Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It's dark where he is. For a hopeful moment he thinks it might be because his eyes are closed, but opening them doesn't provide sudden illumination. It's dark, and too hot. Stifling. His ribcage hurts where his heart is trying to beat its way through. He shifts, feels the first unwelcome stab of pain in his back, coughs drily. He blinks as what feels like dust or fine dirt sifts down into his eyes. His questing hand encounters a rough surface, instantly acquires several splinters. Wood. Pine, by the smell. He wriggles in place, ignores the second and even the third stab of pain. At the fourth he allows himself a small whimper, but he manages to search all his pockets for a lighter, a match, anything. He finds a switchblade, tucked into his boot, but nothing with which to shed light on his situation.

He tries to swallow, but his mouth is too dry, his tongue so swollen it feels like it's cleaving to his palate. Screaming for help is futile, he discovers. His voice won't carry, vocal cords just as dry as the rest of him. He's buried alive, and the knowledge doesn't surprise him, the certainty doesn't frighten him. He'd been warned this would happen, he remembers dimly. Nothing for it now but get himself out of this pine box, and hope it's not buried so deep that he'll suffocate before breaching the surface.

There's an Uma Thurman joke in here somewhere, he thinks as he starts methodically carving at the wood just above his head. It's not ideal: his arms ache, his left shoulder on fire; the switchblade is dull before an hour has gone past, and sawdust and wood shavings drift onto his face, get into his eyes and nose. A few times he coughs so hard he nearly passes out, white and red fireworks sparking behind his eyes. He keeps going, scrapes his knuckles and fingertips bloody as he works, and shoves all thoughts of his oxygen running low to the back of his mind. He feels the wood start to give way, starts prying and worrying at it with his fingertips, loses a couple of fingernails as his tugging grows more frantic. He can taste the copper tang of fear on his tongue, his breathing harsh in his ears, echoing in the coffin.

Not gonna die here not gonna die here not gonna die here.

The wood splinters over his head, and earth cascades down through the hole he's made, rich and loamy and smothering. He flails, panicking as the world flip-flops and the earth heaves and tries to swallow him whole. He loses two more fingernails, brings up an arm in front of his face, kicks free of the coffin and into the vice-grip of the grave dirt, his lungs burning and screaming, until somehow he's free of it, sprawled face-first in the tall grass, coughing and choking and sobbing. He flips over onto his back, almost blinded by the white light reflecting off the roiling grey clouds in the sky, digs his bleeding fingers into the sod, anchors his heels, spits more dirt out of his mouth.

Can't stay here.

He has no idea where here is, but he can't stay. He knows this with a certainty that applies to nothing else right now. He rolls onto his knees, bites back a whimper of pain and another distant emotion he can't quite figure out. There's a grave marker but no name on it, just a rough-hewn piece of wood, not even a cross. He recognizes his initials, scratched in crudely with what was probably the tip of a Bowie knife: S.W. He uses the marker to push himself to his feet, braces himself when one leg buckles, tingling unpleasantly, as though insects are creeping just beneath his skin and nibbling at the muscles underneath. He forces himself to take a deep breath, then another, to breathe through the pain. Part of the deal, he tells himself, although he's not sure what the deal was, exactly.

His mouth fills with an acrid taste, and he grimaces at the smell of burnt rubber in the air. What is that? He turns on himself, trying to locate the source of the odour, then bends double, clutching at his head as he feels a stabbing pain lance through him. There's a flash of white light, then nothing.

When he comes to he's lying in the middle of a clearing. He pushes himself to a sitting position, feeling as though he's been tied in a sack and beaten to within an inch of his life. He can't tell how long he's been unconscious, but right now that appears to be the least of his worries. His head still aches, even the sickly light pricking at his eyes as he takes in his surroundings for the first time. His makeshift grave looks like it was the epicentre of a hell of an explosion: what few small trees were standing nearby have been torn up by their roots and have fallen away from the grave site, encasing it in a ring of dead and dying limbs. The tall grass has turned yellow, dry and brittle, crumbles to dust at his touch. He coughs, trying to dislodge the taste of dirt from his mouth, his tongue feeling as though it's swelled to twice its size in his mouth. He thinks he should remember why it looks as though a small nuke went off here, but his head feels as though it's stuffed with cotton wool, everything muzzy and hazy. There's something important he should be doing, he knows, if only he could remember what it was.

Dean.

He has to find Dean. That's the reason he's here ―wherever here is. He looks up at the sky, as if he might glean something from the swirling grey clouds, but they offer no insight at all. He doesn't know how close he still is to Cold Oak. He doesn't know how long he's been gone, although the blistering heat makes him think it must be high summer. He doesn't even know what time it is. Shaking his head, he tugs on the sleeve of his left wrist to check his watch, but predictably enough, it's stopped, at 02:37. He wonders if that's the exact time he died, and a shudder runs through him. His cell phone is long gone. He searches through his pockets, wincing as something in his back pulls the wrong way, sending pain lancing through him again. He tries to feel for the injury with one hand, but can't quite reach it: it's in an awkward spot, at the small of his back. He gives up quickly as each attempt threatens to make his legs give way, takes several deep breaths to steady himself. Whatever's wrong with him, it's going to have to wait until he can find Dean.

Once he's sure he can stand and walk without falling over, he takes one shaky step, then another, and sets out in earnest. He finds a road not too far away. It stands to reason that Dean wouldn't have wanted him too far out of the way. He doesn't know whether to be grateful or sad that Dean didn't burn his body when he had the chance. It's the same decision he would have made, something tells him, the kind of terrible devotion that has destroyed them over and over again.

*

The road looks like any of the other thousands of roads he and his brother have travelled down over the years, all black asphalt shimmering and hazy in the heat. He's not sure which way to go. He has nothing on him except his dull switchblade and, incongruously, a gas station receipt from 2006 with a fake signature scrawled at the bottom: D. Hasselhof. It's kind of hard to explain, he remembers. He wonders if Andy is still dead. Probably. He's still wearing the same jeans and jacket, but the weather has turned a bit too warm for them. His watch is not only stopped, but broken, the glass shattered. He looks up at the clouds, tries to gauge which way the sun was going, eventually heads in the direction he thinks might be west.

Without a working watch and without a clear view of the sun, it's impossible to tell how long he's been walking. He doesn't think he's getting very far. His eyes burn in his head, and he can hear his breathing turn ragged and harsh. The worst of the pain comes from his back, each step sending bursts of agony up his spine and down into his legs. Twice he stumbles when his knees give out, sending him sprawling on all fours on the shoulder of the road, scraping his knees and his palms bloody. The third time it happens, he hears a car cresting the hill behind him just as he falls face-first onto the asphalt. He stays there for a moment, stunned and unmoving, blinking in a vain attempt to get the fog to lift.

The car motor grumbles closer, and he thinks he can hear the sound of the engine change as it shifts into a different gear, then stops entirely. Two distinct doors slam, and voices pierce through the fog.

“... wrong with him?” A girl's voice, by the sound of it.

“I don't know,” another girl's voice, a little deeper, maybe older. “Hey, sir? Sir, can you hear me?”

Footsteps approach. He senses rather than sees someone kneel next to him and put a hand gently on his shoulder. “Sir?” It's the second voice. He tries to push himself up, can't quite bite back a groan of pain. “He's hurt. Chrissy, go get the first aid kit from the car.”

“But―”

“Chrissy, it's fine. It's not like he's in any shape to just jump up and mug me.”

“We should just call 911.”

“And we will. Hey, take it easy,” the second voice, not-Chrissy, turns gentle as he manages to struggle to a sitting position, and he feels hands reach out and steady him. “Can you tell me what happened? Were you in an accident?”

He shakes his head, coughs. “Don't remember,” he rasps, and it's sort of true. He doesn't remember much from before. “Dean?”

“Who's Dean?”

He shakes his head, starts coughing harder, and she pats his arm.

“Wait, I've got a bottle of water in the car. Hang on, okay?”

He can't help but think that he doesn't have much choice in the matter. His legs won't hold him up, and his vision is still so blurred that he can barely make out her silhouette when she comes back and squats next to him. He feels a bottle of water being pressed into his hand.

“There you go. It's a bit warm, but it's all we have. Go slow, okay? Can you tell me your name?”

It takes all his self control not to gulp down all the water as fast as he can. It's tepid and stale, but it feels like the most delicious stuff ever to pass his lips. He chokes on a mouthful, and feels it dribble down his chin and soak the front of his shirt.

“Sam. I'm Sam,” he puts his head down, still coughing.

“Okay, Sam. My name's Amanda. My friend's going to call 911, but until we can get someone here I want to look at where you're hurt, is that okay? I'm certified in first aid.”

He shakes his head, still waiting for his vision to clear. “No. No, I... no hospital. Please. I'm okay. I have to find Dean.”

“We can find him after we get you checked out.”

He looks up, blinking, and her face finally swims into focus. He gets an impression of soft brown eyes and a wide smile, of smooth-looking dark skin. His first thought is that she's beautiful, and the next is that it's not her face that's beautiful. He shakes his head again.

“No. I can't... I'm okay.”

“Okay, Sam? Bleeding, dehydrated and passed out on the side of the road is pretty much the opposite of okay.”

“I-I'm bleeding?” he can hear the confusion in his own voice. He doesn't think he should be bleeding.

Amanda gives him a sympathetic look. “Yes, you are. You want to let me have a look?” She doesn't wait for him to answer, just scoots around behind him and pulls up his shirt. He hears her hiss in sympathy, so whatever is wrong with him, it must look bad. “Well, it could be worse. Looks like an old injury that just got reopened, not that I'm an expert. Were you in a car accident? Was anyone with you? Do you remember anything?”

“Uh... I was ―I was with Dean. I was looking for him.” He looks up and sees a blond girl standing a few paces away, cell phone in hand. “Please don't call anyone. I'm okay. I just have to find him.”

“Who's Dean?”

“He's my brother.”

“Does he have a cell phone?”

He stops to think about it. Dean must have a cell, he concludes. They've each had one for years. “Yeah.”

“What's his number?”

Sam scrunches up his face in concentration. “Uh...”

“Okay, wait. Why don't we get you seated in the car, so you're not in the middle of the road? You think you can walk?”

“Yeah, I think.” He lets Amanda pull him to his feet, tries not to lean on her too hard as his knees threaten to buckle. She nudges open the back door, eases him onto the back seat, then hands him her cell phone.

“Try just dialling the number. Sometimes letting your fingers do the walking works.”

He takes the phone, finds his fingers moving automatically, the way she said they would, stops just short of pressing 'send.' He looks around. “Do you smell that?” he asks. Maybe they braked harder than he thought, because the whole car smells of burned rubber.

“Smell what, honey?”

Another flash of white, and whatever else she was going to say is lost as his thoughts shatter into a hundred thousand pieces.

*

Jake has dozed off by the side of his small campfire in the woods outside of Cold Oak. He looks smaller than Sam remembers, weaker, more vulnerable in the flickering shadows. He comes awake with a jolt, to find the Yellow-Eyed Demon lounging on the other side of the fire, his habitual smirk already in place.

“Howdy, Jake.”

“I'm ―I'm dreaming,” Jake stammers.

“I've got a genius on my hands,” the demon remarks to the universe at large, rolling his eyes. “Well, congratulations, Jake, you're it: last man standing. The American Idol. I have to admit, you weren't the horse I was betting on, but still, I gotta give it to you,” he gestures significantly.

Jake tries to make a brave show, but it's obvious he's terrified. “Go... to hell.”

The demon just smirks again. “Been there, done that.” He's just jerking Jake around, waiting for the outcome he obviously thinks is inevitable.

“Everything you put me through... dragging me to that place, making me kill those people...”

“All part of the beauty pageant, Jake. I needed the strongest, and that's you.”

“Needed me for what?”

“Oh, I got a laundry list of tasty things for you.”

Jake is on his feet in a flash, anger smouldering in his eyes. Up until a day ago, he was a soldier, a killer maybe, but never a murderer. “The only thing I am going to do is wake up, hunt you down, and kill you myself.” It's the promise he made to Sam, before he killed him, before he severed his spinal cord with a knife.

The demon is unfazed. “You know, others have tried. It's not easy. Trust me, Jake, you want to be a good little soldier, here.” The threat is thinly veiled.

“And if I'm not?”

“If you're a bad little soldier, well, that dear old mom of yours, that adorable little sister, I'll make certain that they both live long enough to know the chewy taste of their own intestines. No, Jake. I'm not bluffing.” Demons don't bluff, not like this. They thrive on hurting others, and it's obvious Jake understands this, because his voice shakes, and his shoulders slump almost imperceptibly in defeat.

“What do you want me to do?”

“Like I said: genius.”

*

“He's coming around. Sam? Can you hear me?”

His mouth is dry, and his head still aches. He doesn't remember it not hurting, although he knows that can't be right. His eyes feel like they've been glued shut. He tries to raise a hand to scrub at them, but his body feels weak and rubbery and not-quite-there.

“Sam?” He doesn't recognize the voice, but there's a hand resting lightly on his shoulder. He forces his eyes open, waits for the world to swim back into focus, but it doesn't, not entirely. There's a man leaning over him, older, very white, with that unmistakeable air of authority that seems to come with wearing a white lab coat. Doctor, then. The man smiles, which is a good sign, he thinks. “You back with us?”

“Uh...” is all he can manage at first. He swallows, wishes he had saliva left, tries to figure out how words fit together in sentences again. “I... I think so?”

“Good. I'm Dr. Vogel. Do you know where you are?”

“Hospital, I guess?” He tries to sit up, fees something tug gently at his arm, and barely has time to register it as an IV before Dr. Vogel exerts just enough pressure on his shoulder to keep him lying down.

“Easy, there. You're in no shape to be doing anything except let the IV do its thing. You're at the Sanford Medical Centre. You were found by the side of the road, and you're suffering from severe dehydration on top of half-a-dozen various injuries. Do you remember any of that?”

“A bit. I was walking... looking for Dean.” He glances around, but his bed is surrounded by a drawn curtain, plain white, or more off-white, really. Dean would be disappointed: he has no idea where the exits are. His left arm is in a sling, he notes idly, his hand strapped tightly to his shoulder. Dislocated, maybe, although he doesn't remember it being that bad. His fingers have been bandaged, too, where he tore them open digging himself out of his grave.

The doctor starts taking notes. “What else do you remember?”

“Not much. I just felt... bad. Where is this?”

“The hospital?” Sam nods gingerly, and the doctor scribbles another note before answering. “In Sioux Falls.”

A wave of relief washes over him. “I'm still in South Dakota.”

“That's right. Can you tell me where you were before you were found?”

He shakes his head. “A cemetery, I think. Before that... I don't know. It's blurry. The last thing I remember clearly is stopping at a diner with Dean.” He doesn't think it's a good idea to tell the good doctor about the demon's little cage match in Cold Oak.

“Dean is your brother?”

He nods. “I should... I need to find him.”

“Don't worry about that just yet. I have to ask a few more questions first. Do you feel up to that?”

“I guess.”

“Good. You have an injury to your back that's... perplexing, to say the least. Do you remember hurting yourself?”

He shakes his head. It's not a lie, technically. All he remembers is the stabbing, white-hot pain of the knife entering his back, twisting, cutting through bone and sinew and nerve. Everything after that is a blank, until he woke up in the ground. There has to be more. “No. I kind of... kind of remember there was pain, but nothing else. How come I don't remember anything?”

“There could be a number of explanations, frankly, and I'm not sure which one it is just yet. You could simply have suppressed the memory: it happens a lot in cases of severe trauma. Do you remember hitting your head at all?”

“No. I don't think I did.”

“Sam, have you ever suffered from seizures before? Any history of epilepsy?”

He shakes his head, immediately regrets it. “No. Why?”

“You had a seizure before you were brought here. It could be a one-time thing, of course, but I'd like to run some more tests.”

The fog has almost completely cleared. “How long have I been here?”

“Several hours. I'd like to keep you overnight for observation, at the very least.”

“I can't... I have to find Dean.” Not to mention he has no insurance, no money, nothing on him except... well, nothing, now that he looks. He's dressed in nothing but an ill-fitting hospital gown. “Where are my clothes?”

“They've been put aside for you. And don't worry about your brother, he's right outside. He's been kicking up a fuss for hours, and it's only your uncle who's keeping a lid on him. Otherwise, you and I probably wouldn't be having a civilised conversation at this moment in time,” the doctor looks amused. “To say he was worried would be an understatement, I think.”

“Dean's here?” Sam sits up this time, his heart hammering painfully in his chest, and the whole room lurches drunkenly before the doctor catches him by his good arm to steady him. “Can I see him?”

“I think he may tear down the door if I don't let him in. I'm going to have more questions later.”

Sam swallows hard, nods, his excitement at the prospect of seeing Dean again replaced by knots of anxiety. The last time he saw Dean was in Cold Oak, just before... he doesn't know how Dean is going to react to seeing him now, but whatever happens, it's not likely to be good. The doctor pats his arm and gives him a significant look that has him easing himself back onto the bed, then slips past the curtains. Sam can hear his footsteps retreating, and a few moments later more footsteps approach ―more than one person, two by the sound of it. The curtain twitches back, barely, and then Dean is standing at the foot of his bed, Bobby standing just behind his shoulder.

It's hard to tell which of the two men looks more grim, but Dean looks like he hasn't slept in days, his face filthy, drawn and haggard, and there's several days' beard growth on his jaw. Sam isn't sure, but he thinks he might still be wearing the same clothes as he was outside the diner. He opens his mouth, but before he so much as has the time to say a single word, Dean clears the bed in a single, fluid motion and straddles him, pinning him where he is, and Sam feels the cold edge of a blade just scraping at his Adam's apple.

“All right, fucker,” Dean says, his tone so flat it sends a chill through Sam. “You have some nerve, pulling a stunt like this. You have exactly fifteen seconds to explain yourself before I end you.”

Sam's back is on fire, his shoulder throbbing where Dean is leaning on it, but he clamps down on his tongue so as not to cry out in pain. The last thing any of them needs is for civilians to get involved. He takes a careful breath, mindful of the knife at his throat. There's alcohol on Dean's breath, but his hand is as steady as ever. “Dean, it's me. It's me, I swear. Test me. Anything you can think of. Please,” he keeps his voice quiet, tries to catch Dean's gaze in his own, and is frightened by the terrible, empty, desperate look he sees there. It's one he hoped never to see again.

The knife retracts, barely. “Fine,” Dean tilts his head in assent. “Bobby, you got a flask handy?”

Bobby is looking at Sam as though he's something he scraped off the bottom of his boots. He digs in a pocket, pulls out a familiar-looking silver flask, and unscrews the top. From another pocket he produces a small container of salt, and pours in a considerable quantity.

“Just hedging my bets,” he says meaningfully, and hands the flask to Dean.

“Drink.”

Sam keeps his movements slow, careful, reaches up with his good hand to take the flask, and tilts the contents into his mouth. The salt is rough against his tongue, but he tries to keep his face neutral as he swallows. It doesn't help the parched feeling in his throat, but it's reasonably conclusive, he thinks. Dean pulls back a little, knife still drawn, and Sam swallows again, reflexively. It's a silver knife, and he knows what's coming next.

“Wait. Just... do it somewhere they won't notice right away. Otherwise, they'll ask questions.”

Dean nods once, brusquely, grabs him roughly by the leg and digs the point in above his left ankle. Sam winces at the sharp pain, but it's quickly gone, mingles in with all the other aches and pains. Dean steps back from the bed, and Sam can see he's breathing hard, his knuckles white on the knife hilt.

“It's me, Dean.”

Dean's face contorts. Bobby reaches for his shoulder, but Dean is already moving, and the next thing Sam knows, he's being gathered in his big brother's arms in a hug that threatens to crack his ribs. Dean's breath hitches in a wordless sob that's too quiet for anyone else to hear, and instinctively Sam wraps his good arm around him too, holds him as tightly as he can until the pain in his back gets too strong to ignore, and he hisses in spite of himself.

“Dean...”

“Sorry,” his brother pulls back, cuffs at his eyes with the back of his wrist. “I'm just... you okay?”

“Honestly? I don't know.” Sam rubs absently at his temple as the headache he's been nursing all day suddenly spikes. He can smell burning rubber again, and this time he's sure it's not coming from the hospital. He looks around anyway, feeling like everything's fuzzy around him. “Can you smell that?”

“Smell what, Sammy?” Dean is suddenly on edge again.

His thoughts are coming apart at the seams again. “I dunno, exactly. It's like―” another flash of white.

*

It's dark, and Sam is floating.
“You are sure you want to do this?” There's a faint pressure on his wrist, but he can't see who's talking. The voice is familiar, reassuring.
“Yes.”
“You know what is likely to happen.”
“Just... just do it.”

*

“Look, I'm telling you, I don't know what happened. He just kind of... checked out for a minute or so, and the next thing I know he's fucking convulsing! What the hell is wrong with him? When's he gonna wake up? He's been out for a fucking long time.” There's a frantic note to Dean's voice, as though he's barely holding himself together, and it's the desire to reassure his brother more than anything that pulls Sam out of the fog that's trying to pull him back in. He's damned tired ―exhausted, more like― but he forces himself awake as Dr. Vogel takes Dean aside a few paces.

“We'll have to perform more tests, but once he's awake we might be able to get to the bottom of this. Look, Dean is it? Your brother has some short-term memory loss, which isn't abnormal in cases of trauma, but it also means he can't give me much useful information about the last few days. Do you know if he hit his head?”

“What? No. No, I don't. I wasn't with him the whole time, I suppose he could have...”

“Easy, boy,” Bobby's gruff voice is calming, and Sam feels his own heartbeat slow down a little. Bobby looks over at Sam, sees he's awake, and puts a hand on Dean's shoulder. “Your brother's awake.”

Dean is at his side in a flash, the doctor forgotten. “Hey, Sammy. What the hell, dude? You scared the crap out of me.”

He swallows with difficulty. “Wha' happened?” He feels heavy, as though the air is pressing down on him. It's not unpleasant, just weird.

“You don't remember?” He shakes his head, sees Dean throw a worried look at the doctor. “You had a seizure or something. One minute we're talking, and the next you've got a thousand-yard-stare going on, and then you went full-on Exorcist on me.”

“Pea soup?” he jokes weakly, and is rewarded with a surprised grin.

“Practically.” It looks as though it's taking all of Dean's self-control not to grab onto Sam and never let go again.

“Can you give us a couple of minutes?” Dr. Vogel interjects, although Sam notes he's careful not to step into Dean's personal space. He's probably afraid of getting clocked. At a look from Sam, Dean retreats, grudgingly.

There are countless questions after that, some of them downright weird, even by Winchester standards. It's when Dr. Vogel asks about strange smells or tastes, though, that Sam decides that he's officially stepped into the Twilight Zone.

“How'd you know?”

“It was more of an educated guess. We'll bring in a neurologist to consult, just for an official diagnosis, but it sounds to me like you're experiencing temporal lobe seizures ―the strange smells, the white flashes, the fact you can't remember having a seizure at all, it points to that. What's a bit more worrisome is that it's not limited to a complex partial seizure: what your brother termed as 'checked out.' So far today you've had two generalized seizures―”

“Three.”

“Sorry?”

All Sam wants to do is go back to sleep, but he figures the doctor will just wake him up until he's got all his information. “I didn't know what it was, but the same thing happened this morning, too. Burnt rubber, killer headache, white flash, and I woke up on the ground.”

Dr. Vogel is taking notes again. “You said you had a headache?”

“Yeah. Is that usual?”

“No, not really. The neurologist will have to go over that with you. As I said, though, the fact that you've had this many seizures in so short a time with no prior history is worrisome. We'll have to run tests to see what's happening in that brain of yours, and you'll probably...”

The doctor's voice fades out, in spite of Sam's best efforts. He manages to stay half-awake for a few moments longer, but the pull of sleep is too strong, and eventually the whole world fades to black. When he opens his eyes again, Dean is sitting by his bed, elbows on his knees, his hands clasped loosely between his legs, staring at him.

“Dean, that's kind of creepy,” Sam says with a smile, just as Dean gets to his feet, and Sam sees him waver, ever so slightly. “You look like crap, by the way. You been sleeping?”

“Some,” is the evasive answer, which he knows really means 'not at all.' He sighs, lets it go.

“We're going to have to bail, you know. Sooner rather than later. Before they start asking too many questions. Besides, we need to talk, and we can't do it here.”

Dean rubs a hand over his mouth, which is what he always does when he's feeling uncertain or guilty or anxious or all three. Tension is rolling off him in waves, has been since Sam first saw him. “Yeah, I know. Look, the doc said they already did a couple of the important tests this morning when you came in, so I think maybe we should wait a bit more, see what's up with the seizures.”

Sam lets out a small huff of laughter. “Believe it or not, I think they're visions.”

Dean flinches. “What? You sure?”

He shrugs, regrets it as pain flares in his shoulder. “I saw him. The demon. And I get headaches before the seizures, and apparently that's not normal.”

“Shit,” Dean rubs a hand over his mouth. “I thought maybe you were done with those.”

“Yellow-eyed demon is still out there. Why would anything change?” Sam's eyes threaten to slip shut, and he forces himself to keep them open. “I mean, they started out as nightmares, remember?I figure it's just a... I don't know, a natural progression maybe?”

“Nothing natural about it,” Dean mutters darkly. “I still don't like it. Headaches was one thing, but this? This is some screwed-up shit, Sam. It's messing with that giant brain of yours. The doc said he'd set you up with a prescription, and I at least want to wait until then. Then we'll book. Okay?”

By 'okay,' Dean really means that there's no room for discussion, and Sam is too damned tired to argue, so he just acquiesces. Dealing with Dean on a regular basis has taught him to pick his battles, and this isn't one he wants to fight. “Okay, fine.”

Of course, waiting for doctors in a hospital always takes longer than they think it will, and it's almost nightfall by the time Dean and Bobby manage to sneak Sam out of there. He leans heavily on Dean, his legs shaky, and not for the first time he finds himself wishing they led the kind of life that didn't require them to artificially shorten hospital stays. This time in particular the idea of staying in a hospital bed sounds kind of appealing, but there's really no choice. He lets Dean ease him into the back seat of one of Bobby's trucks, and leans back, letting his head rest against the window.

“You didn't take your car?” It hasn't been that long, but he already misses the Impala's comforting interior, the smell of leather and oil mixed in with take-out food, Dean's aftershave, and the faint tang of gunpowder residue.

“Car's not running just now. Got the part in today, but we didn't have time to finish the installation before we got called here. Besides, I thought it'd be better if I drove,” Bobby says, his voice and expression carefully neutral, and it doesn't take a genius to figure out that Dean was probably too sauced to be trusted behind the wheel of the car. If he weren't so tired, Sam would be worried that Dean was drunk that early in the morning. Then again, he's been dead, and he thinks that, if their positions were reversed, he might have wanted to lose himself at the bottom of a bottle too. There's a thought nagging at the back of his mind, lingering just out of reach, something important that he's supposed to know, or maybe ask about. About Dean.

“Can't put my finger on it,” he mutters to himself, when it continues to elude him.

“What, Sammy?”

“Dunno yet. Everything's fuzzy. Hoping it'll come to me.”

“You're not making much sense,” Dean twists in his seat to look at him, the same worried look on his face that he's had ever since Sam managed to convince him he wasn't some sort of evil doppelgänger.

“Welcome to my world.” His whole body is throbbing, but he manages to doze off anyway, waking only when the truck hits the gravel of Bobby's driveway. His muscles have stiffened by then, and he winces and hisses in pain when Dean hauls him to his feet, but after he's hobbled a few paces like an eighty-year-old man, the muscles loosen up enough to let him walk unassisted.

He's about halfway to the house when he hears an odd scratching sound coming from behind one of the piles of scrap metal, and he stops, nudging Dean. “Someone's here,” he says quietly.

Dean is instantly alert, and produces his Glock seemingly out of nowhere. Sam doesn't remember him having it at the hospital. “Go in the house,” he says quietly, and Sam nods.

“Just, don't shoot too fast, okay? I don't think it's anyone you need to worry about.”

“How'd you know?”

Sam shakes his head. “Just a feeling.”

“Okay. Go inside, would you?”

What Sam really wants to do is stay outside and make sure Dean is safe, but the situation is the same as ever. He'll be more of a liability out here, especially if Dean is distracted trying to keep an eye on him. He grabs the railing for support, lets himself in through Bobby's front door, careful not to disturb the line of salt across the threshold. Obviously at least Bobby was expecting trouble of some kind, after the events in Cold Oak. He sits carefully in one of the wooden chairs in Bobby's study, ignoring the sofa; if he lies down, he'll be out for the count, and he can't shake the feeling that he needs to be awake for this. Even so, he catches his eyelids closing of their own accord, and so he shoves himself to his feet and shuffles into Bobby's kitchen to make a pot of coffee.

The front door scrapes open as he's scooping coffee grounds into a paper filter, and he turns in time to see Dean and Bobby flanking a familiar figure.

“Ellen!”

*

“Bobby, is this really necessary?”

Ellen is seated across the table from Bobby, catches the shot glass of clear liquid he's slid across to her with practised ease. Bobby quirks an eyebrow at her.

“Just a belt of holy water. Shouldn't hurt.”

“If it's any consolation, they made me drink some too,” Sam volunteers from where Dean has forced him to sit on the sofa after all. “Standard operating procedure for people who're meant to be dead.”

“Not funny, Sam,” Dean's grip tightens on his shoulder. He's half-sitting on the arm of the sofa, watching Ellen carefully.

Ellen rolls her eyes, drinks the water without so much as batting an eye. “Whiskey now, please,” she slides the shot glass back, and Bobby turns to Dean.

“Why don't you get the bottle of Jack's out of the cabinet?”

Dean's reluctant to let go of Sam's shoulder, to go much further than a foot or so away, but arguing with Bobby is never a good idea at the best of times. Besides, Sam knows better than most that it's reassuring for Dean to be able to follow the orders of an authority figure. Bobby might not be Dad, but he's the closest thing they've got to a father now. Sam shakes his head when Bobby offers him a glass of whiskey too.

“No thanks. I'm feeling light-headed enough as it is. I'm fine with water.”

“Besides, he's off booze for the foreseeable future anyway,” Dean adds firmly.

“You sure you don't want to lie down? We can fill you in later.”

Another head shake. “No. I have to be awake for this. I don't know how to explain it, but we're short on time. The demon's plans aren't going to wait for me.”

Bobby raps on the table, and refills the glass Ellen has just emptied. “All right. Ellen, I got a feeling your story's going to be quicker, so why don't we start with you?”

“So what happened?” Dean settles next to Sam on the sofa, having helped himself to a very large glass of Bobby's Jack Daniels. His leg presses up against Sam's, keeping them both grounded, and he nudges him reassuringly with his shoulder. “How did you get out, Ellen?”

The Roadhouse is gone. Learning about it felt like having all the air sucked out of Sam's lungs. Ash is dead, burned alive, at least a half-dozen other hunters, all the regulars who were inside. The Roadhouse has been a fixture for nearly two decades, a figurative crossroads for hunters, a sanctuary. Having it violated like this... Sam can barely bring himself to contemplate it.

“I wasn't supposed to. I was supposed to be in there with everybody else. But we ran out of pretzels, of all things,” Ellen shakes her head. “It was just dumb luck,” she exhales sharply, empties her glass again, shutting her eyes against the onslaught of memory. “Ash called, panic in his voice. He told me to check in the safe, and before I could ask him what was going on, the call cut out. By the time I got back, the flames were sky-high, and everyone inside was dead. I couldn't have been gone more than fifteen minutes.” Her voice falters, on the verge of breaking. “You want to know the worst part? When I got there, the only thing I could think was 'Thank God Jo's not in there.' A lot of good people died in there, but I got to live. Lucky me.”

There's nothing to say to that. Bobby just gives her another refill, squeezes her hand in his large paw briefly. They all drink in silence. It's Ellen who breaks it first.

“Sam, honey, don't think I didn't catch what you said about people who're supposed to be dead. You feel like explaining that?”

Sam nods, inexplicably feeling even more tired. They never seem to be able to catch a break. He leans on his elbows, ducks his head for a moment as he tries to collect his thoughts. “I don't really know where to start.”

“What the hell happened in that place, anyway?” Bobby breaks in. “There were bodies everywhere by the time we got there.”

“What place?” Ellen's confused, her voice betraying her anxiety.

“Cold Oak,” Sam supplies quietly, and sees her stiffen as she recognizes the name. “It was the Yellow-Eyed Demon. He gathered all the psychic kids there, in groups, over the past few months. Set up a kind of psychic cage match, made them kill each other. Said he was looking for the strongest one to come out on top. Last one left wins the grand prize, whatever that is.”

The colour has drained from Ellen's face. “And that was you?”

He shakes his head, wishing it didn't throb so badly. “No. That's where the 'supposed to be dead' part comes in. There was a kid there, Jake Tully... he and I were the last ones left. Ava was there,” he turns to Dean, “and Andy. Ava killed him, and then Jake killed her before she could kill me.” He swallows a sudden lump in his throat at the thought of the astonished look on Andy's face, the blood staining his teeth.

“That the guy who stabbed you?” Dean doesn't seem as upset by Andy and Ava's deaths, but then he barely knew Andy and never got to meet Ava, doesn't share Sam's connection to them. It's unreasonable to expect him to be as affected by this.

He nods. “I guess, yeah. It must have been Jake. All I remember is this terrible pain in my back, like burning.”

“Tall black guy.”

“Yeah, that's him.”

“Now hold on just a minute,” Ellen is out of her chair, her face grey. “What are you saying?”

Sam just shakes his head. He can't see the expression on Dean's face, but he knows that his brother is like an open book for anyone who knows how to read him.

“Oh my God,” Ellen breathes. “Oh my God. How are ―how did you―” she breaks off, both hands clutching the back of her chair, white-knuckled.

“We buried him three days ago,” Bobby confirms, pouring himself another shot of whiskey. The bottle is starting to empty at an alarming rate.

For the first time that day, a light bulb seems to go off in Dean's mind, and he reaches for Sam's hand where the torn fingers have been carefully bandaged. He doesn't say anything, just turns it over in his own to hands, inspecting the damage, and swallows hard.

“It's okay,” Sam murmurs.

“No, it's not. It's not even close,” Dean chokes.

“You died,” Ellen says flatly. “So how the hell are you here?”

“I don't know, exactly,” Sam can feel the memories lurking just out of reach. “I feel like I should... like it's just there, but I can't... I don't know. I think maybe something changed.”

“No kidding,” Ellen snorts, only to get a quelling look from Bobby.

“No, I mean, I think something else was supposed to...” his breath catches, and for a moment he thinks he might pass out, or throw up. Dean must feel him falter, because he lets go of his hand to prop him up.

“What is it?”

He can't breathe. “I have to talk to you. Now.”

Dean is staring at him, wide-eyed, frightened. “Okay. Okay, Sammy. Sure.”

He struggles to compose himself, succeeds only partially. “Sorry, guys. Just... just give me a minute with my brother.” He has to let Dean pull him to his feet, feeling as though the floor might just give way under him at any moment. Dean takes him outside, shuts the door, and Sam holds onto his arm, gripping him so tightly he knows his fingers are bound to leave bruises.

“Did you do it?” he asks breathlessly. “Tell me you didn't do it. Please tell me you didn't.”

“Do what, Sammy?”

“Make a deal. Tell me you didn't make a deal to bring me back, Dean.”

He didn't think it was possible for Dean's eyes to get any wider, but they do. Sam can barely make out a ring of hazel around the pupils. Shock, he thinks distantly. Dean swallows hard, shakes his head.

“How did you―”

“Just tell me!” It's all he can do not to shake Dean until his teeth rattle, and maybe Dean can sense his frustration, because he pulls back, runs a hand through his hair, doesn't meet his gaze.

“I tried, okay? I was going to―”

“So what stopped you?”

Dean lets out a mirthless laugh. “Would you believe the damn car wouldn't start? I couldn't go anywhere. Then Bobby came back... practically twisted my arm until I did the right thing. Except I couldn't... I had to bury you. I didn't want... not like Dad. I couldn't.”

“So... you didn't―?”

“No. No, I swear.”

The clenching feeling around his heart that he never even knew was there is suddenly gone. Sam feels his eyes sting, and before he can stop them the tears spill down his face. Relief courses through him so fast it's dizzying, and a hysterical laugh wells up in his chest. “Well, thank God for that,” is all he can manage before his knees buckle. He feels Dean catch him under the arms before everything goes dark.

*

Jake is standing in a phone booth, his back leaning against one of the glass panels. His shoulders are slumped, his entire attitude one of defeat. The receiver is wedged between his ear and his shoulder, his hands clasped in front of him, as though he's praying, or penitent. His eyes are bright with unshed tears.

“Mama, Mama, please ―you gotta stop crying. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Mama. I never meant for any of this... Mama, you're not making any sense. No, this isn't your fault, stop saying that! Just make sure Jessie doesn't know about any of this... Mama, I'm taking care of this. Please... just trust me. I'll make sure you're taken care of, all right? … I gotta go. I love you, Mama.”

He hangs up, turns, presses his forehead against the wall of the booth, his breath misting against the glass.

*

Sam is getting tired of waking up confused and in the dark. “This is getting old,” he mutters, forcing his eyes open. He's back on Bobby's sofa, and Dean's anxious face swims into focus above him.

“You're telling me,” his brother says drily. “I take it you're back among the living?”

“Literally.”

“Okay, poor choice of words.”

“It wasn't a seizure, was it? How long was I out?” He doesn't think so, doesn't think there were weird smells or anything, but right now he's not sure of anything at all except maybe his own name and the fact that Dean hasn't sold his soul, which is making his heart sing and race in his chest.

“Too long, as far as I'm concerned. Five, ten minutes, maybe? No, it wasn't a seizure. You just went down like a sack of bricks.”

“You weren't lying to me, were you?” He knows his brother well enough, but he can't help wanting to be absolutely sure.

“No, I wasn't lying, asshole,” Dean snaps. “I wouldn't lie about something like that,” he adds defensively.

Yes, you would, Sam thinks. His head still aches.

“Hold still.”

In spite of the warning, Sam jerks his head back in surprise as Dean wipes his face with a wet cloth. When he pulls back, Sam can see splotches of red on the material.

“What the―”

“Your nose started to bleed. Seriously, Sammy, I don't think we should have left the hospital.”

“It's Sam. And what would we have told them? 'You see, doctor, I was recently raised from the dead. Do you think all these symptoms are normal?” he asks harshly, and Dean flinches at his tone.

“Sam...” Dean's expression is pained, and Sam holds up a hand in a placating gesture.

“Never mind. I'm sorry, I'm just... I feel like crap, and we're running out of time. Ellen and Bobby around?”

“Kitchen.”

“I gotta talk to Ellen.”

It doesn't take long to reconvene the tiny war council. Ellen straddles one of Bobby's chairs, glancing over at Sam every so often as though she expects him to collapse at any moment, or snap, or spontaneously combust, or something. Not that he can blame her. It wouldn't surprise him if any or all of the above happened, given the kind of day he's having. He rubs gently at his nose, grimaces when one knuckle comes away smeared with the last traces of blood.

“Ellen, you mentioned a safe.”

“Yeah. A hidden safe we keep in the basement. Only people who knew about it were me, Ash and Jo.”

“Did the demons get what was inside?”

“No,” she looks up, startled. “I'd clean forgotten, what with everything else that's happened.” She pulls a folded paper from her jacket pocket, spreads it out over the table top.

“Is that a map?” Dean goes to look over her shoulder.

She nods. “Southern Wyoming.”

“Isn't that where you said all the demon signs stopped, Bobby?” Sam shuffles over to the table, doing his best to ignore the twinges of pain that seem to be spiking unpredictably. Apparently, being raised from the dead sucks, no matter how it happens.

“That's right,” Bobby says slowly, turning to look at him, “but I never said that, kid. How'd you know?”

Sam stops in his tracks, stares. “But... I remember you... we were standing there―” he half-turns, feels his stomach churn as the memory slips away from him. “I don't... it didn't happen that way before. I...” he shakes his head quickly, trying to clear it, like a dog. He can't dwell on this now. “Look at the map,” he says instead, tapping his finger at the 'X'es that Ash marked in black felt pen. “Look at the points, the churches. The railroads. See it?”

“Wait,” Bobby stares for a moment, then goes to pull a book from his library, lays it flat on the table next to the map, careful not to break the spine. “I don't believe it.”

“What? What? Would someone please fill in the clueless guy, here?” Dean is exasperated. “Come on, share with the class!”

“Untwist your shorts, boy,” Bobby rolls his eyes, and Sam interrupts before Dean's head explodes.

“The places Ash marked, they're all churches,” he explains.

“All built at the same time, in the mid-nineteenth century, by Samuel Colt himself,” Bobby continues, glaring at Sam for interrupting, and Sam wisely clamps his mouth shut before he finds himself on Bobby's wrong side yet again.

“Samuel Colt ―the demon-killing, gun-making Samuel Colt?” Dean asks.

“How many Samuel Colts do you think there were in the nineteenth century, boy?”

Dean looks sheepish. “Just asking.”

“Anyway, there's more. He built private railway lines connecting church to church,” Bobby turns back to the map, but Sam is ahead of him, tracing the lines between the points to make a five-pointed star.

“Tell me that's not what I think it is,” Dean says.

“It's a Devil's Trap,” Sam confirms. “A 100-square-mile Devil's Trap.”

“That's brilliant!” Dean looks like it's Christmas in July. “Iron lines demons can't cross.”

Ellen is staring with the same impressed look on her face as the rest of them are sporting. “I've never heard of anything that massive.”

“No one has,” Bobby says quietly.

Dean leans over the map. “And after all these years none of the lines are broken? I mean, it still works?”

“Definitely,” Sam nods.

“How do you know?”

Because I've seen it all before. Sam doesn't voice the thought. “All those omens Bobby found,” he says instead. It's what he said before. “I mean, the demons. They must be circling, and they can't get in.”

“Yeah, well... they're tryin',” Bobby says ominously.

“What for?”

“There's something inside they want,” Sam says quietly. “The Devil's Trap isn't meant to keep things out, it's there to keep something in.”

“Think the demons can get at it? Can they do it, Bobby?”

“No way. This thing's so powerful, you'd practically need an A-bomb to destroy it. No way any full-blooded demon can cross it.”

“But I know who can,” Sam says, his headache returning with a vengeance. He looks up at Dean, who's biting his lip, staring at the map with a look on his face that suggests he's hoping it'll spontaneously morph into something else. A beer, maybe, or a slice of pie. “We have to go to Wyoming.”

*

Chapter Text

*

It's dark. Maybe he's blind. He feels as though he's floating off into space, the only thing keeping him anchored the firm pressure of fingers on his wrist.

“You are sure you want to do this?” the voice asks.

“Yes.” It's the only way.

“You know what is likely to happen.”

He knows, but his heart starts beating faster anyway. “I can put things right. Just... just do it.”

*

“Sam, wake up!” He comes awake with a jolt, Dean thumping his shoulder unceremoniously. “Sam!”

“What?” he grinds the palm of his hand into his eye, trying to remember a time when his damned head didn't hurt. He glances out the window of the Impala at the passing scenery, almost surprised to find that it's still daylight. “Where are we?”

“Just past Edgemont,” Dean tosses a small white paper bag in his lap. “Take your meds. The doctor was all gung-ho about keeping you on a 'schedule,' and if I never have to see you look like a dying fish ever again, it'll be too soon.”

Sam grunts what he hopes sounds like agreement, then rummages under the front seat until he comes up with a plastic bottle half-filled with water. He pulls open the bag. “God, did he prescribe the whole damn drug store?”

“Quit bitching and take your pills.”

Sam squints into the morning sun. “Have you been driving all night?”

“Yep. Gonna stop for coffee next town we hit. How you feeling?”

“Fine.” The only medication he recognizes is amoxycillin and the Tylenol 3s. The rest are all new to him. There are pink pills ―Depakote, he reads on the label― and blue ones ―Lamictal. He remembers being told about them, but can't for the life of him recall a single word. “I don't remember what these do.”

“So you'll look it up later, Geek Boy. Right now all you need to know is that they prevent seizures, so just be a good patient and take your damned meds before I pull over, hold you down and pinch your nose shut so you swallow them.”

“Geez, grouchy,” he forgoes the painkillers, washes the rest of the pills down with a swallow of stale water, reminded by the gesture of the two women who stopped by the road and probably saved his life. “I never got to thank them.”

“What? Who?”

“Amanda and her friend. Kristy, or Chrissy, or something.”

“You mean the girls who found you?”

“Yeah.”

“Don't worry about it. You were out of it, but I thanked 'em for you.”

“Even when you thought I was an evil shape shifter?”

“Yeah, well, they didn't know that, and it was easier to say thank you than to give them the whole truth-is-out-there spiel.”

Sam huffs a laugh. “Fair enough. Thanks for that. I'm kind of glad there are still people like that around. Gives me hope for humanity, you know?” And hope for me, he thinks. Thoughts are crowding in his head, each more confusing than the last, and he feels vaguely nauseous.

“Yeah, I hear you.”

“You need a break? Apparently I've been asleep for the past seven hours.”

Dean shakes his head. “I'm okay. Besides, Seizure Boy, I'm not letting you behind my baby's wheel until I'm sure you're not going to send us crashing to a fiery death. I just got her up and running again, after all.”

“Uh-huh.” Sam leans his head back against the seat, glad enough for the excuse not to drive. He's not sure how he can have been asleep all night and still feel as though he's run a marathon while carrying a boulder on his shoulders. “How long until we get there?”

“Another six, seven hours? Maybe five if I floor it the whole way, but I don't think Bobby's truck can handle that much rough usage. Besides, if I don't get coffee in me soon, I won't be held responsible for my actions.”

“Coffee sounds fantastic,” Sam agrees, but Dean shakes his head with a grin.

“Nuh-uh. No coffee for you. No alcohol, either. You're going cold-turkey, I'm sorry to say.”

“Funny how you don't sound sorry.”

“I bet you won't even miss it. That crap you drank barely qualified as coffee anyway, Francis.”

“Bite me.”

“Bitch.”

“Jerk.” Sam grins. He can't remember the last time he and Dean talked like this. It's been years. No, months. Something. His head throbs.

“Make yourself useful and call Bobby, why don't you? Let him know we're stopping for breakfast at the next exit ramp I see.”

“Sure.” It takes less than thirty seconds, and he flips the phone shut again, glances over at his brother, who's got both hands on the wheel, obviously tense. Sam sighs and shifts in his seat. “You okay?”

“Fine.”

“It's just―”

“Just what?”

“You don't seem fine.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “I said I'm fine, Sam.”

“Dean...” This is the part Sam suspects they both hate. Dean is stonewalling him, putting up the same old barriers between them, and Sam finds he has to make an effort not to hit the car door with his fist in frustration. Why does he always have to make it this damned complicated to have a simple conversation.

“Oh, God.”

“Come on! I can tell you're not fine. Dude, why do we have to do this song and dance each time? You're barely holding it together. I get it, Dean. I died, and you thought... you thought you were alone, and I get it. I understand.”

Dean smacks the steering wheel with the heel of his palm. “Do you understand, Sam? Really?” he says nastily, turning his head long enough to give him a look that makes Sam's heart clench in his chest. “Because I don't think you do.”

I understand all too well. I lost you too, and for longer.

“Then tell me. Help me understand.”

“I am not doing this. Not now. I don't know if you noticed, but we've kind of got an apocalypse on our hands that we need to stop.”

It's more than Sam can take. He coughs, trying to mask the hysterical laughter that's bubbling up in his chest, but it's no use. He clamps a hand over his mouth, snorts in spite of himself.

Dean looks over again, appalled. “Are you laughing?” he asks incredulously. A grin tugs at the corners of his mouth. “Holy shit, Sammy. It's the end of the world, and you're laughing.” He turns back to the wheel, and through the tears that are threatening to blind him, Sam can see his brother's shoulders are shaking too.

“You can't stop an apocalypse, Dean,” he manages to gasp finally, wiping at the tears streaming from his eyes. “The best you can do is maybe put it off for a while. But, really, the only thing we can really do is get out of its way, and hope the end isn't too fucking terrible for words.”

He keeps laughing, barely notices when Dean goes silent, hands locked on the wheel.

*

The afternoon light is just beginning to filter past the clouds as Jake pulls off the highway. He's following hastily-written directions on the back of a gas receipt, trying to decipher his own handwriting. The directions are to the point, make use of natural land marks more than anything else. The white station wagon bumps its way along a dirt road that follows a creek, surrounded by dense brush, dead and dying saplings. Even the grass along the bank is sickly-looking. He pulls up just short of a railroad crossing, steps out, the dirt and dry leaves crunching under his feet, the call of wild birds loud in his ears. Crows and carrion-eaters.

Jake goes to stand under the sign, made up of two planks in the shape of an X nailed to a post, the paint long since flaked off. He stares for a moment at the rust-eaten tracks, overgrown with weeds after decades of disuse, and tries to stand his ground, waiting. After a moment he turns to find the demon standing behind him, makes a visible effort not to flinch.

“Howdy, Jake,” the demon saunters toward him, elaborately casual, hands in his pockets. “So, did you have a nice trip?”

“I'm here, I did what you asked. Now what?” Jake's posture screams of tension and fear, the set of his mouth uncertain.

The demon points nonchalantly away from Jake, across the railroad tracks. “Fifty miles thataway. There's a cemetery. A crypt. You're going to open it for me. Think you can manage that, sport?” he asks, inflecting the last word with as much irony as he can muster. It's not really a question.

A surge of anger runs through Jake. “You know what? Screw you and your freaky orders!” he blurts. “Go do it yourself.”

“Oh, I can't,” the demon tilts his head in a gesture that would look rueful on a human being, and shrugs. “I can't go that way ―not yet.”

“Why not?” Jake knows nothing of demons, up until four days ago, he didn't even know they existed. He knows nothing of their rules. His voice cracks with nervousness and anger.

“I just can't,” is the sharp reply. “But if you're going to open that crypt for me, you're going to need a key,” he reaches past his jacket lapel, draws the Colt from a concealed holster with an exaggerated flourish, the barrel pointing toward the vast grey sky.

“A gun,” Jake can't keep the scorn and incredulity out of his tone.

“Oh, this isn't just any gun, Jake. This is the only gun in the world that can shoot. me. dead.” The demon points the gun at his head for emphasis.

“Is that so?”

“Yep. Here, take it,” the demon says cheerfully, and hands over the Colt. He smirks as Jake cocks the gun and aims it a few inches from his face, raises his hands in mock-surrender. “Oh, my. I am shocked at this unforeseen turn of events. Go ahead Jake, squeeze that trigger. Be all you can be,” he challenges, still mocking. “and this will all be over: your life can go back to normal. Of course, the Army won't take you back 'cause you're AWOL, but I'm sure you could get your old job at the factory back. But then, on the other hand, the rest of your life, and your family's, could be money and honey, health and wealth, every-day-is-ice-cream-Sunday. And all you got to do is this one. little. thing.” His tone turns subtly coaxing, reasonable.

“Why me?” It's the cry of everyone put into an impossible situation. This time, though, the demon has an answer to the question that never has one.

“Oh, Jake,” he says, suddenly serious. “It's got to be you. I've been waiting for you for a very long time. You're my leader. You open that crypt, and you will have your army.”

“You're talking about the end of the world!” Jakes eyes are so wide the whites are showing all around the irises.

“No, not the end ―the beginning. A better world where your family will be protected. More than that: they'll be royalty. Buddy boy, you have the chance to get in on the ground floor of a thrilling opportunity. What'd you say? It's your call.”

Jake is shaking his head, but his hand trembles. The gun wavers, drops as he brings his hand back to his side, and the demon grins at him. This was a foregone conclusion. There is no other way this discussion could have turned out, and they both know it.

“Attababy.”

*

Apparently it's not in the cards for Sam to not wake up confused and in pain. At least this time it's not dark, he consoles himself. He's lying on the ground on his uninjured side with a really good view of the asphalt, which means they're in the parking lot outside of the diner they stopped at for breakfast. He can smell leather and motor oil (at least it's not burnt rubber anymore), feels something soft under his cheek, and realizes that Dean's jacket is folded up under his head. He shifts his weight, thinking he ought to get up, but his limbs don't seem to work the way he remembers they should, and he can't quite bite back a groan of discomfort. He is getting way too old for this sort of crap, except that he's only twenty ―something. He wonders if it's a bad sign that he can't remember his exact age. He thinks he might throw up.

There's a hand on his shoulder. “Take it easy, Sammy.”

“God,” he groans quietly again. “I take it I had another seizure?” At least, that's what he means to say. It comes out more as a mumble that includes the word 'seizure.' He feels as though his head is stuffed with cotton wool.

“Yeah.”

“How long?”

“You don't remember? You started doing that weird shit about half an hour ago, woulda gone down hard if...” If I hadn't caught you, Sam hears. Dean always catches him. “You don't remember any of it?”

“Uh-uh. Saw Jake, though. Where's Bobby and Ellen?”

“Right here, kid,” Bobby's voice filters from somewhere to his left, outside of his field of vision.

“Sam? You feelin' okay, sweetie?” Ellen's voice, filled with concern. It's the tone she usually reserves for Jo. He thinks she might be kneeling on his other side, just far enough away to give Dean space to work.

Sam makes a noncommittal sound, shuts his eyes. “Feel shitty. Think 'm okay.” He hopes to God he's not lying.

“You saw Jake?” Dean is rubbing his arm. “So it was a vision?”

“Mm.” Dean's jacket is soft, and right now the thought of sleep is more than tempting. Let the world drift away for a while. Except, of course, it's the damned end of the world. “He's going to the cowboy cemetery.”

“When?”

“Dunno. Soon. Afternoon.”

“This afternoon?”

He shakes his head, trying to push himself upright, and his stomach lurches. “Gonna be sick,” he manages, and quick as lightning Dean's pulling him up onto his knees so he doesn't throw up all over himself as he doubles over, rubbing circles on his back like when Sam was a little kid.

“Okay now?” he asks, when Sam's done.

“Define 'okay,'” he says weakly, and is rewarded with a grim smile.

“Dean, we need to take him to a hospital,” Ellen says quietly, maybe hoping he won't hear.

“No,” Sam keeps a tight grip on Dean's arm, trying to keep his balance. “They can't... can't help. Not with this.”

“We have to keep going,” Dean says, and Sam senses it's directed at him rather than Ellen, a question disguised as a statement.

“I know.”

“Think you can sleep in the car?”

“Better than listening to your music.”

“Bitch.”

“Jerk.”

“You boys are warming the cockles of my heart. Are we goin', or what?” Sam can practically hear Bobby's eyes rolling. He nods, reaches for Dean's arm to lean on, gets unsteadily to his feet, and feels his face heat up with embarrassment as he realizes his jeans are soaked through.

“Uh, I should clean up first. Sorry.”

“'s okay, Sammy. Doctor said it could happen.”

“Right.”

He's hard-put to see how his life could possibly get worse right now, but he doesn't dare voice the thought aloud. He's learned better than to tempt the universe like that. He manages to stay upright while Dean gets his duffel bag from the car and shepherds him back into the thankfully-mostly-deserted diner and into the bathroom, where he sits him unceremoniously on the nearest toilet, lowering the lid with his foot. Sam lists against the khaki-coloured wall of the stall, the metal cool against his skin, and watches tiredly as Dean starts pulling fresh clothes from his duffel. The clean-up is a kind of half-assed job, accomplished with paper towels and the liquid soap from the hand dispenser, but by the end of it he's feeling mostly presentable again, and the important part is that his clothes are dry and clean. Dean shoves the wet jeans into a plastic bag and ties a knot in it.

“Think of it this way,” he offers generously. “If the world ends tonight, we won't have to worry about laundry.”

“Awesome,” Sam rolls his eyes. “But the world won't end tonight.”

“That's optimistic of you. We're four people, well, three and a half, given your current state of functionality―”

“Bite me.”

“I call 'em like I see 'em, Sammy. Like I was saying, four people going up against the demon ―the demon that has soundly kicked our asses every time we've encountered it― along with that Jake guy and possibly all the legions of Hell behind 'em. I'd say our odds of the world ending are, what, sixty-forty in our favour?”

Sam laughs. “Sure. But the world isn't ending tonight,” he repeats. “It's the beginning of the end.”

Dean's face scrunches up. “Sam, if you don't shut up with that freaky pseudo-Nostradamus shit, I am going to punch you. My hand to God. You're freaking me out.”

“Sorry.”

“Don't apologize. Just... quit it.” Dean grabs him under the arm. “Ready?”

“As I'll ever be, I guess.”

He manages to leave the bathroom under his own power, feeling considerably less shaky. The waitress who serves them gives him a friendly but distant smile, as though she doesn't really want to get involved in whatever she thinks just happened. He's happy enough to let her slip away to serve her only customer, a man in a trench coat with wavy dark hair and bright blue eyes that seem to pierce right through to Sam's soul when he looks up. Sam starts as a feeling of recognition hits him, and apparently the feeling is mutual, because the man nods once in his direction before returning his attention to his cup of coffee.

“You know that guy?” Dean asks as they leave. Sam shakes his head.

“Don't think so. He looks familiar, but I can't place him.”

“Right. Well, one mystery at a time. Come on, we're burning daylight.”

*

In spite of Sam's protests, Dean insists on stopping at a motel about thirty miles outside of Rawlins and booking a room. To his surprise, Ellen and Bobby side firmly with Dean on this, and he's not in much shape to do anything but acquiesce and crawl into one of the two queen-sized beds, not even bothering to do much more than toe off his boots. The motel is a decent one, the sheets clean, the carpet relatively new and unstained. Unheard-of luxury for them. He figures Ellen and Bobby may have something to do with the quality of the place. Still, he can't get rid of the butterflies in his stomach, the sense that they're running out of time, that they should be sprinting as fast as they can toward the cemetery.

“We're not far now,” Dean tells him, “and we're going to need you there. Three of us isn't going to cut it, and you're the only one who won't be affected by Jake's freaky Jedi mind-tricks. So you get to take a nap, and we'll be there in plenty of time. You said it was late afternoon in your vision?”

“Hard to say, exactly, but yeah. It's my best guess.”

“That means he won't be there before nightfall. Plenty of time for you to get some rest. And don't tell me you're fine. Four seizures in two days is pretty much the opposite of fine.”

“Can't argue there. Feel like death warmed over.” Sam snorts with sudden laughter.

Dean swats him on his good shoulder. “That's not funny, Sam.”

“Oh, come on. It's kind of funny.”

“Okay, enough you two,” Ellen interrupts before Dean's head explodes from sheer frustration. “Do we have any idea what we're getting into? What's this guy going to do in that cemetery?”

The crappy motel pillow feels like the softest thing Sam's ever put his head on. “Uh... he's going to open a crypt. He has a key. Demon gave it to him.”

“Any idea what's in the crypt?”

Hell.

Sam shakes his head. “Not really. Something bad, I'm guessing.”

Dean snorts. “Yeah, I could have guessed that, Einstein.”

“Shut up. Brain-damaged, here. Cut me some slack.”

“There are so many things I could say, but it's just too damned easy.”

Bobby rolls his eyes. “I swear, it's physically impossible for you two to go for a minute without bickering. What else did you see, Sam?”

He shrugs, fighting the urge to just let his eyes slip shut. He feels like he's been doing nothing but sleep or sleepwalk for the past couple of days. “Not much. Demon was there. Gave him the key, told him to cross the tracks, open the crypt. Fifty miles. Crypt must be dead center.”

“Makes sense,” Bobby nods, flipping through his own notebook and scrawling something on a blank page in his habitual chicken-scratch. “Why don't you turn in? The rest of us will come up with a plan, fill you in when you're awake.”

“Tired of sleepin',” he knows he sounds like a petulant two-year-old, can't bring himself to care.

“Well, tough,” Dean whaps him lightly on the forehead. “Sleep some more. I promise, we're not going anywhere without you.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

*

It's dark, but he can feel a hand wrapped around his wrist, fingers probing at his pulse point.

“Dean?”

“No, it's not Dean. I am sorry.”

“Where is... did he make it? Tell me he made it.”

“I am sorry.”

He thinks his eyes might be gone. Why else would he be unable to cry? He remembers a light so bright it felt like every nerve in his body was singing and screaming. Then darkness. He tries to swallow, can't feel his body. Thinks that might be a blessing in disguise.

“I couldn't save him.”

“No.”

“Neither could you.”

“No.”

“Is it too late?”

“It is now.”

“What if it wasn't?”

*

It's still light out when Dean shakes him awake, gently by Dean's standards. “Up and at 'em, Sammy. I brought food. You, uh, have a little...” he gestures to the corner of his mouth, and Sam wipes his own mouth with his sleeve, grimacing.

“Awesome.” He props himself up on his elbows, wishes he had about a gallon of mouthwash.

Dean drops his pill bottles in his lap, hands him a glass of water. “Pills first, then food.”

“Right. Isn't it early for the pills?”

Dean shrugs. “We're half an hour off, maybe, and besides, I think you puked up most of them the last time around. I brought chicken soup and toast, figured that'd probably go down better than the usual stuff. And dude, no, I didn't bring salad. You have to eat protein some of the time.”

“Right,” Sam repeats. “Gonna brush my teeth first. Feel like a skunk died in there.”

“You're not far off. I wasn't gonna say anything, but since you bring it up...”

“Shut up.”

It only occurs to Sam that he hasn't seen Bobby and Ellen since he awoke once he's done brushing his teeth, has splashed water on his face, and run a comb through his hair until it no longer looks as though squirrels have been nesting in it. The room is still silent beyond the bathroom door except for the occasional sound of Dean shuffling around, moving things. Sam stares balefully at his reflection in the mirror, suddenly understanding why Dean's been looking so worried. It's the first time he's managed to catch a glimpse of himself since... since he dug himself out of the ground, frankly, and he's not exactly easy on the eyes. The bandages on his fingers are soaked through with water, so he just peels them off and tosses them away, then carefully removes the sling keeping his arm immobilized and rotates his shoulder gingerly. He winces a bit ―his shoulder and back still hurt like a son of a bitch― but he manages to do it without too much trouble. Whatever is going on, his body is functional at least. He twists to look at his back in the mirror, pulls his t-shirt over his head mindful of his arm, but the angle is wrong for him to be able catch more than a glimpse of the scabbed-over wound, the edges still red from inflammation.

“Sammy?” Dean opens the door without knocking and sticks his head in, then jerks up in surprise, and it's all Sam can do not to flinch away, his instinct to cover up, as though it's something shameful. “Jesus, Sam.” Dean pushes the door all the way open, and steps up behind him, traces a finger carefully about half an inch away from the wound. Sam shivers at the touch, can hear Dean's breathing echoing harshly against the bathroom tile. “Does it hurt?”

“Not as bad, now. It kind of pulls if I move wrong,” Sam pulls his t-shirt back down. “It's weird. I can't figure why it's not either worse or better than this. Except I sort of know why, or I think I should know why... God.” He rubs at his head.

“You're not making much sense, dude.”

“I know. Sorry. Things have been pretty confusing the past twenty-four hours or so.”

“You done in here, or what? 'Cause, y'know, this standing around in bathrooms is a bit awkward.” Dean is clearly done with the conversation, switches back into business-as-usual mode in the blink of an eye.

Sam shakes his head, dizzy from trying to keep up with his brother's mood swings. He makes his way back into the room and sits on his bed, folds up the sling and puts it away. He figures he never really needed it. “Yeah, 'cause we do so much of that,” he grins.

Dean isn't listening, is feeling around for something in his bag. He produces a package wrapped in newsprint, rubs at the back of his neck with one hand and holds it out, not meeting Sam's gaze. “Uh, okay. So I'm not usually one for the last-night-on-earth thing, unless I'm trying to get into a chick's pants, but I missed your birthday yesterday, and tonight's gonna be kind of big... so I figured you ought to have this now. Y'know. Just in case.”

“Dean, you didn't have to―”

“Yeah, I know. But it's not every day you turn twenty-four, and, uh... look, I thought you weren't ever going to see your birthday and―” Dean falters, thrusts the package at him. “Just open it, already.”

“Twenty-four?” Sam takes it mechanically, staring at his brother.

Dean chuckles. “Yeah, dude. Don't tell me you're going senile already.”

The number seems wrong, somehow, but he doesn't tell that to Dean. Instead he slides a finger under the edge of the paper, works the scotch tape free, enjoying his brother's impatience. Dean's always been more the type to rip the wrapping paper off what few presents they ever get, and it drives him nuts when Sam does this. This time, though, Dean apparently makes an effort to sit on his hands and not make smart-ass remarks to hurry Sam along. The paper comes off pretty easily once he's past the two pieces of tape ―apparently Dean has figured out how to hurry things along― and he grins.

“You got me an external hard drive.”

“You're always bitching about how you don't have enough memory on that computer of yours, so I figured short of a whole new laptop...”

“It's awesome, Dean. Thank you. But you couldn't have gotten it since... since I got back. You bought it before.”

“Yeah, well, let's just hope we survive long enough for you to fill that thing up,” Dean rubs the back of his neck, doesn't meet his gaze, and Sam laughs quietly.

Sam gets to his feet. “C'mere, you big softy,” he reaches for Dean with his good arm.

“Aw, dude, come on, no!” Dean grumbles as Sam pulls him into a hug.

“You started it by getting a thoughtful present. Besides, I figure I deserve a chick-flick moment. I totally came back from the dead,” Sam squeezes him hard, and Dean doesn't resist, presses up tightly against him.

“Yeah, okay. You get a freebie this time, you big girl,” he mutters into Sam's collarbone. “Now let go so I can go find Bobby and Ellen. Sooner we hit the road, the happier I'll be.”

“You got it,” Sam releases him. “But we're not dying tonight. None of us. That's not how this ends.”

Dean stares at him for a moment, then closes his mouth with an audible click of his teeth. Then he turns on his heel and stalks out the door, leaving Sam standing alone in the middle of the room.

*

For a moment Sam thinks he's dreaming. There's no other reasonable way that the guy in the trench coat from the diner can be standing in his motel room when a second ago he was entirely alone, waiting for Dean to come back.

“Hello, Sam.”

The guy's voice is gravelly, deeper than he would have expected from someone of his size and build, the tone even and composed, which is more than Sam can say for himself right now. He gapes, all his words deserting him, sits down heavily on the bed, feeling it sag beneath his weight.

“You... you were in the diner,” he says finally. “I saw you.”

The man tilts his head to the side, and although his expression doesn't change he manages to convey a sense of mild confusion, maybe even dismay.

“You don't know who I am.”

Sam shakes his head. “I should, though, shouldn't I?” He stares hard at the man, feels the same sickening, fracturing feeling in his head, as though his thoughts are ripping themselves apart at the seams. “I know you.”

“I thought this might happen.”

“Do you know what's going on?”

“I do.”

“Are you going to tell me who you are?”

“No.”

Sam huffs in exasperation. “I suppose that would be too easy.”

“I think it important that you remember on your own.”

“Figures.”

The man crosses the room in the blink of an eye, stands uncomfortably close to Sam. “How are you feeling?”

He squints up at him from where he's sitting on the bed, unused to having to look up at anyone, trying to figure out if the guy is serious, if his intentions are okay. He's not sure if he's lost his ability to read people along with everything else. Every instinct tells him he can trust him, but his instincts have been way off lately. Maybe it comes from having been dead.

“What do you mean?”

“You have been through a ―traumatic experience.”

“That's putting it mildly. I was dead.”

“You were,” the man confirms with a brief nod. “But no longer.”

“Is that why everything's all jumbled up? Why I feel like I know how things are supposed to go, even when they don't work out that way?”

“Not exactly.”

“Could you please stop being cryptic? My head hurts enough as it is.”

“I'm afraid not. I wish it could be otherwise. It is important that you remember on your own. If I interfere, it will change too much, too quickly. Some things are meant to happen just as they did.”

“Figures.” If Sam wasn't feeling put-upon before, now he's definitely getting there. He buries his head in his hands, rubbing his eyes with his fingers so hard he can see spots of red behind his eyelids. “Why do I feel like all this has already happened?”

“Because, in a way, it has. Though not exactly like this.”

“Then what am I―”

“Hey, Sammy, you ready or what?”

Sam's head jerks up as Dean throws open the door. “Wha'?” Predictably enough, the man has disappeared. “Where―”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Where do you think? Come on, princess. Take the curlers out of your hair and let's go. Day's not getting any younger―” he hesitates. “You okay?”

Sam shrugs, looks around one last time. “Sure. I'm coming.”

*

The cemetery is bathed in the moonlight streaming through a small break in the storm clouds above. The moon was full last night, Sam thinks. Good thing we're not hunting a werewolf. He laughs quietly, shakes his head at the curious look Dean shoots him before ducking behind one of the large stone grave markers that seem to abound in this place. Shadows stretch out before him, huge and ominously still, flickering slightly whenever one of them seeks to change position, gain a better vantage point. It's only a matter of time, now.

In the distance Sam can hear the questioning who-who-who-who of an owl, and a shiver runs up his spine. Only western cultures think anything good about owls. All the others have reason to fear the night predators. His heart is lodged in his throat, and there's a bitter taste on his tongue which feels a lot like fear. The cemetery is filled with the sweet, earthy musk of rot and decay overlaid with grass. He switches his gun to his left hand, wipes his palms on his jeans, leaving a damp smear behind. Tries to breathe through the anxiety that's building just beneath his ribs.

He catches Dean's eye and exchanges a nod with him just as the gate nearby creaks open and Jake Tully walks through. His gait is steady, each step sure: he knows exactly where he's going, heads directly for the crypt that Sam located earlier, the Colt in his hand. Dean ducks around another gravestone, easily flanking the soldier, all lithe grace and poise, like a cat; Sam waits for his cue, waits for precisely the right time, gripping his pistol so tightly he's amazed his fingers haven't left imprints in the butt. He sees Bobby and Ellen move quietly into position, their movements swift and sure, and Sam feels like the only one in this cemetery who doesn't really know what he's doing, an impostor in an ill-fitting body. He steps out next to the crypt.

“Howdy, Jake,” he says, echoing the yellow-eyed demon, knowing what effect it will have. He trains his pistol at Jake's forehead, just between the eyes.

Jake stops short, eyes wider even than when the demon was threatening his family. “Wait... you were dead. I killed you.”

A thrill runs through Sam, all the fear and uncertainty gone in a surge of adrenaline as Dean, Bobby and Ellen step out, guns levelled at Jake's head. “Yes, yes you did. Looks like it didn't take.”

“You can't be alive. You can't be! I cut clean through your spinal cord.”

Sam glances over at Dean, half-expecting to see him glance back, guilt written all over his face, but Dean's gaze is trained on Jake, his gun steady, no sign that Jake's words have struck a chord with him. Sam's stomach churns with that same queasy feeling he always gets when things stop going exactly the way he remembers (thinks?) they should be going. He blinks hard, tries to keep his own weapon from shaking.

“Okay,” Bobby holds up his other hand in a placating gesture. “Just take it real easy, there, son.”

“And if I don't?”

“Wait and see,” Sam says evenly.

Jake scoffs. “What, you a tough guy all of a sudden? What are you gonna do ―kill me?”

Sam shrugs. “I'd rather not. If I have to, I will.”

“You had your chance. You couldn't.”

“I could say the same thing about you.”

Jake's face twists into a terrible leer, and Dean's gun twitches. “What are you smiling at?” Dean challenges, but Jake doesn't acknowledge that he's even spoken.

“Hey lady,” he calls out, looking at Ellen with a feral gleam in his eyes. “Do me a favour and point that gun at your head.”

God, not again.

“No! Ellen, drop your weapon!” Sam barks, and to his surprise she drops the gun as though it's turned white-hot in her grasp.

Jake's eyes widen a bit, but the manic look doesn't leave him. “That's right. You give yourself over to it, there's all sorts of new Jedi mind tricks you can learn. Except, you're behind the learning curve, Sammy-boy. Think you can keep up with me?” he twitches his hand, curls his fingers into a fist, and Bobby's pistol goes sailing in an arc over their heads, collides with a gravestone, and Dean staggers, pushed back by an invisible force.

“Shoot him!” Ellen gasps, dropping to her knees, reaching for her gun with trembling fingers. “Shoot him, Sam!”

“Come on, Sam. Think you can beat me at this?” Jake mocks. “You'll be mopping up their insides long before you can pull the trigger. I can rip them apart before you'll have time to think it” His head whips back around toward Bobby and Dean. “You two: Don't. Move.”

Sam hesitates. It's a couple of seconds at most as he tries to figure out if he can break the hold Jake has on Bobby and Dean, but it's long enough for Jake to step forward, draw the Colt from his belt, and insert it into the pentacle-shaped lock on the crypt.

“No!”

It's too late. Even as Sam pulls the trigger on his pistol, watches the bullet lodge itself above Jake's collarbone, knocking him back, he knows it's too late. The lock is already turning, clicking as the gears and tumblers lock into place.

*

“Take cover!” Bobby grabs Ellen by the arm, hauls her with him to shelter behind a tombstone.

Sam doesn't move, keeps his pistol trained on Jake's chest. Kill him. Pull the trigger. Do it! He shakes his head minutely, watching Jake's lips move.

“No... please...” Jake is begging, his blood soaking into the earth. “Don't.... please...” he chokes, gasps, fingers digging into the ground by his side, nothing but a scared kid now, heels scrabbling against the ground as he struggles to pull air into what might be a collapsed lung.

“Sammy!” Dean's voice is high, desperate, but Sam ignores him. Behind him, the crypt is rumbling, the ground beginning to quake beneath their feet.

He kneels next to Jake, gun still in his hand, leans over and places a hand on Jake's uninjured shoulder. “The last time this happened,” he whispers, “I killed you. I shot you four times in the chest, and when you were on the ground and already dying, I emptied the rest of my clip into you. Do you understand what I'm saying?”

Jake nods. “I think so,” he says, and coughs.

“We have a chance to make this right, Jake. If we both stay alive, then the demon loses. There's no one to lead his army.” Sam's grip tightens on Jake's shoulder, his thumb digging in below the clavicle.

“Sammy! For the love of― get back!”

“Last time, I thought leaving you alive was a mistake. Don't make me regret this.”

The rumbling stops, and for a moment, everything goes still, as though the world is holding its breath. Then everything erupts in a blast of air that's ice-cold and flaming-hot all at once, and Sam is thrown forward onto his hands and knees on top of Jake. He rolls onto his back in time to see a huge, roiling cloud of thick black smoke pour through the open doors of the crypt, coiling and swirling before it rushes up to mingle with the grey storm clouds up above.

There's no time to think, no time to consider options. Sam grabs Jake's arm and drags him away, crab-crawling along the ground, ignoring the screaming pain in his shoulder and back. Overcoming his initial surprise, and no doubt a considerable amount of his own pain, Jake scrambles partway to his feet, holds on, and the two of them stagger to take shelter behind another tombstone.

“Bobby, what is that?” Dean yells, his voice thin and reedy-sounding in the cacophony.

“It's a Devil's Gate,” Ellen yells back, not giving Bobby the time to answer. “He's opened a goddamned door to Hell!”

“We have to get it closed!” Bobby's voice rises over the rest of the noise. “Come on!”

“Oh, God,” Jake moans, halfway trapped under Sam's weight. “What've I done?”

“Stay here,” Sam shoves him down. “Don't move, if you want to live.”

He springs to his feet, staggers after the others and throws his weight against the crypt doors. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Dean pull the Colt out of the lock, staring at it with a wondering look on his face, and check the cylinder for bullets.

“Dean, watch out!”

It's too late. The demon has already snatched the Colt from Dean's hands with a flick of his wrist. “A boy shouldn't play with Daddy's guns,” he says, and Sam can hear him as well as if they were completely alone in an empty room. Another flick of his hand, and Dean's feet are swept out from under him, and Sam's heart seizes in fear as he sees his brother flung through the air, landing several yards away. His head slams against a headstone with an audible crack, and he slumps to the ground, limp as a rag doll.

“Dean!” He throws himself after his brother, instinct overruling the common sense that tells him to make sure the gate is closed first. Ellen yells a protest, but he's already gone and running, hurling himself at the demon, who whirls to face him.

“Well well well, look who's back in rotation!” he gloats. “I always knew you had it in you, champ. Now, wait your turn. I'll get to you in a moment.” He brings his arm up, and Sam remembers the feeling of being slammed against a tree, an invisible force pressing up against his throat, and he resolutely stands his ground, feels the familiar power coursing through him. The demon stops short, eyes flickering yellow-blue-yellow in surprise. “Well, aren't you the fast learner?” the demon murmurs, then flicks a hand back, pinning Dean to the headstone. “You, sit a spell. Our little conversation is going to have to wait until I've dealt with Sammy, here.”

“Let him go!”

“Or what?” the demon sneers, stalking toward him. “Everything you have, you have because I gave it to you.”

“Let him go, or I'll end you.” Dying wishes be damned. In this lifetime, Dean is alive, and that's all that matters. He can see Dean struggling weakly against the unseen force restraining him, blood streaming down his face from the gash near his hairline. He raises his hand, and clenches his fist. Pain flares in his skull, but the flicker of fear on the demon's face makes it worth it. He can sense the demon's blood pumping through borrowed veins, and for a terrible, desperate moment he wants...

Then the demon laughs. “Go ahead and try, champ. You haven't got the juice to exorcize me just like that. It took little Ava months to learn to control even the most minor of demons.”

There's blood trickling from Sam's nose, black spots forming in front of his vision. “I don't... need to exorcize you,” he gasps, feeling his legs start to tremble from the strain. “Just... distract you long enough...”

He doesn't even have time to finish his sentence before the demon goes tumbling to the ground, tackled at full speed by Jake. Sam staggers back, watches the two men go rolling over the ground, the Colt landing in a pile of dead leaves. He drops to his hands and knees, his vision swimming, tries to crawl forward as Jake and the demon come to a stop. The demon, unharmed and pissed off, is the first to recover. He springs to his feet while Jake is still struggling to his knees, his left arm hanging limp and useless by his side, and in a movement too fast for Sam to see, snaps Jake's neck.

“I'm disappointed in you, bucko,” he murmurs, though Sam can hear him as easily as if he's shouting directly in his ear. He's not sure if the demon is talking to him or to Jake, who drops to the ground, eyes sightless and dull. The demon turns to Sam. “Your turn, Sammy-boy. It's time for you to fulfil your destiny.”

This is it.

A shot rings out, so loud that Sam thinks he might be deaf. When he looks up, the demon is looking in disbelief down at his chest where the last bullet from the Colt has ripped a hole in his chest, right where his heart should be. The demon's chest splits open, red and gold light pouring from the wound. The light spreads, spills from his eyes and mouth, and a terrible shrieking, tearing sound fills the air. Sam squeezes his eyes shut, hands over his ears, curls into a ball on the ground. When he's able to open his eyes again, the screaming has stopped, and the demon is gone, leaving only Dean standing a few paces away, the Colt still held level in his hand. Sam tries to speak, coughs instead, can't find words for what he wants to say; sees that Dean is staring behind him, mouth hanging open in wonderment, his eyes shining.

Sam knows what he's going to see, but he can't help the tears that spring to his own eyes anyway as he catches sight of his father. He wants to cry out, to throw himself into his father's arms, to beg him for forgiveness, anything. John Winchester's eyes are filled with tears, too, and he nods to Dean, smiling. Then he goes down on one knee, puts a hand on Sam's shoulder, and although Sam can't feel it at all, just the knowledge that it's there is comforting.

“I'm so sorry, Sammy,” his father says softly, joy mingling on his face with regret and relief and a thousand other emotions Sam can't begin to identify.

“Dad, what―”

Sam finds his voice, but his father is already pulling away, his form flickering, filling with light, and he's gone.

Dean covers the distance between them in two bounds, pulls Sam to his feet. Braced against each other, they look at the empty vessel of the demon lying crumpled at their feet. Dean clears his throat.

“Well, cross that off the to-do list.” He stares at the corpse for another moment, then leans forward. “That was for our Mom, you son of a bitch.”

Sam chokes, clamps down on the hysteria that keeps threatening to come back and overwhelm him. “You did it.”

“Didn't do it alone,” Dean nudges him with an elbow. “What the hell did you say to that kid?”

“Not much. He wanted to do the right thing, he just didn't know how.”

Dean laughs, slings an arm over Sam's shoulder. “I can't believe it's over.”

The words echo strangely in Sam's head, and for a moment he thinks he might throw up again, his mouth filling with saliva. He swallows desperately, shakes his head, just as a massive fork of lightning splits the sky above them, a roll of thunder close on its heels. He feels Dean stiffen, looks up to see the man from the diner standing before them, his silhouette illuminated by another flash of lightning as the storm that's been threatening all day finally breaks over their heads.

Dean groans. “Now what?”

*

The man steps toward them, the wind whipping his trench coat around his legs, but he seems otherwise unaffected by the storm that's been unleashed like a howling, mad beast around them.

“You are too late,” he says.

“What the hell is going on?” Dean ignores what he's just said, as if it's of no consequence. “Who are you?”

The man ―although Sam's no longer sure that word is accurate to describe him― tilts his head and stares at Dean. “I no longer have an answer that will make sense to you, Dean Winchester.” He looks back at Sam. “You are too late. The First Seal has been broken.”

Sam feels his legs turn to water, and it's only Dean's quick reflexes that prevent him from falling. “Woah, Sammy. I got you. Easy, now. You okay?”

Sam nods, looks at the man. “Are you sure?” Rain is soaking through his clothes, plastering his hair to his head, running into his eyes.

“Yes.”

“It couldn't be changed.”

“Sam, what the hell are you talking about?” Dean's tone is angry, a sure sign that he's afraid. “Who is this guy?”

He falters, feeling his thoughts trying to tear themselves apart as time blurs in his head. “I don't... I know him, I just can't... I don't know how. It was supposed to change.”

“Some things cannot be changed. You know this.”

Sam laughs, has to lean harder on Dean to keep from collapsing. “You know how it goes. California sunlight. Sweet Calcutta rain.”

“Sam, what the fuck?” Dean turns and shoves his hands under Sam's arm to hold him up. “What's going on?”

He grins, at his brother, feels rainwater mingled with blood on his tongue. “The song. It's the goddamned end of the world, and I still can't...” It's too much effort for his legs to hold him up anymore, and Dean eases him to the ground. Sam clutches at his arm. “It was Dad. Dad broke. Instead of you. Not his fault. I made him do it, to save you. I'd do it again. It can't be changed.” He knows he's babbling, but he can't make all the different worlds in his head make sense anymore.

Dean looks up at the man in the trench coat. “What did you do to him?”

The man doesn't move, stands still in the midst of the storm, unearthly. “I raised him. Nothing more, nothing less. Some things can be altered, some cannot. He knows this.”

“Dean, it's Zeppelin. Remember? Honolulu starbright. You play it all the time.” His mind is splitting open, he can feel it trying to spill into the storm, soak into the bloodstained ground. “Hate that song.”

“You're not making sense.” Dean is panicking, but there's nothing Sam can do to stop that. The ground is freezing cold, his teeth are chattering. He's not entirely sure he's not dying. Again.

The man takes a single step forward. “The Seals are breaking,” he says. “It has begun.” Then he's gone, as suddenly as he appeared.

Sam clings to the ground as it tries to open and swallow him whole. “The song,” he gasps, trying to make Dean understand. “Remember? The song remains the same.”

Then everything goes dark.

*

Chapter Text

*

“You are sure you want to do this?”

“Yes.”

He's never been more certain of anything in his life.

“You know what is likely to happen.”

“Just... just do it.”

*

Things go by in a blur. Night blends into day, day into night. Exit light, enter night, he thinks, tries to swim to the surface of his thoughts. He's lying on something soft and dry. He opens his eyes, blink against the sickly light coming in from a window, dust motes dancing before his eyes. Dean is slumped, half-sitting, on a bed across from where he's lying, head lolling to the side, obviously asleep, his Glock cradled in his lap. Motel room, Sam decides, the same one as before. The bed springs creak as he sits up gingerly and tries to take stock. He's stiff, aching all over, but none of it seems life-threatening or even so bad as to be more than a minor inconvenience. Even his head doesn't hurt anymore, which is such a relief he almost bursts into tears. Almost.

Dean starts awake, grip tightening automatically on his gun, then relaxes as he catches sight of Sam sitting up. “You back with me?”

Sam scrubs at his eyes with his fingers, ridding himself of the remnants of sleep. “Yeah, I think so. How long was I out?”

“Two days, give or take. More give than take ―I had to drag your sorry, heavy, rain-soaked ass all the way back here and then put up with your stupid snoring when you finally decided to sleep instead of be unconscious.”

“I didn't mean to worry you.”

“Yeah, well, don't do it again, bitch.”

Sam looks around. “Where are Bobby and Ellen?”

Dean shakes his head. “No idea. They poofed, right around the same time as that guy did. If I ever find either one of them again, I'm getting them both a goddamned cell phone. I've been trying Bobby at home, but there's no answer.”

Which means Dean has been all alone and probably scared out of his mind the whole time. Sam swallows his guilt. “Let me buy you breakfast? Then we can drive back, see if he's there.”

“Next time. We'll eat here, and now that we have a goddamned minute to ourselves, you're going to explain what the hell is going on. Then maybe I'll consider letting you travel, coma-boy.”

“Okay,” Sam nods tiredly. He owes Dean that much, at the very least. “I'll try. I don't know if I can, though.”

“Whatever.” Dean shoves the Glock back in the holster hanging over the back of a chair. “I'm getting us breakfast. Then you talk.” He pulls open the door, then pauses to look over his shoulder. “And take your damned meds, Sam. Don't make me remind you every single damned time.”

Sam does as he's told, swallows his pills dry, and stays very quiet until Dean is gone. There are smears of dried blood on his face from where his nose bled last night ―no, two nights ago, he corrects himself― and he squeezes his eyes shut when he catches sight of them in the bathroom mirror, lingering around his mouth and on his chin. He's never had to see himself like this before. Is this the sight that made Dean unable to look at him in the eyes for over a year? He can't tell. It looks vile, unnatural, but this time the blood is his own, at least. He swallows a sudden rush of saliva in his mouth, determined not to vomit ―he's done enough of that in the past few days.

He eases himself into a shower for the first time since he woke up, carefully scrubs away every trace of dirt that still clings to him, scraping the remnants from under his fingernails. Washes his face three times, just in case, and takes his time shaving, partly because his hands are still shaking, and partly because he's just not sure if he can take the sight of more blood right now. That's what his life has been like, for as long as he can remember now, filled with blood, from beginning to end. Blood and fire.

By the time he's done he's tired again, and with a resigned sigh and a roll of his eyes for no one's benefit but his own he sits back down on his bed, leans back and closes his eyes. There's nowhere to go for now, no one to save (not yet), nothing to do, and even though he's tired of being tired, apparently there's nothing he can do about it. He hears the sound of Dean's key scraping in the lock what feels like a couple of seconds later, and sits up again in time to see his brother trying to balance a bunch of styrofoam containers in one hand while negotiating the door with the other. He shoves himself reluctantly to his feet, liberates the containers so Dean can close the door.

“I got you a breakfast sandwich,” Dean says, not quite meeting his gaze (and doesn't that feel familiar?). “And don't give me any of that I'm-not-hungry crap. I don't care if you have to choke it down, you're eating. You haven't had anything but water and a protein drink in three days.”

“Right,” Sam agrees readily. He's not hungry, but he's even less anxious to argue about something that trivial when he pretty much knows there's going to be bigger things to argue about in a moment. He pulls two chairs up to the cheap motel table, sits in one, and starts emptying the containers.

“How you feeling, anyway?” Dean hasn't made a move toward his own food.

“Better than you look. Did you get any sleep at all?”

“Some. And don't change the subject.”

“I'm not. You look like hell.” Sam frowns at his brother, who's now sporting two extra days' worth of beard growth and has circles under his eyes so dark it looks like he's been punched. “How's your head, anyway? You cracked it pretty solidly last night. Or two nights ago, or whenever.”

Dean shrugs, automatically brings up a hand to brush his fingers lightly against the gash near his hairline. “I guess it's okay. Still hurts, but it didn't need stitches and since I didn't lapse into a coma I guess I wasn't badly concussed.”

Sam flinches, guilty in spite of the knowledge that it's not exactly his fault he was unconscious and unable to take care of his brother. Dean glances at him, and reads his mind in that creepy way he has.

“Not your fault, Sam.”

“I know that.”

“Then quit pulling that bitch face.”

“I'm not!”

“Uh-huh.” Dean pointedly takes a bite of his breakfast sandwich, though he looks as though he's enjoying it about as much as a mouthful of sawdust. “So. Now's as good a time as any for you to tell me just what the hell is going on.”

“I don't know what to tell you,” Sam feels the same helpless frustration well up that's been plaguing him for the past two days. Four days. Whatever, he's lost track. “I don't even know where to start.”

“How about you start with the guy doing a bad impression of Columbo? He said he raised you. That true?”

Sam raises both hands in a gesture of surrender. “Start with the easy stuff, why don't you? I think I know him, but I don't know how or where I know him from. He's been popping in and out. I don't know how he does it.”

“Demon?”

“I don't think so. I suppose I ought to have tested him.”

“You think?”

“I didn't think of it, all right?” Sam snaps, half-ashamed and half-angry that he forgot the most basic rule of their lives now. “In case you didn't notice, things have been a little complicated lately.”

“He comes back, we'll test,” Dean says simply. “Eat your damned food, Sam.”

He picks at the breakfast sandwich listlessly. “Right.”

“So what the hell was he talking about back at the cemetery? Seals?”

Sam brings a hand up to his mouth as his stomach performs a flip-flop. “I'm not sure,” he manages, but Dean is leaning forward, his expression worried again.

“You gonna hurl or something? Just give a guy some warning, here.”

He shakes his head. “I'm okay. I... it's weird. It's like there's this other set of thoughts, or memories, or something... I can't tell. They keep filtering through, and every time it's like, I dunno, they clash with what I already know, and it ―well, it does this.”

“Okay, 'cause that's normal.”

“Not helping, Dean.”

“Sam, you basically just told me you have an alternate personality with different memories. How is this supposed to reassure me?”

“I'm sorry, I didn't realize that when you said 'tell me what you know,' you really mean, 'Sam I want you to tell me something that'll make me feel better,'” he snaps, feeling his temper fraying at the edges.

In a flash, Dean is out of his chair and pacing, running a hand through his hair. “That's not what I said!”

“Sure sounded like it to me.”

“Dammit, Sam, how about cutting me some slack, here?”

Sam doesn't answer, just purses his lips and stares at the table.

“Sam, come on. Just tell me what you remember.”

“I told you already. I was in Cold Oak, with Jake. I turned my back for a minute, and the next thing I know I'm waking up in a pine box. I dug my way out, and I found the nearest road, and I just walked. I was trying to find you. Mostly, I was confused, and everything hurt, and the only thing I could remember was that you had been there, like, a minute before, and I couldn't figure out why you weren't anymore.” Sam shrugs. “Like I said, I was pretty confused.”

“And you don't remember anything else?” Dean leans over the table when he hesitates. “Sam, talk to me.”

“I don't―” thoughts collide in his head, and Sam has to fight them down again before the few bites of breakfast he's managed make an unwelcome reappearance. “It's like... déjà vu is the closest I can come to describing it. I kind of... know how things are supposed to happen. Or how they might have happened.”

“Like a premonition?”

He shakes his head, tastes bile on his tongue. “No. Like I've lived through it before. Or some version of it.”

*

“Bobby? Thank God.” Dean's got one hand on the steering wheel, the other holding his cell phone to his ear, elbow resting on the car door. He's still not letting Sam near the wheel of the car, despite looking as though he's gone a few rounds with a cement block and lost. “I've been trying to reach you for two days. What the hell happened to you?”

Sam slumps in the passenger seat, leaning his head against the car door, staring at the sign posts whizzing by along the side of the road. The tightness in his chest eases when Dean glances over and nods at him, reassuring him wordlessly that Bobby and Ellen are both fine. There's a brief, terse conversation, and Dean nods again, this time to himself.

“Got it. We'll head over, see what's what. You going to join us? Right, okay. Got it. We'll keep you posted, and you do the same, okay?” He flips the phone closed, drops it back in his coat pocket.

“What's up? They okay?”

“Yeah. Apparently they both ended up back at Bobby's, no explanation, no nothing. Except now Bobby's been calling around, trying to see if he can track down any leads on what went down, and... well, we have a problem.”

Sam sits up. “You mean apart from the fact that we just unleashed maybe two hundred or so extra demons into the world?”

Dean grimaces, and his fingers tighten around the steering wheel. “You know, I actually managed to forget about that for a few seconds. Thanks a lot.”

“Any time. So what's the new problem? We can work on our multitasking skills.”

“Bobby's been calling some of his contacts, other hunters, trying to get a feel for the way the wind's blowing. There've been demon omens sighted all over the place, and to hear it, everyone's battening down the hatches.”

Sam feels a chill run down his spine. “How many do you think there are?”

Dean shrugs. “Enough that Bobby thinks it means we definitely have trouble. It's not just Wyoming, which is the problem. It started there, but it's spreading fast.”

“How fast?”

“Last Bobby heard, there were sightings all the way to Ohio. No telling how far west they go yet.”

“Fuck.”

“My sentiments precisely.”

“So where are we heading?”

“Illinois.”

“What's in Illinois?”

“Bunch of things. One, the last hunter Bobby got in touch with. Two, rumours of a giant black cloud descending over cities all over the place, including Peoria. Three, there's a psychic there that Bobby thinks might be able to help us out. I'm just hoping one and two don't get us killed in the process, so I figure we'll go to the psychic first. At least that way, if we kick the bucket, we'll go out informed,” Dean says, his voice heavy with irony.

“Illinois' a busy place.”

“You're telling me.”

“A psychic, huh?”

“Pamela Barnes.” Sam rubs at one of his temples with his thumb, his head throbbing with renewed energy, and Dean throws him a worried look. “You okay, Sammy?”

“Yeah.”

“You sure? Your head hurt or anything?”

“No, it's okay. I'm just getting that weird feeling again.”

“The déjà vu that's not déjà vu?”

“We need a better name for it, but yeah.”

“You're not gonna toss your cookies all over the upholstery, are you?”

“No!” Sam squawks, throwing up his hands. “God.”

“Okay, good. 'Cause if you do, you're cleaning it up.”

“Your compassion knows no bounds. Can we please talk about the psychic woman, maybe? Or the case? Please?”

“Fine, jeez, touchy.” Dean rolls his eyes, and Sam has to swallow a groan of frustration. Instead he squeezes his eyes shut, pinches the bridge of his nose and waits for Dean to elaborate. “Anyway, this Pamela chick is really good. At least, Bobby says she is, and if Bobby says it, you know that's pretty much like the Grade-A stamp of approval. Bobby already gave her a call, and she's going to start looking into our mystery trench coat guy, and try to figure out what the hell he was going on about back there.”

“You mean the Seals?”

“That's exactly what I mean.”

Sam shifts uncomfortably in his seat as an image of a black-haired woman flits across his mind's eye: she's screaming, writhing on the floor, light pouring from her eyes and mouth.

“I don't know if it's a good idea to push this.”

“What? Why?”

Sam shrugs. “I think we should maybe stick to tracking down the demons that got loose. At least for now.”

“Sam, you heard the same thing I did, and let me tell you, you were talking some pretty crazy shit yourself. You knew exactly what he was talking about.”

Sam looks up sharply. “What?”

“You heard me. You started babbling something about Dad breaking or something and that it was supposed to change things and God only knows what else. It was ten kinds of crazy, but you knew, Sam. You knew what he was talking about.”

He shakes his head slowly. “No. No no no. I can't. I couldn't. How could I? I don't know now. How could I know then? No. It's not possible.”

“Then what the hell? I'd really like you to explain it to me.”

“I can't. I don't understand it myself.”

“So, then, all the better to go see this Pamela chick and see if she can shed light on the matter.”

“We should stick to the other cases first. Maybe stop by Bobby's first, since it's on the way, make sure we know what we're getting into.” The scene is still seared into his retinas, looping over and over like an animated image on his laptop. Sam clenches both his hands, presses his fists against his thighs, feeling as though he might fall to pieces and just float away if this keeps up.

“Look, normally I'd be with you on this, but I think it's pretty safe to say this is all connected, and we don't have time to stop by Bobby's, much as I want to. We're going to see Pamela first, and that's not negotiable.”

“Dean...”

“No, Sam. I'm not discussing this.”

Sam swallows a mouthful of bile. “Stop the car.”

“Come on, Sam. Don't make an issue of this now.”

“I said, stop the car.”

“What? You're going to pitch a hissy fit and walk to Bobby's? Remember how well it worked out last time? Outside of Burkittsville? Or do you need another chance encounter with a demon to remind you?”

Sam shakes his head, forces himself to take a deep breath. “Pull over. Please.”

“Sam...” Dean snaps, then turns to take a good look at him. “Oh. Oh, I didn't... okay. You got it.”

A moment later Sam is bent double, leaning heavily on the open door of the Impala, retching miserably onto the side of the road. He hears the driver's side door open and close again, the scuffing of boots against gravel, and Dean squats on his heels beside him, hands him a bottle of water when he's caught his breath.

“Better?”

He nods. “Yeah. Sorry.”

“Uh-huh. Hey, I appreciate your sparing the upholstery,” Dean offers him a half-hearted grin, and he smiles in spite of himself. “You ready to get going again?”

“Still going to Pamela's?”

“Yep.”

Sam sighs, swallows a mouthful of tepid water, and waits for his stomach to settle. “I'm gonna need a minute.”

*

They don't reach the home of Pamela Barnes. The roads are all but impassable and they end up in Peoria, staring up at a cloud of hundreds of thousands of cicadas. The insects swarm everywhere, clinging to trees and houses and fences, their carapaces shining bright and metallic in the spring sun. It's far too early in the year for cicadas.

The town is filled with the sound of their humming, and Sam wishes with every fibre of his being that Bobby was with them instead of hundreds of miles away in South Dakota. He can't shake the feeling that everything's wrong, now, that so many things have been subtly altered. It makes him dizzy and nauseous, and Dean's constant hovering isn't making things any easier. Then again, Sam can barely stand to be more than a few feet away from his brother, keeps reaching out to touch him ―to reassure himself that he's real― before catching himself and pulling his hand back before Dean realizes what he's doing. He thinks Dean might know anyway and is just letting him get away with it, which is at once humiliating and deeply comforting.

“At least it's not frogs, right?” Dean slams the car door shut. They're parked outside a white clapboard house, where flower-printed sheets flap lazily on a laundry line attached to one side of the house and leading to a wooden post a dozen yards away. “Frogs are creepy.”

“Because millions of insects aren't?” Sam tries not to lean too heavily on the car door.

“Point. You feeling okay?”

He makes a so-so motion with his free hand. “Mostly. Haven't felt completely right since...” he shrugs, doesn't bother finishing his sentence.

“Yeah. Soon as we finish up with this, we're going to go back to figuring out how to fix that.”

Sam snorts. “Sure.”

Dean just turns his back, trots up the stairs to the front porch, and his shoulders are set in that we-aren't-talking-about-this-now way that Sam has become accustomed to over the years. He follows up the stairs as Dean knocks on the front door, tries the bell a few times, and when that and shouting get him nowhere, steps aside and motions to Sam to do his thing. Dean can pick a lock, the same way their Dad could, but Sam's always been the one to whom that sort of thing comes naturally. Something to do with hand-eye coordination, he supposes, and there's not a single part of him that doesn't appreciate the irony that he wanted to become a lawyer. He pulls out his lock picks, makes short work of the standard mechanism, feeling the tumblers slide apart easily, pushes the door open.

“You're an artist, Sammy. Always said it.”

“Those locks? Child's play. And it's Sam.”

He almost loses his lunch when they find the family's corpses in the living room. They're desiccated, in the early stages of decomposition, seated on the sofa and in the La-Z-Boy in a grim parody of a family gathering around the television, which is still playing. The man in the La-Z-Boy is still clutching the remote control, flies crawling in and out of his mouth.

“What the fuck, man?” Dean's got a hand over his mouth, trying to suppress his gag reflex. “It's like they just sat down and never got up again.”

“No demon sign,” Sam agrees. “No sulphur, nothing.” He glances out of the open window in time to see a small car drive by, and he hears the engine cut out a moment later. “We've got company. No,” he waves Dean down when his brother reaches for his gun. “Pretty sure they're hunters.”

“Dude, how do you know?”

Sam shrugs. “I just do. Trust me, don't try anything unless you really want a concussion.”

“What?”

But Sam's already moving toward the front door. “Back me up if you want, but let me try talking first, okay?”

He ignores Dean's muttered protests, goes to stand outside on the porch, and sees the surprise register on the faces of the man and woman coming toward the house. They're black, well-dressed for hunters, their attire speaking of a life of middle-class ease left behind years before. The woman is the taller of the two, and significantly better-looking, and she easily takes the lead when they're confronted with the unexpected. The man, her husband by the looks of it, takes up a position behind her, his body language telegraphing that he's armed and ready to use deadly force if there's any threat to his wife. Sam bites back a smile at the thought that Dean is probably mirroring the man's posture, standing a pace behind Sam.

“Who are you?” the woman calls out, her voice rich and lower than he was expecting. She has a British accent, another surprise.

Sam keeps his hands visible. “I'm Sam Winchester, and that's my brother, Dean. You're hunters?”

“How'd you know that?”

“We're friends of Bobby Singer's.”

They both relax at the name, but don't drop their guard entirely. “No offense, Sam, but we're going to need a bit more than that.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Christo,” he calls back, not missing a beat, and she nods, slings her rifle back over her shoulder. Not that it was much use to begin with, they all know that, but it's a gesture of good faith.

“All right, then. I suppose we have a great deal to discuss.”

*

The hunters' names are Isaac and Tamara, and while Sam and Tamara click pretty quickly, Isaac and Dean are at each other's throats within minutes of their heading back to the couple's house to hole up and talk properly that evening. Sam decides that that might be the reason he and Tamara get along: they're both accustomed to dealing with hotheads who shoot first and ask questions later. In Dean's defense, Isaac is being ten different kinds of douchebag, basically accusing them of being reckless idiots who opened the gate to hell out of sheer stupidity.

“That's quite enough testosterone for now,” Tamara jabs Isaac viciously in the ribs. “As if you've never made a mistake in your life.”

“Sure, I've made mistakes,” Isaac answers, his tone dripping with irony. “Locked my keys in the car. Turned my laundry pink. Never unleashed the apocalypse, though.”

Sam almost has to sit on Dean to prevent him from leaping for Isaac's throat. “Easy, Dean,” he turns to stare coolly at Isaac. “If we hadn't been there, it would have been worse. That demon was going to open the Gate no matter what. At least we got it closed again.”

“Says you.”

“You can call Bobby, have him confirm it. And Ellen Harvelle, she was there too.”

“You know how these things work, Isaac,” Tamara is holding both his wrists. “If Ellen and Bobby can vouch for them, then it's fine. We don't have to work with them, but we should at least pool information.”

“We need to work together on this,” Sam raps on the table for emphasis. “We're outnumbered and outgunned here, no matter what this is.”

“No offense, kid, but this isn't Scooby Doo,” Isaac sneers, unable to keep the contempt from his tone, and Sam rolls his eyes, feeling his temper starting to fray at the edges in the face of this unrelenting hostility.

“We know that. Trust me, we know that better than anybody. Look, let's just see what we know, and then you two can figure out if you want to fuck off on your own, okay? Dean, did you get any information about how those people died?”

Dean pulls out the paper on which he's scribbled down some notes. “Exactly what it looked like. I talked to Jenny at the coroner's office, and she says it was dehydration, but if it wasn't that, the starvation would have done them in soon after.”

“But the fridge was fully-stocked,” Tamara interjects.

“You got me,” Dean folds up the paper again and puts it away. “But the town is full of random and unexplained deaths. People just laying down and dying, randomly lashing out at each other. One woman caved in another woman's head against her car windshield for a pair of shoes this morning, right around the same time we found those people. Hey, Sam, you know what an 'appletini' is?”

“Nothing you'd enjoy, I can promise you that.”

“That's what I thought.”

“Were they possessed?” Isaac leans forward, elbows on the table, fingers laced together, his earlier animosity seemingly forgotten as they get down to business.

“We didn't find any traces of sulphur or any other indication of demonic possession, but I suppose we ought to check one of the victims, just to be sure. Maybe the girl who decided she really liked those shoes,” Dean pulls out Dad's journal, to which he's been adding pages for the past year, starts printing carefully on a blank page.

“We should check the traffic cameras, if there are any,” Sam starts making a mental list, rubbing at his temples as his head begins to throb again. Great. He can't seem to go more than a day or so without his head feeling as though there are crabs in his brain trying to dig their way out. “See if we can catch a glimpse of either the woman or anyone she might have come into contact with.”

“The shop camera, too. That's where it started ―in a shoe store,” Dean says, still writing. “Find the girl, we might get a clue about what's going on. Sam?”

“What?” Sam snaps, too focussed on trying to keep his brain inside his head to keep his tone civil. The dim light in the room is starting to make him feel as though he's staring into the sun.

“You okay?”

“Fine. Headache.”

“You get headaches like that a lot?” Isaac's voice sounds distorted, as though he's underwater.

“Too damned often.”

Dean ignores Isaac. “No funny smells?”

He's about to deny it, when the scent of burning rubber hits. “Shit.” He clutches harder at his head. “Timing's... terrible.”

“Okay, let's get you away from the table, at least,” Dean is up and moving, and Sam can hear Isaac and Tamara peppering them with questions neither of them can answer.

Before he can register what's happening he feels himself being lowered to the floor, the wood hard against his tailbone, and he waits for the white flash he knows is coming. For a minute or so nothing happens, and he allows himself to hope that, maybe this time he'd dodged that particular bullet. Then the pain spikes, and he loses himself in the brilliant light.

*

Isaac and Tamara settle into the bar as though they've been regular patrons for years, instead of this being their first time, order drinks and share a kiss, as a pretty woman feeds the jukebox. Country music swells, fills the room, and she sways off to go talk to a tall, good-looking man in an expensive suit, draping herself over him and tracing a well-manicured finger over his bicep.

“Thank you,” Isaac barely glances at the waitress who brings them their beers, doesn't note the way she rolls her eyes at them.

“Love you,” Tamara says softly, her eyes warm.

“Love you more,” Isaac catches movement out of the corner of his eye, jerk his chin toward a red-headed man making his way toward the men's room. “Think that's our pigeon.”

“Looks like Mark Rosen,” she agrees quietly, and her gaze drifts to the flask of holy water at his hip.

“Pull the car up at the back. We'll be right out,” he assures her, and she believes him. It's not like they haven't done this a dozen times before.

He unscrews the cap, pulls the flask out, but keeps it under the table, hides it under the lapel of his coat. Then with a quick nod and a wink, he's out of his chair and heading toward the men's room himself. By the time Tamara looks around and realizes that everyone is staring at her, it's too late, and she can't shout a warning before the bartender is up in Isaac's face.

“What do you think you're doing?”

Isaac pulls back, feigns innocence. “I'm just hittin' the head, man.”

“No,” the bartender grabs his wrist, pulls his hand up to reveal the flask of holy water, and the sound of snapping bones fills the air. Everything has gone terribly quiet, except for Isaac's gasp of pain. “I mean, what are you doing here?” he snarls, eyes flickering black, and Tamara feels herself recoiling in sudden fear. “I don't like hunters in my bar!”

They're surrounded. Tamara is on her feet, but all of the bar's patrons are advancing on them, black eyes glittering with intent. Mark Rosen comes up from behind Isaac, grinning manically.

“Man, you really walked into the wrong place.”

The girl who was feeding the jukebox earlier slinks over to Tamara. “Mmm,” she purrs. “I like this one. I can think of a thousand things I'd like to do to her. Can I have her?”

“Maybe when we're done,” says the demon possessing Rosen.

A fat man in a grey t-shirt and plaid flannel overshirt sidles up to Isaac, lays a hand on his arm. “Hey, buddy, why don't you have a drink? It's on me.” He hands him a quart-bottle of drain cleaner.

“On the house!” Rosen yells, and all the demons burst into a cacophony of jeers and laughter as Isaac, his eyes wide and rolling in terror, tips the contents into his mouth.

Tamara screams, then, and doesn't stop screaming.

*

To Sam's surprise, he's not lying on the floor when he comes to. He blinks, trying to sort out where he is, registers something soft under him, puts his hands down to feel a thin mattress beneath his hands. Slowly he pushes himself upright, hears springs creak beneath his weight: army cot, his mind registers when it's finally caught up. He's in a small, wood-panelled room, illuminated only by the moonlight streaming in through the window. There's a small lamp on a table nearby, but he doesn't switch it on, just swings his feet to the floor, testing to make sure the room stays still. So far, so good. At least he doesn't appear either to have thrown up or pissed himself, and there's no sign of a bloody nose, either. Small mercies. The last time he lived through this, the visions stopped with the death of the yellow-eyed demon, but apparently he's not getting spared that in this new, nauseating version of his future. Beggars can't be choosers, he tells himself sternly. This is a small price to pay, all things considered.

There are voices coming from the next room, rising and falling, and he recognizes Dean's voice right away, his anger tight and controlled. Okay. He sighs, pushes himself to his feet. Time for an intervention before Dean does something they'll all regret. He has to lean on the wall, his legs rubbery, but he's pretty sure that, however long he's been out, it's been long enough for Dean to get into a heated argument with Isaac.

“I don't know, okay?” Dean is pacing, exasperated, his back turned to the small room where Sam is standing. None of them have noticed him yet. “Anyway, it's up to him to tell you if he wants. We don't owe you a damned thing!”

“Are you kidding?” Isaac is standing his ground, right in Dean's path, and Sam can tell it's taking all of Dean's self-control not to hit him. “You weren't planning on telling us that your brother has epilepsy or some shit that could get us all killed? What if that happened while we were in the middle of a fight, huh?”

“Well, it didn't!”

“Isaac, calm down,” Tamara says evenly. “Yelling isn't going to accomplish anything.”

“I will not calm down! These asshole kids are going to get us killed, Tamara. Unless this joker starts giving me an explanation I like, we're done here.”

“Maybe I'd better do the explaining, in that case,” Sam says, and is oddly gratified when the three of them jump, startled by his sudden appearance. Dean stops pacing and practically teleports to his side, grabbing his elbow just as Sam's legs threaten to give way.

“Woah, easy there. What the hell are you doing up?”

“Keeping you from getting into a brawl, apparently,” he jokes weakly as Dean shoves him none too gently into a chair, smooths a hand against his forehead, checking him over. “What'd I miss?”

Dean rolls his eyes. “You decided to do your impression of a stranded fish again. And I gotta tell, you, dude, don't quit your day job.”

“I could totally take my act on the road.”

Isaac interrupts. “You going to fill us in on what the fuck just happened, or what?”

“Hey!” Dean barks over his shoulder, and Sam puts a hand on his arm to keep him in place.

“Take it easy, Dean. They've got a right to be anxious about this,” he says quietly. “Come on. I just had a seizure in the middle of their living room. Tell me you wouldn't react exactly the same way in their shoes.”

“Whatever,” Dean growls, and Sam only refrains from rolling his eyes because it would only make his headache worse.

“Is it epilepsy?” Tamara tries to steer the subject back toward facts, and Sam wants to hug her. He shakes his head carefully.

“Not exactly. It's complicated.”

“Try explaining anyway,” Isaac says drily.

“I'm getting there,” Sam tries not to snap, and fails miserably. Dean hands him a glass of water, and he nods his thanks ―his throat feels like he's been wandering the desert for days. “We don't know what's causing it, exactly. It's, umm... I get visions.”

“Jesus, Sam! Don't sugar-coat it for them or anything.”

“What? They need to know, Dean.”

“How? How do you figure they need to know that?” Dean is furious.

“Visions?” Tamara prompts, and he nods, ignoring his brother's rising fury. “Visions of what?”

“The future. Sometimes the present. Mostly things that might happen. It's been happening for about two years now, on and off, but more frequently lately. We thought it had to do with the demon that, uh, killed our mother.”

“Prophetic visions?”

“More like psychic visions,” he clarifies, and Isaac groans.

“I'm definitely breaking out the Southern Comfort.”

“I'll take one too, please,” Dean manages to find his manners again. “I think we're gonna need it.”

“Do you always... react like that?” Tamara waves one hand in a vague circular motion, and Sam winces a bit.

“No. That's new. Started about a week ago. The whole thing started out as nightmares, moved onto visions when I was awake, complete with blinding headaches. And now, apparently, seizures.” When I came back from the dead. It's a side-effect, apparently. “Whatever it is, it's getting worse.”

“Damn. That sucks,” Isaac sounds sympathetic for the first time that day. He pours out the whiskey for him and Dean, another for Tamara, but Sam waves him off before he can offer him a glass.

“You're telling me.”

“Do things always happen the way you see them?” Tamara's all business, mentally taking note of anything she thinks might be important.

“No, not always. Sometimes I see them too late to do anything, but sometimes I can change things. I'm not clairvoyant or anything. I can't turn it on and off, I can't control it at all.”

“So... what did you see?”

He breathes deeply, turns to look at Isaac. “I saw you die.”

“Oh, this is bullshit!”

Isaac slams his fist on the table, and the room erupts into chaos as he, Dean and Tamara each try to shout over each other. Sam just slumps a bit lower in his seat, waits for the uproar to die down, rubs at his temples with his fingers, trying to get the ache in his head to subside even a little bit. Eventually Dean manages to shout down both Isaac and Tamara, who each take their seats again and direct matching glares at Sam.

“Care to explain?” Tamara asks archly.

It's a lot easier to recount what he saw than to try and explain why he saw it. Isaac nods thoughtfully, drumming his fingers against the table as he tries to put things together. Sam tries to ignore the worried looks he's getting from Dean, and the suspicion that's radiating from the other two hunters.

“So was Gordon Walker right about you?”

“No!” Dean's eyes are blazing. “Gordon Walker's a murdering psychopath.”

“Funny, he says the same thing about your brother.”

Sam rubs at his eyes. “Look, I know what Gordon thinks, but he's wrong.” He has to take another deep breath to fight off a rising wave of nausea, swallows hard. “I'm not... I'm not what he thinks. There's always a choice.”

“All right. One thing at a time,” Tamara interrupts smoothly. “We have a town full of demons to deal with first, and now we have an idea where to start. How many did you say you saw, Sam?”

“Hard to say. At least five, probably six or seven.”

“Right. So we'll head to the store tomorrow, see if we can pull his image off the cameras, and start asking around. I don't suppose you have any idea when your, erm, vision was supposed to take place?”

“No, sorry. They're not usually specific about that sort of thing.”

“They never are,” Isaac rolls his eyes. “Psychic shit like that is never reliable.”

Sam just shrugs. “It is what it is. I figure we can use whatever edge we've got.”

“So tomorrow, we scope the joint, interview the witnesses, same plan as before,” Dean says, “only this time we've got a little bit more to go on. Then we figure out a way either to trap all the demons in one place, or take 'em out individually, one at a time. I'll give Bobby a call in the morning, see if he can tell us anything more about them, see what we're up against. In the meantime, you,” he gives Sam a look that dares him to argue, “are going to take your meds, lie the fuck back down, and sleep until I tell you you can get up.”

“Way to inspire confidence in our allies, Dean,” Sam mutters, but he's too damned tired to really care what the others think at this point. He looks up at Tamara. “Okay if I use that spare bed again?”

“Of course.”

He nods his thanks, eases himself back onto the cot in the spare room, and for the first time since he can remember sinks into an entirely dreamless sleep.

*

Light is creeping in through the window when Sam awakens the next morning. A glance at his watch tells him he hasn't overslept, but he feels better-rested than he has in days. He finds Tamara in her kitchen over a steaming pot of coffee, and without thinking takes the cup she offers him. He remembers a little too late that he's not supposed to be drinking the stuff, then decides to hell with it, and takes a sip anyway. Alcohol is one thing, but if he's expected to keep hunting, he'll be damned if he's going to do it without coffee. Besides, he's pretty sure that caffeine will have little to no effect on the fun new neurological malfunctions he's experiencing. He does, however, remember to take his pills, before Dean has a fit.

“One of my cousins used to have seizures like that,” Tamara remarks. “She said she could taste licorice just before it happened. Only she didn't have them nearly as often as you seem to. You get a warning signal too?”

“Looks like it. Doesn't give me much warning, though. A couple of minutes at most.”

Isaac pokes his head around the door to the kitchen. “Honey? Where's the Palo Santo?”

She takes a sip of her coffee. “Where did you leave it?”

“I don't know, dear, that's why I'm asking,” Isaac says, in the tone of a man whose patience is being tried, and Tamara heaves a long-suffering sigh.

“Have you checked the grey bag?” she asks, heading past him into the large mud room which they've essentially converted into a hunting room. She hauls a grey duffel bag onto the counter, unzips it, and triumphantly produces a large, sharp-looking stake.

“Palo Santo?” Sam has followed her, and the name piques his curiosity.

“It's holy wood, from Peru. It's toxic to demons like holy water. Keeps the bastards nailed down while you're exorcising them,” she explains, making a stabbing motion with the stake for emphasis. The movement is smooth and practised, and Sam shudders at the thought of being on the receiving end of that stake.

Isaac claims his prize with a kiss. “Thank you, dear.”

She laughs, kisses him back. “You'd lose your head if it wasn't for me.”

Sam shuts his eyes against the sudden, vivid image of Isaac choking down drain cleaner, blood frothing at the corners of his mouth, staining his teeth. You have no idea.

“So how long have you been married?” Safer to change the subject.

“Almost exactly eight years,” Tamara leans into Isaac's embrace, and he grins at Sam, at once proud and possessive.

“The family that slays together...”

“I'm with you there,” Sam says, involuntarily glancing back toward the rest of the house. “So, how'd you get started in all this, anyway?”

There's an awkward silence, and Tamara visibly withdraws from them both, eyes clouded over with sudden anger. Isaac clears his throat, and Sam scrambles to cover his faux pas.

“Uh, you know... none of my business. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked. You'd think I'd know better by now. Sorry.”

“It's all right,” Tamara says dully, and he can tell she doesn't mean a word. It's never all right, and Sam knows that better than most.

“Hey, am I interrupting something?” Dean bounces into the room, seemingly oblivious to the tension in the air. He waggles his cell phone meaningfully. “So I've been talking to Bobby, and he thinks we're probably royally screwed. I mean, we're talking six-ways-till-Sunday screwed.”

“How so?”

“Is there coffee? Coffee would be awesome,” Dean is like a five-year-old on a sugar rush, which means that he's excited about the supposedly really bad news Bobby just gave him. Sam gives Isaac and Tamara a vaguely apologetic look, shrugs, and follows him back into the kitchen.

“Share with the class, Dean?”

“Those seven demons you saw? Big, badass demons. Bobby thinks they're the incarnation of the Seven Deadly Sins. Straight out of the Bible.”

“The Seven Deadly Sins,” Sam echoes, unable to keep the disbelief from his voice, and Dean nods, practically bouncing on his toes, he's so excited.

“Yeah, you know―”

“―Dean, I swear to God, if you quote Brad Pitt...”

“Fine. Spoilsport. So that's what they are. Big, badass demons. Which is why they've pretty much got this town acting like a great big black hole of death and decay. Like the Hotel California: you can check out any time you like, et cetera, et cetera.”

“So taking them all on at once is pretty much tantamount to suicide.”

“Pretty much.”

*

It turns out to be both a whole lot simpler and a whole lot harder to find the demons and hatch a half-decent plan to take them down. The four of them split up in order to cover more ground, Dean heading off to interview the (entirely coincidentally, he assures them) pretty girl who killed over a pair of really ugly green shoes, while Sam goes over the video surveillance footage of the shoe store, hoping to catch a glimpse of the elusive Mark Rosen. Isaac and Tamara go in search of the bar from Sam's vision, but not before solemnly promising not to step foot inside without proper back-up. Even if they're both sceptical of the accuracy of Sam's abilities, they're experienced enough hunters to know that this isn't something to be trifled with.

Sam manages to find a decent picture of Mark Rosen, and tries not to feel too smothered when Dean calls him on his cell phone to remind him to eat lunch.

“You remember what the doctor said about blood sugar levels, Sammy.”

“Thank you, Dad.”

“Bite me. Better yet, go bite a sandwich.”

He's taking notes on what little he was able to discover about Rosen when someone slides into the seat opposite his in the small booth he's occupying. He looks up, half-expecting to see the strange man in the trench coat, is surprised to find a girl with dirty blonde hair there instead, clad in jeans, a denim jacket, and a nondescript green t-shirt. The whole outfit practically screams 'hunter.' She's got a striking face, although she's not pretty in any conventional sense, all sharp edges and luminous eyes. She snakes one of his French fries, ignoring his protest.

“You're pretty difficult to get alone, you know,” she says accusingly, as though he's been thwarting her on purpose.

“Uh huh. The whole morning I spent by myself must have made that really hard.”

“Don't be a smart ass. I'm here to help you. Name's Ruby.”

He ignores the introduction. “Who says I need help?”

She rolls her eyes. “Oh, please. You need all the help you can get, Sam. Wow, these are really good.” She snaps her fingers at the waitress and orders herself a plate of fries. “They're like deep-fried crack!”

Whatever appetite he had for his sandwich is gone. His mouth is dry, stomach twisting with something that feels treacherously like lust. “I know you.”

The girl looks at him sharply. “Oh, I don't think so. I'd remember if we'd met, Sam.”

He thinks he might throw up then and there, his head swimming with the effort to reconcile what he's seeing now with the urgent sense that he's been here before, or somewhere like it, and that this is important, this is maybe where it all started to go wrong.

“How do you know my name if we've never met?” he leans in toward her, imagines he can hear her pulse throbbing just beneath the skin of her throat. He wants her, he realizes with a shock, with a desire that feels sick and powerful at the same time, wants to shove her to the floor, pin her wrists, tear into her like a wild dog, lick at bloody scratches all over her body. He pushes his plate to the side, pulls both hands back to clasp them between his knees.

“I hear things. I know all about you, Sam Winchester. You're the boy who would be king. Demon-tainted. The chosen leader of the demon armies. Still getting visions, or did those stop when you killed the yellow-eyed demon?”

He blinks at her. “How do you know that?”

“I'm a good hunter. Like I said, I hear things. Keep my ear to the ground. Here's some free advice, Sam,” she emphasizes his name ever so slightly, as though it leaves a bad taste in her mouth. “You're going to want to take a good look at your family tree. Do some digging, see if anyone out there remembers anything about how your mother died, aside from Daddy and Dean, of course.”

He almost laughs, except that he thinks he might throw up, as half-remembered thoughts flood through him. “Um, what?”

She waggles a French fry at him. “Can't reveal all my cards just yet. Where's the fun in that?” This time he does laugh, and her eyebrows shoot up to her hairline. Clearly, this isn't the reaction she was expecting. “What's so funny?”

“You,” he says, holding onto the edge of his seat as though it might suddenly disappear out from under him. “I know you. I don't know exactly... but we've had this conversation before, and I know how it ends.”

“You're crazy,” she says flatly, and he shakes his head.

“I wish I was. God, I feel sick,” he mutters, mostly to himself. “I already know about my mother. If that was the only card up your sleeve, I suggest you fold while you're ahead. You can't win this hand.”

Ruby narrows her eyes at him, her gaze evaluating. “You're not exactly what I expected after all. That's interesting.”

“Yeah. Coming back from the dead tends to fuck you up. Are you done?”

“Actually, yes, I think I am. I'll be around if you change your mind, Sam. You take care now.” She gets up with an exaggerated swing of her hips, saunters back out the front door of the diner, leaving him with the bill for her fries and the congealed leftovers of his own untouched meal.

*

Dean is pissed, predictably enough, when Sam tells him briefly about the mysterious Ruby, but dismisses the incident as annoying-but-minor in the grand scheme of things. “What is it with you and attracting all the crazy stalker-type chicks, anyway?”

“Shut up, jerk.”

“With your luck, she'll end up being another demon or something... hey, you okay?” Dean nudges his elbow as Sam squeezes his eyes shut against the bile rising in his throat.

“Fine. Felt sick for a second. I'm okay now.”

“Right. Well, if this latest crazy bitch shows up again, you let me know, and we'll talk to her together.”

“Yeah, okay.”

By the time early evening rolls around, they've managed to confirm that all seven demons have taken to hanging out in the bar Sam saw in his vision. It helps that one of the seven demons, Greed, is possessing the bartender. Tamara is all for going in armed to the teeth and just taking the demons head-on, her eyes snapping with poorly-contained fury, but even Isaac agrees when Sam vetoes the idea off the bat.

“He's right, honey. You've seen what these things can do with a single touch. They don't have to possess us or even use much of their power to force us to do anything they want. They're a lot more powerful than any of the other demons we've ever encountered ―just look how they've trapped everyone in town.”

Dean snaps his fingers. “That's it!”

“That's what?”

“That's how we get 'em. Use their own tactics against them,” he grins, eyes sparkling. “Demon Roach Motel.”

It's brilliant. Reckless and terrifying, but brilliant. “You want to trap them from the outside.”

“I keep telling you, Sammy, you don't need a college degree to be a freaking genius.”

“The timing would have to be damned near perfect.”

“So we'll do it right.”

Isaac interrupts. “Just what the hell are you talking about?”

“Trap the demons in the bar,” Sam explains. “Instead of luring them somewhere, we wait until they're all in, and lock them inside. Salt along the doors and windows, and when that's done, we spray paint devil's traps just beyond the exits, as a safeguard.”

“And exorcise them from outside the bar,” Tamara nods, her eyes shining. “That's brilliant.”

“And damned dangerous,” Isaac mutters darkly, but he doesn't argue.

There's no use waiting for dark. They head out just before dusk, and Dean slides up to one of the bar windows, mingling easily with the shadows, and peers inside. He gives them a thumbs-up a few moments later, and the three hunters sprint forward. It's a frantic scramble to get the salt lines laid properly before the demons can figure out what's happening, and just as Sam finishes pouring out the last of his bag of rock salt he hears a shriek of rage from inside, and the front door of the bar crashes open, torn off its hinges by the fury of the demon who just opened it. He spares a glance for the demon, a tall man in what looks like an expensive suit, black eyes glittering in the fading evening light, drops the now-empty bag onto the ground and busies himself spray-painting the complex symbol of a devil's trap on the ground. It's only a matter of minutes, perhaps even seconds, before the demon comes after him. When you can summon gale-force winds, tiny things like salt lines are a minor inconvenience at best.

“Sam Winchester,” it comes out as a snarl, although Sam suspects the demon was trying for a more casual tone. “That's right,” it says when he looks up, startled. “I know who you are. The prodigy. The boy-king. Looking at you now, I can't say I believe the hype. Let me guess: you think you're going to somehow stop us from breaking the Seals? Hah!” It scoffs at him. “We are legion, boy! You may be able to stop some of us, but there is no turning back destiny!”

With a snarl the demon sweeps away enough of the salt with a gust of wind and lunges at him, and Sam scrambles back, the can of spray paint tumbling from his fingers just as he manages to complete the symbol. The demon jerks to a halt as though it's run smack into an invisible wall, and Sam stops where he is, heart hammering painfully in his chest. He can hear shrieks and screams from inside the bar, the voices of Isaac and Tamara raised in anger, and tunes them out, focussing on what's immediately in front of him. He clambers to his feet, finds himself staring almost directly into its black, lustreless eyes, and suddenly has to fight the urge to take out his knife and make the creature bleed, to suck it dry ―and where the hell did that come from?

“See something you like?” the demon taunts, but it shrinks back from the smile that begins to play on his lips.

“I can smell your blood, demon,” he says quietly, relishing the fear that's suddenly emanating from it in waves. He takes a deep breath to steady himself, shoves the sick desire to the back of his mind, and begins to recite.

“Exorcisamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica...” The exorcism rolls easily off his tongue now, he's used it so often ―countless demons, between now and the end of the world, except he hasn't used it more than a couple of times yet― and the demon rails and shrieks and promises him an eternity of torment, writhes and convulses, and finally tilts its head back and spews a huge cloud of black smoke back into the air.

Sam kneels, feels for a pulse, and is relieved to find one, weak and thready, under his fingers. The man is alive, although he's probably going to be in therapy for the rest of his life. He pushes himself to his feet just as Dean's voice reaches him.

“Tamara, no!”

He doesn't hesitate, throws himself toward the sound of fighting. Tamara's voice rises in a wordless howl of fury above the fray, and Sam rounds the corner in time to see that she's thrown herself across the threshold of the back door into the bar, and is grappling bodily with a demon, teeth bared, tears pouring down her face as she tries to dash its brains out against the floor.

“Liar!” she's shrieking. “It's not true! Liar!”

Dean's got his hands full keeping Isaac from hurling himself after his wife, both arms wrapped around the older hunter's waist in a move reminiscent of a football tackle. Sam can see two more bodies sprawled bonelessly on the floor of the bar: the waitress and Rosen. He steps up to the door, prays fervently that none of the other demons get to him over the broken salt line, starts reciting the exorcism again, but he knows it'll be too late by the time he's done.

There's more screaming from one of the back rooms, and he almost stops reciting in shock as he catches sight of the mysterious blonde girl from earlier ―Ruby― whip around and drive the blade of a wicked-looking knife into the throat of the bartender. The demon's eyes and mouth explode in rays of red light. Hellfire, Sam thinks, bordering on hysteria, and his vision swims, but he doggedly finishes the exorcism, closing his eyes in a futile attempt to ward off the dizziness. By the time he opens them again, the demon is dead, its body collapsed on top of Tamara, who's sprawled lifeless on the floor like a broken doll, her eyes empty and staring.

Everything goes deadly quiet in the wake of the battle, and in spite of Dean's yelling at him not to be stupid, Sam ventures over the threshold, advances cautiously into the bar, but there's no need. Three of the demons are lying dead in pools of their own blood, and there's no sign of the blonde girl except for a visibly broken salt line on one of the windowsills. Behind him he can hear Isaac sobbing quietly, Dean murmuring something that sounds vaguely soothing, something about them making it through, that it's going to be all right.

You're wrong. It's never going to be all right, he thinks.

They salt and burn the bodies of the ones who didn't survive ―three in all, which is better than Sam expected― and they leave Isaac standing in front of his wife's pyre, his eyes as empty as hers.

*

Chapter Text

“What the hell happened back there?”

They've been driving most of the night, too keyed up to want to stop even though they really should. Dean makes a helpless gesture with his hands.

“The hell if I know. The demon started spouting off about how it was her fault their kids died, and Tamara lost it. Went after it and tried to tear out its throat with her teeth before we even knew what she was up to. Never had a chance,” he adds, unable to keep the regret from his voice.

“Shit.”

“You said it.”

“You think Isaac's going to be okay?”

“Not a chance.”

“Yeah.”

Dean drums his fingers on the steering wheel. “And then that Ruby chick showing up with the knife? What the fuck, man? I feel like we've just stepped into the Twilight Zone. What kind of knife can kill a demon, anyway?”

“I didn't think anything like that even existed before today,” Sam says, and it almost doesn't feel like a lie. “We should ask Bobby, maybe he'll know... but he probably would have said something by now if he had. I mean... we could've used something like that before, you know? It's not something he would've kept from us.”

“No, it isn't” Dean agrees, looking at the sign post flashing by. He bites his lip, changes the subject. “We're not far, but even I know it's not polite to knock on someone's door at one o'clock in the morning.”

“You want to stop somewhere? Get a drink?” Sam keeps his tone carefully neutral.

“We don't have to,” his brother doesn't even bother to mask the reluctance in his voice.

“No, it's cool. You can even make fun of me to the bartender for not drinking. You get one freebie,” Sam offers, “and then all bets are off. Especially if it's a cute girl.”

Dean just nods, but Sam can see some of the tension bleed out of him. Going out to a bar has always been Dean's way of unwinding after a hunt, and it seems needlessly mean to deny him his means of blowing off steam just because some doctor told Sam he couldn't drink. The thing with the visions sucks enough as it is, no reason to punish Dean in the process, Sam reasons. He watches Dean saunter into the bar, all swagger and charm, shoving the latest round of horrors into the dark recesses of his mind, and feels an unexpected surge of warmth in his chest. Dean glances back at him, and his eyes widen. Then his mouth twists into a smirk.

“What?”

“What 'what'?” Sam rejoins, feeling suddenly stupid and awkward.

“You were giving me one of those sappy, doe-eyed looks you get when you're thinking too much.”

“I was not.”

“Was too,” Dean slides easily onto a bar stool, turns to the bartender, who is, disappointingly, an older man in a white t-shirt. “I'll have a PBR, or failing that, whatever you have on tap.” He jerks a thumb at Sam. “He'll have the girliest drink you've got, and make it a virgin.”

The bartender doesn't bat an eye. “Orange juice it is.”

Sam shakes his head. “Make it a Coke, please?”

“No problem.”

“So what's going through that freakish head of yours that's making you go all gooey?” Dean's like a dog with a bone, and Sam ducks his head, embarrassed, but he smiles in spite of himself.

“I dunno. I was just thinking it's been a while since we did this, is all. You, me, drinks, no research. Just us.”

“Really?” Dean's eyebrows shoot to his hairline as he considers the question. “That long?”

Sam shrugs. “Maybe not that long, but long enough.” Years. “I kind of missed it.”

“All right, Francis,” Dean grins, and Sam can tell he's pleased and trying not to show it. “Have your girl moment.” He clinks the neck of his beer bottle against Sam's can of Coke, and Sam returns the gesture as best he can.

“Thanks.”

“Don't mention it. Now, you nurse your five-dollar Coke. That pool table's looking mighty inviting. I'm going to make us some easy cash, and then we're going to find the closest motel.”

Sam easily catches the Impala's keys as Dean tosses them, tucks them in his pocket, then turns on his stool to lean against the bar and watch as his brother saunters over to the pool table, all easy smiles, and grabs a cue. He takes a sip of his drink, feels some of his own tension drain away, and settles in to watch, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Tells himself he just imagined the guy in a trench coat in his peripheral vision.

*

The sky is a piercing blue above Sam's head, white clouds reflected in the pristine surface of the lake at his feet. He's standing on a dock, the reddish brown wood standing out starkly against the green of the trees on the shore, and all he can hear in the still hush of the morning is the sound of birds, the whisper of a light breeze among the branches, the faraway call of a loon. He sinks slowly to sit cross-legged on the dock, stares out over the water, lets his eyes fall shut. It's peaceful here, he thinks. He's dressed in nothing but a t-shirt and swim trunks, the morning air cool against his skin.

A moment later he's aware of a presence next to him. He looks up, unsurprised to see the man from the diner standing there, hands clasped behind his back, staring out over the water.

“I'm dreaming, aren't I?”

“Yes.”

“Where is this place?”

“It's somewhere I once found your brother. He seemed to find the memory enjoyable, and so I thought perhaps you would, too.”

Sam huffs with silent laughter. “I remember this place. Dad rented a cabin for the summer. Dean and I spent the summer swimming in the lake, chasing each other through the woods. Dean tried to teach me to fish, and I cried when he speared one of those poor worms on the hook and refused to have anything to do with the process. He never caught anything, anyway. There aren't any fish in this lake.”

“I think it may have been the principle of the thing.”

“Sure,” Sam agrees easily. “So why are we here?”

“We need to talk.”

“Uh-huh. So talk.”

“Not here.”

“Why not? Seems like if there was any place we could talk unimpeded, it would be in my dreams.”

The man shakes his head. “Someone might be listening.”

Sam feels a vague pang of discomfort, as though somewhere far away, his body is rebelling against contradictory knowledge again. “This happened before.”

“Not exactly. The last time, I was in your brother's dream.”

“And someone overheard?”

“Yes.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing you ever want to know.”

Sam uncrosses his legs, lets his bare feet dangle in the water, watching the surface ripple, distorting his reflection and that of the man standing next to him.

“Are you ever going to tell me what's going on?” he asks finally.

“Eventually. I am still hoping you will remember on your own. It will make things easier for both of us.”

“It's more than the fact that I was dead, isn't it?” he kicks his feet gently in the water, gripping the edge of the dock with both hands to keep from falling in. “All these weird feelings... like I've lived through it all before, or through a slightly different version. Like I stepped through the looking-glass.”

“I fail to see the relevance of mirrors to your situation.”

Sam scrunches up his face, decides he really doesn't want to explain Lewis Carroll to this guy. “I just mean that this is some weird, alternate version of something I feel like I'm supposed to know anyway. I've already lived through all this, haven't I?”

“In a way, you have.”

“Is that why I'm sick all the time? Having seizures? I mean, I wasn't like this before. Something has to be causing it. Is it because I'm reliving all this?”

“In a way. You're correct in assuming there is a temporal component to the dissonance you're experiencing.”

Sam looks up. “And what does that mean?”

“I can't tell you,” the man says simply, and Sam pinches the bridge of his nose.

“You're very frustrating to talk to.”

“So you and your brother have said.”

“When did you speak to Dean?”

“At a different time.”

“Well, that wasn't vague at all,” Sam doesn't bother to mask the sarcasm in his voice. “Are you at least going to tell me your name?”

“I think you will find it out on your own soon enough. When you do, we will talk again. There is a great deal we need to discuss.”

“But not here.”

“Not here,” the guy agrees, and hands him a small piece of paper, neatly folded in half. “Go to this location. If I can, I will be there.”

“What do you mean, if you can?”

“I will do my best to be there, in one form or another.”

Sam takes the paper, glances down to see what's written on it, and isn't surprised when he finds the man has disappeared by the time he looks up again. He puts the paper down on the dock, confident it will stay where he puts it, and lets himself slip into the water. He swims out into the lake with slow, sure strokes, flips onto his back once he's reached what he thinks is the centre, closes his eyes, and simply lets himself float.

*

Sam cracks open one eye to find the room still plunged in darkness. The clock tells him it's still way too stupidly early to even think of getting up, and given the amount of beer Dean consumed earlier, there's no way they're going to be going anytime soon. He looks over at Dean's bed, is startled to see it empty. There's no light coming from under the bathroom door, but all their gear is where they left it when they stumbled in two hours ago.

He reaches for his cell phone, fumbles with it for a moment before hitting the speed dial with Dean's number. His brother answers after two rings.

“Sam? What's wrong?”

He can't help snapping. “Where are you?”

“Not far,” Dean's tone is defensive. “Just went to get some air. You okay?”

“Fine, except for waking up and finding you gone without so much as a goddamned note.”

“Jeez, Dad. I didn't realize I had to account for my every move to you. I just went for a walk. You were asleep, and it's not like I planned to be gone long. Next time I'll wake your sorry ass up at four thirty in the morning, and you don't get to bitch at me.”

“Right, okay, fine. And since when do you go for walks, anyway?”

“Bite me.”

“Love you too.”

“Bitch.”

“Jerk.”

“Go back to sleep, Sam. I'll be back in twenty minutes, tops.”

Sam flips his phone closed, pulls the thin blanket back over himself before settling back onto his bed. It's weird, having this sort of conversation, when he's almost entirely certain the roles should have been reversed.

*

Bobby calls far too early the next morning with more bad news.

“You know, if we didn't know the guy from when we were little kids, I'd swear he was some sort of supernatural harbinger of doom,” Dean complains as they head out for breakfast, tossing their gear in the car. “It's like he doesn't know how to deliver good news. There's got to be something wrong with the fact that he never ever tells us anything we want to hear.”

“More signs of demon activity?”

Dean nods. “Yep. Some sort of cult committing mass-suicide out in Utah. At least, that's what the police are saying. Except, of course, it wasn't a cult. It was just some tiny church in a small town, and because no one can explain why all those people suddenly died they've decided 'cult' is the best explanation for it. The couple of witnesses they left behind are out of their minds, according to reports, talking about black smoke and that everyone's eyes turned black before they started killing each other.”

Sam shakes his pills out into his hand and washes them down with a swallow of coffee, can't think of anything to say that'll erase that particular horror from his mind. Dean raises an eyebrow at the coffee cup, but doesn't comment, probably deciding that the minimal risks associated with caffeine are preferable to having a coffee-deprived little brother around. Sam makes a face, takes another sip of his coffee. He's not sure the pills are working at all, but the side effects are already starting, complete with dry mouth and extra nausea as a bonus.

“You feeling okay?”

“Yeah. Just a little fed up with this crap, but I'm feeling fine enough.”

“You sure? 'Cause if you need a bit of time...”

“Dean, seriously, I'm okay,” Sam rolls his eyes. “I slept fine, my head doesn't hurt for the first time in days, and for once I think I might be able to stomach breakfast without puking. I'm fine,” he injects as much certainty and reassurance into his tone has he can muster, and finally Dean nods.

“Okay, then. You'll forgive me if I'm a little worried.”

Sam huffs, smiling in spite of himself. “What, about your kid brother who came back from the dead with some weird supernatural form of epilepsy? What's there to worry about?”

“Yeah, I don't know what I was thinking,” Dean makes a face. “That's not funny, by the way. And no, don't say it's kind of funny, because it's really not,” he stabs viciously at a sausage on his plate.

“The pig's been dead for a while, Dean. No need to go for a kill shot there.”

“Bite me.”

“Anyway, we should check on those hunters, see what's going on with that. Any of 'em live nearby?”

“There's a couple not too far, but I figure these guys can handle themselves for an extra twenty-four hours. I'm more concerned about the fact that our mysterious friend in the trench coat has an all-access pass to your freaky head. What's up with that?”

“You make him sound like a skeevy flasher.”

“If it walks like a duck...”

“Dean.”

“What? The guy follows you around, passes notes like a lovesick eighth grader, and obviously knows what's going on around here, even if he's not sharing with the class. It's creepy, is what it is.”

“I'm pretty sure he's on our side, for what it's worth.”

“It's not worth much,” Dean mutters darkly. “Anyway, I'm not walking into anything blind. Bobby says this Pamela chick knows her stuff, so if she can give us a lead on who or what this guy is, then I say let's go with that plan, rather than your meet-the-sketchy-guy-we-know-nothing-about-in-a-place-of-his-choosing plan. Because, let me tell you, your plan sucks.”

“All right, fine. I kind of want to know what's going on with him, too.”

“And that Ruby chick, for that matter,” Dean says.

“Yeah, sure. Because one mystery person in our lives isn't enough.”

“And they're all hanging around you. You're like a freak-magnet.”

“Shut up.”

“All right, then,” Dean shoves the last of his toast into his mouth, muffling his next words. “Let's get this show on the road, shall we?”

*

The few reputable psychics that Sam knows all seem to have one thing in common, apart from the psychic thing: they all seem to live perfectly ordinary, white-bread lifestyles, in small two-storey houses planted solidly on small lots with well-tended lawns. It's only the frauds who seem to gravitate toward motor homes and seedy downtown apartments, and in the hunting world, it's weird to him to find an entire sub-category of people who manage not to live on the outskirts of the regular world.

Pamela Barnes' house looks like it could just as easily belong to a dentist or an accountant. Small and neat, with blue-trimmed windows contrasting brightly with the freshly-painted white clapboard. In the early afternoon sun, it all feels so normal that for a moment Sam considers turning away, leaving with this perfect picture still clear and crisp in his mind. Dean bounces up the stairs to the front porch, nipping that idea in the bud; he stands in front of the screen door and leans on the doorbell until Sam smacks his hand away.

“Dude, quit that!”

“What?”

“For one, she's not deaf. Also, it's rude.”

“Lighten up. I just don't want to have to come back later just because she missed the doorbell.”

“God, it's like you were born in a box.”

The door opens, and an attractive woman with shoulder-length black hair and pretty grey eyes rimmed with thick lashes steps out onto the porch. She's older than they are, but not by much, Sam guesses, maybe in her mid-thirties, dressed in form-fitting blue jeans and a striped shirt hanging open over a grey camisole and knotted at the waist. Pamela Barnes gives them both an appreciative once-over, shifting her weight so that she's standing with one hip jutting out in a deliberately provocative gesture. Sam swallows hard, closes his eyes briefly as his mind imposes a brief flash of her screaming and writhing on the floor of her living room, light pouring from her eyes and mouth.

“Mm-mm-mmm,” she murmurs, oblivious to his inner turmoil. She saunters around them in a move that's so predatory that Sam finds himself cringing a bit, and even Dean turns on the spot, not quite turning his back on her. “People said you were a good-looking duo, but I always thought the stories were exaggerated. You know how hunters like to talk.”

“Uh,” Sam finds himself stammering. “You must be Pamela?”

She grins, stretches her arms out to the sides. “Live and in the flesh. And you must be Sam Winchester. Out of the fire and back in the frying pan, huh? Makes you a rare individual. You look good, for a dead guy,” she says, and Sam becomes acutely aware that he's gawking, trying to reconcile the horrific images in his mind with the vibrant woman in front of him. “You going to come in, or are you waiting for a written invitation?”

Without waiting for an answer she turns back into the house, making sure they get a very good view of her ass and hips. Dean shoots Sam a look that says he's died and gone to heaven, then follows Pamela inside, grinning like a little kid whose been given the run of an entire candy factory. She leads them into the kitchen, pulls open the fridge.

“Too early for a beer for you boys?”

Dean shrugs and turns his thousand-watt smile on her. “It's five o'clock somewhere.”

She catches her bottom lip in her teeth. “Oh, I like you,” she purrs, and tosses him a bottle, which he cracks open with his ring.

“I'm good, thanks anyway,” Sam holds up a hand when she looks his way.

“Suit yourself,” she pops the cap off another bottle, tilts the contents into her mouth. “So why don't you boys fill me in on what it is you're looking for, exactly? Bobby gave me an idea of what to expect, but I believe in getting my information from the source, when I can.”

“Sammy here can probably fill you in better than I can,” Dean says, leaning on his elbows against her counter and crossing one leg over the other.

She looks at Sam, and for the first time he sees a flicker of uncertainty in her expression. “Penny for your thoughts,” she says, and he flushes, can't quite meet her gaze.

“Yeah, you probably don't want to go there,” he mutters, staring at the blue and white tiles of the kitchen floor, trying to get his stomach to settle from where its been performing cartwheels ever since they set foot in the house. “But I can tell you about the guy... or creature, or whatever, that we're trying to find out about.”

“Suit yourself, Grumpy,” she says again, but her grey eyes are boring into him, and he's almost certain she caught a glimpse of the horrific vision that's been haunting him ever since Dean first mentioned her name. Missouri was able to read surface thoughts, and if Pamela is anywhere near as good as she was, then there's no reason she wouldn't pick up on a vivid image like that. She takes another sip of beer.

“Let's go to my work room.”

*

Most of the main floor of the house is a working space, as it turns out. Pamela keeps her living room looking welcoming, but form follows function, and Sam quickly notes that all the furniture is carefully arranged so that it can be easily moved aside or brought closer together as needed. Candles are tastefully spread out over various surfaces in precise patterns, and the Ouija board on the coffee table has obviously seen a great deal of use. It's a séance room masquerading as a living room.

Pamela bends over to rummage in a cabinet, pulling out a black cloth, and her shirt rides up, revealing a faded tattoo that reads 'Jesse Forever.' Sam isn't the only one to notice, but of course Dean is the one to bring it up.

“So who's Jesse?” he asks.

She laughs, looking over her shoulder. “Well, it wasn't forever.”

“His loss,” Dean flashes her another one of his thousand-watt smiles, and she straightens, moves to stand right in Dean's personal space.

“Might be your gain,” she says, then moves away to spread the altar cloth over the table, moving aside the Ouija board. Dean's expression tells Sam that he's just won the lottery.

“Dude, I am so there,” he whispers to Sam, none too subtly, and Sam just snorts.

“Yeah, she's gonna eat you alive,” he whispers back.

“God, I hope so.”

Pamela glances up at Sam and winks. “You're invited too, Grumpy,” she says, and he feels himself flush crimson as Dean digs an elbow into his ribs.

“You are not invited!”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Whatever. Sort it out later between the two of you.”

Pamela is all business now, sitting cross-legged in front of the small table, arranging six pillar candles in the center and lighting them. “I Ouija'd my way through a bunch of spirits earlier, trying to get a read on your mystery guy, but no one knows who or what he is, or how he managed to spring you out of the afterlife. So now we're going to pull out the big guns.”

“You're not going to try to summon... him, are you?” Sam asks, suddenly anxious.

“Oh, God no. I'm not summoning anything I don't know into my living room. Bad for insurance claims. No, we're going to have ourselves a little séance, try and get a sneak peek at what this cat really looks like under his human costume.”

“Cat?” Dean smirks.

“Dude, shut up and let her finish.”

Pamela smirks at them both. “Think of it like a crystal ball, only without the actual crystal ball part. Sit, and join hands.”

Sam eases himself onto the floor, wishing that this sort of thing could, just for once, involve sitting in a comfortable chair instead of requiring him to fold himself into a pretzel. He puts one hand in Dean's, waits for Pamela to grasp his other hand.

“I'm going to need something the mystery man touched,” she says, sliding a hand up his thigh, and he jumps, reddening again. At least the blood is going to his head, he tells himself.

“Uh... I don't think he touched me.”

“My mistake.”

Sam pulls the note out of his pocket. “Here. He gave me this.”

“Right.” Pamela grasps his hand, the paper pressed between their palms, closes her eyes, begins to chant. “I invoke, conjure, and command you, appear unto me before this circle. I invoke, conjure, and command you, appear unto me before this circle...”

Sam feels the table begin to tremble as she repeats the invocation a third time, and her television flickers to life, broadcasting snow and static at ear-splitting levels.

“Pamela...”

She's not listening to him. “Castiel? No, sorry, Castiel, I don't scare easy.”

Dean is holding onto his hand so tightly that his fingernails are digging into Sam's skin. “Castiel?”

“Its name. It's warning me to turn back.”

The table is shaking now, and white-hot pain flashes through Sam's skull. “Pamela, stop! We need to stop this.”

“No, no, I almost got it,” she says, keeps going. “I conjure and command you, show me your face. I conjure and command you, show me your face...”

The pain grows, explodes outward in a blaze of light.

*

Pamela is chanting, her voice barely audible above the noise filling the room. “I conjure and command you, show me your face. I conjure and command you, show me your face. I conjure and command you, show me your face!”

“Maybe we should stop,” Bobby's voice betrays his anxiety and fear, his eyes wide as every single light in the house begins to flicker, and the radio and television burst with static.

“I almost got. I command you, show me your face. Show me your face now!”

The candles flare, flames shooting upward to lick at the ceiling, and Pamela is shrieking in agony, her eyes filled with white-hot flame. She collapses in Bobby's arms, and when her eyelids open again, there's nothing left beneath but empty sockets, red and accusing, blood trickling from her tear ducts.

“I can't see! I can't see!” she sobs. “Oh God!”

There's a flash of light, and this time Sam is holding Pamela on a bed, cradling her in his arms as she chokes on her own blood. Dark glasses have slipped from her face, revealing grey, sightless eyes.

“I know what you did to that demon, Sam,” she whispers in his ear. “I can feel what's inside of you. If you think you have good intentions, think again. I know you think you're doing the right thing, but you're wrong. You're not going to find out until it's too late, how high the price is that you're paying.”

Another flash of light, and Pamela is chanting again, her hand squeezing his fingers. “I almost got it... I conjure and command you, show me your face, now!”

Sam pulls his hand free of hers, lunges across the table at her and pulls her to him in a gesture that instinctively he knows is right, sheltering her with his body, his hand clamped over her eyes, just as the feedback from the television swells to a deafening squeal, the candles flaring impossibly high, the lamp on the nearby table exploding in a shower of sparks.

Silence falls like a curtain.

*

“Sam? Sam!”

He blinks, grateful that the room is dark. The candles are extinguished, and no one's bothered to switch on the lights yet. He's lying on the floor, one leg twisted awkwardly beneath the table, his head pounding. He swallows, tastes copper on his tongue, makes a face. Dean is kneeling over him, his expression pinched and worried, glancing back and forth between him and Pamela, who's still sitting cross-legged by the table, staring at him, her face drained of colour.

“What happened?”

“I think you should be telling us that,” Pamela says, her voice shaking. “What the hell did you do?”

“I didn't ―I don't know,” he tries to sit up, only to set off another jackhammer in his skull, and Dean grabs his elbow to steady him. He looks up at Dean. “Did I―?”

“Have a seizure? No,” Dean says curtly, his voice tight with fear and anger. “You just passed out. What the fuck was that, Sammy?”

“What was what?” God, his head hurts.

“The freaky supernatural slide show we just got. Pamela says it wasn't her, and since you were front and centre, that leaves you. Here,” he reaches in a pocket, pulls out a crumpled tissue and holds it to Sam's face. “Your nose is bleeding again.”

“Thanks,” he takes the tissue from Dean, holds it in place.

“I don't know about you, but I'm going to have a drink.” Pamela gets to her feet, makes her way unsteadily back to the kitchen, where Sam hears the clink of glass as she rummages in cupboards.

“You feeling okay? Can you get up?”

Sam nods. “Yeah. Just a headache,” he says, but he lets Dean leverage him onto Pamela's sofa. The tissue he's holding is already getting soaked through with blood.

“What was she talking about? In that... vision, or whatever.”

“I'm not sure. I think... I think it happened before.”

“Before what?” Dean rubs his hand over his forehead, brings it back over his mouth, anger and worry warring in his eyes.

“Before things changed.” Sam closes his eyes as the whole room tilts sickeningly. “This... it's not how it happened. It was all different before. It burned out her eyes, the last time. I remember.”

“You mean you saw it. Like a vision?”

“No,” he shakes his head, swallowing hard to keep from throwing up, drops his head into his hands. “I lived it. I was here, but it was different. I'm supposed to change things.”

Pamela comes back at that moment, hands them each a glass full of something that's strong enough that Sam doesn't even care what it tastes like. If Dean doesn't approve, he says nothing as Sam tilts the contents down his throat. Pamela drains her glass, refills it from the bottle, drains it again.

“You might have mentioned you were psychic,” she says pointedly, curling her legs beneath her as she settles on the opposite end of the sofa. “And remind me to tear Bobby a new one the next time I see him.”

“It's not his fault. We ―I asked him not to tell anyone. It's not exactly something we want broadcasted around the hunting community,” Sam rubs at his temples. “We have enough trouble already.”

“And now you brought that trouble right across my threshold, so you better start explaining yourself.”

“I'm sorry. I didn't know it would do that.”

Dean snorts. “I thought you already lived this,” and Sam bristles, hurt by his tone.

“No, Dean, that's the point,” he snaps, “it's different this time around.”

“So what is is? Precognition?” Pamela prompts.

“I don't know,” he shrugs. “I can't control it, and... I don't know. I don't think that was part of it. The... psychic stuff, it's always linked to this one demon, and it feels different. I don't... did I hurt you? When I grabbed you?”

She shakes her head, takes another drink. “You never touched me.”

“What? But―”

“All in your mind, kiddo. Whatever that thing was, you literally threw yourself ―your spirit, anyway― between me and it. I should probably thank you, but a girl likes a little warning before getting violated like that, even if you do have a cute ass,” Pamela says drily, and he cringes.

“Sorry. I didn't... I thought ―I didn't know. I didn't do it on purpose.”

“Right.”

“Someone want to fill me in?” Dean breaks in. He's still standing, making a visible effort not to pace, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. “What just happened?

“What just happened is I got you the name of your mystery creature,” Pamela doesn't look at him, “but that looks like it might be the least of your problems.”

*

He sees Dean collapse amidst the rubble, and from his vantage point Sam can see that his brother looks small and twisted, like a doll on the floor of a child's room. Sam can't move, can't so much as raise his head off the charred asphalt, can't obey his instinct to run after his brother, make sure he's still breathing, after everything. The angels promised Dean would be unharmed, but he's never trusted their promises. Dark grey clouds roil overhead; the air is heavy with the smell of ozone and sulphur.

It's over, and he can't tell who won. He thinks it might not matter.

He can feel blood oozing from his nose and ears, trickling into his hair. His body is broken, shattered into thousands of pieces, and it hurts beyond anything he's ever felt before, as though he's being pulled apart molecule by molecule. He wants to scream, but his voice has deserted him; he finds himself praying for oblivion, and the air around him hums with sudden electricity. He shuts his eyes as lightning arcs through him, searing past his eyelids, and everything goes dark.

He floats.

In the darkness, he feels a hand clasped over his wrist, anchoring him in place, fingers feeling for his pulse.

“Dean?”

“No, it's not Dean. I am sorry.” It's the same voice, familiar and soothing.

“Where is... did he make it? Tell me he made it.”

“I am sorry.”

His eyes must be gone. He can't cry, can't find it in himself to shed a single tear.

“Am I dead?”

“Almost.”

“I couldn't save him.”

“No.”

“Neither could you.”

“No.”

“I tried so hard...”

“I know. We all did. It was too late, Sam.”

“What if it wasn't?”

There's a pause. “What do you mean?”

“What if we could change it? Can you do it?”

“Perhaps.”

*

Dean is silent as they drive, lips pressed together so tightly they've turned white, both hands gripping the wheel tightly. He's switched off the tape deck, and they've been driving in silence ever since leaving Pamela's. The psychic wasn't nearly as understanding as Sam would have liked, but he can't exactly blame her for tossing them out with a flea in their ear and warning them never to darken her doorstep again. She might come around, or she might not, but he can at least sympathize with her reluctance to have anything to do with a guy who ―albeit involuntarily― invaded her mind and imposed his thoughts on her. Because what he really needed right now, he reflects bitterly, is to become the psychic equivalent of a rapist on top of everything else.

He's so lost in his own thoughts that he lets out a surprised yelp when Dean abruptly wrenches the steering wheel to the side, pulls the Impala over to the shoulder of the highway in a cloud of dust and a screech of brakes. He rolls the car right off the road until two of its wheels are resting in the tall grass next to a sagging barbed wire fence, the noise sending a flock of crows flapping away from the cornfield on the other side in a cacophony of indignant cawing.

“What the hell?” Sam sputters, but Dean is already out of the car, slamming the driver's side door. He scrambles out of the car, leaving his door hanging open. “Dean, what?”

“Okay, I've had it!” his brother is suddenly up in his face, so close that Sam can feel the heat of his breath against his jaw and neck. “I've been trying to give you your damned space, let you come clean on your own, and I'm done now.”

“What?”

“I need you to quit lying to me, Sam.”

“What? I'm not ―I haven't lied to you, Dean.”

It was going to be different, this time. I swore I wouldn't lie to you.

“No? Because it sure feels like it. You've been holding back, ever since... I want it to stop. I need you to tell me what's going on, here.”

“I told you I don't know!”

“Yeah, and I don't buy it. Come on, Sam, I know you!” Dean grabs him by his shirt and shakes him once, hard, before letting go again. “What aren't you telling me?”

He barely keeps himself from lashing back out of pure instinct, turns away with a frustrated huff. “I can't explain it.”

“Try me.”

“No!”

“Sam.”

He stalks several paces along the shoulder of the road, turns back, raises his arms. “Look, I don't know, okay? I'm not hiding anything on purpose. I just... it doesn't make any sense. I can't make it make sense, and I can't explain it to you. Not in words. I can't even explain it to myself. I'm not ―I'm not lying. I'm not holding back on purpose, Dean, I swear to God.”

“So what was that back at Pamela's?”

He lets out a mirthless laugh. “Which part?”

“Why don't you start with the part where Bobby was there and her eyes got burned out of their sockets, except that none of it really happened?”

“You saw that? How?”

“Dude, it was like being in a freaking 3-D IMAX show. Live and in Technicolor. I don't think I could have not seen that if I tried. I think it's permanently seared into my brain,” Dean says with a grimace.

Sam's stomach twists. “I told you everything I can.”

“Yeah, but that doesn't mean you told me everything you know. I know you, Sam, and I know your damned word games. I'm not stupid.”

“I never said you were,” he rubs his face with one hand, suddenly tired. “I'll try, if it's what you really want.” Please don't press this. He's definitely going to lose what little lunch he had.

“I do. You knew what was going to happen. You know what that guy... that thing is. Why won't you just tell me?”

Sam leans against the Impala, bracing himself with both hands, tries to keep his head from spinning as two separate threads of memory intertwine in his mind. “Uh... I think he's... I don't know. I remembered the séance. We did one before. Or we were going to― God. I don't have the right verb tenses for this shit.”

He brings up a hand to rub at his forehead as pain starts to throb behind his eyes. Dean hasn't moved from where he's standing off to the side, so he keeps going doggedly, eyes fixed on the ground. “It was later than this, like over a year. It was all different, you were back, and I didn't know then about Castiel, and she tried to see ―except it burned her eyes right out of their sockets, and I didn't want... she died because of me, because of us, and I couldn't―” the pain intensifies, and he doubles over, just barely managing not to throw up on his shoes. “Shit,” he gasps, wiping his mouth with the back of his wrist.

He stays that way for a few minutes, breathing hard, trying not to be sick again. He feels a hand at his back, and without a word Dean presses a water bottle that's maybe a third full into his hand. He uses the first swig to rinse out his mouth, swallows the rest.

“I'm really scared, Dean,” he admits quietly, twisting the bottle in his hands. “I don't know what's happening to me, and every time I try to figure it out, every time I think I'm getting close, it feels like my mind is trying to rip itself apart.”

“Yeah, I'm starting to get that.”

“I'm not trying to freak you out, here.” I'm trying to save you, even if I don't know what from anymore.

“Bang-up job you're doing.” There's no malice in the words, only a sort of tired resignation, and if Sam's stomach wasn't in knots before it certainly would be now, knowing he's the cause of that tone.

“Sorry.”

You've been saying that a lot, lately. Sam flinches as though Dean spoke the words aloud, shrugs off the questioning look his brother throws his way. There's no way he can even begin to explain the sudden certainty he has that he's spent a year lying to his brother about... something. His mind balks, just shy of the knowledge he can feel is there, just out of his reach. He grits his teeth, tries to force his way past the invisible barrier, certain that if he can just piece together the memories that don't fit, it all just might start to make sense again.

“You gonna hurl again, or do you want to get going?”

Sam opens his mouth to answer, ends up doubled over again as the water he just drank makes an unwelcome reappearance. Dean sighs, leans up against the Impala, folds his arm over his chest in an oddly protective gesture.

“I guess we're waiting, then.”

*

The lines of goofer dust are wearing thin, trickling away grain by grain by grain. The hellhounds are baying at the door, the house trembling to its very foundations under the onslaught. The lace curtains billow and flap as the wind whips through the room, and the last of the dust blows away. The dining room doors burst open, the glass panes shattering as they slam against the walls, and the sound of snarling and snapping fills the room.

“No!” Sam is pinned to the wall, helpless, watching as Dean is thrown against the large oak table.

A woman laughs somewhere off to the side, vindictive and gleeful. “Sick 'im, boys!”

He can't see them, can only watch as Dean's leg is ripped open, as Dean is pulled from the top of the table, as screams of agony are torn from his throat. Blood spurts from a dozen different wounds as the hellhounds rip into him, flaying him alive in the middle of this otherwise tame little suburban home.

“Dean! No!”

Sam screams as his brother dies, trapped like an insect in amber. Lilith is going to kill him, but he no longer cares. He doesn't stop screaming even as he's enveloped in the blinding light he knows means his death, simply prays for it to be over fast so that he doesn't have to watch Dean die.

*

“Sam! For fuck's sake!” Dean is shaking him. “It's a nightmare. Come on, wake up. Sam!”

He comes awake with a jolt, startled so badly out of the nightmare that it feels as though electricity has coursed through his every nerve ending. For a moment he can't breathe, finds himself clinging to Dean for all he's worth, so hard that his fingers are probably going to leave bruises on his brother's shoulders, feels tears pouring down his face. Dean pulls him upright on the motel bed, and Sam huddles against him, knowing he should be embarrassed by just how much comfort he finds leaning against his big brother's broad chest, wrapped up in his arms.

“Easy, Sam. Come on, take a breath, you're fine. It's just a nightmare, you're fine. Breathe, now.”

He manages to take a few gulping breaths, his whole body racked with sobs that he can't keep down no matter how much he tries. “You ―you died,” he chokes. “They ripped you apart. You died and ―I had to watch... and I couldn't ―I couldn't...”

“Hey, hey,” Dean's voice is quiet, soothing. “It's okay. I'm right here. No one's dead, okay? Just a bad dream, nothing else, I promise.”

Sam shakes his head, face still buried in Dean's shirt. “It was real. I was there, it was real.”

Dean tenses up, almost imperceptibly, except that he's holding Sam so tightly that it's impossible for him not to notice. He should be pulling himself together, shouldn't be falling apart like this when they've got bigger problems, but he can't banish the images from his mind, the nightmare playing over and over again until he thinks he might go insane. Dean holds onto him like it's nothing, just lets him cry and shake and hiccup like a child, pats his head once or twice, and the gesture is more soothing than it has any right to be.

“Was it a vision?” Dean asks softly, when he's calmer.

“No,” he forces himself to take a deep breath, to quiet the sobs that are still welling up in his chest. “No, it happened before. I can't... it's different, but I was there. I was there and you died... God.”

Dean pulls away, just far enough so he can hold him at arm's length, hands on Sam's shoulders. “Sam, listen to me. No one is dying, okay? Whatever it is you dreamed about, it wasn't real.”

Sam nods, doesn't trust himself to speak until he's sure he can do it without bursting into tears again. He wipes his eyes with the back of his wrist, sniffles miserably as he realizes his nose is running, as if Dean doesn't have enough ammunition against him as it is. Now, with the morning sunlight streaming in through the window and his brother obviously alive and well in front of him, it's a little more difficult to give credence to the dream, or memory, or whatever it was, no matter how much his mind insists that it was real. Dean gets up from where he's perched on the side of the bed, comes back a moment later with the box of tissues from the bathroom, drops it in his lap.

“Here.”

“Thanks,” Sam blows his nose, scrubs at his eyes with another tissue, grateful that Dean is apparently too worried about him right now to take advantage of the opportunity and mock him to within an inch of his life. “Sorry. I... it kind of... sorry I freaked out.”

“Hey, no worries. It could have been worse, you know. You haven't seized or puked, and your nose isn't bleeding. You bursting into tears like a big girl? Hell, I'm chalking this one up as a win.”

Sam can't help but snort shakily at that. “Pretty low standards, dude.”

His brother shrugs. “Working with what I got. Besides, now I have blackmail material that'll last me for months. Probably even years.”

Sam lets out a huff of irritation, can't quite prevent his lips from quirking into a smile. “Too much to hope that you would let that slide, I guess.”

Dean thumps him on the shoulder. “Are you kidding me? This is gold. Come on, clean yourself up, there, Francis, and I'll buy you breakfast. I'll even let you drink coffee, meds or no, 'cause you've been awfully cranky lately.”

“Gee, thanks,” Sam rolls his eyes.

“You're welcome. Anyway, while you were getting your beauty sleep, I did some thinking about our mysterious friend from the cemetery. I don't know about you, but I'm really tired of all this guessing game and mysterious riddles crap. I'm about ready for some real answers.”

Sam frowns. “What are you getting at?”

Dean grins, his eyes flashing with ill-concealed glee. “I've come up with a plan.”

*

“For the record, I still think this is a terrible plan.”

“Yeah, Sam, I heard you the first ten times. Now shut up and make with the spray-painting. Make Picasso proud.”

They’re in an abandoned warehouse. It's damp and dark, and the dim evening light filtering in through the tiny, grime-encrusted windows casts long, grotesquely twisted shadows along the floor. Water drips from a pipe, collects in dirty puddles at the foot of the walls. The walls are filthy, too, which makes Sam's job of spray-painting them with sigils and symbols that much harder. It's a damp, nasty, forgotten place, not good for much other than breeding rats and summoning mysterious and probably dangerous supernatural entities: pretty typical of Dean's plans, if Sam bothers to think about it. It's not the first time Sam has disagreed with a planned course of action ―that's par for the course with them, really― but it's the first time he's disagreed with Dean's reasoning.

“Seriously, Dean, I don't think trying to trap this guy ―Castiel, whatever― I don't think it's a good idea. We've never dealt with something this powerful before, and I for one don't really want to piss him off, especially since he seems to be on our side.”

“How do you know he is?”

“I don't,” Sam admits, carefully tracing a sigil on the corrugated metal covering the walls with the silver-white spray paint. “Not for sure. It's just a feeling.”

“Yeah, well, your feelings aren't exactly reliable. No offense.”

“Right.”

“You gonna hurl again?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

Sam rolls his eyes. He's queasy from the spray paint fumes, but it's nothing compared to the gut-wrenching nausea from before. “There's nothing left to throw up, anyway.”

“Yeah, 'cause that's healthy.”

Dean unzips the duffel bag he brought in with them, begins meticulously arranging every weapon they have on a large trestle table before him. Sam bites his tongue, keeps up the steady motion of his wrist, trying not to let the spray paint bleed too much. Months of tracing devil's traps has given him a lot of practice, but spray-painting a wall isn't the same thing as spray-painting the ground , and these things generally don't work well if the execution is sloppy. They work in silence for several minutes, until finally Sam's impatience gets the best of him.

“Do we really have to wait for him with an entire arsenal? Every time you bring a weapon to this sort of situation, it always escalates. Ever notice that?”

“Name one time that happened.”

“Max Miller.”

“That doesn't count. He was a psychopath.”

“Who was mostly under control until he saw your gun and lost his shit.”

“Okay, that was one time. Exception that proves the rule.”

“The bank in Milwaukee.”

“Okay, but that situation was already jacked. It would have escalated no matter what.”

“Whatever, I'm not arguing about this with you,” Sam pauses in his work to pinch the bridge of his nose, trying to will away the headache that's building up behind his eyes.

“All right, then. Shut up and let me set this up, then.”

It takes another couple of hours before they're ready, and two entire cans of spray paint. By the time they're done, the walls of the warehouse are covered every arcane symbol and sigil Sam knows, and a number of others he's never heard of and which must have taken Dean hours of researching online to figure out ―or maybe Dean just called Bobby, which would make more sense than the thought of Dean staying up all night to research without looking any the worse for wear. The evening has turned into night, the last red tendrils of sunlight long faded over the horizon, and the air has turned unseasonably cool, making Sam shiver and shove his hands deeper into the pockets of his hoodie to stave off the chill.

For all the prep work that went into it, the ritual itself is disarmingly simple. Sam holds very still while his brother performs the summoning ―this aspect of the job has never been Dean's strong suit, and the last thing Sam wants is to wreck his concentration at a crucial juncture― and it occurs to him that it's probably precisely because the prep work was so complex that the rest of the ritual is a simple chant, barely lasting a minute, if that long. The more solid the groundwork, the easier the rest of it, same as everything else in life. His heart feels as though it's trying to make a getaway through his throat, and he swallows convulsively, mouth even drier than usual.

Nothing happens.

Sam glances over at Dean. “You sure you did the ritual right?” Dean just glares, and he shrugs. “Fine, sorry. Touchy.”

It starts as a low humming that Sam can feel coiling in his gut, a tingling in his extremities, then rises in pitch to a keening whine, higher and shriller until he has to clap his hands over his ears, eyes screwed shut against the mounting pressure. For a moment the pressure becomes unbearable, and he feels himself losing his grip on consciousness, and just as suddenly it eases up as the great heavy doors at the far end of the warehouse burst open. The huge industrial lights overhead burst in a shower of sparks, one by one, as a solitary figure walks toward them, trench coat fluttering around his calves.

Out of the corner of his eye Sam sees Dean bring up his shotgun to bear on the man ―a reaction born of fear and surprise more than anything― and before he can do much more than put out a hand in a warning to stop, Dean has emptied the gun into the man's chest. Sam flinches, but the buckshot has no visible effect except to tear some sizeable holes in the man's shirt. The man stops, looks down with an expression that looks like mild surprise, perhaps tinged with disapproval, then lifts his head once more and continues his advance. Dean backs up involuntarily, just one step, but it's enough to show Sam that his brother is seriously rattled.

The man stops just short of Dean, takes his shotgun away with an effortless flick of his wrist, and splinters the weapon between his hands. Dean swallows, stays perfectly still, while the remains of his weapon clatter to the floor. The man spares a glance for Sam, turns back, tilting his head to the side in a gesture that's oddly familiar.

“Hello, Dean.”

*

For a moment, there's silence. Dean is the first to find his voice.

“Who are you?”

“Castiel.”

Sam is more than a little impressed with Dean for keeping his cool. For his part, he's just about ready to pass out, although he's doing his level best to stay upright and conscious.

“Yeah, we figured that much,” Dean rolls his eyes. “I mean, what are you?”

Castiel turns to Sam, but Sam is sure he's not really speaking to him when he replies. “I am the one who saved you from perdition.”

Dean is practically quivering with impatience. “Are you going to quit jerking around and answer the question? Who. Are. You?”

The reply is quiet, and sends a thrill through Sam. “I am an angel of the Lord.”

Dean snorts. “Get the hell out of here. There's no such thing.”

“This is your problem, Dean,” Castiel's voice cuts through the silence. “You have no faith.”

There's a flash of light whose source Sam can't pinpoint, and he swallows hard as the shadow of two enormous wings unfurls slowly across the walls, the span so great that it dwarfs the figure beneath them, hinting at a power beyond human understanding.

Dean manages, somehow, not to look cowed, although his Adam's apple bobs slightly as he swallows. “Neat light show. You don't look much like an angel.”

“Certain people, special people, can perceive my true visage. For the rest, it is too overwhelming.”

“That's why you warned Pamela away,” Sam finds his voice again, can barely bring himself to speak above a whisper.

“So, what, uh, visage are you in now?” Dean smirks. “Holy tax accountant?”

Sam chokes, but Castiel seems unperturbed. He looks down, gestures to his body. “This? This is... a vessel.”

“You're possessing some poor bastard?” Dean is shocked, and Sam knows they're both thinking of Meg Masters, choking on her own blood on the floor of Bobby's study.

“I don't think it's like that, Dean...”

“Shut up, Sam.”

“He's a devout man. He prayed for this. Gave his consent to serve Heaven.”

“Yeah, well,” Dean steps away, deliberately turns his back and begins packing away their gear. Pure bravado, but it's served him in the past. “We're not buying what you're selling. What are you really?”

The angel frowns, perplexed. “I told you.”

“Right. And you expect us to believe that an angel showed up just in time to bring Sam back from the dead? Why would you do that? It's not like God has shown any interest in the goings-on down here before. Why save Sam now?”

Suddenly Sam gets it, the revelation hitting him so hard it feels like a physical blow. The warehouse swims before him, and he feels his legs turn to water, has to concentrate hard to keep his knees from buckling.

“Dean...”

“Sam, come on. Is it too much to want a straight answer?”

“No, Dean... it's not ―it's not me he was trying to save.”

That gets Dean's attention. “What the hell are you talking about?”

It's the same sickening feeling of being torn in two, of watching two separate sets of events take place at the same time. He feels a trickle of something wet and warm over his lip, tastes copper on his tongue, and when he gingerly touches his fingertips to his upper lip he's not at all surprised when they come away crimson. He looks at Castiel, finds the angel's bright blue eyes boring into his.

“That's what this is, right? I'm not... this isn't how this happened.”

“Yes,” the angel jerks his head once in agreement.

“Someone in here had better start making sense, or so help me I'm gonna start throwing punches!”

Blood is seeping over his fingers, trickling into his mouth and threatening to gag him. “They changed things. The angels. I'm the one with the demon blood ―tainted. It's because of me it all went wrong...”

“Demon blood?” Dean interrupts, but Sam holds up a hand, pleading with his brother to let him finish.

“I'm not the one who was supposed to be saved,” he presses his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose as his headache throbs with renewed vigour, making dark spots dance before his eyes. “It was you.”

*

It's dark, and there's a hand wrapped around Sam's wrist, strong fingers searching for a pulse. He thinks he ought to be in a lot more pain than he is

“Dean?”

“No, it's not Dean. I am sorry.” Castiel's grip is firm, but it still feels weaker than it should be.

“Where is... did he make it? Tell me he made it.”

“I am sorry.”

Sam opens his eyes. “I can't see.”

“You were directly in the archangels' path. Your body is broken.”

“I'm dying, aren't I?”

“Yes.”

“Michael promised he'd spare him. He promised.”

Castiel doesn't answer, and Sam feels his fingers shift ever so slightly, and the pressure is comforting.

“He died because of me,” he finds it surprisingly easy to talk, until he realizes that they're not communicating aloud. “So many times. It was supposed to be me, Cas, back at Cold Oak. If he'd let me... none of this would have happened.”

“It is too late, now. There is no use regretting what cannot be changed. You can rest now, Sam.”

“Cas... tell me the truth. If he'd let me die ―stay dead― he wouldn't have...”

“The Seals would still have broken. Destiny cannot be changed.”

“But Dean wouldn't have died. He wouldn't have gone to Hell for me,” Sam clings to the thought as though it might save him from drowning.

“I can't say for certain. But no, I don't think so.”

“Cas... can we change it?”

“It is too late,” Castiel repeats.

“What if it wasn't?”

There's a pause. The angel's voice is hesitant when he speaks again. “Do you understand what you are asking?”

“I do, Cas. I understand. Can you do it?”

“I can't send you back. Not like before. My powers are all but gone, here.”

“Can you do anything?” Sam feels himself slipping, concentrates as hard as he can on the angel's voice.

“I can send you back to your body as it was then, but... I can't guarantee that your mind will remain intact. Angels are not temporal beings, but you are. The human mind can't encompass this kind of paradox. There will be... damage.”

“But it might work.”

“It might. It might not change anything, and you will likely still find yourself here, in the end. I don't think your destiny can be altered Sam.”

“But Dean's can.”

“Perhaps.”

“It's worth trying. I know how you feel about him, Cas. Tell me you don't want this as much as I do.”

“You are sure you want to do this?”

“Yes.”

“Very well, then. I will try.”

*

“Sammy, what did you do?”

*

Chapter Text

*

Castiel doesn't resemble himself much, Sam decides. Then again, his own memories are hardly reliable on any topic, let alone an angel he somehow knows from a lifetime that he hasn't lived. For once Sam managed to sit down before he passed out, and he leans back against the wall, trying to stem the steady trickle of blood from his nose with a diner napkin fished out of his pocket, and looks up at the stern countenance of the angel standing before him.

“You're different,” he says, and the angel just tilts his head in a way that barely suggests acquiescence. “I thought you said you weren't temporal.”

“It's... complicated. I am at once as I was, and as I am now.”

“Well, that makes sense,” Dean mutters, crouching next to Sam and looking as though he's just waiting for an excuse to spring at the angel's throat. “How do you know my brother, anyway?”

“All the angels know of Sam Winchester. The boy with the demon blood.”

Sam feels sick. Castiel hasn't spoken of him in those terms in months. “Right.”

“You going to explain that?”

“I forgot you didn't know about that yet,” Sam crumples the bloody napkin in the palm of his hand. It's no easier this time, to explain what the yellow-eyed demon showed him while he was in Cold Oak. The shadowy figure standing hunched over the crib, the blood. “And Mom came in, she caught him...” he trails off, unsure whether to tell Dean the whole of it.

“She died because she interrupted him?”

“I'm sorry.”

“What are you apologizing for?”

Sam looks up at Castiel beseechingly, but the blue eyes are expressionless. “There's... there's more. But I don't know if you want to hear it.”

“Sam, you just told me you got demon blood fed to you by the thing that killed Mom. How much worse can it possibly be?”

“Your mother entered into a contract with the demon known as Azazel,” Castiel supplies, when Sam falters.

“That's a lie!” Dean is on his feet in a flash, gripping the lapels of Castiel's coat so hard he comes close to tearing the fabric. “Mom never ―she wouldn't!” he says, his voice dangerously soft.

Sam forces himself unsteadily to his feet, puts a hand on Dean's arm just at the shoulder. “Mom was a hunter, Dean. You... you're the one who told me.”

Dean doesn't move. “Shut up, Sam. You don't know what you're talking about. I don't know who this guy is, or how he's managed to screw with your head―”

“Your brother speaks the truth. He did not witness this ―you did,” Castiel says firmly, unfazed by Dean's belligerence. “But you have not done so yet, and likely never will, now. There is no need.”

After a moment Dean lets go of Castiel's coat, takes a step back. “You expect me to believe my mother, of her own free will, sold her soul to a demon?”

“No, not her soul,” Sam clears his throat. “She didn't know what she was trading. The demon killed everyone ―her parents, Dad... he offered a trade: Dad, in exchange for an unnamed favour in the future.”

“And you expect me to believe she'd do something like that?” Dean's voice breaks, just enough that Sam can hear it, hear the pain he'd have given anything to avoid inflicting.

“He took everything from her,” he keeps his tone gentle. “Snapped Dad's neck right in front of her, killed her parents. She was barely more than a kid, Dean.”

“We don't have time for this,” Castiel interrupts again. “You have important work to do, and we are running out of time. The Seals are breaking, and you are the only one who can stop it, Dean.”

Sam looks at Castiel, seeking out confirmation of what he's long suspected in the angel's expression.“I was right, wasn't I? The first Seal... it was Dad, wasn't it?”

“Yes.”

“Sammy?”

He tries not to hear the quiet desperation in Dean's tone, pleading with him to take it all back, to make the world go back to normal.

“It's what Dad said in Wyoming... in the cemetery,” he says, not meeting his brother's gaze. “Why he apologized. It's... he spent too long in Hell, Dean. He... he broke. It's not his fault,” he adds hurriedly. “Everyone breaks, eventually, and God knows how long he spent down there. He lasted longer than anyone could expect.”

“What do you mean, he broke?” Dean demands. “Sam, what the fuck?”

He gropes for the word to convey what Dean told him, back in the other lifetime that haunts him. “You... they torture souls in hell. But that's not what makes people into demons... they offer people a choice, Dean. The torture stops, if they agree to take the torturer’s place. Every day. For years. Over and over. Until they break. Time... it runs differently there. A decade for every month up here.”

Dean turns away, rubs a hand over his mouth. “So what? So Dad decided to... they're demons anyway, right?” his voice shakes. He doesn't believe a word he's saying.

“Your father was a righteous man,” Castiel says, his tone suddenly gentle. “He gave freely of himself to save you, but it was this that was the world's undoing.”

“And it is written, that the first seal shall be broken when a righteous man sheds blood in Hell. As he breaks, so shall it break,” Sam murmurs, the memory coming back in a dizzying rush.

Dean is shutting down. Sam can see it in the shuttered look in his eyes, the set of his jaw, the way his shoulders are starting to hunch inward. It's too much, too fast, years of knowledge all being condensed in a few inadequate sentences, and it's only going to get worse. He tightens his grip on his brother's shoulder, only to have Dean shrug him off.

I did this, Sam thinks. I traded Dean's soul for Dad's, and he's never going to forgive me for it. He can't bring himself to regret it, remembers the look of relief tinged with guilt and regret on his father's face in Wyoming. His father is no longer in Hell, managed to find his way out before he was irretrievably lost. Between his father and Dean, there's no contest, there never has been, not where he's concerned.

“Dean? Say something,” he pleads.

His brother doesn't look at him, just turns on his heel and stalks out through the blasted doors of the warehouse, leaving Sam standing dejectedly in his wake. Castiel stands to the side, looking after where Dean just disappeared.

“He is upset.”

Sam snorts. “That's putting it mildly.” He leans against the wall of the warehouse, closing his eyes as another wave of dizziness assaults him. “Give him time. Hell, I lived through all of that and I barely understand it.”

“You remember, then.”

He shakes his head. “Not everything. Probably not nearly enough. You were right, though. The human body isn't exactly built for this.”

“I know. It's why I can't reveal these things to you,” Castiel says, looking more earnest than he has since Sam first saw him in the roadside diner. “The knowledge is likely to overwhelm you, when you do remember. I wish it could be otherwise, but we cannot take the risk of your mind succumbing before the time is right.”

Sam feels sick. “I didn't end up changing much, did I? Dean is still the one who has to finish it.”

Castiel nods briefly. “Yes.”

Sam lets himself slide down the wall to sit on the floor again. “God, I feel like utter shit,” he groans.

“You were warned this could happen.”

“Doesn't mean I have to enjoy it,” he leans his head back against the wall and lets his eyes close, scrubs futilely at the renewed trickle of blood from his nose. “I should go after him. He shouldn't be alone too long.” He doesn't move, his legs turned to rubber.

“You can barely stand,” Castiel points out. “If you wish, I will make sure he is all right.”

“Thanks, Cas.” Even with his eyes closed, Sam can tell the angel is tilting his head to the side with that same quizzical expression. “What?”

“It's not important. I will go check on your brother.”

“Be patient with him, okay? He hasn't had much time to process all this.”

“Time is of the essence, Sam.”

“I know, but you know him: the more you push, the more he'll resist,” he opens his eyes to look up at the angel. “You remember that, right? I mean, you said you weren't... angels aren't temporal, so you remember everything?”

Castiel doesn't answer, simply turns and walks away.

*

Dean is tight-lipped and uncommunicative when he finally comes back, but Sam is too damned tired and dizzy and nauseous to bring himself to tackle any of the huge elephants currently occupying the space between them in the Impala. He finds more diner napkins in the glove compartment, manages mostly to stem the flow of blood that's stubbornly still seeping over his upper lip. Dean doesn't say anything, and even though Sam doesn't want him to hover or fuss because there's really nothing to be done, part of him still feels perversely bereft, and he slumps in his seat, wrapping one arm around his ribcage, lets his eyes slip shut. He doesn't sleep, though, feels the miles churn by under the wheels of the car.

“What'd Castiel say?” he asks finally, needing to break the silence.

“Nothin'.”

“Uh-huh. Is that the same nothing that Dad said to you before he died?” It's unfair, but he can't keep the bitterness out of his voice.

“Don't you fucking start, Sam.”

“So tell me what he said.”

“You were there. It's not like he and I had a special heart-to-heart when you weren't listening. You need another napkin?”

“I'm not bleeding on your upholstery. Don't be a stubborn ass, Dean.”

“Sam, bleeding or not, if you don't shut up, so help me I will hit you.”

“Are you ever going to tell me?”

“Not if you keep nagging like an old woman.” Dean pulls up in front of the motel, snatches his bag out of the trunk and stalks into the room, leaving Sam to trail after him after locking up the car. “I'm not talking about this now, Sam. I'm not in the mood to have you lie to me right now, okay?”

Sam drops onto his bed, tosses the remains of the napkins in a crumpled bloody ball into the waste basket by the bedside table, toes off his boots, and lets himself sink onto the bed. It's hard, and as usual slightly too short for comfort, and he fights off a sudden surge of anger at all the things that haven't changed, no matter how hard he tries. The motels are still crappy, the Seals are still breaking, and his brother once again thinks he's lying to him, even though this time he's not.

“Whatever,” he mutters, throwing an arm over his eyes. “'M not lying,” he adds, for good measure.

The bathroom door slams, effectively ending the conversation, and Sam drifts to sleep to the sound of water running behind the closed door.

*

For the first time since he can remember, Sam is up long before Dean. He glances over at his brother, who's sprawled face down on his bed, one hand wedged under his pillow where he keeps his favourite hunting knife. Sam smiles when he realizes his brother is drooling, face mashed so hard against his pillow that the fabric will likely leave crease marks in his skin. It's been a long time since he's seen Dean get a full night's sleep. He makes his way blearily into the bathroom, finds that the shower head is, as usual, a few inches too low to shower comfortably, and just adds it to the list of things that apparently never change.

Sam dry-swallows his meds, heads out to find a diner that's open at five in the morning. He's trying to juggle two full cups of coffee and a bag of muffins when his cell phone goes off, and there's a moment of near-disaster when he tries to balance one cup on top of the other, but eventually he manages to get the phone flipped open without scalding himself or dropping the muffins

“Sam?”

“Bobby,” he feels a grin spread over his face in spite of himself. “Everything okay?”

“Boy, are you allergic to givin' me peace of mind?”

“What?” the grin turns into a bewildered scrunch as Bobby's gruff tone registers.

“You and that idjit brother of yours swan off after asking for what's got to be the most dangerous summoning ritual I know, go calling up God only knows what sort of creature, and if that wasn't bad enough, you left me hangin' after that without so much as a by-your-leave. If you were closer, boy, I would tan both of your hides, see if I wouldn't!”

Sam winces. “Sorry, Bobby. Things kind of got a little crazy.”

“The guy you summoned break your fingers or something? Or did both your phones run out of juice at the same time?”

“Sorry, Bobby.”

“So aside from the fact that you're up to your asses in trouble, I gotta get my news from Pamela? And don't say you're sorry again, boy.”

“Sor― uh, yeah. No. I mean... right. Yeah, it's all pretty messed up. There's just been a lot to take in. We should have called.”

“Damn straight. Where's your brother? You're not the only one gonna get a piece of my mind,” Bobby growls.

“He's asleep back in our room, as far as I know. I just went to get us coffee. Bobby, it's five in the morning. How come you're calling this early?”

There's a pause, and Sam can picture Bobby scratching his head under his baseball cap. “Yeah, well, I was worried. Wanted to know if you boys went to check in with Olivia yet.”

“Uh, that the hunter you were telling Dean about?”

“That's the one. I ain't heard from her since the day before yesterday. Same with a few of the other hunters I've been in touch with about this whole devil's gate fiasco. Now, I know what you'll say: it ain't rare for a hunter to be out of range for a while, but I got a bad feelin' about this whole situation.”

“I hear you. Let me just get a pen, and you give me the lady's address.” Sam gives up on keeping hold of his coffee, and sets everything on the ground in order to take down the information in his notebook. “It'll take us at least a day to get there, Bobby, even at the speed Dean drives.”

“Okay. I'll keep trying her in the meantime.”

“Give Ellen our best, would you?”

“What?” Bobby sounds startled. “Oh, well, sure. She's gone, though. Went to look for Jo day before yesterday. I'll tell her when I talk to her next.”

“Oh. Uh, okay, yeah. Makes sense,” he stammers, guilty that he hasn't so much as spared a thought for Jo in all of this mess. “Look, we'll call you later, okay?”

“You better, or else I'm gonna come lookin' for ya.”

Sam chuckles at that. “We certainly don't want that. Take care, Bobby.”

Dean's still asleep when he gets back, face turned away from the window, the sunlight streaming in from the window and making his hair glow even blonder than usual. He doesn't so much as stir at Sam's approach, long since used to telling the difference between his brother moving about the room and an intruder. Sam sits at the tiny, wobbly table provided by the motel, and leans back in his chair, feeling the muscles in his neck and shoulder unknot. If Dean were awake he'd mock him for days, possibly even weeks, for being a giant girl and watching him sleep, but he's not. Sam smiles to himself, takes a sip of his coffee, and decides it's completely worth it to buy Dean a new coffee if his gets cold while he sleeps.

*

“The symbol you saw ―the brand on the ghosts, yeah? Mark of the Witness,” Bobby says.

“Witness to what?”

“The unnatural. None of them died what you'd call ordinary deaths. See,these ghosts -- They were forced to rise. They woke up in agony. They were like rabid dogs. It ain't their fault. Someone rose them... on purpose.”

“Who?”

“Do I look like I know? But whoever it was used a spell so powerful It left a mark,a brand on their souls. Whoever did this had big plans. It's called "the Rising of the Witnesses." It figures into an ancient prophecy.”

“Wait wait wait,” Dean holds up a hand. “What book is that prophecy from?”

“Well, the widely-distributed version's Just for tourists, you know,” Bobby says in a conspiratorial tone. “But, long story short: Revelations. This is a sign, boys.”

“A sign of what?”

“The Apocalypse.”

*

The world is upside-down when Sam opens his eyes. He blinks, can't make sense of what he's seeing. There's a vast expanse of dirty grey fibre that looks as though it might once have been powder blue stretching out before him. It's rough under his fingers, and a moment later he identifies it as carpet, which means he's on the floor. There's a thin pillow under his head, protecting him from the filth and God knows what else, and when he shifts his head slightly he catches sight of the toe of Dean's boot. His brother is sitting on the floor next to him, his back against the bed, watching him.

“You back?”

“'s I gone?”

“Manner of speaking. You okay to get up if I help you?”

He swallows a groan, nods gingerly, his head throbbing. “Think so. Happened?”

Dean rolls his eyes as he gets to his feet. “What happened, moron, is that apparently I can't even get a full night's sleep around you. Okay, you ready?” He props Sam up, shoves his hands under his arms. “On three. One!” He hauls Sam to his feet, pivots, and in one smooth motion sits him onto the bed, nudges him until he's stretched out his entire length. He sits on the edge of the bed next to Sam's hip, blows out his cheeks. “I'm gonna become an insomniac, and you'll have only yourself to blame.”

Sam swallows, ignores the twinge of guilt and fear that comment elicits ―you've lost enough sleep because of me― and manages a smirk before throwing one arm over his eyes to block out the light. “Wouldn't want you to miss out on your beauty sleep. You'll send civilians screaming into the night otherwise.”

Dean snorts and smacks his arm. “You got a smart mouth on you, Samantha. You learn all that scintillating wit at Stanford?”

“God-given talent,” Sam grins, then presses his lips together in a tight line as his stomach performs a flip-flop and threatens to rid itself of the few sips of coffee he had earlier. He shifts, realizes his jeans are wet and sticking to him, and feels his face burn. “Guess I need to change, huh?”

“It's coffee.”

He blinks. “What?”

Dean gives him a reassuring thump on the shoulder. “You spilled your coffee all over your lap when you went down. It's a fucking miracle you didn't scald yourself in a place we'd both regret.”

“Thank God for small fucking mercies. I still need to change, though,” he swallows a mouthful of saliva, trying to keep his stomach settled.

“Sam?”

He flaps his free hand in what he hopes is a reassuring manner, swallows. “'M okay. Just feel a little sick. We need to go. Time 's it?”

“A little after eight, and we're not going anywhere. You can barely move. I'll take the room for an extra day,” Sam can picture Dean rubbing a hand over his mouth, the way he always does when he's worried. “I'm gonna dig out a new card, see if we can't get you checked out by a doctor. Tell me you took your meds this morning.”

“I don't think the pills are gonna do much anyway, Dean.”

“Can't hurt. Did you take them?”

“Yes, jeez.” Sam pushes himself up onto his elbows, trying to ignore the feeling of being weighed down by lead, the flare of pain in his head. “Bobby called. Wanted to know if we'd been to see his contact yet.”

“It can wait,” Dean says firmly, shoving him back none too gently with a hand to his chest.

“No, it really can't. Let me up, we have to go. It... things are about to get bad, Dean,” he fixes the most earnest look he can manage on his brother, and knows he's won when Dean breaks eye contact first with an exaggerated eye roll, but the look he gives Sam is anxious.

“So, I take it you saw something?”

He doesn't get a chance to explain before pain explodes behind his eyelids, and the stench of burnt rubber overwhelms him. He reaches out blindly, clutches at Dean's wrist when he finds it with his fingertips, lets himself get lost in the white flash of light.

*

“You think I made a deal?”

“That's exactly what we think.”

“Well, I didn't.”

“Don't lie to me.”

“I'm not lying.”

It's the only time he won't lie to his brother for the next nine months.

*

“Stop! You can't just fly in there reckless, Sam. We need you to take the bitch out.”

“Oh, I'll take her out, all right,” the same cold fury comes bubbling back to the surface, and it tastes like blood in his mouth.

“You get one shot, and you're it. You're the only one who can do it, Sam. So if she kills you first...”

“What?” It comes out flat, toneless. He knows what she's driving at, but he can't bring himself to care.

“You don't want to survive,” she says, realization coming at long last.

“Come on.” It's habit to protest. He spent a year lying to Dean about this, it's nothing now to lie about wanting to die.

“It's a kamikaze attack. You want to die fighting Lilith.”

Would that really be so bad? He wants to ask. Instead he snorts softly. “That's stupid.”

Because he's Sam Winchester. He doesn't get to play martyr, that's Dean's role. Sam is meant to be the self-centered one, the one who's stronger, meant to survive everything. Dean's been telling him that for months, now, repeated it often enough that Sam is pretty sure Dean believed it, by the end. It was a lie designed to reassure them both, and as far as Sam can tell it worked for at least one of them.

“Is it stupid? I know you, Sam. You kill Lilith and survive? It means you have to go on without your brother, and the mere idea of it is killing you. Come on, this isn't what Dean died for. You think this is what he would have wanted?”

“Shut up. You don't know anything about me, or anything about what Dean would have wanted.”

“I can't let you do this. Not yet. It's suicide!”

He could kill her right now, and she knows it. The muscles in her throat constrict visibly as she swallows. He lets the cold fury seep into his voice, enjoys the feeling as he watches her cower.

“Get out of my way.”

*

“So what, now? I'm off the hook and you're on, is that it? You're some demon's bitch-boy? I didn't want to be saved like this.”

“Look, Dean, I wish I had done it, all right?”

“There's no other way that this could have gone down. Now tell the truth!”

The last thread of temper snaps. He can't remember the last time he wasn't angry. At the universe, at his father, at Dean. At himself.

“I tried everything! That's the truth. I tried opening the Devil's Gate. Hell, I tried to bargain, Dean, but no demon would deal, all right? You were rotting in Hell for months. For months, and I couldn't stop it. So I'm sorry it wasn't me, all right? Dean, I'm sorry.” And he is. Sorry for everything. Everything he's done, everything he's still going to do. Always sorry.

“It's okay, Sammy,” his brother's voice shakes, ever so slightly. “You don't have to apologize. I believe you.”

I wish I believed myself.

*

The next time Sam wakes up, Dean is gone. His heart stutters in his chest ―I dreamed it all they ripped him apart he's gone I'll never see him again― until he catches sight of Dean's duffel bag lying half-open on the other twin bed, dirty laundry mingling with clean because they've each never had more than the one bag to their name. He pushes himself upright, presses the heel of his hand against his right eye as his head throbs. It's been a couple of weeks of near-constant pain, and bitterly he reflects that he damned well ought to be used to that by now, only he's not, and showing no signs of becoming used to it.

The floor tilts a bit when he tries to stand, and he braces himself against the bed until the world holds still again. His jeans have mostly dried, and he peels them off with a grimace of disgust. He feels gross, and his mouth tastes as though something crawled in there and died. There's no note from Dean anywhere, no message on his phone, but he figures he can't be far, and so he leaves the rest of his clothes in a pile on the floor and runs himself the hottest shower he can manage without passing out.
Dean's still gone by the time he gets out of the bathroom, and only comes back into the room when Sam is doing up the last buttons on his shirt.

“Where'd you go?” he winces at the accusing tone in his voice, tells himself he's imagining Dean's guilty flinch.

“Lunch,” Dean doesn't meet his eyes, brandishes a cardboard tray with coffee cups in it, and Sam catches sight of a paper bag in his other hand. It's a perfectly reasonable excuse, except the Dean he knows from before wouldn't have left him alone, unconscious and unprotected for even five minutes. “You spilled breakfast, so I went for refills and sandwiches, once I was sure you weren't about to die or anything. Figured we could both use some food. How you feeling?”

Sam lets the white lie go, makes a so-so gesture with one hand. “Better than before. We really need to go, though.”

“Yeah, you said that before,” Dean turns his back on Sam, all but drops the food onto the table, and Sam knows he's in for a fight now. He's always been able to read everything Dean is thinking and feeling, and his brother knows it, which is why he's keeping his back to him. It means Dean is planning to fight dirty if he has to. “You want to explain to me again why I shouldn't be dragging your convulsing ass to a hospital?”

“Hospital wouldn't help.”

“How do you know?” Dean throws over his shoulder, not quite looking at him.

“Because I just do, all right? Just this once, I need you to trust me on this,” Dean's not the only one who can play dirty.

“Sam, you just had two seizures in a row. For all I know, your brain is fucking disintegrating in your head, and I just... I can't―”

Oh.

Sam gets it, suddenly. He steps up behind Dean, puts a hand on his arm, just below the shoulder. “Hey, it's okay. I'm not going anywhere, okay? This shit is freaking me out, too, but I don't think it's fatal. It's... it sucks, but I think it looks worse than it feels.” He gives Dean's arm a squeeze, and hopes to God that he's telling the truth. Dean nods once, jerkily, turns to face him.

“Promise me that when we're finished with this, you'll let me take you to a doctor, get your meds adjusted, or something. Take a break from the apocalypse and figure out what's going on with you? I feel like I'm losing my mind, here.”

Easy enough promise to make. Sam's pretty sure that whatever's going on with him, it's the same as the apocalypse, so they won't really be taking a break. “Sure. We make this one last stop, check in on Bobby's friend, and then we'll do whatever you want.”

His brother's shoulders drop a fraction of an inch. “Okay, then.”

They load up the car in silence, and for a moment Sam's throat tightens as he realizes that, in spite of his best intentions, he's just lied to his brother yet again.

*

“Thanks for keeping this warm for me, Sam.”

She's different from what he remembers, but it's unmistakeably her, smirking as she toys with the knife he's carried with him for so long now. He can't even muster up the energy to pretend he's surprised. He's still half-drunk, and he doesn't care anymore.

“Ruby.”

“It's nice to be back. Where I was, even for hell, it was nasty. I guess I really pissed Lilith off. Imagine my relief when she gave me one last chance to take it topside. And all I had to do was find you and kill you.”

Relief floods through him. He's going to hell, has always known that's where he's bound, but at least now he won't be away from Dean anymore.

“Fine, go ahead. Do it!” he can hear the cringing, pleading, pathetic note in his voice, and doesn't even hate himself for it. He almost weeps when she spins around and stabs the other demon with her. God dammit, it was supposed to be him...

“Grab your stuff,” she hisses. “We've got to go. Now!”

*

The first ghost appears in a gas station restroom.

*

Sam's head hasn't stopped aching in hours, no matter how much Tylenol or Aspirin he takes, desperate enough to ignore the warnings about what might be happening to his liver as a result. He's slumped in the passenger seat of the Impala, too exhausted to even try to sort through everything that's spiralling through his brain. Images crowd on top of each other, blurring together before separating again. A girl he thinks he ought to know ―Ruby, a sort-of memory supplies― sprawled naked over a bedspread; a silver flask, clutched so hard in his hand that his knuckles have turned white. Every time he lets himself drop back into an uneasy half-sleep the images speed up, leaving him dizzy and confused.

He doesn't even remember the end of the argument about going to the hospital, but he must have won, he figures, because they're currently barrelling down the highway at speeds that would have him bitching at Dean under normal circumstances. He shifts in his seat, tries to sit up straighter in the hopes that it'll ease the tension he can feel creeping up his spine and into his neck and shoulders. Dean glances over at him.

“You okay?”

Sam grunts noncommittally. He can't be sure what's going to come out of his mouth. He wants to say something reassuring, something that'll prove to Dean that he's fine, that he's stronger than he was before, that this time, it's all going to be different, but he can't make his brain work.

“Sam, say something or I'm hauling you to the nearest hospital.”

He unglues his tongue from the roof of his mouth. “I think she's supposed to be helping us.”

“What? Who? What are you talking about?”

“Ruby.”

“Ruby?” Dean's head jerks, his expression startled, and Sam thinks he might throw up again.

“It might not happen. You didn't recognize her, but she knew who you were. I don't remember why.”

“Why would I recognize her?”

“You didn't. I think that was the point.”

“I'm going to pretend that made sense, just so I don't lose my mind, here,” Dean's grip tightens on the steering wheel. “This Ruby chick, you think she's trying to help us?”

“She was there when you died... kept me from...” the words dry up in his throat, and he grinds the heel of his hand into his eye socket, trying to force the headache into the background, and Dean reaches over with his right hand, grips Sam's bicep so hard that Sam is pretty sure his fingers are going to leave bruises.

“Sam, I don't know how many times I have to repeat this to you: I'm not dead. I never died. I don't know where the hell you got this idea that's stuck in that freakish brain of yours, but it's wrong, you hear me? I'm not going anywhere, and I'm not letting anything happen to you.”

As long as I'm around, nothing bad is going to happen to you.

“You need me to pull over?” Dean pulls his hand back reluctantly.

Sam shakes his head slowly, carefully. “No, 'm okay for now. Next gas station, maybe? Just five minutes.”

“Just say the word. We can stop anytime you like ―this stupid expedition is all your idea, you know.”

“I know. Trust me, if I didn't think it was important, we wouldn't be here,” Sam keeps his eyes open, although the only thing he wants right now is to lapse into unconsciousness. Talking out loud seems to be helping to keep the more confusing thoughts at bay, though, which is a mercy. The vision of slim, brown-haired Ruby lying pliant under him ―all luminous brown eyes and curling pink tongue― slips away, and he lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding.

They stop at the first gas station Dean spots. Sam leaves his brother to pump gas into the car, humming Unforgiven under his breath, and the sound is at once reassuring in its familiarity, and makes something twist uncomfortably in Sam's chest, because he knows exactly what it means when his brother starts channelling Metallica. He stumbles into the restroom, finds it less filthy than many of the gas stations with which he's had to make do over the years, and runs the cold water in the sink, leaning against the Formica counter and resolutely not looking at his reflection in the mirror.

He's cold and achy and miserable, and his head still hurts, though perhaps not as badly as before, or so he hopes. He splashes water on his face, trying to sort out what he remembers from what he thinks he remembers from what might have happened except that it didn't, and then he stops before he throws up. Again. It's almost a full minute before he realizes that the cold isn't all him, that his breath is misting before him. He glances up at the mirror, and his eyes widen.

“Neil.”

*

“Well, if it isn't my 'grief counselor,'” Neil Levine smirks, using his fingers to mimic quote marks in the air. “What, no hug for me this time?” he asks sardonically as Sam whirls on the spot, instinctively gripping the sink behind him for balance.

Sam stares, can't figure out why he's at once surprised to see the kid from Greenville, Illinios there and at the same time not surprised at all. “You're not...”

“I'm dead,” Neil says, answering a completely different question than the one Sam meant to ask. Apparently ghosts can't read minds either. “Turns out you can't 'jump-start the healing' after the girl you love breaks your neck.” He does the air-quote thing again with his fingers, and it takes Sam a moment to realize the boy is throwing their words back at him.

“Neil, we tried to get you away from Angela, remember? You're the one who refused to come with us.”

Neil's image flickers briefly, like a lightbulb with a faulty connection. Sam's always reminded of one of the old televisions from the countless crappy motel rooms they stayed in, where the screen would jump and fritz out randomly. The temperature drops another ten degrees, and Sam hears the mirror behind him crack, the sound like a gunshot in the tiled room.

“You left me there to die!” the ghost snarls, and with another flicker he's standing so close that Sam can feel the beginnings of frostbite on his skin. “I was fucking terrified, and she was right there, right in the fucking closet, and you knew! You knew and you left anyway!”

“I'm sorry,” Sam's apologizing, even though he knows this wasn't their fault. It's a reflex.

“I know you are.” Neil is suddenly calm, his expression impassive as he drives his hand into Sam's chest.

Sam screams, knees buckling as Neil's hand wraps itself around his heart. With more strength than he ever had in life, the boy yanks him off the ground with his other hand, and slams his face into the sink, never relinquishing his grip on Sam's heart, squeezing so hard Sam is sure he's going to die, and what a sorry way to go it is.

“You're always sorry,” Neil snarls into his ear, “no matter how many innocents you leave in your wake. You're always goddamned apologizing, and you're always too late. How many people have to pay the price for you?”

Sam's pretty sure he should have some sort of witty comeback, but he was feeling crappy even before Neil started trying to redecorated the restroom with his skull, and there are black spots dancing before his eyes. His chest is screaming, the freezing sensation so terrible it feels like it's on fire. He brings up his hands, flails uselessly at Neil, because, well, Neil is a goddamned ghost. It strikes him as vaguely unfair that ghosts can hit him but that he can't hit back. Then again, the ghosts probably think it's unfair that he gets to live while they don't. Neil misinterprets his choked, half-hysterical giggle.

“Don't you fucking laugh at me!”

He can't manage to voice any kind of denial, and his vision starts to blur, going grey, then white around the edges. His throat works convulsively, his mouth sounding out his brother's name, but it's hard to scream when there's no air left in your lungs.

“Don't you fucking laugh! I died and it's all your fault!”

“Yeah?” Dean's interrupts Neil's diatribe, and if Sam had any breath left he would cry with relief. “As I recall, it wasn't us who raised a girl from the dead on the off chance we might get lucky.”

As he's talking, Dean calmly raises the sawed-off shotgun he's carrying, steps to the side, and empties the contents into the ghost. Half of the rock salt catches Sam in the chest, tearing his shirt to ribbons, and he curls up on himself on the floor, coughing and gasping, arms wrapped around his ribcage.

“Y'okay Sammy?” Dean's kneeling next to him, one hand on his arm.

“Fuck,” Sam gasps once he's mostly caught his breath. “Tell me I apologized after Ellicott.”

“Yeah, rock salt's a bitch,” Dean agrees, patting his shoulder, then hauls him to his feet, propping him up. “You good?”

“Lemme get back to you on that.”

*

“What the fuck was Neil Levine doing in there anyway? I thought we salted and burned him just on general principle before we left Greenville.”

Dean has Sam seated on the back seat of the Impala and is peeling away his shirt, making a face at the lacerations on his chest and the new bruises blossoming under the old crop generously provided by the last few demons they ran into. They pulled out of the gas station like bats out of hell, but Dean insisted on stopping ten minutes later behind the most ramshackle-looking abandoned barn within a ten-mile radius. Sam hisses through his teeth as the cloth pulls where it's stuck to one of the cuts.

“I was expecting Henricksen,” he mumbles, gripping the frame of the car to keep his balance.

Dean lets go of his shirt, rummages in the first aid kit, and pulls out a penlight. “Hold still. How bad did you hit your head, man?”

“'m not concussed, Dean,” he jerks his head back irritably as the light stabs right through to the back of his skull.

“Okay, then why the hell would you have expected Henricksen to show up in some random gas station rest room in the middle of Illinois? I mean, we haven't seen the guy since we wasted that nurse's ghost back at the Green River County Detention Centre. I've kept an ear to the ground, you know, and there hasn't been so much as a whisper that he's getting close.”

Sam just shakes his head. If he gives Dean the this-happened-before speech yet again, he's pretty sure one or both of them is going to freak out completely, and he'd give good odds that it's him. Dean presses his lips together, frustrated, and starts dabbing at Sam's chest none too gently with a disinfectant swab from the kit. He works in silence for a while, and Sam is content to let him, even when he wordlessly breaks out the suture kit and stitches up some of the nastier lacerations. He flinches when Dean jabs him a little too hard, and his brother glances up.

“Sorry. Hey, you're the one with the free hands, here. You want to try Bobby's friend again? See if she picks up?”

“Sure. Just... don't poke as hard with that damned needle, would you?”

Dean grins. “You got it, princess. I'll even remove the pea from under your mattress tonight.”

He rolls his eyes, mumbles “jerk” under his breath, and forces Dean to stop what he's doing until he's found both his phone and the paper on which he wrote Olivia's number. A few moments later Dean is back at work, and Sam is listening to the phone ring, anxiety knotting his stomach.

Hey, it's Olivia. I'm not in. Leave a message.

“Uh, hi, Olivia. Sam Winchester again. Just trying to see if you're there. Please call me back, or Bobby. Thanks.”

Dean breaks off the last of the suturing thread with his teeth. “Okay, you're done. Let's hit the road.”

Neither one of them gives voice to the thought that Olivia is probably long beyond their help.

*

“Who sent 'em?”

“You didn't tell Dean?” The blond girl looks up at Dean, then smirks at Sam, dabbing at the blood on her split lip. “Well, I'm surprised,” she says, though she looks anything but.

“Tell me what?”

“There's a big new up-and-comer. A real Pied Piper.”

“Who is he?”

“Not he,” she says, her expression derisive. “Her. Her name is Lilith.”

“Lilith.”

“And she really, really wants Sam's intestines on a stick. Guess she sees him as competition.”

“You knew about this?” Dean's eyes are pleading with him to deny it, to level with him, and Sam says nothing.

Another lie. One of the first, and they all add up.

A new leader has risen in the West, he remembers, and the words send a shiver through him.

*

“Sam, you still with me?”

He forces his eyes open, twists his mouth into a rueful grin. “Always,” he says softly, and his grin widens when Dean rolls his eyes.

“I swear to God you have a uterus in there.”

*

They get to Olivia Lowry's well after midnight. The house is plunged in darkness, and Dean pulls up into the driveway without bothering to be subtle about it. It feels good to be doing something though, Sam thinks, anything so long as it's not sitting and stewing in his own juices. He's done enough of that in the past few days to last him a lifetime. As long as he keeps moving, he can keep the confusion at bay. Like a shark, he tells himself, but doesn't bother sharing the joke with Dean.

“Too much to hope that she's just asleep, huh?” Dean says quietly as they trot up the porch stairs to her front door and rings the bell.

“Probably.”

When there's no answer, Dean starts to pound on the door. “Olivia! You home?” He looks over and catches Sam watching him with a smirk. “What?”

Sam shrugs. “I dunno, man. For someone who's so adverse to authority figures, you've got a hell of an imposing knock. I almost expected you to shout 'Police: open up!' or something.”

“Smartass. Get the lock, would you?”

It's tougher to break into a hunter's home, but hunters are more on guard against the supernatural than other human beings as a rule, and after a few minutes which are hell on Sam's knees and back and make his already abused chest sting, the lock gives way with an audible click. Sam reaches for the light switch just inside the door once Dean is over the threshold, and isn't entirely surprised when nothing happens.

“Lights are out.”

“I can see that.”

“No, I mean, they don't work.”

“I knew what you meant!” Dean hisses back. “Get your ass in here, already.”

“Salt line,” Sam notes, stepping forward to stand just behind Dean's shoulder. “It's not complete, though. Looks like something got across.”

“Something really pissed off.”

Dean's in Olivia's living room, staring at a spot Sam can't see on the floor. He moves up behind him again, and his mouth twists when he sees the body lying sprawled there, the ribcage torn wide open, broken bones protruding through the skin blood congealed on the floor beneath. Dean tears his eyes away from the mess in front of them, and in two quick strides he makes his way to the wall where Olivia very obviously kept a hidden panel with all her weapons. It's open now, revealing her entire arsenal, which apparently was no match for whatever came after her.

“Salt line over the back door, too,” Sam points, just as Dean grabs a small device to inspect the readings.

“EMF. Olivia was rocking the EMF meter.”

“Spirit activity,” Sam says, knowing it's superfluous, but reluctant to let silence fall back over the room.

“Yeah ―on steroids. I've never seen a ghost do this to a person.”

“Something's up, for sure. I'm thinking if you hadn't interrupted back there, our friend Neil would have done something pretty similar to me.”

“Good thing I'm so awesome, then.” There's no humour in Dean's words, and Sam nods.

“We should call Bobby, let him know what happened.”

“Yeah. You, uh, you good in here? I'm gonna step out, give him a call.”

“I'm okay. You go ahead, I'll, uh... well, I don't know what I'll do. I guess we should phone in a tip to the local cops.”

“Right. I'll wait for you in the car.”

*

They check in on Jed Buckner at Bobby's request, and find him at the end of a long trail of blood and intestines on his kitchen floor, the skin flayed away from the ribs that protrude jaggedly from his chest. His shotgun is lying ten feet away, broken and useless.

“I checked in on Carl Bates and R.C. Adams,” Bobby tells Dean over the phone. “They've redecorated... in red. You boys better get back here as soon as you can.”

“What the fuck is going on, Bobby?” Dean is driving even faster than usual. “Why the hell are all these spirits going after hunters?”

Sam rouses himself at that, memory sparking. “Witnesses,” he says, earning himself a confused glare from Dean.

“Hang on, Bobby. What?”

“There was a mark on Me ―on Neil's arm. Almost like a brand, shaped sort of like an 'A.' Tell him.”

“Bobby, I'm passing Sam to you. Tell him yourself. I'm not going to drive, talk and try to translate Sam-speak at the same time,” Dean tosses the phone into Sam's lap.

The might-have-been images are crowding in again, and Sam digs his fingers into his thigh, trying to ground himself. He focusses on the mark itself ―it was the same both times― describes it in as much detail as he can.

“Yeah,” Bobby sounds thoughtful. “I may have seen that before. You two need to move. Get your asses here before all hell breaks loose.”

Too late, Sam thinks. Aloud, he says, “We're on our way, Bobby. At the speed Dean's going, we'll be there in six hours, maybe five. You think it might be the Rising of the Witnesses, right?”

“How'd you know? Even I ain't sure of that.”

Sam knows Bobby can't see him shrug. “It's a psychic thing. Listen, Bobby, we might not be able to get to you in time. I think there's a spell, it's in one of your books―”

“How the―”

“Bobby! It's not important how, okay?” Sam snaps. “We'll deal with my freaky psychic shit when we don't have rabid homicidal ghosts on our asses.” He rubs his forehead. “I can't believe I just said that. Look, can you call me back when you find the spell? If we can't get to you in time, we might have to do it ourselves, and we'll need to find the ingredients.”

“Yeah, okay. Sit tight, and git your idjit asses up here before that becomes necessary, you hear me?”

“Sure.” He flips the phone shut. “Bobby's looking up the spell that'll get rid of the spirits,” he says, probably unnecessarily.

“Yeah, I got that. You want to fill me in, psychic-boy?”

Make the gun float to you there, psychic-boy.

Sam twitches. “Don't call me that.”

“Touchy.”

“Just... don't, okay? Anything else, but not that.”

“So what's going on?”

“It's a spell, a really powerful one, called the Rising of the Witnesses. You remember Walter Dixon?”

“The douchebag writer in Hollywood who got all those spirits to kill for him? This is the same thing?”

“Same idea, on steroids,” Sam echoes quotes Dean's earlier words. “It was the mark that tipped B ―us off,” he explains, pinching the bridge of his nose in a futile attempt to mitigate the headache that's building in intensity as he tries to keep his names and pronouns straight, memory fighting with reality. “The spell is so powerful, it leaves the mark behind, like a brand. It's called the Mark of the Witnesses.”

“Witnesses to what?”

“The unnatural. These are all ghosts of people who died at the hands of some monster or demon or whatever. Then they were forced to rise, and so they're in agony. They're... they're like rabid dogs unleashed on the world, Dean. Whatever they're doing, it's not their fault.”

“Yeah, well, it's still our problem.”

*

“It's the little girl. Her face is awful.”

*

Sam is jolted out of a dream in which Lilith is about to gouge out Dean's eyes with a cake fork, giggling like a little girl with a new toy, when his brother slams on the brakes, throwing them both forward so violently that Sam comes close to smashing his head on the dashboard. For a moment he can't do anything but sit there, shaking, each breath harsh and ragged in his ears, his whole body humming with the sudden surge of adrenaline.

“Dean?”

Dean is shaking, hands gripping the wheel so tightly his knuckles have turned white. “Holy fuck,” he mutters, and before Sam can stop him he's out of the car and running into the empty road.

“Shit shit shit!” Sam scrambles to unbuckle his seatbelt, hurries to pop the trunk of the Impala while trying to keep an eye on his brother. “Dean, for the love of God, get back in the car!” he snatches up two shotguns, sprints around the car to find Dean standing directly in the glow of the headlights. He thumps one of the shotguns against Dean's chest, waits for him to hold onto it. “What'd you see?”

Dean shakes his head. “I ran her down. It doesn't make any sense. Didn't you say it was people who died from supernatural causes?”

“The spirits? Yeah. Why? Who did you see?” Sam tugs on his arm, and Dean lets himself be led back to the car, looking over his shoulder the whole way.

“Layla. It can't have been her, can it? She... she had cancer. There's no way, right?”

“I have no idea, man.”

“Aren't you supposed to know this stuff? What happened to 'it's all happened before'?”

Dean gets bitchy every time he's stressed, and Sam doesn't know why he's surprised and hurt every single time his brother snipes at him. After twenty or so years of this, he figures he ought to be used to it by now, but then, Dean has always instinctively known which of his buttons to push. Sam shoves him none too gently toward the driver's side door.

“Fuck you. It's different now, anyway. It didn't happen like this, and I suggest you don't push it, not if you don't want me puking instead of helping.”

Dean swears under his breath. “You feel like maybe this is all happening way too fast? I feel like I'm in front of one of those machines that spits out baseballs in batting cages. Every time I think I'm starting to figure things out, that fucking thing sends four more balls flying at my head, and I don't even know what questions to ask or where to even start thinking about all this shit.”

“Get down!”

Dean drops flat on his face on the asphalt, and Sam empties his shotgun into the greyed-out face of Layla Rourke. Dean barely waits until she's disappeared to jump back into the car and start up the engine again.

“See? That's exactly what I'm talking about!”

Sam slams his own door shut a moment later. “We're definitely not going to make it to Bobby's in time.”

“Yeah, well, we're gonna go anyway. He hasn't answered his phone the last few times I tried him.”

“What? Why didn't you say anything?”

Dean shrugs, speeding up, although he keeps a careful eye on the road ahead. “You were out cold. You know you talk in your sleep now? Crazy fucked-up shit, Sammy. Lilith and angels and Satan and the end of the world. Like the waking world isn't weird enough.”

“Satan?” Sam snorts.

“You know. The devil.”

“Lucifer.” Even thinking the name makes him feel disoriented.

“Whatever. Same guy. I'm more worried about Lilith, frankly. Creepy, is what it is. Baby-eating monsters from the Pit.”

Sam can't help but agree, feels his mouth twist in disgust. “One step at a time. We need to find a place to cast that spell: we need an open fire.”

“I want to get to Bobby's. He's got a fireplace.”

“I get that you're worried, but we won't be able to help him if we get killed. We need to find a spot that's sheltered, build a fire, do the spell, and then we'll book for his place. We got all the components at the last stop ―no thanks to you, I might add.”

“Crazy old biddy,” Dean grumbles. “Sometimes I wonder where the hell Dad got all those references he put down in his journal. She was seven different kinds of crazy and creepy.”

Sam spreads his palms. “Beats me. Dad worked in mysterious ways. Especially mysterious, given Mrs. Szcezepanski's... leanings,” he shudders.

“I was half afraid she was gonna whammy us and use my bits as components for herself.”

“Ew. Seriously, never say that again. Come on, we need to find a place to stop, sooner rather than later. You know I'm right.”

Dean puffs out his cheeks, and Sam knows he's won.

“Fuck.”

*

The spot they find is less than ideal, all sorts of exposed with nothing better than a flimsy lean-to at their backs ―and with spirits, there's no guarantee that even that will be safe. Sam barely has time to trace a salt circle around himself and Dean while his brother starts building a fire with the really terrible half-rotted kindling they found in the shed before the spirit of Layla Rourke reappears and hurls herself at them, bouncing off the salt barrier with a howl of fury.

“Hiding again, Dean!” she snarls, hands curled into fists. “Why don't you come out here and explain to me again why you deserved to live and I had to die!”

Dean's shoulders hunch, but he doesn't turn around.

“Do you know what it's like, to die of brain cancer?” She's circling, now, and Sam can feel the wind whipping up around them, unnaturally strong.

“Salt line's not going to last long at this rate,” he warns.

“It's not a nice, quick, clean death. It's long, and messy, and filled with pain and lunacy,” Layla's eyes are wild with fury. “All my hair fell out, you know. Bet you wouldn't have flirted with me at the end, when I was bald and covered in bed sores, drooling and sitting in my own filth. My mother, my mother who prayed and prayed and took me with her everywhere to find a cure ―she's the one who bathed me and listened to me scream for two months. Two months, Dean!”

“Layla, I didn't ―it wasn't right,” Dean turns to her, unable to ignore her any longer.

“Two months of not knowing who I was or who she was, of constant agony, of wishing I was dead already. All so you could live with your conscience clean,” she spits. “How does your conscience feel now?”

Sam raises his shotgun and blasts her full of rock salt. “Dean, the fire!”

“Right,” Dean stares at the spot where Layla disappeared for a moment, then shakes himself, and gets back to work. “Fucking wood is damp. This is going to suck.”

“We don't need a blaze, just enough of a fire to get us through the spell.”

“You think you can get rid of us that easily?”

Neil Levine reappears just to Sam's left, making him jump in spite of himself. He whips around, shotgun levelled, keeps his finger off the trigger. The salt line is keeping them back for now, although the howling wind promises that it won't last for long. Already he can see the edges of the circle fraying, melting away grain by grain.

“Hey, Dean, remember me?”

It doesn't take Sam long to recognize poor deluded Ronald Resnick, his curly hair greasy against his scalp. He looks much the same as he did the last time Sam saw him, fat and awkward, but there's no mistaking the anger radiating from him.

Dean looks up again. “Ron? With the laser eyes, right?”

“Yeah, that's right,” Ron says, as Neil continues to hurl abuse at Sam. Layla reappears, but seems content to let Ron do the talking for the moment. “I'm dead because of you. You were supposed to help me!”

“Come on, Ron, I thought we were pals,” Dean spreads his palms.

“That was when I was breathing!”

“Dean, for fuck's sake!” Sam empties another round into Ronald, watches him disappear, just as Layla and Neil start screaming abuse again. “Use lighter fluid to start it if you have to. I can't keep shooting them, I'm going to run out of ammo, and we need that for when the salt goes.”

“I got it!” Dean snaps, turning back to the fire.

The three spirits are all circling now, clawing at the air where the ring is keeping them from coming forward, shrieking and gibbering. Behind Sam the shed begins to creak and groan and shudder under the effect of some unseen force. He swears, trying to keep an eye on it and the ghosts all at once, feels a tremor of relief when he catches sight of a flicker of flame coming from the makeshift campfire with which Dean is struggling.

“Hurry up!”

“Yelling at me isn't going to make it go any faster!”

Sam pivots on one leg, trying to keep the ghosts in his line of sight. The salt circle is almost gone, and he's pretty sure he's not going to have enough ammunition to keep them all at bay if they get through before the spell is ready. Then all at once they disappear, and a young girl takes their place. She's plain, with mousy brown hair that reaches to her shoulders.

“Sam Winchester. Still just as pathetic as ever. What, you don't recognize me?” she takes a slow, deliberate step toward him, stops just shy of the circle. “This is what I looked like before that demon cut off my hair and dressed me like a slut.”

His heart skips a beat.

“Meg.”

*

More grains of salt filter away. The wind is whipping Meg's hair over her face, and Sam finds himself wondering inanely how a spirit manages to be affected by a physical manifestation of the air. Then he finds himself wondering where the other spirits have got to.

“Nothing to say to me? I've always wanted a chance to talk to the two of you alone, when I wasn't choking on my own blood.” She raises her hands in a gesture of mock-forgiveness. “Oh, it's all right! I'm just a college girl ―sorry, was a college girl. Until I got jumped by a cloud of black smoke one day, and got trapped in here,” she taps the tip of her index finger against her temple. “I was awake the whole time, you know. She got off on making me watch while she tortured and killed people. Did unspeakable things with my body.

“I'm sorry,” Sam stutters.

“Oh yeah? So sorry you had to throw me off a building?”

“We ―we didn't know!” he blurts, suddenly understanding Dean's urge to explain himself to these people. Because they are people, under there, trapped and suffering.

“I kept waiting, praying! I was trapped in there screaming at you, 'Just help me, please!' You're supposed to help people, Sam! Why didn't you help me?”

He swallows a lump in his throat. “I'm sorry...”

“Stop saying you're sorry!”

Her voice rises to a shriek. A plank tears itself loose from the shed, and he barely manages to duck out of the way as it comes whirling at his head. Crouching at his feet, Dean is frantically trying to combine the spell components in an improvised bowl, and he yelps as the tip of the plank clips his shoulder. The bowl clatters to the ground, spilling its contents, and Dean curses, trying to scoop them back together.

“It wasn't just me, you know. I had a little sister who worshipped me. You know what that's like, don't you Dean? What younger siblings are like?” Dean ignores her, but she keeps on, relentless. “ She was never the same after I disappeared. She just... She just got lost. And when my body was lying in the morgue ―beaten and broken― do you know what that did to her? She killed herself! Because of you! Because all you were thinking about was your family, your revenge, and your demons! Fifty words of Latin a little sooner, and I'd still be alive. My baby sister would still be alive. That blood is on your hands!”

With a terrible crack the shed comes apart, and Sam finds himself desperately ducking flying debris all while trying to keep his shotgun trained on Meg as the salt line finally breaks under the onslaught. With a shriek she throws herself at Dean, and only a desperate move on Sam's part allows him to dispel her with a blast of rock salt which tears at his brother's jeans jacket.

“Hey! Watch the merchandise!” Dean quips, before turning back to the paper in his hand, begins to chant in Latin, his words all but snatched away by the whistling wind.

“Dean!”

Sam twists, fires another round into the livid face of Layla Rourke, barely manages to get the gun around before Ronald drives his hand into his chest. He feels the blood singing in his veins, and for a glorious moment he thinks he might be able to hold his own until the end, even as Meg comes at him, shrieking and screaming and crying, the Mark of the Witness burning scarlet against her skin.

“You saw how I suffered! You saw what that demon did to me, and you're letting that bitch live! Why is Ruby so special that you're letting that girl she's possessing suffer?” she screeches, still hurling every piece of debris in the vicinity at them both. This time she latches onto Sam, and a cold so intense it feels like fire suffuses his body. “I saw him with her! I saw! You're no better than the things you hunt. You're filthy monsters!”

He can't move. His body has turned to ice. Dean is still chanting, any interruption tantamount to a death sentence, the remains of the shed hurtling past so quickly Sam can feel the movement of the air in their wake. Dean is vulnerable, intent only on the spell; he has to do something now, or they're lost. He feels his heart stutter ―almost stop entirely― as he focuses, and the pieces of debris swirl up into the air as though swept up in a funnel, whirling and crashing, but well clear of his brother. Sam's vision goes dark around the edges, and he barely catches sight of Dean, half-sprawled on the ground, dumping the contents of the bowl into the feeble flames at their feet before something heavy collides with the back of his head, and everything goes dark.

*

Sam blinks, sees stars stretching above him in the night sky.

“Dean?”

“Yeah, Sammy. I'm here.”

His mind blurs. “I don't remember what I was going to ask. Y'okay?”

“I'm fine. It's okay, you'll remember later.”

“'s important. Think it was about Ruby.”

“Leave it be for now.”

*

Chapter Text

*

Castiel is waiting for Sam in his dreams, and somehow Sam finds he isn't surprised. They're sitting on a park bench with flaking brown paint, watching a playground where small children are chasing each other around the bars of a swing set, shrieking and giggling as their feet kick up a spray of sand.

“What, no fishing off the dock this time?”

“No. You need to wake up now.”

“I don't really have control over that,” Sam points out. “Humans don't work the same way as angels.”

“So I've noticed,” Castiel says drily, and Sam can't tell whether it's meant to be a joke.

“You didn't just raise me from the dead, did you? There's more to it than that. It's why I keep remembering things differently.”

“Yes.”

“Please don't tell me I need to remember on my own. Every time I try I end up puking, bleeding from the nose, or passing out.”

“That's because the human mind isn't designed to withstand the kind of stresses that have been imposed upon you. An ordinary human wouldn't have survived as long as you have. You are... exceptional,” the angel says, and Sam isn't sure if what he's hearing in the tone is disgust or admiration or a strange mixture of both.

“The demon blood?”

“Your psychic ability,” Castiel says, and Sam gets the impression that the two may not be interchangeable after all.

“I need to tell Dean.”

“Do you?”

“I'm done lying to him. Look what that got us before.”

“Do you remember?”

Sam watches as the kids keep playing, heedless of his presence or the angel's, and wonders if he's really dreaming or if Castiel somehow brought him here. He thinks this might be somewhere Castiel used to bring Dean.

“I think so. I don't remember all of it, but I remember how it ended. I remember the angels, the lies. I... I remember Lucifer. In the end, it didn't matter what I did.” He laughs bitterly. “The song remains the same, isn't that how it goes?”

“Yes.”

“I still need to try.”

*

“He's been out for hours. I can't keep doing this. I can't watch him like this anymore, it's killing me,” Dean's voice is fraught with emotion that Sam can't quite identify.

“Look, I know it's hard, but you have to look at the bigger picture, here,” Sam is pretty sure he knows the voice of the woman speaking, but he can't quite place it, his mind still bogged down. “You know he hasn't been the same since... he got back. You just have to keep faith, okay? Sam is the key, the only one who has a snowball's chance in hell of stopping Lilith.”

“So you keep saying. You're not the one who watched him levitate an entire shed out of my way. Remind me again why I should trust you?”

“Hey, I've pulled your asses out of the fire a hell of a lot, and nearly got myself killed in the process. Have I led you wrong yet?”

“I guess not,” Dean sounds doubtful, and the reply he gets is scornful.

“You guess not? Look, short bus, I don't have to do this. It's not like I'm backing the favoured horse here, and the way you two chuckleheads have been going about this whole thing, the LA Dodgers have a better chance of winning the World Series than you have of preventing Lilith from breaking all the Seals.”

The voices are muffled, even though Sam can hear them clearly, as though Dean and whoever he's speaking to are in a different room. Opening his eyes proves to be a mistake, as the light from the lamp by the bed threatens to blind him. A whimper escapes him before he can stifle it, and he hears shuffling from further away.

“He's coming around.”

“Right. Well, I'm done babysitting, I guess. See you around, Dean.”

Dean doesn't answer, and Sam feels a hand clasp his wrist loosely. “Hey, Sleeping Beauty, you coming back or what?”

He doesn't open his eyes. “I think I might be setting a record for the number of times a person can be unconscious in a ten-day period.”

Dean huffs a laugh. “We'll call Guinness tomorrow. Drink this,” he props Sam up, ignoring his protests, and presses a glass to his lips. Whatever is in it, it tastes vile, and Sam sputters and nearly chokes. “Yeah, I bet if it tastes half as gross as it looks, it's gotta be pretty nasty, but you have to drink it all, okay? It'll help, I promise.”

Sam grimaces, manages to choke the stuff down, and blinks blearily at Dean, shielding his eyes from the worst of the glare of the light with one hand. “What is that stuff?”

His brother shrugs, doesn't quite meet his eyes. “Got the recipe off Bobby. It's supposed to help.”

“You talked to Bobby?” Sam feels the knot of anxiety that had formed in his chest begin to dissolve.

This time Dean does look him directly in the eye, and his laughter is genuine, from the gut. “Would you believe the wily old bastard built himself a ghost-proof panic room? He locked himself in there when he figured we wouldn't get there in time.”

Laughter bubbles up in Sam's chest, relieving the last of the tension. “Bobby built a panic room?”

“A ghost-proof panic room,” Dean confirms, his eyes sparkling. “Is that awesome, or what?”

Sam tilts his head in agreement, pushes himself upright, and winces as he rubs the lump on the back of his head. “So where are we? Motel? The spell worked?”

“Yes, and yes.”

“Who were you talking to just now?”

“What, Bobby?”

“No, the girl.”

Dean narrows his eyes at him. “Sam, there's no one here.”

As if to bely his brother's words, there's a rush of air in the room, and Castiel is standing just behind Dean's shoulder, making both brothers jump in spite of themselves.

“Hello, Dean.”

*

“Jesus!” Dean sputters. “Give a guy some warning, would you?”

Sam could swear the corner of Castiel's mouth twitches into something resembling a smirk. “Personal space?”

“Yes, exactly!”

“Why are you here, Cas?” It seems odd to find the angel there only moments after they've talked, but Sam is learning not to try to make sense of everything.

“I wished to congratulate you. Stellar work with the Witnesses.”

“Wait, you knew about that?” Dean turns on the angel, tension radiating from him.

“I was, uh, made aware,” Castiel manages to look uncomfortable and unaffected at the same time.

“Well, thanks a lot for the angelic assistance,” Dean doesn't bother masking his sarcasm. “You know, I nearly got my heart ripped out of my chest!”

“But you didn't,” Castiel points out.

“That's hardly the point. Why are there angels even around? I thought you guys were supposed to be, I don't know, guardians or something. Fluffy wings and halos, Michael Landon and Roma Downey, and all that. You know: not dicks.” Sam snorts in spite of himself, earning a reproving glance from both his brother and the angel.

“Read the bible,” Castiel rejoins evenly. “Angels are warriors of god. I'm a soldier.”

“Then why didn't you fight?”

“Dean...” Sam puts a hand on Dean's shoulder, only to have it angrily shrugged aside.

“I'm not here to perch on your shoulder. We had larger concerns.”

“What larger concerns? I don't know if you noticed, but people were getting ripped to shreds down here! Where the hell is your boss in all this? Is there even a God?”

“There is a God,” Sam murmurs.

“Oh, really, Sam?” Dean rounds on him. “Then what's he waiting for to intervene? Genocide? Monsters roaming the earth? The apocalypse?”

“Precisely,” Castiel says.

“The Witnesses are a sign, Dean. End of the world kind of stuff. Isn't that right?” Sam looks at the angel, who nods.

“That's why we're here. Big things afoot.”

Dean backs up, seemingly instinctively, goes to peer through the window into the darkness. “Do we want to know what kind of big things?”

“Probably not, but you need to know anyway. Sam already knows.”

Sam winces as Dean's head snaps back toward him, his expression guarded, wary and accusing. “I know part of it. It's like a puzzle with the pieces missing. I keep getting flashes, bits and pieces...” he trails of lamely.

“The Rising of the Witnesses is one of the sixty-six Seals,” Castiel explains. “And no, it is not a ride at Sea World.”

Dean snorts. “Sounds like one. Can you read minds or something?”

“No. The Seals are being broken by Lilith and the demons who are under her leadership.”

“She's the one who rose the Witnesses.”

“And not just here. Twenty other hunters are dead.”

“Oh, God,” Sam feels sick. “She did it on purpose. Picked people the hunters didn't save so they would home in on us.”

“Fucking twisted sense of humour,” Dean mutters. “At least we put the spirits to rest.”

“It doesn't matter,” Sam realizes. “The Seal was broken.”

“So why break it? What's so important about these Seals you've both been going on about?”

“Think of the Seals as locks on a door,” Castiel says.

“Okay... last one opens and?”

Sam feels his blood run cold. “Lucifer walks free.”

Dean blinks. “I thought Lucifer was just a story they told at demon Sunday school. There's no such thing.”

“A week ago you were sure there was no such thing as me. Why do you think we're here walking among you now for the first time in two thousand years?”

“You're going to stop Lucifer,” Dean says flatly.

Sam shakes his head, his earlier dizziness returning along with a flurry of images that flash behind his eyes so quickly he can't make heads or tails of them. “I don't... it's happening faster than before. The Seals. That's why you couldn't be here for the Witnesses.”

“Our numbers are not unlimited, and more than half a dozen of my brothers have fallen on the field of battle this week. There are other Seals to defend, and the onslaught of the demons has been... fiercer than we anticipated.”

“But you know where the Seals are, right?” Dean is making a visible effort not to pace. “Why not just figure out the ones that are left and just post guards there or something?”

“There are too many for that to be possible.”

“What, you can't defend sixty-six Seals? That's pretty lame.”

“There are more than that, Dean,” Sam breaks in, trying to get the flood of images in his mind to stop, or at least slow down. “Anna said there were six hundred and sixty-six, remember? They only need sixty-six of them to break. 's a stupid rule, if you ask me.”

“Sam, what the fuck are you talking about? Who's Anna?”

He feels sick again. “God... uh... I don't―”

“Anna does not exist here as you knew her,” Castiel leans over and places a hand on Sam's shoulder in the first genuine gesture of concern he's shown since Sam first saw him in that diner in Wyoming, blue eyes staring so intently into his face that Sam finds himself flushing under the scrutiny. “Try to focus, Sam. You cannot allow yourself to conflate your realities this way.”

“Sam, what the fuck?”

Castiel glances over his shoulder at Dean. “He is seeing two realities at once, and his mind cannot cope with it. If he doesn't learn to control this, he will lose his mind, or worse.”

“Worse?”

Sam laughs mirthlessly. “I think he means it'll kill me.”

*

The problem with demanding explanations from angels is that, well, angels aren't really accountable to anyone but themselves, and Castiel leaves them with more questions than ever. Dean spends the next hour pacing and asking questions that Sam can't answer, and finally grabs his coat and yanks it over his shoulders.

“Where you going?” Sam is still sitting cross-legged on the bed, cradling his now-throbbing head in his hands. The concussion isn't helping matters, but he's pretty sure it's not the main cause of the pain. The short burst of adrenaline that kept him mostly functional while Castiel was there is fading fast, leaving him drained and shaky and desperate to just go to sleep and not wake up for the next week.

“Out. I need to clear my head.”

“Dean, it's late, we're both exhausted...”

“I know that. You think you can manage not to lapse into a coma while I'm gone, or do you need me to hold your hand?”

“I don't ―fine!” he scrubs a hand through his hair. “Just... if you're going to get drunk, don't take the car.”

“I'm not an idiot, Sam!”

“Whatever.”

There's part of him that knows he shouldn't be giving up these arguments so easily, but he can't muster up the energy to fight Dean on this now. Besides, he thinks they can both use the space at this point. He flips his pillow and curls up with his face pressed into it.

“Take your phone,” he mutters, and doesn't wait for Dean's answer before letting himself fall asleep.

*

“Where the hell is your brother at?” Bobby hands Sam a bottle of water, and comes to sit next to him on the porch outside his house, holding a bottle of beer by the neck between his knees.

Sam shrugs. “No idea. Got up this morning and he was gone. Won't answer his phone. I don't think he's far. His stuff's still here.”

“You with us today?” the question is hesitant, and Sam has to clamp down hard on the anger and resentment that bubbles up in him. He reminds himself that Bobby is perfectly entitled to ascertain if Sam's having a good day or a bad day, if whatever's going to come out of his mouth will make sense for once. He offers Bobby a small smile that he hopes looks reassuring.

“Yeah, no worries: lights are on, everyone's home. Not even a headache to speak of today. I'm counting it a win. Turns out lowering your standards is a good thing. Didn't Dean leave you a note?” He doesn't bother trying to hide the fact that he's obviously changing the subject away from himself. “ It's not like him to go off without a word.”

Bobby rolls his eyes. “A paper with 'back later' written on it ain't exactly my idea of a note.”

He nudges Bobby's elbow with a quiet laugh, earning himself a glare as he nearly causes the older man to spill his beer. “Come on, Bobby. Dean catches you acting like an old woman about him, he'll never let you live it down. He left a note, even if it doesn't meet your expectations. He just... needs some time to stop freaking out about everything. ”

Bobby snorts at that. “You gonna tell me what's eating at him? I don't like this new habit of his of sneakin' around.”

“I might if I can switch out the water for a beer,” Sam's attempt to lighten the mood falls a little flat. “Right. Look, I don't know for sure, but I don't think it's a stretch to figure it's got to be this whole apocalypse thing.”

“Nothing to do with you, then?” Bobby asks pointedly, and he sighs, because Bobby's right.

In typical Winchester fashion, Dean decided that they were, in his words, 'taking a break from the apocalypse,' and all but hogtied Sam in order to get him back to Sioux Falls, where he and Bobby ganged up on Sam until he reluctantly agreed to go back to the hospital. That was nearly three weeks ago. Since then it's been nothing but tests and more tests and taking blood and CT scans and more things that they probably can't afford and that Dean insists he submit to anyway. He wants to resent Dean for the hovering, the fussing, but mostly he knows that his brother is right, which might be even more frustrating.

No matter how they look at it, he's getting worse. The seizures have mostly tapered off, but the near-blinding migraines and the nightmares haven't ―more often than not he wakes up screaming and shaking, unable to shake the image of Dean broken and bloody on the ground. Some days he finds he can't sure whether what he's seeing is happening now or happened (or didn't happen) in that future that's now unlikely to take place. On those days he's dimly aware of Dean and Bobby watching him wander like a zombie through the house, unable to concentrate enough even to bury himself in one of Bobby's books, trying to decipher the garbled sentences that spill from his lips. He wants to reassure them that he's not crazy, that there's a good reason for the way he's acting, but he's beginning to doubt it himself.

When Dean isn't acting like Sam's second shadow, or working on one of the cars in Bobby's yard, then he's nowhere to be found. If Winchesters are good at anything, Sam reflects, it's pulling disappearing acts. He's never gone for more than twelve hours, and comes back smelling of cigarette smoke and alcohol and sometimes of sex, and Sam very carefully doesn't push him on it. He's the very last person who should be complaining about a brother who keeps secrets from him. He finds Castiel's absence more troubling than Dean's occasional outings, anyway. While he's always reasonably sure his brother is close by, the longer the angel stays away, the more anxious he becomes. If he weren't so worried, he thinks he'd probably be amused by the role reversal. In another lifetime, it would have been Dean wearing a hole in the carpeting worrying about Castiel's absence.

“Six of one, half a dozen of the other, isn't it?” he tries not to sound bitter as he answers Bobby's question, and thinks he's probably failed. “I can't tell if he's more worried that I'm going to die again or turn evil while his back is turned.” He yelps when Bobby swats him behind the head. “Ow!”

“Boy, there are days when I can't tell which of you two is a bigger ass than the other. You say anything like than again, don't think I won't kick your ass from here into next week.”

He raises his hands in mock-surrender. “Come on. You wouldn't do that to an invalid, would you?”

Bobby rolls his eyes. “Invalid my ass. Speakin' of which, them new pills working?” he asks, trying to be casual about it and taking another pull from his beer.

“Which ones? I feel like a damned drugstore, and for all I know they could all be useless and it's just that really disgusting crap Dean keeps making me drink. And before you ask, I haven't had any yet, but I will, I promise. I'm just enjoying a few hours' worth of not having my mouth taste like ass,” he says, wishing he didn't sound quite so defensive.

“It does smell pretty nasty. But you're doin' better, right?” Bobby asks again, and Sam shrugs.

“Hard to say. I mean, the only way to know is if I have another seizure, and then all we know is that they're not working. The doctor says it's not good to switch up too soon anyway. I'm just lucky they haven't locked me away for acting crazy yet. Besides, I don't think it's something the meds can help with, you know that.”

“You tell your brother that?”

“Yeah, and that went about as well as you would expect. It's hard on him, you know? He lost me, and I know how close that came to destroying him. I know what it's like... ” He takes a drink from his water bottle, lets the water sit in his mouth for a moment in a futile attempt to relieve the feeling of dryness the newest pills have been causing. “And then, I came back broken. I know how hard it must be for him, seeing me like this.”

“You ain't broken, kid,” Bobby's tone is gruff, gentle. “A little frayed around the edges, maybe, but who ain't these days?”

Sam shakes his head, feels a smile tug at his lips anyway. “Thanks, Bobby.”

*

“Dean!”

The light is brilliant, blinding, the air filled with white noise that shrieks and whines, bursting every pane of glass for miles around as the archangels descend on Detroit. Sam feels the earth vibrating, shaking beneath his feet. He's blind, deaf and dumb. Rooted to the spot.

I agreed to this, he reminds himself. It was the only way. It'll only take a moment, and then it'll be over.

The noise grows in intensity, impossibly loud, and the universe catches on fire all around him. The ground falls away, and he's filled with light, with sound and fury. He feels Lucifer's presence like a nuclear explosion, and all he can do is cling to the feeling like a drowning man to a piece of driftwood, and he prays the circle of holy fire is enough to keep him contained.

When he can see again he's lying on broken asphalt. He sees Dean lying crumpled on the ground, so far away he seems tiny, like looking down at the street from the top of a tall building. He tries to call out, but there's nothing left. Lightning arcs through him. His body is wracked with pain, but the sensation is distant, as though it's somehow outside of him, and he can't bring himself to care one way or the other. A moment later his vision goes dark once more

Dean is dead.

It was all for nothing, because his brother is dead.

A hand closes over his wrist, the grip gentle, but firm, and for a moment hope flares in him, the sensation fluttering like a moth before a flame.

“Dean?”

“No, it's not Dean. I am sorry.”

“Where is... did he make it? Tell me he made it.”

“I am sorry.”

“He promised. He promised he would spare Dean. Why would Michael lie, Cas?”

“Angels lie.”

There's a pause, and then Sam begins to laugh.

*

They take out a coven of witches in Wichita (and the irony isn't lost on Sam). After another two fruitless weeks of scans and tests and doctors simply shaking their heads in bewilderment, Dean reluctantly agrees that there's not much more to be gained by sitting around and waiting. Besides, a woman spitting out her teeth and then drowning in her own blood on the bathroom floor while her husband pounds on the door sounds like the perfect way to get back into the game without having to take on the apocalypse.

Sam hasn't seen hide nor hair of Castiel since they parted ways in Illinois, and secretly he's rather relieved. It's not that he doesn't trust the angel, but there's something to be said for 'out of sight, out of mind.' If he doesn't think too hard about it, he can almost pretend to himself that the Seals aren't breaking even as they wait around, that the end of the world isn't just around the corner. When he does allow himself to think about it, he tells himself that the angels are all simply busy defending the other Seals, that if they truly needed the help of two mortal hunters ―one of whom was having trouble keeping reality separate from delusion on a good day― then they would come and ask for it.

Somehow he's not surprised when Dean doubles over in pain in their motel room. It doesn't prevent him from quietly freaking out while he tries to find the hex bag that must be secreted away somewhere in the room. It's been two days of food turning into maggot-riddled filth and decapitated rabbits and people spitting up sewing needles, and the feeling of having seen it all before is so strong that Sam ends up losing his lunch more than once. The hex bag is nowhere to be found, and blood is beginning to bubble at the corners of Dean's mouth. He clutches at Sam's arm, mouth working soundlessly, his face contorted in pain, and Sam feels a wild flutter of panic against his ribcage.

“Stay here,” he says, smoothing a hand over Dean's forehead, already beading with sweat. “I'm going to go find her, make her stop this.”

“What? Who?” Dean coughs, and blood drips down his chin. “Sam... don't―”

Sam doesn't listen, knows he can't afford to stay. The math is simple: if he stays, Dean dies. So he leaves him curled in a ball on the bed, choking on the pins that have materialized in his stomach, and tears off back toward the witch's house. He finds the coven magically negotiating a better mortgage rate for 'Renée,' of all the stupid uses for magic he's heard of. Two of the women shriek and try to scramble away from him, but he's not interested in them: he already knows who's behind all of this. He can smell the demon blood pumping through Tammi's veins even from where he stands.

“I know what you are,” he tells her.

“Nice dick work, Magnum,” Tammi smirks, her eyes flicking black.

Sam just rolls his eyes. “Renée, Elizabeth, go now. Run, and don't look back, you hear me?”

“Tammi... what's wrong with your eyes?” Elizabeth stammers from where she's cowering on the floor. Luckily for her, Renée has a better sense of self-preservation, and grabs her by the arm, pulling her away and out the front door.

“Come on, Elizabeth!”

They're not even through the front door before Tammi's arm comes up in a sweeping motion clearly meant to casually toss Sam into the wall across the room. He stands his ground, calmly tucks his handgun back into the waistband of his jeans. Her head jerks up in surprise, and he feels a cold smile spread over his face.

“Yeah... that demon trick? Doesn't work on me, Tammi. You're not nearly powerful enough,” he says, advancing on her slowly, relishing the sudden fear coming off her, so strongly he can smell it. “Not even Lilith can match me, you know,” he continues quietly, backing her up against the wall.

“H-how do you know about Lilith?”

He traces a finger along the line of her throat, feels a thrill run through him that he hasn't experienced in a long time. Power surges through him, thrumming in his veins.. “I know about a lot of things, Tammi. You're too low on the totem pole, no matter what you think. You're a medium-sized fish in a tiny, tiny pond. Barely worth noticing.”

“Lilith will have your head on a plate,” she spits, and the scent of fear, heady and powerful, grows even stronger.

“But not before I end you,” he murmurs.

It would be simple enough, he thinks, just to slice open her throat, laid bare before him already. He can almost taste the blood, feel it slide over his tongue, warm and familiar, copper and sulphur blending together. The demon whimpers, and he shakes himself, pulls back, just as footsteps sound from behind him.

“Sam!”

He brings up his hand, clenches it into a fist ―the gesture at once alien and familiar. A terrible choking, coughing sound comes from the demon's throat, and slowly, inexorably, smoke begins to trickle from her mouth. The trickle becomes a flood, and the air fills with the smell of brimstone as the smoke dissolves into the floor. Tammi ―or what's left of her― crumples in a heap, and Sam staggers, has to put out a hand to brace himself against the wall so as not to follow her example. There's something warm and wet running over his mouth and chin, and when he brings up his fingers to touch it he's not surprised when the tips come away crimson.

“Sam!” Dean ducks in front of him, hands on his shoulder. “Sammy, talk to me!”

“I'm okay, Dean. It's just a nosebleed.”

“Sam, what the fuck was that? How did you do that?”

He grins, and knows how ghastly he must look. “Turns out I didn't need the magic feather after all.”

*

Dean half-drags him back to the Impala, doesn't bother so much as checking to see if Tammi is still breathing. He shoves Sam into the back seat, presses a handful of diner napkins from the glove compartment to stem the flow of blood.

“Hold that there,” he says curtly. “Keep your head back.”

He does as he's told, trying to keep his hands from shaking. His head hurts, but not nearly as much as he thinks it should. His mouth is filling with blood, and he leans out the open door to spit on the ground.

“You okay?” he asks, spitting again.

“Yeah, I'm okay. Whatever that bitch did, seems to have stopped now.”

“How'd that happen?”

“I thought it was when you, uh, did ―whatever that was. Stopped her mojo, or whatever.”

Sam shakes his head. “I heard you come in before that. Couldn't have been what I did,” he looks up, and Dean looks away, stares at nothing in particular.

“Huh. Well, I dunno. Whatever it was, it stopped. I don't know about you, but I'm thinking this is a gift horse and I'm not gonna look it in the mouth.”

“We should get you checked out, just in case. See a doctor. Make sure there's no permanent damage.” He knows Dean is lying to him ―Dean's never been able to lie convincingly to anyone in their family― but calling him on it now is going to lead to the kind of argument that he doesn't have the energy to deal with. At least, that's what he tells himself.

“Yeah, okay.” If nothing else, the ease with which Dean agrees to medical help should be an indication of his state of mind. “I'm taking you back to Bobby's. Whatever's going on with you, it's obviously not over.”

*

“You're strong, but not that strong yet,” Lilith says. She looks different from the last time Sam saw her ―all gussied up in Ruby's borrowed body. It's all grown-up and pretty, she'd said. He thinks maybe she got a taste for possessing people other than little girls from that moment.

“So why don't you throw me around, then?” he challenges her.

“Because I can't, and you know it.” She steps toward him, with a smile that reminds him of nothing more than a young girl mimicking her older sister's seduction technique in the mirror. “You're immune to my charms. Seems we're at a stalemate.”

“Why are you here?”

“To talk,” she says simply, and sits on the bed, crossing one shapely leg over the other.

He scoffs. “Yeah, well, I'm not interested.”

“Even if I'm offering to stand down? From the Seals, the apocalypse, all of it?”

“You expect me to believe that?” But he's already wavering. He wants this all to be over, desperately, and he knows she can tell. The bait is there, and in a moment she'll have him: hook, line, and sinker.

“Honestly? No,” she smirks. “But it's the truth. You can end it, Sam, right here, right now. I'll stop breaking Seals, Lucifer keeps rotting in his cage. All you have to do is agree to my terms.”

He's missing something. Something crucial.

“Why would you back down? Why now?”

*

They make it back to Bobby's in record time. Dean doesn't so much as hint at seeing a doctor, and Sam doesn't push. Figures he ought to pick his battles, and since Dean isn't puking up blood anymore, he's going to count this one as a win. Dean pointedly doesn't mention the fact that Sam just exorcized a demon using only his mind, and Sam lets it go, feeling an inexplicable pang of loss at his brother's lack of fury.

He isn't sure why he's surprised to find a hex bag sewn into the lining of one of his jackets the next day. He sits cross-legged on his bed, holding it in the palm of his hand. Wonders just what the hell to do next.

*

The migraine hits in the late afternoon, and by the time the light dwindles into evening, Sam thinks that there's a very real possibility that his head is going to split right open, kind of like that time Dean didn't aim his machete right at that vampire. He's curled into a tight ball on his bed in Bobby's spare room, both arms wrapped around his head in a futile attempt to block out what little sound and light there is, which is already precious little. Even the sound of his breathing ratchets up the pain levels to the limits of his endurance. The one pill he did manage to take before collapsing on his bed is doing absolutely nothing, and right now even the thought of moving to try to get another one is laughable. Well, it would be laughable if it didn't hurt so much to laugh.

The door creaks on its hinges and he flinches, sending another stabbing pain lancing through his skull. He swallows, willing himself not to be sick. The whole room is throbbing in time with his heartbeat, red spots pulsing behind his eyelids. Rubber-soled feet scuff lightly across the threadbare carpet of Bobby's guest room.

“Sam?” the voice is whisper-quiet. “You asleep?”

“D'n?” Distantly he recalls that slurring his words is a bad sign.

“He ain't back yet.” Bobby, then. More scuffing sounds, and then fabric sliding against wood as Bobby pulls the chair closer to the bed. “You take anything?”

“Pill. Couple hours 'go, th'nk,” he tries to curl up tighter, but there's nowhere to go. Even talking hurts, the words bouncing off the inside of his skull.

“It ain't helpin', I take it?”

“No' s'much.”

“You bad enough for a hospital?”

“No. 's okay.”

“Stubborn idjit.”

He hears Bobby get up and fuss with something on the top of the small chest of drawers in the room ―where all his medications are sitting, lined up in the order in which he's supposed to take them. A moment later and the bed sinks under Bobby's added weight, and Sam can't quite bite back a moan at the unexpected movement.

“Sorry, kid, I know it hurts. Gonna give you one of them injections, okay?” Like Dean, Bobby talks him through the process, keeping his voice to a low murmur as he pulls up the sleeve of Sam's t-shirt and carefully swabs his arm with a disinfectant wipe. “Easy does it. You're gonna feel a little prick ―don't even think of jokin', boy― and you're done,” he rubs Sam's arm once, careful to avoid the injection site.

“Wh'r's D'n?”

“I don't know. He's been gone all day, remember? Don't you worry about him, all right? I'll get him to come in and see you the minute he's back.”

“'kay. 's not us'lly gone th's long...” Sam tries to look up, which turns out to be a spectacularly bad idea, and he has to press his face back into his arms and breathe through the flare-up of pain. He almost misses Bobby's next words through the haze of crimson that settles over him.

“I know. You just sleep off that headache, and I promise Dean'll come as soon as he's back ―right after I kick his fool ass for makin' me worry. Okay?”

“'kay... Bobby?”

“What?”

“Uh... we need to look up...”

“It can wait.”

“No, it can't. Vessels. For archangels. C'n you do that for me? Can't c'ncentrate for shit... Dean an' me... s'pposed t'be in our blood. In case we can't stop Lucifer now. Look it up for me?”

A hand drops softly on his shoulder, and even that small contact is enough to make him want to throw up. “Okay, Sam, sure. I'll see what I can find about vessels. But you better sleep, you hear me?”

“'Kay. Bobby?”

Bobby can't quite mask the exasperation in his voice. “Go to sleep, boy.”

“You'll look after 'im, right?”

“Who, Sam?”

“D'n. Wh'n I'm not 're 'nymore. Needs lookin' after.”

Bobby sighs, rubs his shoulder with his thumb. “Ain't no call to talk like that. We're gonna figure this out, boy. Don't you worry.”

“Y'need to l'k after 'im. Pr'mise me?”

“Sure, kid. But you know I would anyway. Now sleep before I knock you out and make you.”

“Righ'. Sleepin'.”

He drifts halfway to sleep after a while as the pain recedes, only half-rousing when he feels something warm being pressed to the back of his neck. He murmurs a protest at the contact, feels himself being gently pulled over to lie on his back.

“Easy, boy,” Bobby's gruff tone comes from far away, and a cold gel pack is laid over his eyes, leeching away some of the remaining pain. Sam sighs quietly, feels the muscles in his shoulders and neck unclench, settles back into a deeper sleep than before.

*

The room is still dark when he awakens to the sound of the front door opening and closing stealthily downstairs. Carefully he reaches up and pulls off the now-warm gel pack, gingerly opens his eyes, one at a time, waiting for the clenching, thrumming pain to return. He's pleasantly surprised when it doesn't, and he risks slowly turning on his side. When that doesn't hurt either, he pushes himself to a sitting position, feet flat on the floor, and takes a moment to catch his breath, to make sure the room won't start spinning. He feels light and heavy at the same time, as though his head might float clear of his body if he moves too fast. Voices drift up the stairs in loud whispers.

“Oh! Uh, Bobby. Hey. Uh, you weren't waiting up, were you?”

“Boy, I ought to take the skin off your backside. Do you know what time it is?”

“Hey now,” Sam can almost hear Dean bristling. “I don't know if you noticed, Bobby, but I'm not sixteen years old anymore. Last I checked, I ain't accountable to you, or anyone else for that matter.”

Bobby blows out a breath. “No, you ain't, but I'd still consider it a courtesy,” he stresses the word with as much irony as he can muster ―and for Bobby, that's quite a lot, “if you'd do more'n leave a cryptic note before you disappear for almost twenty-four hours and leave me and your sick brother to worry if you're okay. Or at least turn your damn cell phone on!”

“I did! The battery just ran out, okay? Is Sam okay?”

“He's okay. Got one of them headaches, but he's been sleepin' fine for the past few hours.”

“Shit, another migraine? That's the second one this week.”

There's a pause, then Bobby speaks again, more softly. “Come on, boy. Let me get you a beer. Then I'll let you go and check on your brother.”

Sam gets to his feet, testing his balance, makes his way to the top of the landing, the tips of his fingers brushing against the wall as a precaution. Even the dim lighting in the hallway makes him squint, but compared to before the discomfort barely registers. He slips down the stairs in his bare feet, grateful that he's still able to move quietly even after everything that's happened, then hesitates about two-thirds of the way down as the stairs start to tilt alarmingly in a way that stairs are not meant to tilt, ever. He shuts his eyes, grabs onto the stair railing with one hand, eases himself to a sitting position and puts his head between his knees, wonders when exactly it became an insurmountable chore to descend a flight of stairs.

“You gotta talk to your brother,” Bobby's saying from the kitchen. “He's worried about you, and that ain't helpin' him get better.”

“Yeah, well, he doesn't have a monopoly on worrying.”

“Boy, sometimes I just want to shake you until your teeth rattle. You've been sneaking in and out of here like a cat in heat, and don't tell me you're just out drinkin'. I know who you're going to see. I may be old, but I ain't blind, and I sure as hell ain't stupid.”

Dean sighs, and Sam can picture him dropping his gaze to stare at his beer, rubbing a hand over his mouth the way he always does when he feels guilty. “She's been helping, Bobby, you know that. Look at what she did with the Colt. Without her, it'd be useless.”

Sam's head snaps up in surprise at that ―another mistake, as the room lurches again. He knew Dean and Bobby were working on the Colt, trying to see what made it tick, but without the special bullets, it was just a regular revolver again, less useful than any modern handgun with a clip, deadly to humans but certainly not to anything like a demon.

“She did us a favour, I'll grant you that, but you can't tell me she's not playing some sort of game of her own. I don't like how much she's messing with you, Dean. She's using Sam to get to you, you know that.”

“I know, I know! It's just... she's helping. Whatever it is, he's hasn't had a single goddamned seizure in weeks, and right now that's good enough. I just... I can't watch him go through that anymore, Bobby, I can't!”

“Because the way he is now is so much better? The boy can't hardly function!”

“But at least he isn't dying!” Dean snaps. “You saw what was happening to him, Bobby. You honestly think he can survive much more of that? The MRIs showed more lesions than last time. Lesions, Bobby! His brain is fucking tearing itself apart. Whatever else Ruby might be up to, she's helping him.”

“So you're willing to let her lead you by the nose right into hell?”

“If that's what it takes.”

“Dammit, Dean,” Bobby exclaims, though he keeps his voice quiet. “You and your Daddy... you're just itchin' to throw yourselves into the Pit. Do you really value yourself so little?”

“That's not it.”

“Then enlighten me, please.”

There's a scraping sound, from where Dean is presumably twisting his beer bottle between his fingers on the table top. “He already died once, Bobby, and, uh... I thought... I just... it's worse this time. I thought nothing could be worse than that, but now I have to watch him go, piece by piece, you know?” There's a pause, during which neither man says anything. Sam can picture Bobby waiting patiently while Dean fumbles for unfamiliar words. “It ―he barely makes sense anymore. He keeps going on about things that sound crazy, even by our standards... He thinks I died, Bobby. Wakes up screaming from those nightmares, and nothing I can say makes him think any different. What the hell am I supposed to do? Just sit by and let him fall apart?”

“No, of course not... but this?”

Dizzy or not, Sam realizes with a pang of guilt that he's been eavesdropping, and that's not exactly the kind of thing that builds trust with your brother. He takes a breath, pushes himself back to his feet, praying that the floor stays where it's supposed to, and manages to make it down a couple more steps before he stumbles again.

“Sam?” Dean is in the kitchen doorway in a flash, hurries over to put a hand on Sam's arm. “Bobby said you had a migraine. What're you doing up?”

He looks up at Dean, squinting against the light from the ceiling fixture, and manages a sheepish grin. “Felt better. Heard you come in, thought I'd come down, 'xcept I'm kind of dizzy now.” It's not a lie.

Dean squats in front of him, puts up a hand to feel his forehead. “You got a fever?” It's a legitimate question, Sam reminds himself as irritation surges through him in a brief flash. He does get fevers sometimes, with the really bad migraines. He shakes his head.

“No, maybe before, but I'm okay now. Just a little dizzy.”

“Think food would help? I can make soup.”

“C'n I have a sandwich instead?” Sam grins again, trying not to let on just how quickly he's started to feel sick again. “Tired of soup. It's like I never have anything else these days. Soup's for sick people.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Yeah, 'cause you're obviously healthy as a horse. Fine, I'll make you a sandwich, princess. Come on, can you stand if I help you?”

“Sure. Was doing pretty good on my own there, too, for a minute. Baby steps,” Sam mutters, letting Dean hoist him to his feet and half-drag him to the kitchen, where Bobby is still sitting at the table, two half-empty beer bottles standing at either end of the table. “Hey, Bobby.”

“Should you be up?”

He shrugs. “Better'n being down.”

“Smartass.”

Sam pulls out of Dean's grasp, slides into a chair at the table and leans his elbows on it, resting his head in his hands. “Dean promised me a sandwich. And I figure now's a good a time as any to tell me why you've been lying to me for weeks, right Dean?”

*

“Sam, what are―”

Sam holds up a hand to interrupt. “Dean, come on. I know I haven't exactly been on the ball lately, but I'm not an idiot. Please don't treat me like one.”

“Sam...”

“Okay, I'll start. Communication's a two-way street, right?” he promised himself he wouldn't get angry, but it looks like that's yet another promise he's going to break. He reaches into his jeans pocket and pulls out a small cloth packet, one that fits easily in the palm of his hand. “So I found this earlier today. After you left, but before the migraine started. I was going to ask you about it, but, well, you weren't here. Were you planning on telling me that you planted a hex bag in my clothing? 'Cause, y'know, I'm curious.”

Bobby's eyes are wide, but at a look from Sam he bites his tongue.

Dean is leaning against the counter, gripping the edge with both hands, staring resolutely at the floor. “It's not like that.”

“Oh no?” Sam tosses the bag on the table. “Then what is it like, Dean? You're always bitching about witches and bodily fluids and sacrificing rabbits, and the next thing I know, you're squirrelling goddamned hex bags into the seams of my clothing. What the fuck?”

“I'm just trying to keep you safe.”

“By using witchcraft? That's the goddamned opposite of safe, Dean!”

Dean shoots Bobby a desperate look. “You want to weigh in here, now would be a good time.”

Bobby raises his hands palm-outward. “You're doin' a fine job of digging your own grave, son. You don't want me helping you, trust me.”

The migraine is gone, but Sam's already starting to feel the familiar creeping sensation coming back, of seeing two realities at once. The last time he saw a hex bag like this one, he's pretty sure he's the one who made it. He stares at the small bundle, trying to remember what it does, what would happen if he tore it apart right here on the table. He keeps his voice down, but it cracks with anger anyway.

“You going to tell me where you've been going? Or do I have to guess? I've always been good at charades.”

That's good, Sam. You keep fanning that fire in your belly. All that pent-up rage. I'm gonna need it.

“Sam―”

“How about you start with the girl you've been meeting? The one who helped you put the Colt back together. The one who probably showed you how to make this cute little thing,” he flicks a finger at the hex bag. “What's her name?”

Dean blows out a slow breath. “Ruby.”

He isn't surprised. “How long?”

“Since Illinois. Peoria.”

If there was anything left in his stomach, Sam is pretty sure he'd be throwing it up right about now. Looks like the sandwich isn't such a great idea after all. “She's a demon, Dean.” He doesn't know how he knows this, but he does, with the same certainty he knows his own name.

“She's helping us.”

Sam scrubs a hand through his hair, barks out a bitter laugh. “God, I should be on the other side of this conversation. You know she's a demon, right? Demons lie, Dean. They lie like they breathe.”

Dean pushes away from the counter, paces the length of the kitchen. “I know! I know all that, you think I don't? I just... I don't see too many options, here, Sammy. She's got knowledge that'll help you, that's been helping you, and you can't tell me to just ignore that and let you―” he stops abruptly.

“Let me what? Die? I'm not going to die, Dean. Not from this.”

“How do you know?” Dean snaps, looking up at Sam for the first time since this argument started. “How can you possibly know that? You're not the one who has to sit back and watch every time you collapse and seize and practically choke on your own spit, Sam! Whatever the hell that guy did to you, it's ripping you apart, and I won't stand by and let it just happen.”

“Castiel didn't do anything to me, Dean.”

“That's not what he said.”

Sam grinds the heel of his hand into his eye in frustration. “I mean, he didn't do anything bad. This... this isn't his doing. It's... I guess it's like a side-effect of what he did. He brought me back, that's all.”

“That's all,” Dean repeats, his expression indecipherable.

“Yes, that's all!” he says irritably.

“You really want to pick a fight over this, Sammy?”

Just as Sam feels the last thread of his temper snap, Bobby gets to his feet, motions to both of them to be quiet. “We got company,” he says, jerking his head in the direction of the front door and reaching for one of the shotgun he keeps by the kitchen door at all times.

Instantly Sam is on his feet, all thoughts of the argument brewing with his brother forgotten, and he manages to stay upright without wavering, adrenaline surging through him. He bolts through the kitchen door on Bobby's heels, Dean right behind him.

“Guys, wait!”

Sam comes to a halt a few paces away from the front door, mouth agape in an expression he's quite sure is mirrored on Bobby's face. Ruby is standing there, hands on her hips, one hip jutting out at a saucy angle. She glances down at the devil's trap on the floor, arches an eyebrow at them, and smirks.

“Are you guys just going to stand there, or are you going to let me in?”

*

“Sammy, long time no see,” Ruby drapes herself over the arm of Bobby's sofa. After a heated argument about the merits ―or lack thereof, rather― of breaking the devil's trap, Dean eventually won out, and Bobby is now carefully touching up the paint job, shooting them all baleful glares as he does so.

“It could have been longer, for all I care.”

Ruby places a hand over her heart. “Oh, Sammy, you wound me!”

“Don't call me that.”

Her face grows serious. “Fine. You can thank me for saving your life later.”

He snorts. “I seriously doubt that.”

Dean physically interposes himself, stepping between where Sam is leaning against a table and the demon. “I'm assuming you're out of your self-imposed witness protection program for a reason, right?” he says to Ruby. “What's going on?”

“Lilith,” she says tersely. “The Seals are breaking faster than ever ―faster than anyone thought possible. The demons are working overtime.”

“What do you care?” Sam asks, feeling his face heat up in spite of himself.

“I care. If I didn't, would I be helping you?”

Sam snorts at that. “Sure you would. Demons lie all the time. You can't expect me to believe you're doing this out of the kindness of your heart. What's your angle? What do you want?”

“I want you to stop Lilith.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Look, believe me if you want to, I don't care,” Ruby rolls her eyes as though asking some unseen power for the patience she doesn't possess. “I don't really give a damn about you two chuckleheads. If I had any choice in the matter, I'd be avoiding your particular brand of self-sacrificing crazy, but right now you're the only game in town. The angels are losing this war.”

Sam feels himself grow cold. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, in the past week, twelve Seals have broken. Dozens of angels are dead, destroyed or sent back to where they came from. Every day is one day closer, and if someone doesn't do something...”

“Then the Devil goes free,” Dean finishes quietly.

“Wait a minute,” Bobby breaks in. “If all this is happening the way you say it is, how come we ain't heard about it. Sam, you're supposed to have an in with that angel, ain't you? How come he ain't said anything?”

Sam shakes his head. “I haven't heard from him in―” he stops, then reaches in his pocket and pulls out the hex bag. “That's what this is,” he breathes. “I knew I'd seen it before. You've been keeping us hidden. From the angels, from everything.”

“Someone had to do it.”

“And the stuff Dean's been giving me... that was never Bobby's recipe.” He doesn't need to see the shocked expression on Bobby's face to know he's right. “What was in it?”

She shrugs. “Nothing harmful. Just something to keep you from flopping on the ground like a dying fish. I know a thing or two about this stuff ―which is why your brother isn't currently dead from a stomachful of needles, I might add.”

“You've been drugging me.” He turns to Dean, eyes burning, feels his throat closing up. Finds himself wishing he wasn't so damned weak, for once. “Why? Why would you do that?”

Dean still won't meet his gaze. “It's not like that, Sammy. She's just trying to help. You can't see what this vision shit is doing to you ―you can't see it the way I do. It's killing you, Sammy, and I... I just―”

“What, you did it for my own good? Like the―” he almost says 'panic room,' chokes on the words before they can come out of his mouth. The panic room was for his own good, but it never happened, or hasn't happened. Bile burns at the back of his throat, and he swallows hard.

“Okay, can we just skip over the melodrama?” Ruby says impatiently. “Every day is one day closer, and if someone doesn't do something...”

“People are gonna die?” Sam says sarcastically. “And you said I was being melodramatic. People die every day. How is drugging me going to help that?”

“It's not just that people are gonna die, Sam. It's hundreds of thousands of people. Oceans of people. Lilith breaks the final Seal, and Lucifer's gonna bring hell to earth. And you're the only one who can stop her, Sam. You and Dean, but mostly you. Destroy Lilith, and it all goes back to the way it was.”

“Cut the head off the snake, is that it? The problem with that line of reasoning is that the snake has a thousand heads. You know that, Dean, you're the one who said it to me.”

Dean's head jerks up, and he meets Sam's gaze for the first time since Ruby walked in. “What? What are you talking about?”

“In Sioux City, the death transference spell...” Sam trails off, headache spiking again. “Shit.”

“Sam?”

“Never mind. Hasn't happened. Different timeline.”

“More of your déjà vu that isn't déjà vu crap?”

“It's not crap. I should've figured something was wrong when Castiel stopped showing up. It was all too convenient: you decided to 'take a break' at the same time as he disappears? I should've known.”

“Sammy...”

“No!” Abruptly he pushes away from the table. “I've had just about enough crap, from the both of you. You can't see it, Dean, but she's manipulating you. She's rotten to the core, and you can't trust her. I'm ending this, now.” He uncurls his fist from around the hex bag.

“No!” It's Ruby's turn to yell. She throws herself at him, reaching for the bag, but it's too late.

With a twist of his fingers, he rips the packet apart, sprinkling its contents onto Bobby's carpet.

*

“You're a fool, Sam Winchester,” Ruby spits. “A damned fool. I ought to kill you where you stand, and I'd be doing us all a favour.”

“I'd like to see you try.”

“Woah!” Dean whips around to face her, and Sam can practically see realization dawning as his body language changes. “No one's killing anyone! I've been letting you hang around because you've been helping, but you change the deal, and all bets are off, sister.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Sam sees Bobby slip from the room with a surreptitious nod in his direction. He keeps his gaze trained on Ruby and Dean, careful not to betray his movements.

“I don't know what lies she's been feeding you, Dean, but I can guarantee you they're lies.”

“Look, I never thought we should trust her―”

“Hey!”

Dean ignores the outburst. “But she's been useful, Sam. She's kept you from having those goddamned seizures, for one. And she wants Lilith iced as badly as we do.”

Sam folds his arms across his chest, leans back against the table. “Do you?”

Ruby cocks her head to the side. “Let's just say she's not my biggest fan. Not since I cheated her of you. It's not too late, Sam. You can still beat her, still prevent her from breaking the final Seal. You kill Lilith, and things go back to the way they were.”

What do you want?

For it to go back to the way it was. Before I had angels to deal with twenty-four/seven. When it was all baby blood all the time.

“All baby blood, all the time,” he mutters, pinches the bridge of his nose, eyes screwed shut.

“What?”

“I know you.”

“You said that before, but I'm telling you, I'd remember if we met. I haven't been on earth in... well, a very long time.”

I know it's hard to see it now... but this is a miracle. So long coming. Everything Azazel did, and Lilith did. Just to get you here. And you were the only one who could do it.

Sam clutches at the table with his free hand, trying to keep his balance as memories superimpose themselves. “Fuck...”

“Sam?” he senses rather than sees Dean edging toward him, slip a hand around his elbow, grounding him.

Because it had to be you, Sammy. It always had to be you.

“She's working for Lilith. Or she may as well be working for her,” he forces his eyes open, blinking even in the dim light of Bobby's living room. “I saw her, Dean.”

“You mean you saw her, saw her?” Dean asks, and he nods, swallowing hard, as his vision blurs and doubles again.

*

“You think I want to do this? This is the last thing I...” he's avoiding Ruby's gaze. “But I need to be strong enough.”

“It's okay. It's okay, Sammy, you can have it.”

She draws the knife from her ankle sheath, draws it across her arm, and he's moving, gripping her tightly, mouth clamped over the cut, sucking at the blood welling there as she murmurs reassurances and lies.

“It's okay, Sam. It's okay.”

*

“It's not okay...” he chokes, thinks he might vomit. He can smell the blood in her, and he wants it. God, he wants it. He comes close to doubling over, hand over his mouth to keep from puking.

“Sammy?”

“It's blood. Demon blood. God. I remember.”

*

“Monster, Sam. You're a monster.”

“Dean, no!”

“And I tried so hard to pretend that we were brothers. That you weren't one of the filthy things that we hunt. But we're not even the same species. You're nothing to me.”

“Don't say that to me. Don't you say that to me.”

He's talking to an empty room.

*

Sam forces himself to straighten, to keep the dry heaves under control. “Demon blood. So I could kill Lilith. In the drink. I remember,” he looks up at Ruby, whose expression is unreadable. “You were different, then, but you never changed. The long con. Two years, and you lied and fed me the blood and told me it was the only way.”

“You're confused,” she says calmly. “The potion's meant to help, that's all.”

He turns back to Dean. “Did you ever watch her make it? See what she put in it?”

Dean shakes his head, eyes wide, frightened at the yawning chasm of possibilities that's opening before him. “No,” he whispers. “I never did.”

“Demon blood. What the Yellow-Eyed Demon wanted all along. 'S how I can do all of this.”

“The demon stuff?” Dean asks, and he nods. “Fuck. Sammy...” Unable even to finish his sentence Dean steps forward, blocking Ruby's access to Sam, and Sam finds himself smiling. Dean's always been better at action than words.

Ruby's face becomes a mask of anger. “You ungrateful bastard. After everything I've done for you, for weeks, for weeks now ―after putting my ass on line and pulling yours out of the fire more times than I'd like to count, you're just going to turn on me on his say-so?”

Dean shrugs, the fury on his features matching her own. “Pretty much. Lying bitch.”

Sam sees it coming before his brother, and barely has time to launch himself forward before, with a flick of her arm, Ruby throws Dean across the room. Sam catches hold of him before he can land too hard, and the two of them roll several feet across the floor before coming to a halt in a tangle of arms and legs. She strides toward them, throws her head back in a laugh.

“Pathetic. I should have known neither one of you had the balls to take on Lilith. I should have cut my losses a long time ago.”

“Coulda woulda shoulda,” Bobby steps up behind her, levels his shotgun, and empties both barrels full of rocksalt point-blank into her back.

She staggers, trips, lands hard on the floor as Bobby pulls a flask of holy water out of his belt, and Sam guesses he's trying to drive her backward into his study, where there's another devil's trap painted on the ceiling. It seems that Ruby is no one's fool, either, because she stops moving back.

“This isn't how it ends,” she says.

Then she throws her head back and screams loud and long. Smoke pours from the mouth of the body she was occupying as she deserts it, leaving it sprawled lifeless and cold on Bobby's floor.

*

Chapter Text

*

“I've seen the end,” Sam tells Dean, his nose and mouth filled with the stench of burning rubber. He's desperate to tell him before it all shatters into a million tiny pieces and gets away from him. “I've seen it, Dean, and it's bloody and terrible.”

“Shut up, Sam,” Dean is trying to get him to lie down, but he resists, his struggles pathetically weak now. It's important he get through to Dean, he thinks. They've run out of time.

“No, please. You have to listen to me. It has to do with the vessels. Are you listening?”

“I'm listening. Please just lie down while you talk, okay?” Dean's tone is desperate, a little panicky. “Vessels. See? Totally listening.”

His mouth is filling with saliva at the unpleasant taste, and he swallows, makes a face. “We're the vessels. Did Bobby tell you? That's why it―”

“Sam, please! Just shut up.”

“It's important. Ruby never said ―maybe she never even knew― but it was supposed to be me. It wasn't you, the first time... she kept telling me you weren't strong enough, kept feeding me lies. I was so angry I couldn't see straight, and I was ―it wasn't me who saved you, it was Castiel, and I was angry and alone and I let her...” he has to stop, can feel his thoughts fraying around the edges.

“Sam, you can tell me afterward. Just lie back, okay”

“Shit,” he murmurs. “Can't even get this right.” He digs his fingers into Dean's arm in a useless attempt to keep the seizure at bay. “It was me. I started it, do you understand? The last time. That's why I came back. We were the vessels, and it was my fault. It needs to be different this time, except I can't remember how it's supposed to go.”

“Okay, okay. Just... God. We'll handle that in a few minutes, okay?”

“I can't―” the world flashes white, and he feels his mind shatter, the pieces scattered to the wind.

*

“Just... take it easy, okay? Put the knife down,” Sam says, trying to keep his voice from shaking.

Reggie is holding onto Lindsey, all rough edges and scalding hatred, but he puts his Bowie knife down on the bar. Lindsey is staring at him, eyes wide and scared behind Reggie's arm. They've all lost sight of what's important, he thinks, looking at the terror in her eyes. Hunters are supposed to protect people like her, and now he's put her in danger twice over.

“It's true,” he says, locking eyes with Reggie, keeping the hunter's attention on him. “What the demon said, it's all true.”

“Keep going.”

“Why? You gonna hate me any less? Am I gonna hate myself any less? What do you want?”

“I want to hear you say it.” Anger is radiating from Reggie, hatred seeping from his pores.

Sam nods once. It's an affirmation, as much to himself as to Reggie.

“I did it. I started the apocalypse.”

*

“It's all unravelling,” he says, once he's awake again, back in the familiar bed in Bobby's spare room. Someone is coaxing water into him, and he's not sure where Bobby is, but he can hear the older hunter's voice, talking to someone far away ―telephone, he figures out after a moment. He opens his eyes, expecting to see Dean, is surprised to find Castiel there, holding a glass to his lips. Sam grins.

“Florence, long time no see.”

The angel frowns. “That's not my name.”

“Never mind. Where's Dean?”

“Not here.”

“You're really frustrating to talk to.”

Castiel tilts his head to the side. “It's not my intention, but I have other matters to attend to.”

“We're losing, aren't we? It hasn't changed.”

“We are losing,” the angel confirms. “Most of the Seals have broken. Our numbers are dwindling faster than ever.”

“Did you find the traitor?”

“Traitor?”

Sam reaches up with a shaky hand to take the glass of water away from Castiel, drains the contents. “You're different from... you're more like when I first met you. Do you remember what happened the last time around?”

Castiel tilts his head. “It's complicated. I don't see things the way you do ―it's not in my nature. I don't experience time in a linear fashion.”

“So you do remember? I remember, and it's turning my brain to mush.”

“Yes.”

“Uriel was killing the angels, the last time.”

“Uriel is long gone. He and Anna no longer exist the way you think of them.”

Sam sits up slowly, and to his surprise, Castiel puts a hand under his elbow to help him. “Did... do you remember pulling Dean out of hell? Even though it never happened now?”

“I remember. It's not something easily forgotten.”

“So you're still...”

“Yes.”

He leans back against the headboard, lets his eyes close for a moment as his whole body sags with relief. “Good. I can't do this on my own, and Dean thinks I've lost my mind. Sometimes I think he's right.”

“You haven't lost your mind. Not yet. But you are losing your grip on this reality. It's not as real to you as the other one, and that is dangerous.”

He nods tiredly. “I get it. The other one lasted longer, you know.”

“I know. It was also more ―emotionally fraught. I understand that it is difficult for you, and... I wish there were more that I could do to help.”

Sam blinks, forces his eyes open again. “Are you still, uh, fallen?”

“I'm not sure I ever was. I am still mostly cut off from Heaven, if that's what you mean.”

“What if I can't stop Lilith?”

“You can. That's not the issue.”

Everything Azazel did, and Lilith did. Just to get you here. And you were the only one who could do it.

“I'm missing something. What am I missing?”

“I can't tell you.”

“Fuck!” he slams a palm on the bed in frustration. “Why not? What was the point of bringing me back if you can't help me? Nothing makes sense, and every time I try to figure it out I end up bleeding or puking or having a seizure.”

Castiel surprises him by reaching out and smoothing a hand against his cheek. “I am sorry. It's not that I don't want to ―he means as much to me as he does to you, I promise. I told you why it is important that you remember on your own. I'm still bound by many of the same rules as I was. I will intervene where and when I can, as I did before, but the more I change my own behaviour, the worse it will be for you. Your mind is not withstanding the stresses of the process well.”

“You, uh. You didn't bring me back. Not the same way as Dean. I remember the end. I was... I don't know, exactly, but I didn't die, did I?”

“You died, but not then. You were dying. I simply transferred your consciousness back into your body.

“Do you remember the final Seal?”

Sam shakes his head. “Only parts of it. Ruby, and the blood... she brought me to the edge and I jumped off, and I was happy to do it. She's been using Dean to feed it to me.”

“I know. The hex bag kept me away. I am sorry I could not stop it.”

“Not your fault. I don't understand why I'm not... detoxing, or whatever.”

Castiel tilts his head. “You don't remember the end.” It's a statement, not a question.

“I remember Dean died...”

“I cannot tell you, then. But you do not need to fear 'detoxing,' as you call it. You are beyond that now.”

He lets his eyes close in something that feels like defeat. “I thought I was doing the right thing. I was so convinced, but I caused the end of the world.”

“Yes.”

Sam sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose. “Whoever fights monsters should see to it in the process that he does not become a monster. And if you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you.”

“I don't understand that reference.”

“It's a quote. I turned myself into a monster in order to fight the monsters.”

“You're not a monster, Sam.”

There's a gust of wind, and when Sam looks up again, Castiel is gone. Somehow, though, this time he doesn't feel quite so alone.

*

I know it's hard to see it now... but this is a miracle. So long coming. Everything Azazel did, and Lilith did. Just to get you here. And you were the only one who could do it.

Because it had to be you, Sammy. It always had to be you.

*

June 6th dawns overcast and muggy in New York City, and it's on that morning that Jethro Bridges turns sixty-six years old. He drags himself out of bed and into the bathroom, where one of the two light bulbs above the grimy sink sizzles and shorts out as he drags his razor blade over his chin and mentally reviews today's lesson plan. He curses under his breath and taps the bulb with a fingernail. Nothing. He's going to have to replace that later. He brushes his teeth, gets dressed ―right leg first, same as always― and wonders whether he ever consciously made the decision to have a wardrobe that consists almost entirely of tweed, or whether it's something that just happens to all teachers over time, kind of like erosion.

He picks up the briefcase he packed last night in one hand, and his guitar in the other, takes the bus to work, because parking near the school is a bitch, and despite being a year past retirement he's got nothing to show for it except a head full of grey hair, roomfuls of ungrateful teenagers, and not even so much as a parking spot on the school grounds. It's his birthday, he thinks morosely as a very large, very sweaty man invades his personal space and shoves his armpit in Jethro's face as he hangs onto the high bar. It's his birthday and all he has to look forward to is to try and instil the basic principles of the English language, and then accompany some lacklustre flautists on the guitar so that their parents will believe they're getting a well-rounded education.

Jethro is so plunged in his thoughts that he doesn't notice the difference in heft in his guitar case until he gets to school. He sets it down on his desk, flips it open, and his feels his eyelids flicker in surprise when he finds a sturdy-looking semi-automatic twenty-two rifle with a well-oiled wooden stock in the place of his customary guitar. He stares at it for a moment, then trails a finger wonderingly over the barrel, along the stock.

This is it.

Somewhere further down the hallways the sound of a couple hundred kids singing the national anthem off-key and without much enthusiasm wafts toward him, and he knows that, finally, today is the day that's going to change everything. He picks up the rifle, enjoying the heft, and slips the clip into place with an audible “snick.” He brings it up, checks the sights, and he smiles when it nestles sweetly against his shoulder.

Jethro whistles cheerfully through his teeth as he takes the rifle in a ready carry down the hall. He steps into the gymnasium where the kids and teachers are gathered, makes sure to lock the door behind him. He takes a deep breath, brings the gun to bear, and recites Walt Whitman in his head as screams erupt all around him.

*

Sam comes awake with a muffled yell, and pulls back just in time to prevent himself from accidentally hitting his brother in the face. Dean is sitting half-sprawled on the bed and has him by both shoulders, has obviously been trying to shake him awake. When he's sure Sam is coherent enough not to lash out at him again, he pulls him upright and lets him cling, shaking.

“Just a nightmare, Sammy. You're okay.”

He shakes his head, buries his face in Dean's chest, not caring that he's acting like a six-year-old with night terrors. “Kids. They were just kids, and he killed them all.”

“Who?”

“I don't know. A teacher. God... he just killed them, like they were nothing. He was reciting poetry, Dean.”

He feels Dean shake his head. “People,” he says softly, then brings up a hand to brush Sam's hair away from his forehead. “You okay?”

“It's a Seal. Rufus said it was a Seal.”

“Rufus hasn't called in weeks, Sam,” Dean keeps running his fingers through Sam's hair, the movement soothing. “Bobby has him looking out for omens and all that, but we haven't heard from him lately. You think you can get back to sleep?”

“Lilith's broken nearly all the Seals,” he says, listening to the steady beating of Dean's heart. “It was all supposed to change, but I keep getting it wrong. I don't know if I can change it. I wanted to change it... make up for all the things I did. I never even apologized to you, not properly. 'Sorry' is such a stupid, inadequate word. Use it too much, but I can't think of a better one. I didn't mean to betray you. You know that, right? I was just trying to do the right thing. I just screwed it all up, and then you died anyway. I just want to make it right.”

Dean huffs out a small sigh, lets his hand go still and rest on Sam's head. “Let's just concentrate on getting you better. Then we'll find that bitch and end her. I promise.”

Sam doesn't move, keeps leaning on Dean's chest. This probably makes him a girl forever in Dean's books, but he doesn't care anymore. Right here, right now, it's safe, and he hasn't felt safe in a very long time. “You know I'm not crazy, right?”

“Sure, Sammy.”

*

A dying nun lies draped, bleeding, over the altar of her church. Her priest's eyes glow briefly, a flash of yellow.

“Lilith,” the voice that dribbles from her lips is anything but human. “Lilith can break the seals.”

*

“We need to go after Lilith,” Sam says finally, on a day when the world is being kind enough to stay still and not split up into nausea-inducing double-visions of what is and what was supposed to be and what might have been. He can't tell how much time has gone by anymore, days and hours and years blurring together. “The Seals are breaking faster and faster. The angels are losing.”

He's curled up on Bobby's sofa, in jeans and his favourite t-shirt, bare feet tucked under him, coffee cup cradled in his hands. The coffee is the one point on which he's refused to budge. Giving up alcohol is one thing, but the coffee is the only thing that keeps him functional on a good day, and neither Dean nor Bobby are really wishing to push it.

“I thought your angel was supposed to be on top of that,” Dean says, not bothering to mask his sarcasm.

“He's not my angel,” Sam mutters.

“What?”

“Nothing. Anyway, he hasn't shown up in weeks. I thought it might have been the hex bags, but I haven't seen him since then. I don't know what's going on, except that we're losing. We should be trying to find her.”

“And how do you propose we do that? How are we supposed to know where she is? She's been five steps ahead of us the whole time, Sam!” Dean is pacing, frustrated. He looks up at Sam. “Shit. Sammy...” he looks around until his eyes land on the roll of toilet paper Sam has taken to keeping with him, then tosses it to Sam. “Your nose is bleeding. Again.”

Sam doesn't even bother swearing. Just sighs, rolls his eyes a bit, and pinches his nose shut with a wad of the paper. “Bobby, did you ever look up that thing about the vessels?” he asks through the paper, sounding as though he's got the world's worst head cold.

Bobby doesn't look up from where he's seated at his desk, taking notes. “Not much that's useful, as usual. Two thousand years of the telephone game, and a whole metric ton of people who've read way too much Milton. Mostly it's a ton of pseudo-religious crap about bloodlines and Cain and Abel and crap like that. The only remotely interesting thing is this one really obscure passage that's reportedly from one of the unpublished gospels, and relates the war between Heaven and Hell. It ain't as pretty as Paradise Lost, but prophecy don't have to be written in iambic pentameter to be accurate.”

Sam smirks. “Iambic pentameter?”

Bobby just rolls his eyes. “What? You think you're the only one who can be educated?”

He ducks his head with a smile. “Sorry. It's just, first I find out Dean reads Vonnegut, then you suddenly know how to speak Japanese and know words like 'iambic pentameter.' Forgive me if it takes me a while to get over my preconceptions.”

“How'd you know I read Vonnegut?”

“You told― uh,” he stutters, pulls more toilet paper off the roll as blood seeps onto his fingers. “I remember, but it didn't happen. Please don't make me explain more, I think I'm going into hypovolemic shock, here. Bobby? Prophecy?” he gets up, moves to look over Bobby's shoulder at what looks like the reproduction of a thirteenth-century depiction of the battle between Heaven and Hell, Lucifer on the ground beneath Michael's sword, his blood seeping into the earth in a circle around his body.

“Right. Well, it ain't exactly a prophecy. More like a fable. A passage about when the archangel Michael puts Lucifer away in Hell. Something about using the bonds of brotherhood to seal the final lock on the cage. Damned if I can make heads or tails of it. If I had any say in this, I'd hire technical writers to write down these things. At least then we'd get a user-friendly manual.”

Dean snorts. “Where would be the fun in that? Now we have all the added fun of trying to make sense of allegory on top of all our other problems. At this rate I'm going to start bleeding from the nose.”

“Funny,” Sam mutters. “Easy for you to say. You're not Lucifer's meat suit if he gets out.” He traces a finger over the illustration in Bobby's book. “I've seen that circle of blood before, somewhere.”

“What do you mean, meat suit?”

“Bonds of brotherhood... the angels need vessels before they can fight it out,” Sam taps a finger on the page. “I think the true vessels always have to be brothers. It's why it was you and me. Has to do with bloodlines, although I never did buy the whole Cain and Abel thing. Cain and Abel never had any descendants. Abel died right off, and Cain did the whole East of Eden thing and all the descendants came from Seth.”

Dean gives him a flat look. “Could you be a bigger geek? I'd smack your head, but I might dislodge what little is left of that giant geek brain of yours. Also, I'm not entirely sure what you said.”

“Vessels. It's how we stopped it the first time. You have to give consent before they can possess you, but it was the only way to make it work,” blood drips past the hand Sam has clamped over his nose. “Shit,” he mutters, feeling the floor tilt beneath him. He shuffles away from the desk, drops into a chair. “Michael lied. Said he'd leave you intact when you said yes. Fucking angels.”

“I thought they were supposed to be on our side? That's what you said.”

He lets out a huff of laughter. “Just Castiel. The rest are all a bunch of lying dicks with wings. Lucifer included. Should never've fallen for it. Being a vessel sucks.”

“I'm not even going to pretend I understood that. Anyway, we'll all be better off if Lucifer never pops free at all. So we find Lilith, ice the bitch, and Satan can keep rotting in his cage. I don't suppose there's any leads on where she is?”

“None,” Bobby growls, clearly frustrated. “I've been scouring all the sources I have, and nothing can tell me what Seals she's aiming for, let alone where she's gonna head next. Some of the Seals ain't in specific locations, anyway. You ought to know that better'n anyone. It ain't possible to track an event which doesn't have a specific location.”

“Like the Witnesses. Or the teacher in New York.”

“The fishing boat,” Dean nods, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sam, did you, uh...”

“Have a vision about the final Seal? No. Other Seals, but I don't exactly have control over the rest, and that stuff Ruby made screwed with the visions for weeks.”

“I'm sorry.”

He shakes his head. “Don't. I don't want an apology. I don't. That's not what this is about. Whatever she made you do, it was nothing compared to what I did for her, okay?”

“Keep your head back. That bleeding doesn't stop in another couple of minutes, I'm taking you in,” Dean squats near his chair, chucks him under the chin to force his head back. Blood trickles into Sam's mouth, and he grimaces as he swallows.

“It's fine. You're not listening.”

“I am listening. You're not making sense. Again. Ruby hasn't even talked to you more than twice.”

“Not in this lifetime. You didn't see what I became. It could still happen. I still want it, you know. The blood. I can smell it on them, and it terrifies me.”

“Dean, what's he talkin' about?”

“No idea. Sam?”

He feels himself slipping again. “Demon blood. I don't want to go back there. Fucking terrible. Can't go back, I swore to myself I wouldn't.”

“Where, Sam?”

Burning rubber. “Sorry, I can't... happening again.”

The world falls apart.

*

In the middle of the Nevada desert, a man who calls himself Gideon even though he was born Thomas Neville Jr. lines up three women and a man before him. All the same age, all with black hair and brown eyes. They stand compliant in the light of the moon, naked and unashamed, the blindfolds white against their hair. The thin rope binding their hands behind their backs is unnecessary, but he doesn't want to take any chances. He calls the four corners, puts the man to the North, the three women in the other corners.

He starts with the man, works widdershins, and spills their blood into the sand. By the time the police catch up with him, it's too late.

Gideon goes down in a hail of bullets, Lilith's name spilling from bloodied lips.

*

Things get less confusing when Sam is asleep. Sure, his dreams aren't exactly relaxing most of the time ―watching his brother die is pretty much the definition of his worst nightmare, and the rest of the nightmares and visions all seem to involve bloody death of some kind― but there's no sense of wrongness about the dreams the way there is about his waking hours. He sleeps more because, in his dreams, he doesn't have to fight to keep himself anchored in reality. When he awakens, reality hits him like a sledgehammer: the headaches double in intensity and frequency, and sometimes he imagines he can see the second timeline unfolding just out of the corner of his eye, that if he just turns his head, the entire world will turn itself upside down and plunge him right back into the abyss he thought he'd left behind.

He's not sure if it's Dean or Bobby who calls in reinforcements, but his money's on Bobby: Dean has always been a little too keen on trying to work things out on his own to be comfortable asking anyone else for help. The first indication Sam gets that they might not be entirely on their own is awakening on Bobby's sofa ―he must have drifted off again, he thinks fuzzily― to the sound of quiet voices nearby.

“Shouldn't we wake him?” the voice is soft, definitely feminine.

“Let 'im sleep for now. He's exhausted. They both are, but Sam's worse off. Ain't nothing we can do tonight anyway. May as well all get some shut-eye before the shit really hits the fan.”

“Where's Dean?”

“Out under the hood of one of the junkers out back. Sulkin', I'm guessing, after everything that's happened. That demon girl got him turned around six ways until Sunday, and he ain't takin' it too well.”

Sam shoves himself up onto his elbow. “'s not his fault,” he mutters, scrubbing at his eyes. “She lied.”

“Hey Sam,” the owner of the first voice crouches next to him, comes into focus a moment later. “I'm sorry we woke you.”

“It's okay, I sleep too much anyway, these days,” he smiles, trying to wipe the worried expression off Ellen's face. “It's good to see you again,” he adds.

To his surprise, she gathers him into a fierce hug. “You too, kiddo.”

There's a soft laugh. “Hey, do I get a hug, or am I just chopped liver over here?”

His head snaps up. “Jo!” He's on his feet in a flash, so fast that Jo actually takes a step back, startled, and he wavers, trying to find his balance. Once he's sure he's not about to fall over, he takes a step toward her, hesitates as, fleetingly, an image of Jo lying on the floor of a hardware store, blood saturating a makeshift bandage around her stomach, superimposes itself on his vision. “Uh, I―” he stops entirely, hand stretched toward her, feels a little foolish, and she misunderstands his hesitation.

“It's okay, Sam. I don't blame you, or anything. You were possessed, right? Wasn't your fault.”

She closes the distance between them, and lets him put a tentative hand on her shoulder. He swallows a sob that threatens to tear itself loose from his chest, scrubs at his eyes, gathers her into a hug. She feels terribly small and fragile in his arms. So easily broken. “I didn't think I'd ever see you again.”

Jo rolls her eyes. “God, are you always this melodramatic?” she pokes him gently in the ribs, and he huffs a small laugh.

“No, sorry. I just... things happened differently the last time,” pain spikes in his head as he speaks, the sound of snarling hellhounds echoing in his ears, Jo screaming as invisible claws tear open her stomach, spilling her intestines into the air.

“Sam?” she staggers a bit as he's suddenly forced to lean on her for balance. “Maybe you'd better sit back down...”

Bobby catches him by the elbow, pushes him back onto the sofa. “You need anything, Sam? Your meds?”

He shakes his head. “No. I... I just... they're dead. So I have to get used to them again. That's all. I'm okay.”

“What are you talking about?” It's impossible to miss the worried look Jo gives her mother and Bobby. “We're not dead. We're right here.”

“Is he always like this?” Ellen asks, and Bobby nods.

“Pretty much. It's hard to make any sense of what comes out of his mouth these days. Some days are better than others.”

Sam pulls his hands away from where they've been pressing against his eyes, a feeble defense against the vertigo that keeps threatening to make him keel over. “I'm right here, you know. Can understand everything you're saying. I'm not crazy, and I'm not stupid. It's just hard to sort out which memories are real, that's all.”

Jo slides next to him on the sofa. “Sam, that's pretty much the definition of crazy. You know that, right?”

“Right,” he presses the heel of his hand to his forehead. It's become an automatic gesture now, although it does nothing to help the pain or the feeling that he's about to throw up. “I know. Can't help it. It sounds crazy, but it's not.”

“Bobby's told us some of it. You think this might have something to do with those visions you get?” Ellen asks, and he shrugs.

“Indirectly, maybe. I can't explain it right. I ―my thoughts go all screwy when I try. It's... I've lived through all of this before, except the further I go, the more it all changes,” he swallows hard as his stomach roils in protest, and the image of Jo sitting next to him on the sofa begins to fade, replaced by its more horrific counterpart. He closes a hand around her wrist, feeling for her pulse, trying to anchor himself, leaning back against the sofa cushions, eyes slipping shut.

“Sam?”

“Making sure you're real,” he mumbles. “I keep seeing the other you, the one the hellhounds got, when we went after Death. She seems more real than you, even though you're here. God, my head hurts. Sorry. Side effects. Castiel told me it's because the other reality's more real to me than this one. That's what's screwing me up. I'm sorry, I can't―”

“You don't have to apologize. It's not your fault,” Jo gives his knee a squeeze. She's humouring the crazy guy, he can tell, but he can't really blame her. “You should go back to sleep. We'll find Dean, have him fill us in on the rest.”

“Rufus has been keeping us up to date, for the most part,” Ellen says to Bobby, but loud enough for Sam to hear. “We're running out of time, aren't we?”

Sam's already having trouble keeping his eyes open when Bobby's answer registers dimly. “Yeah, we are.”

*

Ellen and Jo take Castiel's appearance a lot better than Sam would have given them credit for. Then again, they took it well the first time, too. The angel is sitting at Bobby's kitchen table, stiff and awkward in his trench coat, but he's smiling uncertainly as Ellen lines up a row of shots of tequila before him.

“Is this a rite of passage?” Castiel inquires.

“Something like that,” Ellen grins, and drains one of her shot glasses without batting an eye.

Sam gets up from the sofa, heads over to the old cassette player that's collecting dust on one of Bobby's shelves, and pulls out some of the cassettes that Dean has left here over the years. He sorts through them, finds the one he wants, and soon the strains of Santana's “Oye Como Va” are drifting through the room. Dean drops onto the sofa, beer bottle in hand, and throws him a quizzical look. He shrugs, smiles.

“It just seemed like something was missing. I figured Santana was a good way to go.” He catches sight of Bobby in his study, stretching up on tiptoe to grab a book off a shelf, and has to fight away the sudden certainty that it's all wrong, that Bobby shouldn't be able to do that, not now, not here. That he should be in a wheelchair and that it's Sam's fault.

“Good to know my taste is finally rubbing off on you,” Dean smirks, but his expression says he hasn't missed Sam's falter.

Castiel is methodically draining the tequila shots while Ellen looks on approvingly and Jo gawks, her beer forgotten in her hand. “I think I'm beginning to feels something,” he tells Ellen seriously after his seventh shot, and Sam brushes by, snags a beer from the fridge before sinking down on the sofa next to Dean.

“Even when he was mostly human, it took an entire liquor store to get him drunk. I don't think it's going to work. Angels don't get drunk. It's a shame, it'd probably help.”

“Sam.”

He twists off the cap, takes a drink. “Last night on earth. I figure it's worth a beer.”

Dean turns to look at him. “You know something I don't?”

It's too hard to explain. Instead he slides over until he's pressed up against his brother, leans against his shoulder. “I know lots of things you don't. Nothing specific. Just remembering the last time this happened.”

“You know you're not making sense, right?” Dean's hand comes up to rest briefly on his head, the gesture rough and comforting.

“Haven't made sense in weeks,” he takes another drink, which is a little harder to manage while cuddled up against his brother. He figures Dean has to be worried, if he's letting him get away with this. He grins as another memory surfaces. They should be at a table for this, but he'll take what he can get. “Thank you for your continued support.”

Dean snorts. “Moron,” he says fondly, clinks their beer bottles together. “You shouldn't be drinking.”

Sam ignores him, reaches up to toy with the amulet still around Dean's neck. “Glad you kept that. It's not useless, you know.”

His brother shifts uneasily under him. “Of course I kept it. What's with you tonight?”

“Nothing. Just taking advantage... I'm glad you're not gonna throw it away this time. You won't, will you?”

“Don't be stupid. I'd never do that.”

He huffs a laugh. “No, I guess you wouldn't. Not now.”

At that moment Bobby comes back into the living room, brandishing a camera and a tripod. “All right, everybody get in here, it's time for the line-up. Usual suspects in the corner.”

Ellen rolls her eyes and laughs. “Oh, come on, Bobby. Nobody wants their picture taken.”

“Hear hear,” Dean says over Sam's head.

“Shut up, you're drinkin' my beer,” Bobby grumbles good-naturedly. “Anyway, I'm gonna need something to remember your sorry asses by. I plan out outlivin' all of you damn fool chuckleheads.”

Ellen snorts as she pushes Castiel and Jo ahead of her, while Dean shakes his head with a smile, and pulls Sam to his feet, leaving their beers behind. “Always good to have an optimist around,” she says, settling into place in the center of the frame.

Dean puts an arm over her shoulders and another around Jo's waist ―eliciting a smack on the wrist when his hand strays a little too far and a mocking laugh. “You wish, jackass,” she smirks, and he just shrugs and grins back.

“Can't blame a guy for trying.”

“Try again and you're going to lose the arm. Then my mom'll castrate you.”

Dean flinches, and Sam laughs. He stands behind Castiel, accustomed to standing at the back of photographs since he grew over a foot at the age of sixteen. Castiel is looking awkward, but not nearly as much as the last time they did this.

“It'll be nice to have everyone smiling this time,” Sam says. The angel nods, and Sam feels a surge of gratitude that, for once, he's not the only one who understands what he's saying.

Bobby sets the timer, and hurries back in time to stand between Castiel and Ellen. “All right, everyone say whiskey!”

Sam smiles as the flash goes off.

*

Ellen comes to find him on Bobby's porch. He's sitting on the top stair, leaning against the railing, staring up at the stars, leaving Dean to hit unsuccessfully on Jo. He's relaxed, smiling, and Sam can't remember the last time he saw Dean this much at ease, so he quietly removes himself. No sense in reminding Dean of all the reasons he has to be tense and unhappy.

“Sam, honey, are you all right?”

He doesn't move. “You mean right now?”

She lowers herself onto the porch next to him. “Sure, let's start with that.”

He lets a smile play over his face. “I'm okay. Watching the stars. Haven't done it in a while.”

“They're very pretty,” Ellen says noncommittally.

“Dean taught me when we were kids. Only ever learned three constellations. Always meant to learn more of 'em. I can always find the North Star, though. Foolproof.”

“Yeah?”

He nods carefully. “Trick is to remember to look for it. Otherwise it's easy to get lost. Forgot that for a while.”

“What are you saying, Sam?”

He shrugs. “It's hard to explain. I kind of,” he pauses, trying to find words that will make sense to both of them, “I kind of got lost for a while. It's why I had to come back, this time. Do it differently. I screwed it up, last time around. “

Ellen sighs. “You're not making much sense. What do you mean?”

Sam chews on his lip, closes his eyes as Ellen's face swims out of focus, becomes tear-stained and fearful, her hand wrapped around a detonator as she waits for the hellhounds to come through the door. He feels sick.

“Sam?”

“I just don't want everyone I love to get hurt or die anymore.”

He can't help but flinch at the first feel of her fingers against his face, brushing his hair away from his forehead. “I know you still feel bad about your father, Sam, but it wasn't your fault. He made his choice a long time ago.”

He huffs a laugh at that. “I keep forgetting most of it hasn't happened yet.” He opens his eyes, sees the incomprehension on Ellen's face, and tries to explain himself again. “I'm sorry, I know how crazy I sound. I just... it's hard. It's getting harder to tell things apart, and I can't ―I keep seeing the wrong things. Saying the wrong things. I can't tell what's real anymore.” He searches her face for a sign of comprehension, sighs when he sees none. “I'm still not making sense, am I?”

“I'm sorry, sweetie, but you're not.”

“Sorry.”

“It's not your fault, Sam. We're just worried about you.”

“I know,” he lets his eyes close again. It's easier to focus on the present when he's not seeing two realities fight for dominance with each other. “I didn't think it would get this bad. Still would have done it, though. It's the only way to put things right, you know?”

Ellen smooths his hair again, but doesn't say anything.

“Ellen?”

“Yeah, Sam?”

“If this,” he makes a vague, all-encompassing gesture with one hand. “If it doesn't get better... I asked Bobby to look out for Dean, but I think it might be at least a two-person job.”

“Don't talk like that, Sam. You're going to be fine.”

He snorts. “Everyone keeps saying that. I'm just hedging my bets, 'kay? Cas will help too, if you let him.”

“The angel?” Ellen sounds dubious.

Sam grins at the memory. “He's all right, for a nerdy dude with wings. And he's... I don't know. But he'll want to help, if it's for Dean. Will you do it?” he fixes her with a stare, waiting for her answer.

“You don't even have to ask, you know we'll look after your brother. You boys are the closest thing I have to sons.”

He nods, feeling the last of his energy reserves draining already. It's depressing, he thinks, how quickly he gets exhausted these days. “Thanks.”

“You ready to head inside?”

“Nah,” he tilts his head back toward the sky. “Think I'm gonna stay out here for a while. Tell Dean not to worry?”

She gets to her feet, pats his shoulder. “That'd be about as useful as asking a fish to breathe out of the water.”

With a last, sad smile in his direction, she turns and heads back into the house, leaving him alone to stare at the stars.

*

“Ruby's still in the picture? How is that even possible? And boy, don't make me kick your ass by telling me you've stayed in touch.”

“Come on, Bobby, it's not like I'm palling around with her! She had my number before, and I didn't exactly have time to change it the last few days.”

Dean is pacing again, back and forth in front of the sofa where Sam has been spending most of his waking hours, his cell phone lying shut on the table. Ellen, Bobby and Jo have seemingly taken up permanent positions at Bobby's large table, maps and books spread out haphazardly over the surface. Castiel has pulled a vanishing act, presumably off defending more Seals, or something, while the rest of them try to figure out the last pieces of the puzzle. Sam stares at his brother mutely, trying to rid himself of the image of wrapping his hands around Dean's throat in a hotel room far away, choking the life out of him, trying to prove how weak and wrong he his. Shards of the broken mirror litter the floor of the honeymoon suite he rented for himself and Ruby.

“You don't know me. You never did. And you never will.”

“You walk out that door, don't you ever come back!”

His breath catches in his throat, and he forces himself to breathe through the memory. It's not real anymore, he reminds himself. Just a bad day. A very bad day. Nothing he's said has made any sense, and Castiel isn't there anymore to make things clear. Dean is still talking.

“She says she knows where Lilith is going to be. We know Lilith has to break the final Seal, right? So why shouldn't we use the insider information?”

“Well, because it's a trap, for one,” Bobby says, rolling his eyes.

“Of course it's a trap, but if we know it is, then we can go in prepared.”

“No, you can't! She knows you're onto her, and that should be enough to tell you that no matter what you think you're up against, it's going to be worse, and they're going to be ready for you. You go after Lilith, you die. End of story.”

Dean smacks a fist into the nearest wall.

“Watch the drywall, boy. You break that, you're redoing all of it.”

“We can't just sit here and do nothing!”

“You think nothing is what we've been doing for the past three days?” Jo snaps. “I get that you're worried, Dean, and we all know what's at stake here, but going off half-cocked isn't going to help. If our positions were reversed, you'd say the same to me.”

“Yeah, well, they aren't reversed.”

“Sam, honey?” Ellen breaks in before Dean and Jo can start yet another argument. “You with us?”

He nods, not trusting himself to speak.

Lilith is dying against the altar, laughing, taunting him."You turned yourself into a freak. A monster. And now you're not gonna bite? I'm sorry, but that is honestly adorable." She's skinny, skinnier even than Ruby, and he wonders if she got her taste for possessing skinny blonde women from possessing Ruby's body that one time. Before that, it was always little girls. It's easier to kill her, this way.

“You got anything to say, Sam? 'Cause now would be a good time to weigh in,” Dean snaps.

"Listen to me, you bloodsucking freak. Dad always said I'd either have to save you or kill you. Well, I'm giving you fair warning. I'm done trying to save you. You're a monster, Sam -- a vampire. You're not you anymore. And there's no going back."

“No going back,” Sam repeats quietly.

“Fuck!” Dean looks as though he's about to punch the wall again before thinking better of it.

“Sam, honey,” Ellen repeats, her voice soft, as though she's talking to a frightened animal or a slightly retarded child. “Do you understand what we're saying?”

He nods. “Yeah.” One-word responses are safe, easy enough to manage.

“Okay, good. You said you've dealt with Ruby before, right? That whatever happened to you, or didn't happen, or whatever, she was there, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. So... is she on the level with this? Does she know where Lilith is?”

“Uh...” he scrubs at his face. “Yeah.”

“You don't even know how hard this was! All the demons out for my head. No one knew. I was the best of those sons of bitches! The most loyal! Not even Alistair knew! Only Lilith! Yeah, I'm sure you're a little angry right now, But, I mean, come on, Sam! Even you have to admit: I'm ―I'm awesome!”

“It's wrong, though,” he manages. “Can't trust her. Lying.”

“But she's telling the truth about this,” Dean insists. “I know she is. We can go in, take Lilith out. End of problem.”

Ellen rises from the table and draws Dean aside by the elbow. Sam is pretty sure she doesn't mean for him to overhear them, but amidst the fog of all his thoughts, their voices are clear as warning bells.

“Are you sure that this is really about killing Lilith?”

“What else would it be?”

“Dean, sweetie, I know we haven't known each other that long, but I know ―knew― your father, and you're a lot like him. You think we can't see what this is doing to you?”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Dean says stubbornly.

“I'm talking about Sam,” she says gently. “He's a lot worse now than he was before. I know it has to be tearing at your heart, sweetie. Killing Lilith might stop Lucifer from being freed, and I'm not saying that's not a good thing, but you have to be realistic about this, too. Whatever's wrong with Sam, getting rid of Lilith might not stop it.”

“I know that!”

“Do you?” she counters, her voice still impossibly gentle.

“I still have to try. Look at him ―I promised my Dad I'd keep him safe, and I'm failing. It's the only job I ever had that mattered, and I'm failing, Ellen. He died, and there was nothing I could do, and now I've got him back... I can't let him go again. Not like this. If killing that demon bitch doesn't work, I'll just find another way.”

Sam raises his head, sees his brother staring at him, chewing on his lip. He smiles at Dean, but the smile fades when Dean averts his eyes, ducks his head to avoid meeting his gaze, and he thinks that maybe, after all this, he's lost his brother after all.

*

St. Mary's Convent in Ilchester doesn't look as sinister without the bloodied cadavers of nuns strewn about the pews, but the air is crackling with energy as Lilith sets up her altar. She's wearing a frilly white dress with pink trim, and white leather shoes with rhinestones in the shape of a heart on her tiny feet, and her blond hair has been pulled back into two intricate French braids tied together with matching pink ribbons. She uses one white-clad foot to kick the demon at her feet in the ribs.

“I can't reach that high. Hold still so I can stand on you,” she snarls. The voice is a child's, but the tone is anything but childlike.

She clambers on the creature's trembling back, and carefully strikes a match, looking for all the world like just another little girl lighting the candles on the dining room table for a fancy dinner party thrown by her parents. She turns, still standing on the demon's back as another of her servants approaches, shaking with fear, and hands her a blood-filled chalice, which she accepts with all the solemn concentration of a child her age. Then she smiles, bright and happy.

“Don't be afraid,” she says. “We're going to save the world!”

*

“Lilith is the Final Seal. She dies, the End begins.”

*

Sam comes to on the floor of his bedroom, tasting copper in his mouth. Every muscle in his body aches, and as he shifts, he can feel that his jeans are soaking wet, the rough fabric clinging to him. His head throbs, and he blinks painfully against the dim light, his thoughts a shattered mess. He thinks he might be coming apart at the seams, like a rag doll that's been thrown around a few too many times. A few moments later, Jo's anxious features come into focus above him. She puts both hands on his shoulders to hold him down when he tries to sit up.

“Don't move, Sam. You had a really bad seizure, we're gonna call an ambulance, okay?”

“No.” The word comes out as an almost soundless rasp. “Dean. Where's Dean?”

“I don't know. I heard you fall, but he was gone when I came in. I don't know how long he's been gone.”

“Lilith. He's gone after her. We have to stop him. Let me up.”

“No. Let me and Mom and Bobby deal with him, okay? You need a hospital, you've been seizing for over five minutes. You're bleeding, Sam...” she bites her lip, and he can hear the hitch in her voice as she swallows tears. “Please, just let us handle it.”

“Cas...”

“The angel?”

“Is he here?”

“No. Why would he be?”

“Cas! Castiel!” he means to shout, but it comes out as more of a strangled groan. “Please...”

It's enough. He recognizes the almost-silent gust of wind, and Jo gasps. A firm hand wraps itself around his wrist, the grip achingly familiar. This time, he's not dying. Not yet.

“I am here. I am sorry it took so long.”

“We have to go,” Sam tells him, staring directly into the very blue eyes of the angel. “He's making the same mistake I did. I remembered too late.”

“It's not too late. The Seal remains unbroken to date.”

He whimpers. “God, it hurts. I... this is what you meant, right? Why you couldn't tell me.”

“Yes.”

“Not too late?”

Castiel's grip tightens. “Not yet.”

“We have to go now,” Sam lifts his head, pain sparking behind his eyes. “Before I can't anymore...”

“No!” Jo breaks in. “Look at him! He shouldn't go anywhere but a hospital. Just tell us where to go, and we'll do it.”

Castiel just shakes his head. “I will tell you, and you should follow. You will be needed there as well. But I must take Sam ahead. It is why I brought him back. He is the only one who can stop this.”

“It'll kill him!” Jo hasn't broken her tight grip on Sam's other arm. “You can't!”

Sam struggles to a sitting position, frees his hand from Castiel's, and places it on top of hers. “It's why he brought me back, Jo. I have to do this. I'm going to die anyway if I don't go. At least this way there's a chance. I don't know how to explain it so that it'll make sense, but I already died, and... I have to do this so Dean won't. Please, this is his only chance. Do it for him if you won't for me.”

Her eyes shine for a moment, and he knows he's won. She bites her lip, blinks hard, and lets go of his wrist before looking at Castiel. “Where are you going?”

Sam answers, to her surprise. “Ilchester. St. Mary's Convent.”

“How the hell did Dean get there?”

He shrugs. “Don't know. Last time it took me days.”

“Last time?”

“Can't explain it now. Just get there as fast as you can, okay?”

“Okay.” She's already on her feet and out of the room, yelling for her mother and Bobby.

“They'll never make it in time,” he tells Castiel. “Can you come back for them?”

“You will be facing Lilith alone.”

“I've done it before. Besides, I won't be alone. Dean will be there.”

Castiel nods. “Very well.”

Castiel pulls him to his feet, holding him up as though he weighs nothing, though his knees are buckling and he's shaking so hard his teeth click. There's a flash, entirely unlike his visions, and yet there's a comforting familiarity about it. He finds himself standing before the massive wooden doors of the convent, and there's a rush of air as Castiel departs again, leaving him staggering at the sudden absence. He drops to one knee, dizzy, forces himself up again on trembling legs. He half-expects to see Ruby at his side, urging him on.

Here goes nothing, he thinks, and barely manages to get through the heavy doors before they slam shut behind him with a resounding crash.

*

“Dean!”

There’s not much point in yelling. Dean is already pinned to a wall, Ruby’s demon-killing knife lying a few paces away on the stone floor. Lilith has her back to Sam, the hem of her little white dress already stained crimson.

"You're not nice at all," she's saying to him. "You were supposed to come play with me, and bring your brother, too, and instead you brought a big old knife and no cake. I don't like you at all."

"Lilith!" Sam cries. "Wait!"

She spins around, and Dean drops in a crumpled heap to the floor, his eyes glazed. She claps her hands giddily, revealing a row of perfect, pearly little baby teeth. "Oh, you came! Goody! Now we can all have fun together, just like we planned."

"Where's Ruby, Lilith?" Sam casts about, but the demon is nowhere to be seen.

"Oh, I decided I didn't like her anymore. She outlived her usefulness. She was supposed to bring me you, but she brought the useless brother instead." She jerks her head, blond tresses bouncing against her shoulder blades, and that's when Sam catches sight of Ruby in another body -a brunette this time- lying sprawled just to one side of the altar, staring sightlessly toward one wall. "I've been waiting all day for you, you know. I was beginning to think you wouldn't show up! And then all my hard work would have been for nothing," she says sulkily, sticking out a very red bottom lip in a pout. "I think I'll kill your brother first. He's no fun, and he said mean things to me. He called me the 'B' word!"

Dean stirs. "Sammy?"

Lilith sneers, and the look is both ugly and terrifyingly wrong. "Sammy's busy playing right now."

"Don't hurt him, please,” Sam hears his voice break. “This is between you and me, Lilith, you know that. You can still walk away from this. You don't have to die."

"Sammy... she's just a kid," Dean is struggling to push himself upright.

"I'm going to snap his neck," the child says calmly. "I like the sound the cartilage makes. Like Rice Krispies. Snap crackle pop!" she giggles, and raises her hand. "You'd better do something, Sam, or your big brother is never going to play with you again!"

He doesn't stop to think about what he's doing. If I look back now, I'm lost. No hesitation. Hesitation means certain death for Dean, and all of this will have been for nothing. He brings up his hand, draws power to himself, and flings the child as hard as he can against the heavy marble altar. Her head collides with the edge with a sickening crack of breaking bone, and he knows that he's just signed the little girl's death warrant as well as Lilith's. He's never heard of any of Lilith's child hosts surviving their possession, and this girl's entire family has likely been slaughtered in front of her eyes, but that doesn't change the fact that he has beyond any shadow of a doubt directly caused the child's death. Lilith slumps at the foot of the altar, mouth agape with surprise, her white dress smeared all over with tiny crimson handprints and the occasional droplet of blood. His head is already throbbing with the effort, and his heartbeat thunders ever more loudly in his ears. Dimly he can hear Dean shouting at him, but all that's left is him and Lilith, life or death, and it all seems inevitable, now. His hand is already up before him, and slowly, excruciatingly, he curls his fingers into a fist, feeling the demon tear itself loose from its dying host. Lilith screams shrilly, white-clad feet kicking incongruously at the floor as black smoke pours from her mouth and her eyes blaze with white light.

Then, mercifully, the screaming stops, and everything is still.

Sam drops to his hands and knees as an impossible amount of blood begins to trickle out from beneath Lilith's corpse, tracing a familiar wheel pattern on the flagstones of the church. The ground begins to tremble, and the air is filled with the shrieking white noise that heralds the imminent arrival of an archangel. Dimly he's aware of Dean scrambling clumsily to his feet and staggering to his side, clutching one arm stiffly against his ribs. Sam is too out of breath, too dizzy to do much except stay exactly where he is and try to catch his breath. Blood drips from his nose to spatter on the floor.

"Sammy?"

He coughs, draws in a shaking breath. "Look, Ma, no magic feather!" he gasps, and giggles a bit hysterically. The noise is almost deafening, but he can still hear his brother, clear as day. He can't see properly, shadows flitting across his vision, giving everything a jerky feel, like stop-motion animation.

"Sammy, what did you do?"

"And it is written that the first demon shall be the last seal. It's prophecy, Dean. I don't know why I thought we'd be able to change it. Not like this. He's coming..."

Dean pulls him up with a grunt of pain, and for a moment they just cling to each other, watching the blood pool before them. "Sammy, I'm so sorry... I was trying to keep you safe..."

Sam just shakes his head. "You can't keep me safe, Dean. No one can. It's okay." He keeps watching the blood so that he won't have to look at the body of the child he's just butchered. "They've needed us from the start. He can't come out unless he has a vessel. Without their vessels, they're nothing. It was all designed to bring us here..."

Whatever you do, you will always end up... here.

He's watching himself say it, but it's not him, and the thought makes him sick. He feels his knees start to give way, and Dean tightens his grip, holding him up, before his vision flashes white.

*

“Why do you think you were in that chapel? You're the one, Sam. You're my vessel. My true vessel.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No, that'll never happen.”

“I'm sorry, but it will. I will find you. And when I do, you will let me in. I'm sure of it.”

“You need my consent.”

“Of course, I'm an angel.”

“I will kill myself before letting you in.”

“I'll just bring you back,” Lucifer says, and sighs. “Sam. My heart breaks for you. The weight on your shoulders, what you've done, what you still have to do. It is more than anyone could bear. If there was some other way...but there isn't. I will never lie to you. I will never trick you. But you will say yes to me.”

“You're wrong.”

“I'm not. I think I know you better than you know yourself.”

“Why me?”

“Because it had to be you, Sam. It always had to be you.”

*

“Sammy, what is that?”

The white noise is impossibly loud, the circle nearly complete, and he's coming apart, feels blood dribbling over his lips and chin. The world flashes white.

*

“You're my true vessel, but not my only one.”

Sam has no memory of his father ever looking this young, but it's not his father, in any real sense of the word. Not this creature that reeks of power and arrogance barely masked beneath a veneer of gentleness. He thinks Dean understands this, too, because his posture is wary, angry.

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“It's a bloodline.”

“A bloodline?”

“Stretching back to Cain and Abel. It's in your blood, your father's blood, your family's blood.”

*

He's on the floor, the cold from the flagstones seeping into his shoulder blades. He doesn't remember falling, but Dean's got him. Dean's face is pinched, anguished.

“What the hell is this, Sam?”

He swallows a mouthful of blood. “You saw it?” He remembers the séance at Pamela's. It seems like a lifetime ago. Two lifetimes. But for the first time, he thinks Dean might understand. Might see.

“I saw,” Dean is trying to pull him to his feet. “We have to get out of here, Sammy. Come on!”

“It's too late,” he grasps Dean's wrist as white flashes in his mind again, and this time, he feels himself dragging Dean in with him.

*

“You won't shoot me, Bobby.”

“Don't test me.”

“You won't do it. You can't do it.”

“We're trying to help you, Sam.”

“Then shoot.”

He reaches out, pulls the barrel of Bobby's rifle so that it's aimed point-blank at his chest. Finds himself praying Bobby will pull the trigger.

*

“I tried, Sammy. I mean, I really tried. But I just can't keep pretending that everything's all right. Because it's not. And it's never going to be. You chose a demon over your own brother― and look what happened.”

“I would give anything―anything―to take it all back.”

“I know you would. And I know how sorry you are. I do. But, man...you were the one that I depended on the most. And you let me down in ways that I can't even... I'm just―I'm having a hard time forgiving and forgetting here. You know?”

“What can I do?”

“Honestly? Nothing. I just don't...I don't think that we can ever be what we were. You know?”

Sam swallows hard, knowing what's coming.

“I just don't think I can trust you.”

Sam watches his brother walk away.

*
Just -- just listen to me, okay? My name is Cindy McClellan. I'm a nurse in the NICU over at Enfield Memorial. I have a husband named Matthew, okay? We've been married six years. He's got to be worried sick about me. And I don't even know who you are, and I'm not gonna tell anybody anything. Please just let me go. No, no! Please, no! Please―”

*

“Sam, what―”

Sam reaches up to silence Dean with one hand. “Never happened. Not anymore. I meant it, when I said I'd give anything... I never meant to betray you. Please tell me you understand.”

Dean keeps looking over at the opening cage, and Sam can feel the fear that's coursing through him. “You can explain it later, okay?”

“No,” he tugs on Dean's shirt. “There is no later. Dean, please...”

The world shatters again.

*

Dean's body is crumpled amidst the rubble, making a mockery of all of Michael's promises. Sulphur and ozone mingle in the air, heavy under the swirling clouds. It's over, and they've all lost.

He can feel blood oozing from his nose and ears, leaking from the corners of his eyes like tears. He can't move, can only watch the clouds above him, and wait to die. He tries not to think of Dean as he last saw him, arms raised in supplication. He shuts his eyes as lightning arcs through him, searing past his eyelids, and everything goes dark.

A hand clasps his wrist, anchoring him in place, fingers feeling for his pulse.

“Dean?”

“No, it's not Dean. I am sorry.” Castiel's voice is a reassurance, a promise of light in the darkness.

“Where is... did he make it? Tell me he made it.”

“I am sorry.”

His eyes must be gone. He can't cry, can't find it in himself to shed a single tear.

“Am I dead?”

“You will be, soon.”

“I couldn't save him.”

“No.”

“Neither could you.”

“No.”

“I tried so hard...”

“I know. We all did. It was too late, Sam.”

“What if it wasn't?”

There's a pause. “What do you mean?”

“What if we could change it? Go back? Do it differently? Can you do it?”

“I can try. But the consequences will be... severe,” Castiel says. “You will likely not survive. And it might not work.”

“I'm going to die anyway.”

“You are sure?”

“Just... just do it.”

*

“Stay with me, Sam. Please. Sam!”

Sam finds himself clutched in his brother's arms. Dean has stopped trying to get away, is holding him to his chest, sitting on the floor next to where Lucifer's cage is opening. He twists to look at where light is just beginning to seep through the cracks in the floor. He's exhausted, wants nothing more than to curl up against his brother and sink into oblivion. His gaze falls on Ruby's knife, lying where it fell, just outside the circle of blood, and suddenly he laughs.

"Sam, what? What is it?"

"I know how to stop this," Sam says. "But you're not going to like it." He pulls away gently, reaches out for the knife, pulling it toward him with his fingertips.

"Sam?"

He looks past Dean, where Castiel is standing just inside the doorway. He doesn't know how long the angel has been standing there, but he thinks it can't have been long. "I'm right, aren't I? It's what Bobby found, about the vessels. The bond of brotherhood."

Dean half-turns to look behind him, surprise registering on his face as Castiel nods. "The blood of Lucifer's vessel will seal the cage anew," Castiel says, and though Sam is sure he hasn't spoken above a normal tone, his voice rises above the shrieking din like a thunderclap.

Sam presses the hilt of the knife into Dean's hand. “You have to do it now.”

"Sam, no. You can't be serious.”

“It was there the whole time. Bobby's research, you remember? And Michael's spear pierced the Lightbringer's heart, and in fire and blood were the bars of the cage re-forged. None but the bonds of brotherhood can seal the Serpent's cage. It's prophesy.”

Dean is shaking his head mechanically, over and over. “No, there has to be another way."

He doesn't look Dean in the eyes, can't bear to see the heartbreak he knows he's about to inflict. "There is another way. We already tried that. It's why Cas sent me back. Please, Dean. You have no idea what the cost was. We have to do this."

"No. No, I won't let you," Dean is shaking his head, voice breaking with unshed tears. "No."

"It has to be you," he says in Dean's ear. "You're Michael's vessel. It has to be you. Please, Dean. I was there, at the end. I'm going to die anyway, no matter how this plays out. Do you hear me? I don't want to go back to the way it was then. I wasn't me anymore. I was a monster... everything we fought against, all our lives. You're the only reason I stayed human as long as I did ―it was all because of you."

“I can't! I can't. Sammy, don't ask me that. Anything but that, please...”

It's already gone too far, Sam. If I didn't know you, I'd want to hunt you.

He feels Dean flinch, knows he saw it as clearly as if he was there, that he saw everything. He pulls his brother in closer, feels him shaking. "This is what Dad was talking about, Dean. It's what he meant when he said you might have to kill me. If I could spare you this, I would, I swear to God. I just... need you to do this. Please. I'm not... I can't do this anymore. Please.”

He watches Dean's face crumple in defeat.

“And... and one other thing after that. I need you to promise me something."

Dean's breath hitches, but his voice almost sounds normal, even as light so pure and bright it's impossible to look at directly begins to pour from the circle in the floor. "Promise what?"

"Promise you won't give up. Dad made you promise to save me, and that's what you're doing. Promise me you won't try to get me back, that you'll keep going."

"Sammy..."

"Promise me." He knows it's unfair, but he demands it anyway, knowing his brother has never been able to refuse him anything. "Promise me, Dean."

Dean nods, and this time he sobs once, quietly, into Sam's collarbone. "Okay. Okay, Sammy. I promise. God... I'm-"

"No. Please, don't say anything," Sam interrupts him, rests his forehead against his brother's. "Just do it quick."

Dean has always been the most skilled hunter of their family, the best Sam has ever known. He barely feels the blade slide between his ribs, lets out a surprised grunt of pain as the knife twists in the wound, and withdraws, leaving him feeling oddly bereft. Dean catches him by the shoulders, pull him against his chest. The shrieking noise is already starting to abate, Sam thinks, trying to believe that it's not just wishful thinking as the edges of his vision start to go dark.

"We did it," he says, smiling. Dean is clutching his hand so tightly that under normal circumstances he's sure he'd be cutting off his circulation. He turns his head a bit, sees Castiel standing off to the side, shadows stretching impossibly long behind him. "It worked."

“It did,” Castiel nods.

“You'll take care of him, right?”

“Of course.”

"Sam..." Dean's voice breaks.

"I know. Just... don't let go yet." He closes his eyes, concentrates on the feeling of Dean's fingers clasped over his, tries not to choke as blood wells up in his mouth, feels his heels scrabbling for purchase on the slick stones as his lungs stop drawing in air. Dean holds on tighter, leans down to whisper fiercely right into his ear so he's sure Sam can hear him.

"It's okay, Sammy. I got you."

~END~

Chapter Text

Thanks

First off, many many thanks to wendy and thehighwaywoman for the tremendous amount of work, effort, passion and dedication that they poured into this challenge. It's a huge undertaking, and with the amount of participants this year, I don't envy them the task of herding all the cats into one corral. You guys are awesome, thank you so much for making the magic possible!

I owe a debt of gratitude so vast I won't ever be able to express it properly to pkwench, who's been my beta, cheerleader, confidant, and constant source of strength through all this. Not only did she fix my writing so that it made sense, was mistake-free and had as much impact as possible, but she put up with endless amounts of angsting, wibbling, and flailing on my part. For months. Months and months. She dealt with the panic attacks, the self-doubt, the hyperventilating when things weren't going the way I wanted, with patience and good humour and graceful aplomb. She nudged when I needed nudging, scolded when I needed scolding, corrected when I needed correcting, and gave pep-talks when I needed pep-talks. She also made a .pdf of the whole thing for me, art included, because she is just that awesome. I couldn't have done it without you, my darling! Mwah!

I also owe lots of thanks to roque_clasique, bellatemple, maychorian, essenceofmeanin, art_savage and smilla02, all the awesome writers at beta_bang who allowed me to flail and angst at them as well about my first-ever Big Bang. You guys got me started, and that's huge.

Furthermore, a big thank you to my friends' list, who also put up with my more generalized flailing and angsting here. Do we see a pattern? ;) You are all awesome, and your support means the world to me. I hope the fic doesn't disappoint after the big giant fuss I made for half the year!

Last but certainly not least: naisica, my lovely and extraordinarily talented artist. Holy crap, woman, but you blew my mind with the gorgeous, gorgeous artwork you produced for this story. Thank you for putting up with my constant prodding and poking, my suggestions and my caveats. I loved the concept you provided, the way you wove the themes of the story together so beautifully in your piece. I have already gushed about your use of light and colour, the mirror effects in your work, and all the things I love about it, but I really can't repeat it enough. I am in awe of your talent, and I can only hope that everyone who reads this story lavishes your art with all the praise it deserves. Thank you for all the hard work I know you poured into this.

Caveat Emptor: The following notes contain major plot spoilers. Either read them after the fic, or else be prepared to be thoroughly spoiled for the plot. By necessity I will also be discussing Season 5 spoilers.

Author's Notes

Well, what a ride it's been! This was my first Big Bang ever, and while it may have been an anxious process at times, it's been pretty thrilling overall. Everyone got really excited over this project, and with good reason!

You won't be surprised to hear that my Big Bang wasn't originally going to be a Season 2 AU. I had planned to write my “Never Happened” 'verse, and then as I was riding the bus home from work, inspiration struck. It's probably not news that I'm a sucker for redemption stories, and when I was first thinking about this story, it was the middle of Season 5, and I was praying really, really hard for Sam to be given an opportunity for redemption. As you well know, by then the Sam storyline was looking even more grim, and was getting grimmer by the minute. So I decided that if Show wasn't going to redeem him, I would give him a shot at doing that in my fic.

Time-travel fiction is always tricky. It is show canon, however, and that gave me license to play about with it. It's pretty much Show canon that everything went to hell (literally) when Sam died and Dean sold his soul. So my 'what if' became 'what if Sam was able to prevent Dean from making his Deal?' What if there was no need for Dean to sell his soul? Would things unfold the same way? It seemed terribly easy to say that the absence of the infamous Deal would result in everyone living happily ever after. If Show has taught us anything, it's that you can't avoid your fate.

Having thus thought myself into a corner, I figured that if you can't change your fate, maybe there's a possibility of changing the details. Sam might be destined to kill Lilith and free Lucifer, but he's also destined to stop the apocalypse. The story was never about changing that, but about Sam redeeming himself, about doing the one thing he was never able to do before: save Dean. In saving his brother, Sam will find his own salvation.

The advancement of Season 5 also showed me that time travel can have physical consequences, which gave me a lot of room to play. If Castiel's powers were all but gone, how would he be able to move Sam back in time? The answer was to move Sam's mind (or spirit or soul or however else you want to define it) into a vessel that was empty at the time, and able to receive it: his own body, in those few days in 2007 when he was dead. It would be too simple for Sam to return to his old self and simply know what was going on, of course, which is why I inflicted all sorts of nasty side-effects on the poor boy.

Angels don't experience time in a linear fashion, but humans do, and it seemed fairly obvious to me that the human mind wouldn't cope well with being thrown back three years in time and having to re-live a timeline which is changing all the time. Expressing that physically seemed like a good way to do it. Having Sam confused and mostly incapacitated allowed me to use one of my favourite tropes, the unreliable narrator, and to keep both him and (hopefully) the reader guessing as to what was going on, using the flashbacks and visions to feed bits and pieces of information at a time, and to keep the pacing at the rate I wanted. Having Sam's condition degrade as the story progressed was also a useful way to increase the tempo and build up to the climax of the story, the final confrontation with Lilith in the last chapter.

The most fun part of all this was trying to work my all these ideas into show canon, to weave the two together. All of Sam's flashbacks would be to canon scenes, along with the recurring flash to the “final” scene in which he and Castiel come up with their Hail-Mary Pass of a plan to try to save Dean before it all falls apart. That being said, the more the plot advanced, the more events would start to differ from what happened in the show, which meant that I would have to incorporate flashbacks in increasing amounts in order to show just how much things were changing. That meant walking a fine line between using the show but not overusing it: after all, this is meant to be my own work, even if I'm shamelessly borrowing someone else's creations.

Working with canon and the idea that destiny can't be changed —except when it can— gave me a fair bit of freedom to play. I wanted to keep Ruby, because she made a great ambiguous “is she or isn't she” villain in Season 3. I loved Katie Cassidy's portrayal of Ruby (far more than Geneviève Cortese, sorry!), and I knew she should still play a pivotal role in this AU. The problem, of course, was that even if Sam's memory was all scrambled, he would remember enough to be suspicious of Ruby. How, then, would Ruby pull off her “long con” again? The answer, as it turned out, was simpler than I thought: she'd simply prey on the other brother. Dean, with Sam newly restored to him and with his Deal no longer hanging over his head, is far more vulnerable to manipulation if he thinks it will keep Sam safe and alive. So Ruby changes brothers, but not tactics: stick with me and I will help you save your brother.

In short, in Supernatural, all roads lead to Rome.

The Question We're All Asking Ourselves: Or, Major Character Death

Why kill Sam? I know that the Major Character Death warning is highly off-putting for a lot of readers, and that I probably lost a few people right off the bat with that. That being said, the more I thought about the story, the more I realized it wouldn't work unless the sacrifice at the end was genuine. I dragged Sam and Dean down an inexorable path toward fraternal sacrifice and death, and to somehow save Sam at the end would have undermined the whole premise of the story. I don't believe in easy fixes: I believe they cheapen the message. It hurt me to do it, but I think the fic is the stronger for it.

I'm going to leave it there, because, frankly, I could go on for another ten pages and never get bored of listening to myself talk. ;) That being said, I am happy to answer questions, because I know there are a lot of things I left deliberately vague or unexplained (like the way the Impala mysteriously broke down after Sam died), and which people might be curious about.