Archive of Our Own ^beta

When the apocalypse went down, it wasn’t quite what anyone expected. Demons and hunters alike were expecting… well… the apocalypse.

What they got sure looked like the end of the world. The sky burned with fire, and the rivers ran with blood. Ash and soot and Hell's gates thrown wide, like the crust of the Earth splitting itself apart. Sam Winchester stood tall and sinister at the center of the maelstrom, and his brother stood right beside him.

But the world didn't end. The cataclysm eventually died down, and the gateways sealed off, leaving trapped all the demons and souls not quick enough to crawl out in the first wave. Even so, an army of demons stood ready on Earth, awaiting the signal.

It was supposed to be war, but Sam Winchester stood in the eye of the storm, dead center of chaos, and said, "No."

Not all the demons backed down willingly. It was too much to ask, denying Hell its war and hoping to come through it without a fight. But they all learned soon enough. Sam started with Ruby, and when all the voices of dissent sprawled dead at his feet, the rest of the horde knew its place.

They knelt before him and set aside their weapons in the shadow of the Boy King's power. His eyes shone endless black and flashed nothing but command.

Dean couldn't think until it was over, army of demons dismissed and the sky hanging dark with clouds instead of ash. Up until that moment everything jolted with instinct, no world beyond protecting Sam. Sam who didn't really need protecting, just stood there and breathed and made the darkest forces of Hell cower in terror.

Instinct set him guarding Sammy's back, found the colt pulsing hot and ready in his hand, saw him dragging and shoving until he had Sam back in the passenger seat where he belonged. Driving for safety didn't work so well without a destination, but Dean drove just the same.

Two hours later even the clouds let up, but the last hint of sun was vanishing beyond the tree line. Sam slouched quiet beside him, leg jiggling in a distracted fidget. His eyes looked normal again, familiar in the fading light, and Dean wondered if he could summon the darkness back into them at will.

"Whaddya say we find us a liquor store and a hotel with cable?" Dean asked, because suddenly he wanted a beer more than anything in the goddamn world. Sam actually perked up at the suggestion, turned to look at him for the first time since they started driving.

"God yes," Sam breathed, voice echoing grateful relief.

It was an efficient operation, quick stopover to grab a six pack before they parked in front of a grubby motel just eight blocks into town. Dean was kicking the door closed behind him when Sam hit him with an unreadable look. He set their supplies on the table, chipped but sturdy, and wondered if he should start worrying more than he already was.

"You know," said Sam, obviously trying for casual. "We don't have to stay in crappy hotels anymore."

"We don't?" Dean matched his tone and handed him a beer.

"Nope. The demons are building a place. Over the widest of the Hell gates." A gauging look accompanied the pause as Sam opened his drink. "We'll move in when it's done."

"Really." Dean took a long, deliberate swallow of his own beer and quirked an eyebrow. He didn't have to ask when his brother had gone crazy. The question was implied.

"Easier to keep an eye on everything from there," Sam explained, and his voice was so resigned that Dean discarded his insanity theory.

"Do you really have to do that?"

"I've still got an apocalypse to keep in check." Sam's expression was so apologetic that Dean felt like a complete ass. It wasn't Sam's fault he was the Antichrist. If they needed to shack up in some fancy demon palace for him to keep the hordes in line, fine.

Dean planned on seeing to it Sam didn't get taken out in his sleep. What were big brothers for, after all?

There were days Sam couldn't quite believe his life. It was seriously surreal, moving into the sparkling monstrosity of a castle the demons had built. Just outside of Cleveland, as it turned out, because apparently Cleveland's door to Hell was the biggest and scariest of them all.

He had a throne room and everything, at the insistence of his highest circle of generals, and the throne was actually pretty awesome. Huge and ornate, intricately carved wood. Leather cushions, of all things, and the setup was pretentious as hell. Dean had laughed his ass off the first time Sam sat in it, so Sam refused to let his brother try it for himself.

The place even had Wi-Fi, and it was the highest speed internet connection that Sam had ever used. He did most of his research in paper now, ancient tomes from his very own library, pages full of dust and worse, but the internet was still nice to have. He suspected it was helping to keep Dean sane, at least, and that was no small feat.

That Dean was still with him sometimes felt the most impossible of all. Even at his most annoying, Sam sometimes had trouble believing he was there.

"Hey, Sam."

"What now, Dean?"

"Can you turn water into wine?"

"Shut up, Dean."

Sam actually had to use the throne room, which made Dean stop laughing pretty quickly. The demons expected him to hold court, and Sam couldn't really fault their logic. Keeping Hell reined in on Earth was an administrative nightmare, and it fell squarely on his own unholy shoulders. He soon stopped noticing when his eyes slipped to black, but it kept his generals in line.

Sometimes the world was just easier to deal with when he looked at it through ebony.

Besides, Dean was never more than an arm's length away. They still shared a room, mostly at Dean's insistence, two king sized beds in a sprawling presidential suite. He was almost never free from Dean's careful watch, and it helped ease the constant tension at work on his nerves. Being perpetually on guard was easier with Dean nearby for reassurance. There were always assassination attempts to fend off, and not just from uppity demons. Hunters were constantly coming to try and take out the Antichrist, and Sam wondered sometimes if maybe they all had it right.

By the time Bobby and Ellen fought their way in, Sam's eyes had held black for a solid month. But despite the violence of their entry, they came with questions instead of death threats. Big, complicated questions that Sam and Dean tried to answer, but Sam was pretty sure they failed. He even considered killing them for simplicity's sake, but his brother was right there at his elbow to hold him steady.

"Sam," Dean murmured, soft enough for only his ears. It was a familiar warning, a hand on the twisted wood of the throne not an inch from Sam's elbow, and Sam sent their visitors away unharmed.

He was glad of Dean's presence, whenever his humanity slipped a little too far.

If Dean were completely honest, he'd admit he expected to feel a little useless when Sam settled in to set up court.

He knew better than to trust demons, and he knew he'd be busy watching out for his bad-ass messiah of a little brother. But it turned out to be a fight on two fronts, protecting Sam from the intrigues and betrayals of his demonic court, and protecting Sam from his own idiot self.

It freaked him out sometimes, the things Sam occasionally needed reminding of. The chills were still with him a month after Bobby and Ellen's visit.

But it was a hell of a small price to pay, and that stayed with him, too. Dean could tell Sam's power was growing. Dark and steady, and he watched his little brother with a studied caution. Always so careful, eyes open for any sign that this wasn't his Sam anymore. He hadn't seen it yet, was slowly starting to breathe easy.

It didn't stop him making a deliberate pest of himself, didn't leave his watch any less cautious.

It didn't stop him going slowly crazy, either. Problem was, the months had started to pile up, taken them well past a year in this place, and in all that time he hadn't set foot outside its walls. No way to step out of the palace without leaving Sam's side, and protecting Sammy was the whole goddamn point.

But a year was a hell of a long time to not get laid, and Dean was starting to feel it like a constant hum under his skin. He needed someone else's hands on him, because his own weren't doing much good anymore.

The only chicks in the palace were demons, which meant hands off. Sam could never have controlled them without giving them access to host bodies. He had rules, of course. Strict regulations about proper treatment of borrowed flesh and length of residence. An attempt to minimize the damage. It was sick but necessary, and it left Dean with no question where he stood.

Even if he could pretend to trust them, even if some wore beautiful skin, there were lines it wasn't even a temptation to cross. Dean might be brother to the Antichrist, but he wasn't a rapist. Which meant every single one of those bodies was off limits.

It was when Sam started to look good that Dean knew he was in trouble. Awkward, fidgeting, uncomfortable trouble. It left him feeling winded and a little bit dirty, and he wondered how long he could keep his brother oblivious.

Sam had limits, too, and even amidst the constant duties of his destiny, he finally woke up one morning with the knowledge that he had to get out of here. Just for awhile, just long enough to breathe a little. He needed a break from the demons, the palace, the everything, and a quick glance told him that Dean was pretty desperate, too.

He could keep tabs from a distance for a little while, and Dean just groaned relief when Sam left a general in charge and marched down to the garage and the Impala.

It was a long drive to the nearest open bar, since the west half of Cleveland had taken one look at the ominous dark castle on the horizon and fled the state. But there were still establishments downtown, and Dean just shrugged when Sam told him to park illegally and get out of the car already. It wasn't like they had much to fear in traffic tickets.

Dean inhaled deeply when they walked through the door of a noisy joint called Billie's.

"Smell that, Sammy?" he asked, grin wide and open.

"Yeah," said Sam, waving a hand in front of him and wrinkling his nose. "It's cigarette smoke, Dean."

"Exactly. Not ash. Not brimstone. Cigarettes. Tell me it's not beautiful."

"It's not beautiful," Sam said, rose right to the bait, but he was grinning.

It was beautiful. Not the smoke, which smelled like ass, but the humanity. Sam had discovered only recently that, with a little concentration, he could set his eyes back to human. The bar was dim enough that he maybe needn't have bothered, but it felt right. Watching with human eyes as the human world sauntered on, real and bright and clueless. A horrible black fortress had sprouted to the west, but people carried right on with their lives. They still worked, and loved, and breathed, and went out to the bar with friends on a Friday night.

Life continued, apparently oblivious to the army of demons Sam was keeping in check, and relief settled gratefully in his chest at the sight.

Dean only drank a couple beers, because even now they couldn't afford to let their guard down. Sam drank more, because it didn't affect him anyway. He forced a smile when Dean winked at him and slipped into the shadows with a stunning brunette.

Sam had a clear view straight into the booth, darkness no impediment to his vision ever since Hell cracked open on Earth, and it didn't occur to him to look away. Intimate acts and none of his business, and he watched as the exchange of touches slid from tentative exploration to frantic intent. Dean held the girl's hair out of her face as she leaned over his lap and swallowed him down.

Sam took a startled moment to realize the table beneath his fingers had splintered in his grip.

He wasn't actually surprised at the sudden surge of jealousy. More surprised that he was only now realizing what he wanted.

"God, I needed that," Dean breezed on the way out. Sam kept stride, kept silent, and gradually relaxed as they put the bar behind them. The night was crisp and clear, the handle chill in his hand as he opened the door and climbed into the car.

Dean was still humming his postcoital contentment, and Sam reminded himself that he couldn't be possessive of what wasn't his.

Dean was used to having Sam constantly in his sight these days, but after the bar he started to notice Sam staring right back. Not all the time, but enough to freak him out a little. He didn't know what it meant, just that it was new, and he prayed it wasn't Sam picking up on the inappropriate thoughts that still clouded Dean's brain.

He didn't dare ask to go out again, not with the same old everything that was always on the line, but suddenly he wished like hell he had any distraction from Sam. Because yeah, their lives had traveled to a place well beyond strange, but this? This was awkward no matter how you cut it.

When he woke to an empty room one morning, he didn't freak immediately out. He knew better, if barely, and even this looming beast of a palace couldn't hide Sam from him for long.

It was a long search, dungeons to towers and back again before he finally found Sam, standing outside on the highest turret. The stone was all ornate sculpture around them, twisted figures frozen in a dance of torment. Fitting, considering the construction crew, but Dean could tell Sam barely noticed his immediate surroundings. His brother's eyes were only for the horizon, bathed in the colorful hints of early sunrise.

It was beautiful, Dean had to admit, the harsh edges of city beneath the spreading glow of morning, and he approached Sam with a slow reverence. He didn't want to interrupt the moment.

"I never thanked you," said Sam, black gaze never breaking from the skyline. "I should have."

"What for?"

Sam snorted and didn't look at him. "For being an idiot who doesn't know when to say you're welcome instead of asking stupid questions," he said, but easy affection carried the words. Dean was a sharp guy, could figure it out from that, and he stepped closer, shoulder to shoulder. His eyes were on Sam, the sunrise just a pretty event off in his peripheral vision.

He meant to ask why Sam had snuck up to the roof without waking him, or maybe why the sudden yen for watching the sun come up. He meant to say any number of things, really, but then Sam kissed him and it was a different kind of moment.

His brain skipped right past shock and into oh hell yes when Sam wrapped both arms around his waist and dragged him close. The barest hint of Sam's tongue, and Dean opened readily, eagerly, arms about his brother's neck in encouragement.

He needed to breathe eventually, needed to gasp cool morning air into starved lungs. Even from this close, the black of Sam's eyes didn't startle him anymore.

"Dean," Sam whispered, hand warm against his face as he leaned in. Deliberate proximity, just to breathe Dean's air maybe. One of Dean's hands paused over his brother's heart before sliding down along the defined muscle of Sam's chest and stomach, down towards more useful pursuits.

Dean was somehow not surprised to find himself at work on the stubborn zipper of Sam's jeans, not even surprised at the silken heat of Sam against his palm when the pants were finally out of the way. He jacked Sam off with almost confident strokes, not used to the angle of someone else's dick in his hand, but he knew his brother well enough to be sure he was doing something right.

"Yeah, Sammy, come on," he urged, whisper soft against Sam's throat as his brother came apart against him. He nipped teasingly at a convenient earlobe as Sam groaned and burrowed into his neck. "Almost there, man, come on," he murmured, speeding up his pace, thumb sliding over the head of Sam's cock with each slip and squeeze. "That's it, do this thing, Sammy."

He heard his name garbled into a noisy groan as he finally pulled Sam over the edge, and it was disturbingly poetic how it coincided with the first rays of sunlight breaking across the sky. Sam was shaking against him, grateful press of lips against his skin, and Dean wiped his hand on a dry edge of his own t-shirt.

It should have felt enormous, should've been the cataclysm or the end of the world all over again, but it was none of those things. Sam's eyes finally focused and found him, ebony and shining, and the impossible thing of it was, nothing felt any different.

"We should get back inside," said Dean, stepping back and running his clean hand through his hair. "You're late for your lording duties, and I'm still in pajamas."

Sam smirked and followed him back into the palace, and that was pretty much that.

It was the end of another day, later but not much. Finishing an afternoon of business that should never come to feel commonplace, but Sam was starting to feel it just the same. There were always rebellions to quash amongst the ranks, dark treaties to be managed, a whole realm of intrigue and power that ran constant below humanity's radar.

The last of his court cleared the throne room, three of his top generals on orders to take out a nest of demons gone rogue in Alaska. The doors crashed shut with their usual dramatic finality, and the leather of the throne creaked its protest as Sam twisted and stretched, muscles sore from too many hours spent sitting, still and tense.

"You okay?" Dean asked him, hand a warm, welcome weight on his shoulder.

"Yeah." He stretched his neck one more time for good measure.

"Good." Dean slid across the arm of the throne and landed in a straddle across Sam's lap. His hands slid up Sam's chest and into his hair as Dean smirked and said, "Wouldn't want you to strain anything."

Sam stared in mute surprise for an embarrassing drag of seconds before thinking to pull Dean down against him and wipe the smirk off his face the old fashioned way. He hadn't touched Dean since that morning on the roof, determined to let his brother set the pace of whatever this was between them, and now he couldn't get close enough. He shifted them both on the throne, hands at Dean's waist to pull him flush against Sam's own eager body, snugging their hips together as the leather creaked its protest.

Dean's fingers still held clutched in his hair, his tongue a teasing invitation in Sam's mouth, and Sam accepted happily, let his own tongue dart past parted lips to taste everything his brother had to offer. The possessive burn in his blood flared up, made him grasp at Dean all the harder, and when it only made Dean groan into his mouth Sam knew he was lost. He loosened his grip, and had just a moment to regret it as Dean slipped free from his hold entirely.

The flash of frustration vanished in an instant, because Dean hadn't gone far. He was on his knees before the throne, fitting like perfection between Sam's legs, and Sam bit off a moan at the nearly familiar sensation of Dean's fingers at his fly.

Their eyes locked sudden and hard, held until Dean finished working Sam free from the confining torment of his pants. Then it was time for other focuses, and Sam threw his head back and groaned aloud at the first tentative pass of Dean's lips.

The world was a blur of shattered sensation after that, the hot slick slide of Dean's mouth along the length of his cock. He could tell his brother was figuring this out as he went, and the knowledge set his blood hungry and on fire.

It was hot and clumsy, perfect, and Sam clutched at the sculpted armrests to keep from burying his hands in Dean's hair and driving his dick mindlessly down his brother's throat.

The sight of Dean afterwards, tousled and messy, sticky from not swallowing quite fast enough, was nearly enough to get Sam up and ready for another go. Instead he pulled and urged Dean back onto the throne. Kissed him clean and snuggled close and fought to get his breathing under control.

Dean settled against him without complaint, and waited as Sam put himself back together.

Dean knew from the start that it would only be a matter of time before Sam got all thinky and talkative and wanted to chatter this thing between them to bits. He knew it, and he was surprised at how long his brother held back. Even after that first blowjob, Sam seemed determined to let Dean steady their pace, to make him take the initiative. Sam still wouldn't touch him without blatant invitation, and Dean wasn't sure what that meant.

But change was inevitable, and came sudden as whiplash when Sam finally had enough of following Dean's cues. A hot, dry day seeping in through the demon built walls and corridors, and Dean followed a silent Sam out of the throne room and all the way back to their suite. Court hadn't even concluded.

"What's up, dude?" he finally asked, just to break through the quiet. He couldn't read anything through Sam's face and posture at first. Couldn't tell where Sam's head was at until his brother moved. But getting backed against the wall, Sam all intense and looming too far in his space, that was hard to misinterpret.

Sam flattened a hand over Dean's stomach, palm warm and possessive through the fabric of his shirt, and every instinct said to press into the touch. He held steady out of cautious habit, eyes meeting the black depths of Sam's gaze, and if his lips parted slightly, tauntingly, it wasn't quite intentional.

"Where's this going, Dean?" Sam finally asked. His voice rang thick with smoke and want, and Dean sucked in a silent breath when he realized he didn't know the answer. "You got a plan?" Sam pressed, fingers flexing against Dean's belly, breath a phantom touch on his face. "Because I'm not complaining or anything, but I want a whole lot more from you than this."

Dean felt his eyes fly wide, felt a disbelieving yelp of laughter lodge low in his throat, and he slid a hand to cover Sam's.

"You want to fuck me, Sammy, just ask," he said, smirk shining deliberately in his eyes. "But I wouldn't call that a whole lot more."

"I'm not talking about the sex, Dean. I already know you'll give me that." They both knew it, the air heavy with anticipation, but Sam leaned in closer, other hand brushing reverently along Dean's face. "I want everything else. I want you."

Dean figured it out in that span of a heartbeat, knew exactly the reassurance his brother was looking for. He was tempted to smack him upside the head for being an idiot, for doubting in the first place when he should've goddamn known already. As if after everything they'd been through Dean could give him any less.

"I can't really give you what's already yours, bro," Dean finally said, barely above a whisper and he felt like a total chick for it, but Sam needed to hear it.

"Are you sure?" Sam asked. He was claiming Dean's space for his own, barest of millimeters separating them as dark eyes searched for uncertainty.

"Dude, seriously," Dean said, going for light even though he knew it would fail. "Do you honestly think I'd have put your dick in my mouth if I wasn't sure?"

It was lacking in tact, lacking in poeticisms and sunrises, but apparently it was the perfect thing to say. Sam's face split into a smile like Dean hadn't seen in years, weightless and open. It didn't even matter that his eyes were black, not when Dean could still read the joy glowing through them. The air was actually heating up with the power of Sam's reaction, and when Dean decided he couldn't take any more of the moment, he fisted a hand in the front of Sam's shirt and yanked.

It was a filthy kiss, full of promises and perfection. Dean's hand still held pressed over Sam's at his stomach, and it barely took a push to set his brother into motion. Sam cupped him through his jeans, and it was nowhere near enough. He bucked into it anyway, breathed out on a hiss and threw his head back.

"Easy," Sam murmured when the gesture made the wall echo with impact. Sam's teeth at his throat alternated between teasing nips and harder bites, and Dean knew he was going to be showing the marks for days. Sam's ownership laid out for the world to see, and the thought drove him the remaining distance, left his erection pressing painfully against denim.

"Sammy, please," he growled, clutched at anything he could reach as Sam chuckled against his throat.

"Yeah," Sam murmured, easy silk of his voice as he finally, finally stopped offering the maddening friction and worked Dean's fly open. "Just like that, baby, come on." Dean ignored the 'baby' and moaned an inhuman sound of appreciation when Sam's fingers closed around him. He lost himself to sensation and madness for a moment, an overwhelming stretch, an eternity of yes-there-perfect-please, before he could formulate a more lucid thought.

"Sam, wait," he finally stuttered out, closed a hand over Sam's wrist to still his movements.

"What is it?"

"Not like this. I want to be more naked. Want both of us more naked."

Sam's grin this time was a challenge, edgy and dangerous and about the sexiest thing Dean had ever seen. Sam took a step back, just Dean and the wall for an instant, and the next passed in a blur of fabric flying every which way. Some of it in pieces, Dean was pretty sure, and some with the help of Sam's powers, but Dean really wasn't complaining.

They were moving for the bed by the time he caught his breath and caught up with the moment, kissing and stumbling with distracted purpose. Dean crawled his way backwards along the mattress, pulling and urging until Sam was crushing him down against the pillows, finding Dean's earlobe with his teeth and eliciting a startled yelp.

"You got the stuff to do this right?" Dean asked, and wasn't surprised to see that predator of a smile split Sam's face again.

He got no verbal answer to his question, just watched as Sam reached for the nightstand and pulled a bottle from the drawer. Dean wondered suddenly if he'd been played. Not that he'd particularly mind, but damn. He quirked an eyebrow and pursed his lips.

"You been planning this, Sammy?"

Sam's expression softened from feral grin to wry amusement, and he said, "If by 'planning' you mean 'hoping like hell', then yeah. Totally planned it." Not played, then, and Dean smirked his own easy acknowledgment.

"That still makes you a sly bitch. Just so we're clear."

"Crystal," Sam breathed against the shell of his ear. Dean's eyes were closed, but he heard the distinctive snkt of the bottle cap, and he canted his hips in open invitation at the first tentative touch of Sam's fingers.

It was a little bit awkward and a whole lot new, a moment or ten to adjust as Sam's cock stilled inside him, his brother braced above him with a look of total wonder on his face. Dean took his time, waited until he felt ready, and when they found a rhythm it was like every circuit in his body being thrown. Sam whispered in his ear, filth and obscenities mixed easily in with gooey nothings and promises of forever. Dean rocked with every thrust, felt Sam coming apart above him, and lost himself as his own orgasm ripped him apart.

Sam didn't last long after that, almost lost it watching Dean come, maybe, and Dean held him close, brushed sweaty bangs from his forehead as he came back down.

"Wanna ask me again if I'm sure?" Dean teased, even though it wasn't fair with Sam still a barely conscious weight bearing him down.

"Nah," Sam muttered, rolling off of Dean but pulling him along until they were tucked close on their sides. "I think I've got it figured out now."

"Good." Dean yawned, melting into a puddle of postcoital satisfaction, and he met Sam's eyes once before he fell asleep. They were hazel and normal and human.

Sam blinked at him, bleary and sleepy, and Dean realized he didn't know.

He squirmed as far into his brother's space as he could get, and didn't really mind that sleep was a long time coming.

Things didn't change much after that, not that Sam expected them to. The extra bed disappeared after two straight days of disuse, and Dean settled in closer at his side than ever before. He never just stood at Sam's back anymore, always had a hand out, touching, claiming and claimed. Sam used the contact to ground himself, and he was pretty sure Dean knew it.

His minions started calling Dean his Beloved and his Consort, and Sam never bothered to make them stop. Dean either didn't hear it or pretended not to. Sam was pretty sure if he used those names, Dean would just glower at him and say, "You're the bitch in this relationship, Sam, not me." It wasn't that Sam was worried about having that particular debate. He was just saving it for later, with the right timing and the potential for amusement at its apex.

The fifth time he fucked Dean, he finally noticed for himself that his eyes had slipped back to human.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he asked, thumb in steady motion back and forth across Dean's hip.

"Didn't really seem important." Which was a total lie, and both of them knew it. But Dean was smiling, soft and genuine, hand over Sam's heart. He had wanted to test it, Sam knew. Wanted to see if it kept happening, how long it would take him to figure it out. Sam couldn't really fault him for it, couldn't work up even the hint of annoyance.

"I love you," he murmured into the hollow of Dean's throat. "Jerk."

"Yeah, bitch, I know."

The idea was slow to come, days into weeks into months for it to form in his mind, but one morning Sam woke up with a thought.

It was barely tangible, an ephemeral edge of an idea, but he breathed it deep and held on.

He could undo all this. The demons, the apocalypse, everything. Not literally, of course. He couldn't turn back time, not even with the expanding sphere of his own substantial power.

But he could get rid of the army. Send them all back to Hell and heal up the rift between worlds. He wasn't sure how yet, but he suddenly knew it could be done. He knew he had the power for it, or would soon.

It was going to take time. Years, maybe decades, to hone his growing abilities and work out the mechanics.

But in the meantime, things weren't so bad. The impending war was still under tenuous control, and his brother still stood stubborn at his side. The throne was still awesome, and he knew with unrestrained certainty that with Dean he could do goddamn anything.

It was just a matter of time.