiel wanted him to if the angel's response is any indicator. "How did you know about that? Those wards you put up should have blocked you from seeing anything that happened in Bobby's house."

He's not holding anything anymore. His hands stay extended and curled, but empty, and Castiel is across the room standing at a door that Dean can't see beyond even though it is wide open. "I am sorry Dean. Believe me. It was out of my hands, and it was her duty to fulfill." Then he's gone, door disappearing after he steps through it, and the world tilting wildly out of control.

Not demons. Not fucking demons, but angels killed her. Angels carved her heart out and left that message for Sam. Angels set this last thing in motion, and how the hell can Sammy be the one to break the last Seal? Nothing makes sense anymore, except the visceral joy of smashing every piece of decorative opulence around him. It won't do any good, Dean knows it logically, but he hauls up one heavy marble statue and begins smashing his way through walls systematically. The whole time he works to the beat screaming in his head. The beat that only knows one word, has only known one word for what seems like his whole life. Sam.

------

Gabriel has been around since as close to the beginning as anybody. He knows the ins and outs of the universe better than any of his siblings, and he's seen so many humans die that at this point it should be like trees shed their foliage in the autumn. The image of the little statue, well-loved and polished on her altar appears in his mind. This one though…this one isn't a leaf falling off a tree or some pretentious douchebag that deserved every second of ironic suffering. This one is his, and fuck Destiny. This one belongs to him in every way that has ever mattered. He's not her guardian angel, shit he isn't even an angel anymore. Not technically. Hasn't claimed the name for anything other than an alias since the psychic in Oklahoma. She's supposed to be Destiny's puppet, and he knows it. Knew it when he made contact with Sam and saw the way she kept one hand on the kid's shoulder even though as far as she knew he was just pixels on a screen.

Her face is relaxed, insufferably so, and he knows that resurrecting her is going to send up a signal that can't be ignored. He let that baby angel take her to avoid that, didn't fix her sight for forever to stay hidden, but now he's got little choice. He'll be back in the spotlight in seconds, and there's no avoiding that. The best he can do is clamp down on his concern and ride with it. This isn't picking a side though. It will help Sam, and helping Sam means going against Lucifer. Means putting a foot into the endgame and calling out an allegiance. Which he doesn't want, has never wanted, but there's no getting around it. If it comes down to it he can argue that this was a very special case. Because her face is relaxed, and he hates that. He's used to her looking annoyed or flirtatious. Used to her mouth moving, her eyebrows dancing, her nose crinkling. Used to all the minutiae of emotion that pass by as she expresses a complete lack of poker face.

Her hand should be tapping, her feet twitching, her leg muscles tightening and loosening under his gaze. She should always be in motion, and instead she is still. He can see the hole where her heart was, and it occurs to him that the neat and precise cuts must have been done with care and consideration. He's willing to bet she was awake for almost all of them. He puts one hand over her eyes, and the other over her chest, and then he summons his long forgotten Grace. It's not hard. He has to start by rebuilding her heart, and he takes his time. Dad is an artist, and the circulatory system was his second masterpiece after the nervous one was built.

Ophelia wakes gasping, one hand to her chest and the other gripping his arm in a hold that would be painful if he were anything other than an archangel of the Lord. Her eyes roam the space they're in without seeing it, and then land on his face and focus. Blue laser beams cutting into him, and they widen and then relax. Her mouth is already moving in silent circles, her voice taking long seconds to catch up with the motion.

"-had a nightmare. A fucking wicked nightmare."

Gabriel nods once and then strokes her hair, lets her bury her face in his shoulder and simply soothes her. "Tell me about it Ope."

She shakes her head but he can't let it go. Wants to but can't. He has to know, even if he won't be doing anything about it. But he might. He might do something about it if he can find a way without declaring war. He keeps petting her, and eventually she starts talking. Her voice is low and thick, sounds like she's been at the bar for hours smoking and drinking.

"These guys, these weird fucking guys, came into the house. I was drawing out a sigil and I heard them, but it was too late and they had my hair. They dragged me into the living room, and then they started talking. About Sammy, and how he was going to have to give in. How this would break him. They stripped me down, and then-" Gabriel's hands clench spastically and she pushes against him, "they brought out these wicked fucking knives. Then they held me down and they started cutting me. I could feel the pressure, and I could see what they were doing, but it took so long for me to bleed out I saw when the guy got my ribcage off. Saw him going for my heart. It was so fucking vivid Gabe. Like a goddamn movie. I need a cigarette."

He could give her that. Could snap one into existence. Instead he reminds himself not to hold her as tightly as he wants to and plants his mouth into her hair. Smells the sweet scent of her color-friendly shampoo and the traces of nicotine and dye chemicals.

"Not yet. Need you to listen closely. Can you do that sweets?" Her nod is tentative. Soft. It's so unlike her he feels a sting somewhere deep inside. "I've been lying to you. I told you that, but you gave me an out and I took it. I shouldn't have though. Should have told you the truth."

When he looks down her eyes are cautious. Thoughtful. "Yeah. I think I know."

Gabriel swallows once and then looks past her. Lets his wings unfurl. He knows what it looks like to humans. Knows better than anyone, even if it's been ages since he last did it. He hears the thick noise in the back of her throat, but she doesn't push away from him. It's more than he hoped for. Better than he deserves.

"Been outta the game for so long I honestly never heard your prayers. Didn't know Ope, and I'm sorry about that. But I'm here now, and I'm listening. I ducked out of the fight. Hid in the skin of a pagan god and tried to make everyone think I was someone else so I wouldn't have to take part."

Her fingers move through the energy behind him, and he feels it like she's stuck her little hand directly inside his Grace. It's electric, liquid and vicious, and he's both aroused and injured all at once. She licks her lips and then looks over his shoulder.

"Why?"

Well. Well. "I met this girl. Crazy bitch, but she's amazing in bed. One in a million. I can stand the attention if it means getting a little closer." He tries for light-hearted. He really does. Ope's first reaction is to roll her eyes, and then it all seems to click.

"This puts you in danger doesn't it? Like serious fucking danger?"

"Yeah. Well yeah a bit, but I can handle myself. I'm pretty self-sufficient."

Her eyes narrow, and she reaches down and uses one hand to casually flick his belt open and then undo the button on his jeans before sliding the zipper down. "I was dead. That all really happened." She grips his shaft and Gabriel's instantly hard. Her face though, it isn't sexy or interested it's angry. "It happened and you brought me back to goddamn life." Her wrist twists, the spongy head of his vessel's cock slipping in-between two of her fingers to press against all the right nerves and he moans into her hair. "Which puts your dumb ass into danger."

"That's-shit-that's one summary."

"You're a fucking moron. You gave that prophecy to that psychic. You tried to take Sam out of play so the fight wouldn't happen." Her lips press against his, and it's worth all the abuse in the world. He strays one hand to her breasts and she twists away viciously before resuming the rhythm. "Don't touch me. I'm pissed off at you, you big winged asshole."

"This is-" he pulls in one unnecessary breath after another, "an interesting way to work out aggression."

"Shut up." The friction and burn, the slide of her fingers against dry skin before they sweep up pre-come and smooth back down. Soothes the burn and feels just as contradictory as her touching his wings. He doesn't stop her. Doesn't argue. "Why'd you do it?"

"Drinking for-oh fuck-three months with Odin and Thor. Powerful stuff they have in Valhalla. Did it on a lark, and then walked away. If I had known the psychic changed the message, that John Winchester would just abandon the kid to fate instead of giving him to someone trustworthy, I would have done something else."

Fingers slide through his wings again, and the orgasm hits him out of nowhere, intense and powerful, and he rides the pleasure. When he comes down she's still watching him, fingers rubbing to the point of pain over the bundle of nerves. "So your internet handle was your fucking cover identity. That's why Hel was so interested in you. All this fucking time you knew everything that was happening and you just watched."

"I-" Well it's true. Not exactly right, but true. He's been involved, but not as much as she obviously wants him to be. There's never been a moment he's wanted to dip into a human's mind more, but he shouldn't. So he does anyway. Her thoughts are a maelstrom, chaotic and insane.

-because of course he wouldn't want-but Sam likes him-couldn't have known but you did bitch because he was different-all this time and you couldn't-must have laughed his ass off when-is it worth the shame of-final fight won't be so simple that-fucking good move Ophelia, fall in love with someone who-

He cuts himself off from the source and waits, but she doesn't speak. Instead she stares at the mess on her fingers and rubs them together thoughtfully. They stay that way for a long time, until he can't stand the stickiness and he snaps it away. Puts one hand on her face and the other on her shoulder. If he was good, if he was still someone who was meant to do good, he would tell her that he loved her. That this was the way he showed it. He would make it a point to remove that shame and self-abasement she's stewing in. But opening that door would open so many others.

"You need to rest now. Dying is hell on a girl's system." Her eyes cut up, and she looks briefly surprised.

"Yeah. Yeah it is."

-----

Sam waits for Dean to leave the room. Waits, and then when he's heard the boots clunking down the stairs he spits out the chalky pills and pulls himself out of the bed. He's never been prone to sickness, usually ridiculously healthy, but once two years ago he had the flu. This feels like that. All the energy is drained out of him, his head is swimming, and everything hurts. Everything from his heart to his damn teeth, and more than anything else Sam wants to stay down. Wants to stay under the covers and wait for Dean to come back and stroke his hair and tell him it will be alright. Except it won't. It won't be alright ever again because Ope is dead and it's because of him. He knows it. Knows it in his bones. The demons got in and they took her heart. The same demons that will be coming for Dean, and if they could break through Bobby's defenses-

It's child's play to slip down the stairs without making a sound, and he can hear Dean talking in the living room but the words mean nothing. He can't look that way, can't stand the possibility of seeing Dean's face, or Ope's body. Ope's body.

Instead Sam slides down the hallway and jimmies open a window before slipping out of it. He moves from car to car checking each until he finds one Bobby has left the keys in. It starts with only a few jerks, and then he eases it backwards and over the bumpy dirt until he's on the road and headed away. When he spoke to Meg he looked up the convent she mentioned and read all about its dark history. He knows where he's supposed to be going, but he doesn't know why.

To protect Dean? To avenge Ope? It's all so pat, so put together, and Sam doesn't know what to do. Doesn't know how to live in a world where the first person to ever care for him isn't, and the second is in danger. He has the power, and he could do it. He can hear his own voice mocking him in the back of his head, on repeat, Nothing's gonna happen to you while I'm around. Her little body still and cold, dead so long she'd passed through rigor mortis and into flexibility again. Stripped down and emptied like a-

He jerks the wheel to avoid the oncoming car and listens to the blare of the passing horn even as his shaking hands hold the wheel steady and get back on track. He can do this. He can do this.

Calling Meg was easy because Sam had a name. He won't be able to take out a major player running on the fumes of what Brady once gave him. What little was left in his system he wasted on Samhain, and now he needs more blood. Needs to recharge his batteries so that he can make it the rest of the way through this. See it to the end.

"Ok Sammy. It's ok." But it's not and it won't be.

So Sam finds an empty building, and he sets up camp. He's only a few hours away from the convent, and all he needs are ritual items. He finds some of them at a grocery store, and the others at a New Age shop where the store owner eyes him speculatively before offering up a bundle of herbs and suggesting it's the best cure for heartbreak. Sam struggles not to laugh in her well-intentioned face, because heartbreak is the furthest thing from Sam's current condition. Sam is not heartbroken, Sam is empty. Sam is devastated. There's nothing left, and he knows now that this was the crash Dean coming into his life promised. How could he have ever expected to be able to have them both? To have either of them? Nothing Sam loves is ever left to him, and he dared to love them both. Now he's paying for it, and the ache is bittersweet and terrible.

There's only one demon name in Sam's rolodex, and he rolls it over and over as he sets up the circle. Ophelia has been dead for two days. Two days of Sam traveling and planning. Two days of working through numb emptiness, and he's exhausted and hungry. He sits outside of the circle and munches on jerky he bought from the gas station as he studies the circle in front of him. Brady. There was a time that the name was enough to cripple him. That the idea of seeing the cultured demon again was all it took to send Sam into a gibbering panicked wreck. But that was when Sam cared about living, about preserving what was left of himself, and now all he cares about is keeping Dean alive.

Because he's still breathing. He can still breathe without her, and there's a pang of horror at this betrayal of the little woman that means-meant so much to him. Sure, he's not feeling much, not reacting well, but he's still breathing. But if they took Dean. He imagines for a moment walking through that door and finding Dean lying too still. Dean with his broad and strong chest cut open, cavity empty of that great big heart that has held him up and healed him. Dean empty and dead. Because even Bobby's protections-

Well that's odd.

Sam mixes the herbs, cuts his hand over the bowl and prepares to face his past in the defense of his future.

-----

When she wakes up again Ophelia adds to her growing list of useless trivia that coming back to life is exhausting.

Somehow despite the anger and the shame she fell asleep with her face pressed against Gabriel's chest. The archangel Gabriel, because when it rains it pours. She knew he wasn't necessarily human. His aura screamed special and other in a way that wouldn't allow for anything other than not strictly person, but archangel? It hadn't seemed on the menu. Not after everything else. He let her talk about summoning him, wax poetic about praying to him, dream about him rolling in and saving the day. If she wasn't so grateful for being brought back to life she'd probably have asked him what would hurt him and then implemented that very thing.

Ultimately it's the laconic exhaustion that's rolling through her in waves that she blames for what she misses. Waking up alive again was hard enough, waking up curled in the circle of his arms is a challenge she didn't think she'd complete. When she gets back from the marble-floored bathroom, could this house be any more hedonistic, and finds him with a giant tray of traditionally sensual foods and music playing her brain short-circuits just a little more.

"Is that-are you playing Beyonce?"

"Come here sweets." His eyes are heavy, sexy, and for a second she almost does.

"That's Beyonce. 'Halo'. What are you a fifteen year old girl? Turn that shit off."

His head tilts, and then his smirk grows a little. "Opey, give in to my over-whelming charms and come here. I want to welcome you back properly."

Instead of going to his nakedness she sits on the edge of the giant bed and rubs absently at her chest. There aren't scars, no marks indicating the whole scenario, but she's sure she can still feel that odd and frightening emptiness. That loss. There's something off, but she can't put her finger on it. Which is when it hits her.

"I have to get back. They're gonna freak if I'm not there. How long have I been out?"

Something flits across his face, more expressive right now than it's ever been, and his hand comes out to her. "That isn't even a blip on your radar right now sweets. You've been through trauma. You're going to relax and let me spoil you."

And that's how she figures out he's hiding something from her. It should have come earlier, immediately really, but she's tired.

"Gabriel. How fucking long was I out? I have to get back before Sam and Dean flip the fuck out."

He looks away, and she thinks maybe he's a little angry. "They already know. They found you."

Well that's-fuck. She stands and looks around before realizing she's still naked and there are no clothes to gather up. Oh well. "Ok. Take me back then, because I gotta-"

"I left Dean to tell Sam. They're gonna have to take care of themselves because I'm-"

"No. No that's not good enough. I need to be there and tell Sam that it's fine. Everything that's going on? He's not gonna take somebody's word for it, so fucking port me back." Gabriel's in her face in seconds, that intense look that she's never sure about prominent on his face. Which is all well and good, but no. "I mean it Gabe."

"I'm going to tell you something sweets and it's not to hurt you it's for your own good. This urge you feel right now to rush into danger for Sam? It's programmed. You're programmed to love Sam, to care for him. Remember Vieggi calling you a toy? Well that's what he meant. You're Sam's humanity, but this self-destructive need you have isn't natural and I need you to cut the strings."

She stares at him for a long time, one of his hands pressed softly against her lower back and the other stroking her hair. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

"Everything about you is fabricated and planned Ophelia. From the irony of your name, Heaven setting up that stall with the cursed object, forging the will so you'd end up with your crazy uncle, all of it. You were manipulated and created to do nothing but care about Sam Winchester. Keep him human so Dean would love him enough to follow the plan, and then you were supposed to die to insure Sam would take that last step."

The bond cannot be broken-heartless and alone like a toy-

"And you knew all this?" If there's a waver in her voice she lets it go. Gives herself a pass just this once.

"I knew." His face is-it's not what she's prepared for. Not what she's used to. Gone is the smirk, and in its place is something fierce and yet infinitely tender. "I knew, and I kept it from you. So get mad, but for once recognize what's happening and don't let yourself be played."

For a long time Ope simply studies him. Considers the lines of his face, well-known and loved. She loves him, and she can't fight that or hide it. She remembers all too well his confession when she woke up, and how he almost trembled when he admitted what he'd been doing and why. He doesn't want to kill his brothers, doesn't want to be a part of it, and she gets that. As for the rest of it? Being Heaven's toy, being programmed to love Sam, begin nothing more than a sacrificial lamb? Maybe she knew that. Understood on some basic level that nothing about her feelings regarding Sam were normal or healthy, that there were too many coincidences, and she remembers with vivid clarity Bobby giving her that list of potential hunters and her picking Dean despite his last name and the rumors surrounding it. Despite Bobby telling her it was the worst idea ever. She hadn't planned for the rest of it, but she'd been so goddamn sure when she saw the name that this was the one person on the planet she could trust with her little brother.

Now she knows why, and this should be crippling. It should be overwhelming. Instead she's just tired.

"So losing my heart was the last thing they had planned for me?" He nods once and brushes his lips over the corner of hers. "Well then, consider my strings cut and my fucking duty discharged. Now take me back to Sam. Fuck Heaven Gabriel, and fuck the rest of it too. I'm going because I'm going, and if you can't understand that then I'm sorry."

-----

Dean's got nothing left in the tank. He sits on the plush carpet with the wrecked statue in his hands and stares at the unmarked walls and the room that has righted itself what feels like a hundred times. He's being denied everything, even the cathartic release of destroying the lavish prison around him. His head drops, the world tilts, and when he hears the rustle of wings he doesn't bother to look up. Hears how wrecked he sounds even when he wants to be intimidating and angry.

"Come to tell me it's over? My brother's already kick-started your world ending shindig?"

He waits, expecting Zachariah's smug voice, and instead he gets Castiel. "You must get up. We are leaving now."

When he looks up to see Castiel staring plaintively at him, emotion clear and plain on the angel's face Dean feels his heart skip a beat. Maybe two. "Is it over?"

"It has yet to begin. We are leaving, but we must go now."

And Dean? Dean's not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. He pushes his way up fast and crosses the room before practically falling through the door behind the angel. What he finds on the other side is a very naked Ope in Bobby's living room looking tired and run down. Gabe is standing behind her with a tight face, and he looks Castiel over for a second before disappearing. The angel jerks once, eyebrows raised, and Ophelia crosses the room and grabs Dean tightly. He lets her hold him, doesn't move, and then she pulls back and looks up at him.

"Do we know where he went? I can't find him."

"No I-"

"I know, but getting there will be difficult. He will be guarded by both sides, they will be expecting us as soon as they realize Dean is gone." The angel's blue eyes look her up and down. "How are you alive?"

"It doesn't matter. I'm putting clothes on, and Dean you're getting weapons. They expect us to come? Then we'll fucking come hard." She's gone then, and Dean doesn't ask questions. There's no time. He digs through Bobby's armory and assembles two bags full of ordinance. Shotguns, salt rounds, anything he thinks will slow any of them down even for a second. He knows that none of it will work on angels, but demons will have some pause if he has anything to say about it. When he looks back up Ophelia is standing there in jeans and a wife-beater, beanie pulled down low to hold back her hair. If they had time he'd hold her longer, soak in the moving of her ribcage and the fact that she's back to life and it's a goddamn miracle. But there isn't.

"You have a plan?"

She grins once, and Dean almost shivers at how blood-thirsty it is. "They're expecting you, and they think I'm off the board. Castiel, can you pop him around?"

The angel tills an eyebrow and nods slowly. "I am assuming you are asking if I am capable of teleportation. Yes I am."

"What about illusions? Can you handle illusions?" The angel nods again and Ophelia's smile turns broad and manic. "Then here's the plan."

-----

Of all the weird shit Dean has experienced over the years there is nothing that can prepare him for slumping down in the backseat of his own car while watching himself drive it. His own grin meets him in the rearview mirror, and he swallows once before pointing. "You be careful with my baby. I know you can be killed now."

It should be too soon for it to be funny, but she laughs anyway and responds in her own voice despite his lips framing it. "Yeah, yeah, whatever. Now shut up and get ready to be mystified by my awesomeness. Castiel you ready?"

The angel is slumped beside him, trench coat pooled over the backseat as he stares intensely at the window. "As ready as I possibly can be for turning against all of Heaven."

The car is stopped, idling, and Dean can't see over the windowsill to what's waiting for them out there. He hears her fiddling with the radio, and over the sound of stations flying past she grumbles angrily. "This is the perfect time for some Avenged Sevenfold or Rage Against the Machine. Why don't you have a fucking cd player?" Her hand stumbles for a second and Dean hears the opening strains of a song he knows very well.

"Leave it at this." She raises one of his eyebrows in the mirror and Dean can't help the smile. "You could use some culture, and this is perfect for this moment. Trust me sweetheart. Now promise you'll live through this, 'cause Sam'd be pissed if I let you die again so soon."

He watches his own lips quirk up in a smile that is suddenly warm and honest. "I'm not going anywhere soon. Fucking Kansas." But she turns the dial so the music is blaring.

Carry on my wayward son indeed...

He watches her roll the window down and lean out. She pulls the upper half of his body out of the window, and sitting on the sill she aims the gun before firing the first shot. There's a howl, unearthly and long, and then the car revs up and Dean's comforted by the roar of the engine before she's skidding forward at top speed. His baby takes a curve, tires gripping the road perfectly and Dean feels the power in the classic automobile even as she jumps a curb and the tires tear through grass. Steve Walsh wailed, and then everything was silence and there were stone tiles under Dean's feet. The hallway is old, almost ancient looking in its long abandonment, and Dean can see huge oaken double doors at the end of it. Through those doors stands his little brother, and a woman in a white dress.

There's no time to think, no time to consider, and Dean simply picks up the pace and runs. He makes it to the end of the hall and through the doors even as the woman turns and holds out a hand. They slam shut behind him, and he's left with Sam and this demon that Castiel has explained to him is the first of her kind and the last of the Seals that have to be broken for Lucifer to be freed. Lilith. But he's ready, he's ready for anything.

Except for the sight that greets him. The sight of Sam with his beautiful, up-turned hazel eyes staring wide and disbelieving at Dean. The sight of Sam holding nothing, hands limp at his thighs as he stares in horrified fascination like Dean just came in wearing a spangly dress and a fruit hat while Spanish dancing.

"Dean? What the hell are you doing here?"

----

Ophelia told Sam once, well more than once if he's being honest with himself, that he was brilliant. That she always believed in him, but above all that she believed in how smart he was. Sometimes these praises were peppered with expletives, especially when he was fixing something technological that she had been thumping instead of handling calmly, but they were always delivered with the same indefatiguable belief.

He questions every one of her judgments as he stares at Brady in the circle. Brady who brought him into this nightmare, who inducted him into the not quite human club. Brady who spent a year tearing Sam down and molding him until all that was left was fear and hatred. If the road to Hell is paved in good intentions then Brady spent that year handing Sam the mortar so he could lay the bricks and head on down. Despite all of that, despite the fear and the uncertainty, Sam is on his feet. He's standing, and Brady is locked under the Devil's Trap and unable to do anything but stare impotently at his former punching bag. Well, stare and talk, but he's not doing the second one. They're locked there, Brady contemplating eating Sam's bones probably and Sam wondering if he's capable of standing under Brady's gaze and talking.

Which is why Sam jumps when he breaks the silence, his own voice steadier than he ever imagined. "I have questions."

Lips curve, the handsome face crinkling in amusement and blue eyes penetrating. It's not a warm smile, but they never were. "And you think I'm going to answer them Sam? I knew you were addled, but I never thought you braindead."

Neither did I. "You're going to answer them because your answers will decide whether or not I do the thing you spent all that time training me to. So, to begin, who killed Ophelia?"

One blonde eyebrow arches, and there's a dark look that crosses over and leaves Sam's hands shaking. "I wish I knew. I was hoping I would have the honor of gutting the bitch. Or taking you over and using you to do it. Maybe fuck her death. There were-"

"Question two, which side are you on?" He doesn't need to hear Brady's descriptions of murdering her. What was done was bad enough.

Brady crouches down, hands dangling between thighs Sam knows from experience are powerful. Those hands touched him gently once, for a very short time, before they became hard. Fingers swing up to stroke the stubbled jaw and Sam remembers vividly the way Brady used to bite into him. How badly it hurt, and how he was expected-

The tremors are racking him, but Sam stays upright and watches the demon in front of him. "Haven't you figured it out yet Sam? I'm on my side. It's the only side worth being on. Why, are you thinking about coming back to it?"

Sam grips his hands into tight fists so that he can't shake everywhere. He doesn't need them steady, but they anchor his voice enough to focus. "Last question. Why do you want me to kill Lilith?"

-----

"Yes Dean, what are you doing here? It's not very nice. This was supposed to be a special time between just me and Sam. Now you're interrupting." Her voice is petulant. Child-like despite the sensual curves displayed by the white dress. Dean couldn't be further thrown off his game if he tried. This wasn't what he was ready for. He had this whole speech planned out for Sam. He was picturing coming around the corner and finding his brother with black eyes and murder ready. Instead he's looking at his brother. His brother who seems perfectly fine thank you. Sam's face still confused but now honestly frightened.

"I was-I came to-Sam you can't do this. She's the last Seal." He points wildly at the demon and she raises one thin eyebrow before smirking.

"Yes, Sam and I were just discussing that. Once again, you are interrupting and it's rude." Which is when Dean finds himself flying backwards, iron candelabra grazing his thigh before he slams into one stone wall and tumbles downwards. There's a bright flash of pain at the impact, and Dean is pretty sure it comes from his head. He hears Sam screaming his name as he pushes his unsteady way up and finds his brother right there holding him up, lifting him. It's the antithesis of his original purpose, but Dean lets his brother support and protect him.

"Dean, you're not supposed to be here. How did you even figure out where I was?" Sam's eyes are a maelstrom of color and emotion and Dean wants to lick his jawline and tell him how pretty they are.

Head wound, check.

"Cas. Rode here with Cas and Ope."

Sam sucks in one sharp breath and the big hands tighten on his shoulders. "Ope? Ope's alive?" Sam sounds so goddamn hopeful, but the chuckle from beyond them drags his brother's attention away.

"This is awful touching, but Sam and I have unfinished business. Or did you want your brother involved?"

"No!" It's harsh, barked and panic-laced, and then Dean finds himself leaning against the stone wall with the room spinning dizzily as Sam lets go of his shoulders and steps forward. "This is between you and me. Exorcizo te, immundíssime spíritus, omnis incúrsio adversárii, omne phantasma, omnis légio-”

An exorcism. Sam is doing a goddamn exorcism, the right way, instead of the demon powers way and Dean's dizziness increases as his head swells with pride. Sam didn't come here to break his promise to Ope or make a huge mistake. Sam somehow, someway, knew what was happening and he came here with a way around it. A plan to foil Heaven and Hell. His brother, his brilliant, handsome, awesome little brother was ten steps ahead of-

The room starts shaking, crackling energy filling it, and then there's a clap of thunder and a slim African-American man standing between Sam and Lilith and cutting off his brother's speech with a hand around his throat. Dean launches off the wall without thinking and slams his fist into the guy's jaw before the crumpling pain in his hand informs him he's made a terrible mistake. The jaw in front of him is intact, but Dean's hand is destroyed.

-----

"Why do I want it? Sam, I want it because it's what's best for you. I always wanted what was best for you." The smirk is a powerful thing, connected to so many other memories that for a second Sam is the scrawny teenager he was when he first met Brady. Tall, gangly, and completely unsure of what he wanted or how to get it. How badly he longed then for love, for approval, and for someone to just once see him for what he was and not what they wanted him to be. Which was, of course, exactly what Brady ended up doing. Still, Sam had thought then that he was going to be free. Going to be-

It doesn't matter. The rest of it doesn't matter, because Sam has figured it out. Yeah, calling Brady might have been a bit of desperation on his part, but Ope was at least a little right. Sam is smart. Smarter than Brady or any of the rest of them ever gave him credit for.

"Bobby's house is warded to the nines against demons, and you didn't know until I told you that Ope was dead. Which means no one on your side did it. Heaven killed my sister." Brady's face takes on a carefully controlled boredom that Sam can see through. Violence crackles around the edges of it. "You teaching me all of it, the powers and the blood-drinking, it was all a lead up to this. Meg wanted me to use them because she wants the same thing you want. To get Lucifer out and the Apocalypse started. Which means feeding me that bullshit about Lilith was a ploy. We're out of Seals aren't we?"

Brady's boredom goes by the wayside, cunning in every line of that handsome, classic, All-American face. "You're thinking too much Sam. Way too much. I suggest you just dial it back a little and be a good boy. Didn't you call me here to drain me so you could save your brother from our fearless leader?"

And yeah, that had been on the table. It had been a possibility. Except there was no way a demon walked into Bobby's house and killed Ophelia. No way that all of it was coincidence, that her death came at just the right time to remind him of Meg's warning, that calling Brady was this easy, and that Sam was being brought back into the fold all at the same time. Too many coincidences, too many outlandish possibilities for it to be anything other than a grand design.

Which is why Sam made sure that he could do this the right way. Because despite the image burned into the back of his eyelids of Ophelia lying too still and so small, despite the memory of his promise to keep her safe, Dean's voice has been controlling his decisions this whole time. Dean telling him it would all be ok.

So Sam digs in his brain for the memory of the exorcism Ope gave him, and Brady's screams are more restorative than he ever imagined anything could be.

----

It moves fast, so fast, and Dean can't follow all of it. The guy, angel gotta be an angel, has one of those freaky fucking knives they like and he moves forward and plunges it right in. Lilith never moves, never fights, and then she's dead. The blood pools, shapes itself, and Dean reaches for Sam. Reaches and finds his brother's coat before hauling him close and and shielding him. Then there's light, so bright and painful he can't stand it, and then they're on a plane. Dean's hand is screaming, his head is spinning, and now he's fucking terrified because they're in a goddamn plane. But they're alive, and that's gotta count for something.

Right?

Except when they land in Tacoma, Washington they're greeted by a dire looking Castiel and a bruised Ophelia. Sam studies each and every mark on her face, looks her over in the airport for what is an uncomfortably long time, and she holds perfectly still while he does it. Then his little brother swings her up into his arms and carries her out of the building like she's a babydoll made of glass. The Impala is parked in the fire zone, and Dean can't help the sound of distress that escapes him when he sees the long and deep gash through the passenger side. It hurts more than the hand Cas has just finished reconstructing. Castiel waves off the police officer writing them a ticket, and then takes the backseat as Sam claims his spot with Ophelia in his lap. They don't talk, she doesn't try joking and Sam doesn't try speaking.

And Dean will never, ever, mock Sam for how long his little brother cries into her brightly colored hair, or how her fingers twist in his shirt as she cries too.

Instead they cross the country together without discussing anything, and when they land on the other side of America in Ophelia's front yard Dean's not surprised to see that someone has replaced all her windows and taken down the plywood. He has his suspicions, but he doesn't voice them. Instead Dean gets through the door, gently disengages Sam's hand from Ophelia's and then takes him back through the house without a word.

It takes five minutes for Dean to end up naked, his own fingers buried in his ass as Sam licks his way around them. His brother, his magically talented goddamn brother, managed to do that and find the free brain cells to use his hands to stroke every inch of Dean, find every vulnerable and erogenous spot, before surging up and sliding home. Split open and vulnerable, hands fisting the sheets, Dean managed to finally break the silence. "Love you."

It was all he could think to say, and all he could manage to give, and Sam's harsh breathing in his ear echoed the sentiment even as Sam's hips slammed into Dean's ass and his hands gripped Dean's shoulders.

Afterwards they lay there, panting and sweaty and marked with bruises and bites and semen. It doesn't matter though because Dean's got his brother. Dean's got Sam, and yeah, sure, the Apocalypse just started but Sam didn't start it. They made it through the horrible ending, dodged Destiny, and now they're going to finish this their way. Fuck the plan. Dean's always been a big believer in writing his own story.

The group of them sit down and share everything, and while Dean's not sure Ope's totally honest he knows when she says Gabriel is the Gabriel that she's telling the truth. Which is why he doesn't include her in the plan to call the archangel down and ask for help. Waits for her to fall asleep before he shares a look with Cas and Sam. They work with Castiel and some sort of magic fucking oil, set up the circle in the downstairs portion of the workshop, and then call the creature he's almost started to consider a friend.

And they make their plea.

----

Gabriel knows the very second she enters the room. Feels her standing there at the edge of the space simply looking at him. The pressure is on, and he's never liked pressure. Has spent thousands of years avoiding it really.

"No. I'm not into groups or teams or decoder rings. I'm Switzerland." Dean's face cramps in disbelief, Sam's in agony directed at the young woman standing behind him. The one whose faith he has certainly shattered. So much for loving him. It doesn't matter though. Her lifetime is a grain of sand, a speck of dust, and it's all going to slide past him like everything else always has. No matter at all. Except for what he's already done, and what he can't take back.

"Brother, please, help us." Castiel's eyes are almost pleading. He's certainly spent too much time down here. There's no redeeming him now. Gabriel should know. He still hasn't turned, and Ophelia still hasn't come into his sight line.

"No. I won't be a part of it. I won't kill any more of our brothers, and you don't have the right to ask it of me."

He hears the sizzle of flames being put out, and that makes him turn. She's got a jug of water in her hands and they're completely still and stable as she looks at the hole she's created in their ring of holy oil fire. Ophelia has freed him. Dean makes a sound but Sam holds him back and silent. Gabriel knows it without turning around, because he only has eyes for the woman in front of him. She looks just as pretty and dire as she did the first time he saw her. Gabriel's seen a lot of pretty women, but there's something specific about this one, and if he still believed Dad had a plan for him he'd think that was significant. She puts the jug down and then walks through the opening and lays a hand against the side of his face. She's smiling. It's awful.

"Ok. Calm down Gabe. It's ok."

He wants to ask her if she still loves him, but he doesn't. It's right there on her face. It'd be easier if she looked angry. He's used to her angry.

"Come with me. They kill you again and I won't be back Ophelia. I can't. It was a one time deal."

Her eyes soften, that shade of blue after the sun has just broken over the horizon. An eternity of summer days that Gabriel has spent in leisure and hedonism. Her fingers stroke the line of his vessel's cheek, down the jaw, and over his lips. She goes up on her toes to kiss him, and she tastes like cigarettes and whiskey. She tastes like life. She won't forever though. He knows that. Ophelia is a candle flickering her way out.

"No. I understand, but no. I love you. Always will. You're a good guy Gabe, but you're a coward and I knew that. It's ok. I love you anyway." Her words are bitter but her tone is loving and sweet. It's an utterly human thing. "My place is here. Fighting with Sam and Dean. I'll miss you." And that's it. She lets him go and walks back through the opening, around the ring of fire, and links her arm into Sam's. Dean's hand lands on her shoulder and Gabriel hates him more than he ever has before.

"So tuck your tail between-" He takes off before Winchester can get the last word. Before she looks at him that way anymore.

That night, lying under the stars in Dubai on a beach and eating from a chocolate fountain he feels her lips press against the little statue he put his Grace in. Hears her words and thinks again how very mortal they are. "Be safe Gabriel. Love you." It's not Ope. Not his foul-mouthed little pervert. It's tender and soft. It makes him ache, and hate them all the more.

----

They're sitting around the table silently, studying each other without speaking. The vessels for the Apocalypse's two biggest players, the fallen (falling?) angel, and Heaven's (former?) puppet. Ope's willing to admit she's probably a little stoned. Dean breaks the silence, voice gravelly and thick.

"So what do we do now?"

She thinks of a thousand possibilities that end with 'and then we run away', but none of them are feasible.

"We fight." It's Sam, eyes shining with that light that always reminds her why she loves him. "We fight and we win. It's our only option."

And that? That's all they've got.

A/N: So, that is the end of "Lost Time". I want to take a moment to thank you for reading this. I never thought I'd write anything this long, and I certainly never thought anyone would want to read it if I did. It's been...an experience. A really good one. That's why, from the bottom of my heart, I'm so grateful to everybody who read it and enjoyed it. You guys rock a lot. The untitled sequel is being worked on, and my brilliant and amazing Beta  sammichgirl has already improved the first three timestamp/prequel pieces and now has the last of them and the first chapter. They'll be strictly historical character profiles for each of the people who had a voice here in "Lost Time" It will be a little slower going than this (since it's not already done), but I've got enough of an outline I'm not afraid of the muse abandoning me. I want to thank Sammich again for insisting I publish this. I wouldn't have done it without you bb. Also, thank you for teaching me what bb means. I was really confused for a while. :D