Archive of Our Own ^beta

Dean Winchester awakens on his back in a motel room, not unlike the hundreds of rooms he’s slept in over the years. The decor is thankfully nondescript (though unfortunately beige), the soft hum of the air conditioning keeping the temperature on the verge of brisk, just how he likes it. He can tell he still has his wallet, though there’s no telling press against his lower back where a firearm would usually be, nor is there one under his pillow. Worse still, the infinitesimal weight of his amulet, the one he hasn’t taken off for more than a decade, is absent from around his neck. Aside from the missing gun and necklace though, nothing much would seem out of the ordinary—save for the fact that he has not slept for two days, not since his little brother was snatched from right under his nose from a diner off the interstate and, as such, has not rented a hotel room in that time. If he needed to rest, he did it in the car.

He sits up, glancing around sharply for any clue of his whereabouts. On the nightstand, he finds his gun, which is swiftly tucked in the back of his pants. Next to it is a laminated pamphlet with the words Layz-Inn printed across the front, Clark, South Dakota in smaller font below it. The other side lists all the available cable channels.

South Dakota. Bobby. Bobby and... Sam. Sam! Cold Oak. He’d found Sam. Kid came stumbling out of the middle of that ghost town. Hurt, but alive. So very alive. Lit up like the Fourth of July when their eyes met. Dean wrapped his arms around his brother and swore he’d never let go. Never. They’d need a pry bar to separate them. Then...

Dean frowns. There was somebody else. A boy, about Sam’s age coming out the dark. A hard, silvery gleam—a knife. The guy was gunning for Sam!

He twisted them around, put himself in Sam’s place. And then...

Things get fuzzy there. He remembers a pinch of pain in his lower back and dropping into the dirt. Sam, screaming his name in sheer panic, then another’s, like a fire and brimstone preacher. Then, a loud crack, like dry kindling. A feeling of immense satisfaction came over him— I did my job, I did it —and then silence.

Dean lifts his shirt up and touches his back. The skin there is raised and weirdly smooth. Growing cold, Dean slams his way into the bathroom, ripping his shirt off and twisting around, craning over his shoulder to examine his back in the mirror over the sink.

Drawn down the small of his back is a line of scar tissue, red and pink and white, tracing a cracking canyon in his flesh along his spine. A wound like that would be enough to take anyone off their feet—perhaps even permanently.

Despair, sharp with knowing, twists his guts.

“You’re awake.”

Dean spins around. In the center of the room is Sam. The flood of relief nearly overwhelms him. He doesn’t hesitate in crossing the room, ready to pull Sam into an embrace but his brother steps away, eyes averted.

Dean’s steps slow and he lets his arms fall to his sides. He bites back the hurt, keeping his face stony as he inspects Sam from top to bottom. Sam’s recovered from his trials at Cold Oak (no longer clutching his shoulder and there’s no sign of a limp), though he obviously still tired, dark rings circling his eyes, standing out against his pinched, sallow face. But still, alive. It’s then that he discovers the location of his missing necklace, the bull-headed figure hanging from Sam’s own neck.

“Sam,” Dean says. “Are you okay?”

Sam looks at him, astonished. “Am I okay? Am I... Dean, do you know what happened to you?”

Dean scowls. “I can guess. What the hell were you thinking, Sam, making a deal?”

A thin smile crosses Sam’s face. “Figured it out already, huh? That was fast. Should have known it wouldn’t take long.”

“This isn’t funny, dammit!” Dean snaps. “How much time did you get, huh? Ten years? Five? Or are you gonna drop dead just like Dad—”

He reaches out to grab Sam by the collar, shake some sense into him—and his hand passes through, like trying to grab mist. Dean pales, stumbling back into the bed. His knees fail him and he drops, all his righteous fury exiting him in a rush.

“You’re... Sammy, you’re...” Dean croaks.

Sam animates, hurrying to crouch by Dean’s side. “No, I’m not dead, Dean,” he soothes. “I’m not dead, I swear.”

Dean drops his face in his hands, dragging in a shuddering breath. Jesus. He hadn’t been that spooked since Gordon and the trip-wire. The terrifying certainty that of his brother’s death... even if it only lasted for a moment, it was too much.

Dean lifts his head. “What’s, uh, what’s with the Swayze thing then?” he asks as evenly as he can manage.

Sam smiles, joining him on the bed. Now that Dean’s looking for it, he can see where Sam’s form flickers just along the edges, like an old television set just a hair out of tune. The bedsheets don’t crease where Sam sits either, and there’s no warmth coming from the body next to him. His brother may not be a ghost but it’s certainly too close for comfort.

“I’m projecting,” Sam says.

“What, like astral projection?” Dean asks skeptically.

Sam nods. “Sort of. My spirit’s not actually on the astral plane, I’m just beaming into your mind. Like a Vulcan Mind Meld.”

“Nerd,” Dean murmurs; Sam chuckles faintly. “So the vision I got of the bell. That was you?”

Sam shakes his head. “Andy,” he says regretfully. Dean doesn’t bother asking. He has a pretty good idea what came of the bong-smoking psychic. “But I got the idea from him. And perfected it! I just... I wanted to see you. Before it’s all over.”

Dean grows cold. “How much time do you have? Tell me.”

“There’s nothing to tell.”

“Dammit, Sammy!” Dean explodes. “You knew what Dad’s deal did to me! You knew! And still you threw your goddamn life away. For what?”

“You know for what,” Sam says but Dean’s not done.

“For me? You sold your soul for me? Well, guess what? I don’t buy it,” Dean snarls. “You went years without talking to me and now suddenly you can’t bear to see me go? Please. Maybe Dad had some parental obligation when he did what he did, but you seemed perfectly fine on your own before. Who knows, with me out of the way maybe you can go back to normal. Finally build that white picket fence you’ve been dreaming of.”

He knows he’s being cruel. Cruelty is the point. Maybe it’ll get through Sam’s thick skull what a mistake he’s made and he can fix it. Demons aren’t known for take-backs, but there’s a first time for everything.

“Shut up,” Sam whispers. He’s shaking. Dean pretends not to notice.

“Maybe find another Jess,” Dean continues. “There isn’t a shortage of pretty blondes in California. Get that ring you were looking at—”

“Shut up!” Sam roars.

The overhead lights flicker wildly as the TV set snaps on and off, showing only static. The lamp on the nightstand explodes and the AC sputters and dies. Dean edges away from his brother, eyes wide

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sam pants. “No idea what you’re talking about. You were dead, Dean. Dead! You were in my arms and you—” He holds out his arms, trembling, as if he still cradled Dean’s corpse. “Your blood was all over my hands. And you were so still. I didn’t think I’d ever see you that still again, after the hospital. But this was so much worse. It all happened so fast...” He swallows hard, then lets his limbs drop. “I thought I undestood Dad, after Jessica. I thought I knew how he felt—the rage, the helplessness. But I didn’t understand. I didn’t understand a goddamn thing.”

Sam’s eyes meet his and Dean can see it there, the agony, the pain, the terror, the loneliness. The fear. Sam, drowning in slow motion. And, worst of all, a faint glow, the rust red of dried blood, radiating out from under Sam’s skin. When Dean blinks, it vanishes. Sam’s sorrow remains.

“I don’t know why you act like this,” Sam says. “I don’t know what made you think you aren’t worth it because you are.” Dean flinches but Sam presses on mercilessly. “I’d die for you, Dean. Don’t you know that by now?”

“But you shouldn’t have to, Sammy,” Dean says desperately. “I’m supposed to take care of you. That’s the whole point!”

“And you did, Dean. You did everything you could.” Sam rises to his feet. Dean reaches out to grab him, remembering only once his hand passes through Sam’s wrist that it’s a futile gesture. “And when it’s all over, you will again.”

“I can still save you,” Dean insists. “It doesn’t matter how much time you have left. We can fix this! You’re not going to Hell!”

Sam laughs and it’s a cracking, splintered sound. “He didn’t want my soul, Dean.”

Dean stills. “What does that mean?”

“’Why pay for something I already own?’” Sam recites wryly. “That’s what he said when I made my first offer. He laughed.”

Demons lie, he wants to remind Sam—but he knows the words would mean nothing. Sam believes it, and that’s enough. “Sam, please,” Dean begs. “Tell me where you are!”

”No, Dean. You can’t help me.”

“Like Hell I can’t,” Dean snaps. He seizes his jacket from where it’s draped across a chair (keys are still in his pockect) and marches to the front door. “If you won’t tell me, then I’ll just have to look for you myself.”

Sam sighs. “Dean, stop what you’re doing and listen to me.”

Dean stops and turns back to his brother, smiling faintly. He wants nothing more than to hear what Sam has to say, though there’s something important he was meant to be doing only moments ago. He’s sure it can wait. It’s as though a soft blanket has been draped over his mind, leaving him warm and content—and ready to listen to Sammy.

“Dean, I want you to stay in this hotel room, okay?” Sam orders. “You understand?”

“Sure,” Dean agrees with a nod. He wants nothing more in the world than to stay right where he is.

“Good. And... I’m sorry.”

Before Dean can tell him he doesn’t have to apologize, Sam disappears. Dean’s mind clears.

“Sunnova bitch!”

Dean can open the door... and that’s about it. Every time he tries or even thinks about putting a toe over the threshold, he finds his mind wandering, certain that he’s left his keys, phone, or wallet on the bed or the desk, and turns right back around. It’s his own three-hundred-square-foot purgatory.

He relentlessly leaves message after message on Sam’s cell phone, alternating cursing and pleading with his brother until the inbox is full; he never gets a reply. It takes an embarrassing amount of time for him to remember there are other people in the world besides Sam. Bobby doesn’t pick up the phone until the fifth ring.

“’Lo?”

Slurred, and not even six o’clock yet. Bobby’s place has never been dry but he’s usually not much of a day drinker. Usually.

“Bobby! I’m glad you picked up. Had me worried there for a second.”

There’s a long pause. “Who the hell is this?” the voice on the other end snarls.

“It’s me, Dean. Dean Winchester? We were together two days ago, looking for my idiot brother? Ringing any bells?”

Bobby’s breathing goes ragged and wet on the other end. When he speaks again though, it’s all iron. “You listen here, you son of a bitch,” he growls. “I don’t know who the hell you are, but you’re screwing with the wrong hunter. Dean Winchester is dead, hear me? I saw his body. So if you try calling here again with that you’ll be sorry, you hear me? I’ll kill you myself!”

Dean gapes at the phone. “Bobby!”

The line dies. Dean snaps his cell shut and tosses it on the bed. Great. His best hope for escape was mere hours away and believed he was dead. He’d try Ellen, but with the Roadhouse burned down he has no way of contacting her. He was well and truly stuck.

“Dammit, Sam,” Dean swears, not for the first time. “What the hell is going on?”

With no way out and nothing to do, Dean does the only thing he can: watch TV.

Well, “watch” is a generous descriptor. For the most part, he stares blankly at the idiot box, half-listening to the prattle of half-assed dialogue and overly-chipper commercial jingles. When he finally gets tired of the yacking he turns it off, only to find himself turning it back on again within minutes, unsettled by the silence. He’s not used to quiet motel rooms anymore. In the months before Dad had disappeared, he’d adjusted gradually to the noiselessness, to being alone. He’d battled his discomfort with little indulgences: some Pay-Per-View here, some Magic Fingers there. Anything to distract from the fact that for the first time in his life, he didn’t have anybody watching his back. And he did get used to it. He’d never like it, of course, but he’d gotten used to it, understanding that whether he liked it or not, that was his reality, one way or another.

But then he got Sam from Stanford and, well, things changed.

Two sets of towels, two sets of sheets. Someone to start the laundry while the other cleaned the guns. Only one remote, two different tastes, battles to control the TV. Two toothbrushes, one shower, fighting on who would be first. Two pairs of hand pouring over newspapers, two sets of eyes examining the evidence. One case done in half the time. Zero privacy, careful schedules and old childhood codes of socks on doors. Two sets of clothes, but, for all intents and purposes, only one.

Two beds, two pairs of lungs breathing at night. In, out. Sam put him in a room with only one bed; how did it take him so long to notice? At nights, when Dean could only pretend to sleep, there was always a lullaby of breaths nearby to guide him into a trance of pseudo-dreaming. Two breaths together: in, and out. In and out. Zero privacy. Zero space. Two breaths. One breath.

Dean leaves the TV on a CHIPS marathon when he finally gives in and goes to bed, so he can’t hear his own breathing, tragically singular, in the night.

One day passes. Then two. Before Dean realizes a week has gone by and he still can’t leave the damn room. Hell, he doubts even Andy’s psycho brother’s mind mojo could last that long. Strangely, no one comes by demanding he check out or knocks on his door inquiring about room service. At first, he’s sure it’s a fluke. Then, out of sheer boredom, he shouts sarcastically at a passing maid going by about his towels getting grungy. She doesn’t even look up.

With growing dread, Dean realizes his situation may be more dire than than he realized. He’d been subsisting entirely on delivery for the past week and thought his interactions with the drivers had been entirely normal... but maybe that wasn’t the case.

There’s only one thing to do. He orders a pizza.

“Hey, buddy,” Dean says to the delivery guy, thirty minutes later (or less). Late teens, early twenties; not quite the pimple-faced teenage stereotype, but close. Clearly having the time of his life as he slides the pizza box out of the delivery bag with a long, drawn-out sigh. “How’s it going?”

“Your total is $5.23,” says the kid.

“Buddy, come on. I wanna know, seriously.”

“Your total is $5.23,” the pizza guy repeats flatly, already bored. No—more than bored. Distant. Absent, like a puppet parroting lines. Dean waves a hand in front of his face. There’s no reaction. 

“Hi, my name is Dean Winchester and I hunt monsters for a living,” Dean announces cheerfully. “I’ve been trapped in this motel room for a week because my brother’s lost his goddamn mind and I’m sort of worried he’s turning into a monster himself.”

The kid yawns. “Your total is—”

“Yeah, yeah, hold on,” Dean grumbles, reaching for his wallet. He’s getting low on cash. Of course, if the guy can’t hold a conversation with him, then maybe he can’t complain when Dean stiffs him on the tip... or on paying him altogether.

Dean hands the delivery boy a piece of paper off the hotel notepad. He gets one medium pizza in return. The guy wanders back to the parking lot, Dean watching like a hawk from the window.

“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,” he mutters. “The note, look at the damn note.”

When the kid reaches his car, it’s like he awakens mid-sleepwalk. He looks down at the empty delivery bag in his left hand, at the slip of paper in his right... and crumbles it up, dropping it on the pavement.

“Come on!” Dean shouts. Who ignores a note that starts out: HELP! I’m trapped in Room 105! Call this number! Whole damn world’s too apathetic these days.

Or maybe Sam’s even more powerful than he thought. Either way, it’s another dead end. Dean flops face-down onto the bed and starts to scream.

A week and a half later, there’s an earthquake.

Dean’s not proud to admit he almost pisses himself. He’s been in an earthquake exactly once in his life, when he was sixteen in a little town in west Texas, chasing down leads on a haunting with his dad. He hadn’t even known Texas could have earthquakes. It wasn’t a big deal in the end (there wasn‘t any real damage beyond a few broken windows) but at the time it felt like something terrible, something supernatural—the very ground beneath his feet turned traitor. He’d even had a few bad dreams about it, falling dreams where he’d snap awake just after doing over the biggest hill on the roller coaster and wake up on the floor, the earth trying to swallow him whole. Sam, absent for the whole ground-shaking debacle, didn’t know the source of the dreams and thus couldn’t tease him about it. Instead, he’d just crawled into Dean’s bed for a few nights in a row, wrapping his arms around Dean’s middle, whispering he wouldn’t let him fall. Dean loved him quietly and terribly for that.

This though? So much worse.

The mirror falls of the the wall, shattering in the sink as the television vibrates across the dresser where it’s perched, threatening, and then committing to, a suicidal jump off the edge. The bed rattles and bucks, tossing Dean and the gun he’d been cleaning around like a prospector panning for gold. Dean ends up army-crawling across the floor and into the shallow closet as empty hangers rain down on his head. He takes a page out of Sam’s book and prays and prays for it to stop; he’ll stop all his lyin’, theivin’, and killin’ if it would all just stop. He can’t believe his brother lived in California on purpose.

It does, eventually stop. When Dean summons enough courage to leave the closet, he realizes he has yet another pile of glass to clean up. Worse, his only source of entertainment, the TV, is now well and truly dead.

Leaving the mess for now, he flops back on the bed with a sigh. An enormous crack travels from behind the headboard to the ceiling, halting in the middle of the room. It zigzags like a heart rate monitor, matching the pounding in his chest.

That night, Dean doesn’t sleep. There are no skinny arms wrapping around his middle promising he won’t fall.

The next day, Sam returns.

“Dean.”

Dean had been lightly dozing, making up for his failed attempts at slumber the night before (and for want of anything better to do). The moment he hears his brother’s voice however he’s on his feet, full of piss and vinegar.

“It’s about damn time!” he shouts at the specter standing in the middle of the room. “It’s been weeks! You know I was stuck in here reliving a friggin’ Charlton Heston disaster movie while you were... off...”

Dean trails off as he takes in his brother. He looks more like a ghost than ever, the bags under his eyes dark as bruises, the veins in his neck bright blue against his pale skin. He smiles at Dean though, and it brings some warmth back to his face.

“Sorry,” Sam rasps. He coughs, clearing his throat. “About the quake, I mean. It was an accident.”

“You did that?”

“Not on purpose,” Sam grumbles and for a moment he’s just Dean’s pouting little brother... who accidentally set off an earthquake. Jesus. “I was trying to... it doesn’t matter.”

“Like hell!” Dean exclaims. “Something that ’doesn’t matter’ doesn’t register on the Richter scale, Sam! What the hell is going on? You owe me answers, dammit. Start talking.”

Sam hesitates but Dean knows he’ll give in. If not now, then soon. The kid’s exhausted and whatever fight he’d been putting up before he got here has him drained. Even if Dean didn’t know all the right buttons to push, he’d crack eventually.

“It’s faster to show you,” Sam says haltingly.

“Show me?”

Sam steps towards him, holding out two fingers. He expects Sam’s touch to pass right through him, like his own did when he reached out for Sam. Instead, it’s warm—too warm to be human, almost hot, like the air around a candle. Dean gasps when they make contact and then—

Cold Oak. You look into his own face, eyes closed and spattered with rain. Sleeping. No. Not sleeping. But he’s not dead. He can’t be dead. He can’t be. He can’t—

(Sam’s memories, Dean realizes. No, not just his memories. His thoughts, too.)

Dead dead dead dead dead dead—

You—Sam—take the amulet off his neck. Hold the horned head to your mouth. Kiss it.

You know what to do.

Cold Oak, the center of town. A crossroads. Azazel (“Azazel?” “The name of of the Yellow-Eyed Demon.” The name of his mother’s killer. His father’s murderer. It means everything and nothing) wastes no time appearing before him. You offer your soul. The demon laughs. Then, you’re presented with the counteroffer.

“Two doors, Sammy-boy. Two gates. Open up the first and I’ll see if I can’t get your dear old brother back on his feet—again. Open up the second and I might just keep him that way.”

There’s no choice.

There’s always a choice.

No choice at all. “No one touches Dean,” you say.

“Deal.” Azazel smiles. Pulls you close. “Ready to seal it?” Tips your chin down so you can—

Fossil Butte Cemetery, Wyoming. An old tomb locked with a metal devil’s trap. The Colt in your hands. It feels heavier than it did when you pulled it on his father. You shudder.

“Doubts, Sammy-boy?”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Right, right, only Dean gets to call you that. You’re his little Sammy, hmm?”

“Shut up.”

“You tolerated it from your father but Dean... ooh, when Dean says it you just tingle all—”

What?

The scene jumps forward like a crappy videotape. The Colt’s slotted in the door. The lock unwinds like Swiss clockwork.

“What’s inside?”

“You’re about to find out, Sam.”

The door opens, vomiting forth fury and black smoke like a volcano. You look into Hell. Hell, in all its terrible, fiery glory, looks back.

In the deep, dark distance, you hear your name, sweet as a siren’s call.

Who—

Lincoln, Nebraska. A bar like any other. Seven people stand before you: five men, two women. No, not people. Demons.

“And why should we follow you?” one of them sneers, stuck up and strutting like a peacock. Pride.

“I’m not asking.”

Azazel’s not around. Business. You don’t like it. You don’t like the waiting. You want (need) to get this over with so you can get back to—

Pride snarls but is tugged back by another. One of the women stops forward, boldly dragging a finger down your chest.

“We can be good,” she promises coyly. When you don’t react, she frowns. You brush her aside.

“Stand down. Leave the people in this town alone,” you command. “Those are my orders. Will you or won’t you follow them?”

The woman (Lust, she’s Lust) smiles. “Picked the wrong meat suit,” she murmurs. “I can find someone more to your tastes, you know. Someone who looks more like your—”

You cut her off with a twist of his wrist. She clutches at her throat, gagging. “That’s a no then.” Soon they’re all choking, smoke steaming out of their mouths and onto the floor. You smile. Ava was right. After a while, it’s easy. So easy. Easy enough that you could probably even manage it against...

Before you leave, you write a message for any other demons who might not understand the new status quo across the walls and the floors in dark rust red:

DISOBEDIENT

You need more practice.

A house... somewhere. He’s not sure where. It doesn’t really matter.

“Where’s the second gate?” you demand. Azazel, sprawled over a chair and shuffling a deck of cards, chuckles at your anger, your desperation.

“Alastair’s right,” he laughs. “Kids these days. No patience.”

“Tell me!”

“Ah, Sam. Such an eager, apt pupil. Alas, there are... complications.”

“Complications.”

“The first door we had the key. The second one’s a little trickier. We gotta jimmy the handle, talk to it nice and sweet. Then maybe we can pop the lock.”

“So where’s the damn lock?”

“Patience—”

“No!” you snap. “Enough games, enough waiting. Tell me where your damn gate is—”

“More of a cage, really—”

“—and I’ll open it. I don’t care what I need to do, I’ll do it.”

“Now there’s the team spirit I’ve been looking for!” the demon crows. “Problem is, it doesn’t work that way. We’re circumventing certain procedures, you see. Cutting in line. These things need to be handled delicately.”

There must be something showing on your face because Azazel’s expression shifts to something more thoughtful. Calculating. “That eager to get back to your big brother, hmm?” he murmurs and you flinch. “What do you think he’ll think of all this? Think he’ll give you a big old hug, a pat on the back? Tell you what a good job you’ve been doing, killing demons coast to coast?” You look away (Azazel doesn’t like you killing his troops; thinks it’s bad for morale, though he thinks the note you leave behind is a laugh) but he doesn’t stop. “Or do you think he’ll realize your daddy was right all along and want to finish the job?” He smirks. “Or maybe you think you can get to what’s behind door number three.”

“Stop.” Mercifully, he does, resuming shuffling his deck. You take a deep breath. “Tell me where the gate is.”

Azazel raises an eyebrow. “I thought you were a fast learner, but you—” You hold out your hand and clench it into a fist. Azazel snorts. “Yeah, I don’t think so, kiddo. I gave you your power, remember? Those few drops of blood while mommy and daddy dearest were looking the other way? Made you one of my special kids?”

(And Dean sees it, sees the nursery, the blood, the fire. His mother. So that’s why...)

“I’m immune to your parlor tricks.”

A few days ago, he may have been right.

But it’s gotten so, so easy.

You tilt your head. Azazel coughs, a brief, sharp exhale of breath. He rubs his chest. Then, he coughs again. And again. His eyes meet yours and there’s an emotion there you haven’t seen there before. Fear.

He shouts and swears. Begs and barters. But you hold firm, tightening the noose around his neck. Smoke seeps from his nostrils and between his lips and it’s so very satisfying.

“Kill me and Dean dies!” he promises but you don’t believe him, not anymore. Demon minds are like rotten onions; peeling back the layers reveals nothing of substance. But you can tell when they are lying—and Azazel being alive was never part of the deal.

He changes tactics. “You’ll never find the cage without me. And if you never open the cage, Dean will—”

“I’m tired of waiting,” you say. “And I’m tired of asking nicely. You’re right, Azazel. I am special, but not like Andy or Ava or Jake. I don’t think it was your blood that made me this way. I think I was always meant to be like this.”

Yellow eyes roll in their sockets. A corpse gasps for breath.

He hacks out an offer. You present him with a counteroffer.

“If you tell me, I’ll make it fast. If you make me dig for it, I’ll make it last.”

He tells you. As you rip the twisted parody of life out of him, setting it alight, he grants you one last, perverse smile.

“Th-there it is after all,” he gasps through the smoke slipping through his teeth. “A family resemblance!”

All that remains of Azazel is a husk. As you stride out of the house, you catch a glimpse of yourself in one of the hallway mirrors.

Surely the hint of amber in your eye is merely a trick of the lighting. Still, you take the amulet in your hand and squeeze it until you bleed.

Sam removes his fingers from Dean’s forehead and he stumbles back with a gasp, the fire inside his skull going out with a snap. Dean rubs at the spot between his eyes, wondering if it’s red.

“You killed him,” he whispers in horrified wonder. “You killed Yellow-Eyes.”

“Yeah,” Sam says. “Yeah, I did.”

He should be feeling something, Dean realizes. Elation. Relief. Something. Instead, there’s a strange hole in his chest where that feeling should be. He’s been chipping away at that space for almost his whole life and now there’s nothing left to fill it with.

Dean shuts his eyes and mourns for a lifetime wasted. When he opens them again, Sam awaits his judgment, head bowed. He refuses to give it to him. “If he’s dead,” Dean says slowly. “Then why am I still in here?”

Sam glances at him cautiously. “Even Azazel had a boss,” he says. “If I don’t follow through, you might end up in the ground. I’m not taking that risk. You’re hidden where you are. Safe.”

“Oh, come on, Sam!” Dean snaps. “Do you think I’m going to be safe after you open that second gate? You know that’s bad news! Azazel’s dead! Just let it go.”

“I can’t!” Sam insists. “You don’t understand.”

“Sam, I just took a mystery tour inside your brain,” Dean points out. “What is it exactly that I’m not understanding?”

Sam’s gaze darts around the room as though he’s the one that’s trapped. “When I opened the Devil’s Gate. There was... a voice. Remember? You heard it.” Dean remembers. It sounded like bells at morning; or a breeze through the spring trees; or a familiar voice you thought you’d forgotten. It sounded like a million tempting things. Dean doesn’t trust it. “I’ve been hearing it in my dreams.”

“What, like a vision?”

“No, more than that. Like a message. Every night. Every time I close my eyes. I have to know what it is.”

“Sam, the voice came from Hell! ” Dean exclaims. “Whatever it is, you need to leave it alone.”

“I can’t,” Sam replies helplessly. “It got stronger when I tried opening the second gate. That’s what caused the quake, me trying to open it. But I know I’m on to something.”

“This is crazy, Sam,” Dean tries. “You’ve got to know this is crazy!”

“I know. I know. But it’s building up inside of me. Power. I can feel it.” Sam’s expression is manic, eyes wide and snapping left to right, his pupils blown. “I think it’s burning me up. And if I don’t open the gate before I do, they’ll kill you, Dean. They’ll kill you and I can’t... I can’t have that happen. I just can’t.”

Dean’s losing him. “Sam, listen to me for once, dammit. You need to let me out of here. I can help you.”

Sam blinks at him. “No,” he says calmly. “I don’t think you can.”

“Sam, don’t you dare—”

But Sam’s gone. Again. This time, Dean doesn’t wait for his brother or an earthquake to trash the room. He does it himself.

The next day, there’s another quake, though smaller in scale this time around. Dean doesn’t hide and instead remains in bed, half-hoping the ceiling will drop on him, burying him in plaster and ending his torment. No such luck. A few days after that, the power goes out and stays out all day. He ends up throwing out leftover pizza and Chinese. It doesn’t bother him. He hasn’t paid for food in days.

Three days after that, the sky goes black.

Time’s been sort of hazy with nothing to do, so at first he just assumes he slept late (really, really late) or woke up early. Then he realizes there are no stars or moon. An eclipse, then. Yet, he can’t find the sun either.

Dean considers prayer again (he’s never been more God-fearing in his life) but decides against it. After all, it didn’t stop the second earthquake.

The sky returns to normal, eventually. Dean wonders what it says about him that he’s just happy it didn’t last any longer than it did.

There’s no weird weather the next day. Just strange dreams.

He’s sitting on a dock, holding a fishing pole. Sam stands on the water in the center of the lake. “Dean. Dean!”

He’s never gonna catch any fish with Sam disturbing the water like that, Dean thinks. Hmmph. He flips Sam the bird.

“Dean, they found you. I got distracted and the barrier slipped. Not long, but long enough. Dean!”

There’s a portable radio beside his can of bait and cooler. He turns it up. AC/DC. Nice.

“Dean!”

Sam has crossed the lake and is now in his face. Literally; Sam seizes him by both cheeks, giving his head a firm shake. The shock of his brother’s touch—warm (not hot) and so human and nostalgic and familiar and good in the wrong way—shocks him into awareness. “Sam?” Up close, he looks awful, sickly thin and pale as Dean’s ever seen.

“Dean, wake up! ”

Dean opens his eyes just in time to see his door get kicked in. Any hopes he has of it being a rescue are dashed the moment the three intruders fix their beetle-black eyes on him. Dean plasters a smile on his face as he slowly slides a hand under his pillow, groping for his gun. “Hey there, fellas. Make yourselves at home.”

They don’t look amused. “Dean Winchester,” the center demon snarls.

“Hey, haven’t had the pleasure,” Dean says. He grabs the gun, giving the grip a reassuring squeeze.

“And you won’t,” another in the group, a woman, drawls. They continue their slow death march into the room, readying to circle him like vultures.

“Listen, guys—and gal. I really don’t think you wanna do this,” Dean insists. “Pretty sure my brother—you know him, tall, goofy-looking kid with too much hair—would be pretty pissed if he found out that you. You know.”

“Your brother has gone crazy,” the demon woman growls. “He’s been sacrificing us one by one for his stupid little project. Azazel promised freedom! Glory! Hell on Earth, if only we did everything he asked and followed the little brat.” The last of their party spits onto the carpet and Dean grimaces. “But we can’t even murder one or two measly little humans without him showing up and rambling about keeping us in line and killing us. Well, I’m through! This is not what I signed up for!”

“Pardon me if I don’t seem particularly sympathetic,” Dean replies dryly.

“But everyone knows this all started because he couldn’t bear seeing anything happen to his big brother,” she continues, eyes glittering. “So I’m thinking if we start mailing you to him piece by piece, he’ll reconsider his priorities.”

Oh, well that sounds... painful. “See, the thing about that is—” Dean whips the pistol out from under the pillow and squeezes off three shots.

Pretty good shots—torso, shoulder, and, most impressively, neck, sending a spray of blood shooting from the throat of the spitting goon. They all stumble in surprise but, of course, it’s only a temporary victory. He rolls off the bed, taking a moment to grab a crumpled paper bag and a box of ammunition off the nightstand. Then he does the only thing he can do. He locks himself in the bathroom.

“You can’t hide in there forever!” the woman shouts as the door rattles. Dean rips the curtain rod down and jams it between the door and the corner of the room, bracing the door shut. Simple but effective, at least for the moment.

“C’mon, c’mon, whadda we got?” Dean mumbles digging through the bag. At the first handful of little containers he unearths he’s elated—until he reads the label. “Why don’t they just include a damn block of Parmesan if they’re gonna give you so damn many of these?” he grouses, tossing them aside. A few more seconds of pawing and he finds his real prize, two identical white packets—good ol’ fashioned table salt. Why pizza comes with salt of all things he’ll never understand but he’s not questioning it now. Not enough to line the doorway, but it’ll do. He plugs the sink and cranks on the faucets, ripping open the packets and dumping their contents inside the basin as it fills.

The door shakes violently in its frame. Once, twice. On the third shake, the curtain rod slips and the door flies open, demon number one crowding his way inside. Dean doesn’t hesitate; in the split second he still has the element of surprise, he delivers two quick punches across the face then maneuvers the guy into an arm lock, slamming him flat onto the vanity. Dean shoves the demon’s face into the sink.

A burbling howl rips from the guy’s throat as the saltwater steams and hisses. Spitting goon tries his hand next and gets knocked back by two shoulder shots. His luck runs out, though when the woman steps over her shot comrade and backhands him across the face. He drops his pistol and the blow sends him flying back, tripping over the lip of the shower stall and knocking his head hard on the wall of tile. Dean’s vision dips and swims as he slides down to the floor.

“Enough of this,” the woman hisses as she looms over him. “I’m going to enjoy this, Winchester. And I’m going to enjoy the look on your psycho brother’s face even more when—”

The loud crack of a shotgun blast finishes her sentence for her. She howls and spins around, displaying her buckshot-riddled back, still smoking, to Dean. Another round catches her in the chest.

There’s the muffled clink of two shells hitting the ground and the mechanical crack of the shotgun being reloaded. Over the wounded demon’s shoulder appears Bobby Singer, armed, dangerous, and clearly pissed off.

The demon in the sink tries lifting his head. Bobby smashes the butt of the gun into his skull, sending him back into the water. “Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus—”

The woman screams her fury, preparing to charge at Bobby; Dean grabs the back of her shirt and yanks sending her careening on top of him as Bobby rapid-fire recites the exorcism. Moments later, three identical plumes of black smoke pour from three throats and spiral out that door.

Dean shoves the woman’s limp body off himself, clambering to his feet. “Nice timing, Bobby,” he pants as the man helps him up. “But that was a little clo—”

A splash of water hits Dean square in the face. He sputters wildly as Bobby watches him with narrowed eyes, flask held at the ready. “Holy water? Seriously? The two stooges and stooge-ette trying to kill me weren’t enough of a clue?”

“Lotta in-fighting with demons these days,” Bobby says. “Can never be too sure.” He pauses, looking Dean up and down. Dean spreads his arms wide and grins.

“Looking pretty good for a dead guy, huh?” he jokes.

“Idjit. Git over here, boy,” Bobby grunts. He pulls Dean into the biggest bear hug he’s every experienced in his life, damn near squeezing the life right back out of him. Dean clutches him back, throat tight. Nearly thirty days with no direct human contact really messed with a guy’s head. When they separate, they both silently agree to not mention their matched pair of misty eyes.

“Not to be ungrateful, Bobby—” Dean begins as they both surreptitiously wipe their faces.

“I bet.”

“—but where the hell have you been?”

“I thought you were dead, boy,” Bobby says. “We all did.”

“I called you!”

“I’m damn well aware!” Bobby snaps. “But I saw your body! I saw you drop. That weren’t something you just walk off. Thought it was demons trying to mess with me. Wouldn’t be the first time. But really, I think it was some of that damn brother of yours’ mind mojo.”

“What do you mean?”

“Look, I was mourning,” Bobby admits. “But I wasn’t just not up for looking for your body after it disappeared. It didn’t even occur to me. None of us even thought about looking in on you, not one. And, well, with demons crawling everywhere it didn’t seem that strange at the time.”

“Sam said something about a barrier. That he lost focus and it dropped. That’s how those demons found me, anyway.”

“You’ve seen Sam?”

Dean sighs. “I think we better compare notes.”

“So that’s why everything smells like pizza sauce and mildew? You haven’t been able to leave the room in a month?” Bobby asks skeptically.

Dean nods. “That’s the long and short of it, yeah. Sam’s Jedi mind trick is seriously next level.”

“When was the last time you tried?”

Dean shrugs and gets to his feet. He walks towards the door—well, where the door used to be anyway—puts a hand on the frame...

And finds himself standing back in front of Bobby, patting himself down. Bobby raises an eyebrow. “What are you doing?”

“Forgot my keys,” Dean mumbles. “Ah, there we go—” he fishes them out of his pocket, jingling them triumphantly. He goes back to the doorway—

And realizes he’s lost his wallet. And his phone. And his keys, again. And his wallet—

“Okay, I get the picture!” Bobby exclaims. “Well, step one is figuring out how to get you out of here.”

“If you have any brilliant ideas, I’m all ears,” Dean grouses. “Not like I’ve been here for a month trying to figure that out.”

“Don’t you sass me,” Bobby scolds. “Now, what exactly did Sam tell you to keep you from leaving? I mean his exact words.”

“He told me to stay here, in the hotel room.”

“The hotel room? Not the hotel or right here? The hotel room specifically?”

“I think so. Why?”

Bobby grimaces. “I have an idea but I don’t think you’re gonna like it.”

Bobby takes off, promising to be back in a few hours. Dean almost refuses—what if he forgets about him again?—but in the end lets him go. He’s going nowhere fast and the only way to fix that was by getting some outside help. So Dean waits, pretending he’s not a nervous wreck or counting the minutes.

Almost three hours pass. Just when Dean’s about to crack and lose all hope, a deafening rumble comes from outside. Dean takes a peak... and his jaw drops.

“Is that a freakin’ excavator?” Dean exclaims as Bobby hustles up to his room. “Where the hell did that come from?”

“Don’t ask stupid questions,” Bobby orders.

Of course. This is Bobby they were talking about. “But what about the other guests, the hotel manager?”

Bobby shoots him an odd look. “Ain’t nobody been through here in weeks.” Thinking about it, it only now occurs to Dean he hasn’t seen anyone walking the path outside the room aside from his deliveries for a while now, not even room service. How the hell did he miss that? “Now, you better get in the bathroom. And keep your head down!”

No arguments from him. Dean crawls into the shower and covers his head with his arms. For the third time in a month, he’s rocked by a quake hitting his room. The impact sends his teeth clattering as plaster rains from the ceiling.

When the shaking stops, Dean tentatively pushes the door open and sees... nothing. There’s only a sea of rubble made up of crumbling walls and decimated floors. The bed is completely buried and he can’t even find the dresser. Dean gawks.

Bobby shuts off the equipment and hops down dusting off his hands. “I figured you can’t stay in the room if there’s no room to stay in,” Bobby explains.

“Bobby, you’re awesome,” Dean says seriously.

Bobby rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Enough of your admiration, Hinkley. Are you coming or what?” He turns and strides past the enormous yellow CAT, making his way towards...

Dean’s baby. In the parking lot this whole time, just out of sight. Dean hastily stumbles after Bobby, pausing only when he reaches where he knows where the threshold should be. He takes one tentative step past the line. Then two. Only when he’s sure he’s forgotten nothing at all does he dash to his car, whooping for his newfound freedom.

There’s no question about who’s driving, even with Bobby’s smug prodding asking if he remembered how. Dean ignores the teasing—he feels too damn good to take it personally. The open road feels like more than a breath of fresh air. It’s like he’s been reborn. If the relief and joy show on his face Bobby, thankfully, doesn’t comment on it.

“You know, if you’re trying to get to the scrapyard, you’re going the wrong direction,” Bobby points out dryly.

“Not going to the scrapyard,” Dean says. “We’re going to Maryland.”

“Maryland? Why the hell are we going to Maryland?”

“The second gate that Sam’s trying to open, the one causing all the weird weather and earthquakes? It’s in Maryland. At an old convent called—”

“St. Mary’s Convent,” Bobby finishes. “Yeah, I’m aware.”

“How do you know about the convent?” Dean asks, perplexed.

“The whole damn state’s been a hotbed of demonic omens, all centered around the old convent,” Bobby explains. “Back in ’72 a priest went crazy there, slaughtered a bunch on nuns. It’s been abandoned for years.”

“So, that’s it then,” Dean says. “That’s where Sam is.”

“Yeah, one problem. Nobody’s been able to get anywhere close.”

“Demons?”

“Maybe. Funny thing is, most folks come back with no memory of why they left in the first place, just a feeling they shouldn’t go back. Don’t have a scratch on them. The ones that keep trying though are... less lucky.”

Dean nods. He can imagine. “I’ll be able to get through,” he announces confidently.

“What makes you so sure?”

“Because I know my brother,” Dean replies simply. “And besides, I’m supposed to be off limits.” Bobby snorts loudly and Dean flushes. “These demons are working for Sam, right? I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

“Oh, that’s reassuring.”

Yeah, it’s not the smartest plan, but it’s the one he’s got. He’s gotta get to Sam before he does something they can’t fix. Or worse—before Sam kills himself doing it.

It’s a two-day drive to Maryland. If Dean never saw another hotel room it’d be too soon, but Bobby’s back won’t allow for him to sleep in the car. They spring for a Holiday Inn.

Dean can’t say for sure what exactly woke him. The night is still, and the world is noiseless outside of their room. To his left, Bobby snores blissfully, unbothered by whatever invisible force disturbed Dean.

“Turn around, Dean. Go to Bobby’s.”

It’s Sam, of course, sitting on the edge of his bed. “You really gotta quit with the Batman routine,” Dean quips as he sits up. “You don’t have the jawline for it. You’re no Keaton. Hell, you’re not even a Clooney.” Neither of them whispers. Dean jerks his head toward Bobby, still snoring obliviously away.

“You’re dreaming,” Sam says. “I figured we should have some privacy.”

“Ah.” Dean pushes the covers aside, shimmying down until sits beside his brother. Unlike the last time they were in this position, Dean can feel the warmth radiating off his brother. But now, instead of being too cold, uncomfortably close to the icy aura of restless spirits, he’s too hot, warmer even than the victim of high fever. Beneath his skin sits the ugly blood-colored glow.

“Turn around,” Sam repeats dully. “I can’t guarantee your safety if you come to the convent. If you’re at Bobby’s, I can protect you.”

“Why don’t you make me?” Dean suggests. Sam shoots him a look but Dean’s serious; his words are no schoolyard challenge.

Sam focuses hard on him. Surely it’s the poor light, but there’s an amber gleam flickering in the corners of his irises. “Go back, Dean.”

No blanket settles over his thoughts, turning them nice and soft. He’s still as eager to track down his brother as ever. “Looks like your mind is elsewhere,” Dean points out dryly.

Sam’s shoulders droop. “Most of my power is going into the gate,” he admits. “The rest, into keeping the demons under control.”

Dean shrugs. “Or maybe your subconscious knows better than you. Maybe you don’t really want to keep me away.”

Sam scoffs but he looks away. Dean hesitates before carefully laying a hand on his brother’s thigh. Sam jerks like he’s been electrocuted and Dean wonders if maybe he’s not the only one who’s gone without human contact all this time.

“Sam, why don’t you stop this?” Dean asks, not unkindly. “I’m alive. Azazel’s dead. You don’t need to keep doing this.”

“The deal—”

“Screw the deal, man! Who cares about some deal? You saying you couldn’t take on a handful of hell bitches trying to drag me away? And who says they’ll come after me anyway? The guy you made your deal with is dead!”

Sam frantically shakes his head. “Azazel’s boss—Lilith, her name is Lilith—she has my contract and she won’t come out of Hell unless I open the gate. I’m good, Dean, but I can’t take on all of Hell. And I won’t let them take you away from me. Not again.”

“Sam, I’m not going anywhere,” Dean tries but it’s like Sam doesn’t hear him.

“You were dead.” The bed frame rattles beneath them. The lamps flicker. Across the room, Bobby rolls over and snorts. “But I saved you.”

“You did, you did save me,” Dean agrees.

“I did that. Not Dad, me. But I’m running out of time,” Sam explains desperately. “The power inside me, it hurts. It’s like I’m on fire. I don’t think it was supposed to work like this.” He shudders and the light under his skin pulses. “But he, the voice, he told me—”

“Who? Who told you?”

“The voice! The voice—”

And Dean can hear it, echoing from a distant, unseen canyon: the hiss of snake, the purr of a cat, the snarl of a wolf, and within it all, Sam’s name, coaxing, calling, entreating: “Sam, Sam, Sam...”

“When I open the gate, he’ll fix me,” Sam says. “He’ll take Azazel’s blood out of me. I’ll be clean again. And he promised to protect you.”

“Azazel called it a cage,” Dean reminds him, heart pounding. If that’s what Sam’s been hearing every night no wonder he’s acting a little nuts. “If something locked that voice up, don’t you think it should stay locked up?”

“It doesn’t matter. Not if I can save you.” Sam’s face is illuminated, enlightened. He’s seen that face on a thousand statues in a thousand churches and churchyards, all turned towards the face of God—an expression of rapture. “I’m almost there, Dean. Just a little more.”

“A little more what?”

“Blood,” he says. “I just need a little more blood.”

“He’s been sacrificing us one by one for his stupid little project.”

Slaughtering demons by the dozens to resurrect a mysterious voice trapped in a cage inside Hell that’s talking to his brother in his dreams? No way this turns out well.

“Wait for me, Sammy,” Dean bargains. “Just wait for me. I’m almost there. We can figure this out.”

“I’m almost out of time,” Sam whispers. “I just need a little more time. I’m burning up.”

He’s right and Dean can feel it, the power in Sam’s simmering like a boiling pot on the verge of bubbling over. Dean grabs Sam’s fever-flush face and brings their foreheads together. Sam jolts, nervous as a skittish horse, eyes rolling in his head.

“Sam, look at me,” Dean orders. Miraculously, Sam does. “Lock it down, you understand me? Lock it down.”

“I can’t,” Sam cries. “I can’t. It’s too much, I’m—”

“You listen to me, dammit,” Dean snarls, big brother, drill sergeant, and wrathful god all at once. “I don’t care what you ’can’t.’ Lock. It. Down!”

Sam shakes, twists, and bucks. Dean doesn’t let go. Then, his eyes slide shut. Slowly, a degree at a time, is temperature begins to drop.

Still warm, Dean determines as Sam hides his face in Dean’s shoulder. Way warmer than any human being ought to be. But at least he doesn’t still feel like he’s about to spontaneously combust. Even his unearthly glow had retreated. “Atta boy,” Dean says, squeezing the back of Sam’s neck.

“It’s not over,” Sam murmurs into his neck. “It’s still there. I can feel it.”

“Sure,” Dean agrees placidly. “But now we got time.”

Sam laughs weakly. “Not much. I’m opening that cage, Dean. You can’t stop me.”

“Yeah, well, we’ll just see about that,” Dean says, stroking Sam’s hair. Still luscious as ever. At least he’s been taking care of himself that much.

Sam slowly pulls away. Dean reluctantly lets him go. “Dean, you shouldn’t come after me.”

Dean sighs. “Sam, we’ve been over this. It ain’t your job to keep me safe. And besides, I’m fine.”

“No, not that. I mean, yes, that’s why you shouldn’t but that’s not what I’m talking about.”

“Then what?”

“You really don’t know?”

Dean shakes his head. Sam chews his lip, looking up at the ceiling in thought. When he looks back down, though, his eyes are steely with determination. He cups his face, idly stroking his cheekbone as he smiles. “Sam?” Dean asks hesitantly.

“This is why,” Sam says. Then, his brother kisses him.

You’re thirteen and your brother dreams of falling, always falling. You don’t know why, but you know that monsters are real and you’re sure it has something to do with that. So even though your Dad says you’re too young and too small to fight monsters yet, you can do this much: you crawl into his bed and hold him close promising that you won’t let him fall. And if he falls, you’ll fall together.

You’re sixteen and you’re angry all the time. Angry at your life, angry at your Dad, and angry at your brother because he’s not angry enough. When Dad storms out after another screaming match and Dean looks at you like you’re the crazy one in this family, you feel small and pathetic and wrong. It hurts. It hurts when he looks at you like that. But it’s better than him not looking at you at all.

You’re eighteen and you’ve been hiding college acceptance letters for a month now and it makes you giddy and terrified in equal measure. But that’s not what you’re thinking about right now. You’re thinking about your brother, stumbling in late after a night of drinking, smelling like cheap booze and cheaper perfume. He slurs something about you being a good kid as you help him to bed. You try to be a good kid, you think, and mostly succeed in all ways but one. You take longer than you should, tugging off Dean’s boots and jeans, and when he snuffles into your neck and pats your face you let him. He won’t remember this tomorrow anyway. When he finally passes out you go to bed yourself in the mattress across from his. You look at him, slice of moonlight across his too-pretty face, and stick your hand down your pants. You’re only mostly a good kid.

You’re twenty and struggling to keep a smile on your face because it’s your girlfriend’s birthday and you should be having a good time at her party. The problem is, it’s also your brother’s birthday and even though she told you the date a few months ago you didn’t know -know and it didn’t click until now; and you miss him more at this moment than you have since you watched him drive away from the bus station where he dropped you off. Back then, you let yourself cry because there was no one there to see. Here, you’re surrounded by people who are supposed to be your friends and you can’t. When the party is finally over and you take your beautiful girl to bed, maybe you don’t spend as much time as you should kissing up and down her body. Maybe you turn her over and give it to her harder and faster and deeper than birthday sex is really supposed to be, but she gasps and moans and wails in all the right ways, so it’s fine. And when it’s through and she asks where that monster’s been hiding this whole time, maybe you don’t have an answer. You wish her a happy birthday.

You’re twenty-two and your life goes up in smoke and all you have left is your brother. That night after you leave the sirens and the flames behind, you curl up on your brother’s bed even though the room has two; he lets you and you beg for him to not let you fall. He promises and you cry. You wouldn’t mind dying here. Maybe you already have. It hurts too much and not enough.

You’re twenty-two and your brother smiles at you from the driver’s seat of his big black car. Your heart flutters. Dammit.

You’re twenty-two and your brother drinks too much and eats like he was raised in a barn. It doesn’t repulse you as much as it should.

You’re twenty-two and your brother calls you a freak but it’s okay because he’s a freak too. You can only hope so.

You’re twenty-two and your brother puts itching powder in your boxers and steals your laptop. You think you might love him.

You’re twenty-three and you’re in love with your brother. You think the world might end but it doesn’t. You learn to live with it.

You’re twenty-three and you’re in love with your brother.

You’re twenty-three and you’re in love with your brother.

You’re twenty-three and you’re in love with your brother—

You’re twenty-four and today is your birthday. Your brother is dead. The world ends.

Sam pulls away and Dean’s lips burn. He touches them in bewildered wonder and Sam shrugs.

“I know it’s selfish,” Sam says. “But I figured, what the hell? Before everything ends.”

“Are you out your mind?” Dean demands. “You can’t just—”

“Goodbye, Dean,” Sam says. He vanishes.

Dean jolts upright in bed with a gasp. He pinches himself and it stings. Real world.

He throws the sheets off the bed and snaps on the bedside lamp. In the other bed, Bobby grunts and swears, rolling over and squinting accusingly at Dean. “What the hell?”

“Get dressed,” Dean orders. He’s already yanking on his boots.

“Where’s the fire?” Bobby grumbles. Dean only shoots him a look. “Alright, I’m going, I’m going.”

“Meet you outside,” Dean says briskly, grabbing his jacket on the way out. They’re running out of time.

By the time they get within a hundred miles of Ilchester, they’ve stopped running into anyone else driving on the road. It’s eerily barren on their way toward the convent; then, as they pass through the nearby towns and burbs, the evidence of the wrongness gets more and more uncomfortable. At first, it’s only the odd abandoned car or bicycle. Then they start appearing in droves, not just parked on the curb but left running in the middle of the street, next to bags of rotten groceries or leashes attached to nothing. There’s not a human soul in sight. When the people do appear, well, Dean and Bobby don’t need to say a word; they both know they’re not really people.

The demons watch the Impala pass by unmolested, eerily silent in their observation. They don’t try to crowd the vehicle nor do they follow it, simply lining their path as if watching an unusually somber parade. Dean thinks about waving to them like he’d the star of a motorcade but thinks better of it after catching to look on Bobby’s face.

“What are they waiting for?” Bobby wonders, brow furrowed. He sounds relaxed, dismissive almost, but his knuckles are bone white grabbing his shotgun.

One demon in the body of what looks like a soccer mom stands in the middle of the road, holding up her palm for them to stop. They tense; Dean considers gunning it for only a moment. The possessed woman waves them through, indicating they should make a right turn. A quick glimpse at the map confirms her directions are accurate.

“I don’t think they’re waiting for... anything,” Dean mutters back. For some reason, neither of them find this revelation comforting.

As they get closer to the convent, Dean realizes their ill-ease wasn’t unfounded. At first, he thinks the strung-up body must be a Halloween decoration. Moments later he remembers that it’s July—and that body looks a little too realistic. He brings the car to a stop and he and Bobby climb out to take a look.

The victim, a man, is bound to a large pole by a length of barbed wire. As they get closer, Dean gags; the man’s entrails spool out of his middle onto the ground where ants and beetles have discovered the feast. Hanging around his neck is a simple sign made of a small chalkboard and twine.

“Disobedient,” Bobby recites.

“What the hell...?” Dean murmurs.

Suddenly the body twitches. Dean and Bobby scramble backward, hastily lifting their firearms. Impossibly, the man is somehow still alive.

“Help,” the man croaks. “Help me.”

“Hold on, man,” Dean replies, lowering his gun. Bobby does the same. “Just... hold on.” Bobby says nothing. They both know there’s nothing they can do for the poor bastard. But he can at least cut him down. “Bobby, I think there are some pliers in the trunk.”

“I’m sorry,” the man wails. “I’m sorry.”

“I know,” Dean replies. “I know, just—”

Then, the man blinks. When he opens his eyes again, they’re solid black. “Please.”

Dean and Bobby gape. “He’s a goddamn demon?” Bobby exclaims.

“That explains how he’s still...” Dean gestures as the guts piled on the ground. “You know. But why doesn’t he just smoke out?”

“I think we both know why,” Bobby replies darkly. He’s right. They do know why.

Sam probably won’t let him.

They return to the car, the demon begging to their backs the whole while. “Tell him I’m sorry!” he screams. “Please tell him I’m sorry!”

He’s not the only one. The number of crucifixions only increase the closer they get to their destination. The mutilations vary from victim to victim—some missing eyes, others ears or teeth, and one notable sunnova bitch’s pants were soaked through with blood at the crotch and only the crotch—but every single one bore the same distinct message:

DISOBEDIENT

There are no tormented damned souls on the grounds of St. Mary’s and the bystanders thin out and vanish entirely by the time Dean parks in front of the chapel. At the church doors await a couple: a gorgeous brown-haired beauty in a tight dress and an older priest, who meet them as they climb out of the car.

“Mr. Winchester, Mr. Singer, welcome,” the brunette says warmly. “He’s been expecting you.”

Dean exchanges looks with Bobby. “Who’s been expecting us?”

Her smile doesn’t falter. “Sam, of course,” she says. “Come. I’ll take you to him.”

There’s not much of a choice. When Dean goes to follow the woman, however, the priest stops Bobby with a hand on his shoulder. Bobby replies by poking the end of his shotgun into the man’s side.

“I’d keep your hands off me if you wanna keep ’em,” Bobby warns.

The demon smirks. “Sorry, invitation only. You’re not invited.”

“Like hell I’m not—”

“Bobby,” Dean interrupts. “It’s okay. Why don’t you keep the padre here company? You can bond over being... old.”

Bobby shoots him a dirty look but lowers his gun. The priest takes his hand off Bobby’s shoulder.

The woman’s smile broadens. “If that’s settled... shall we?” But before they take another step, she sidles up to the priest’s side, grabbing him by the chin. “See you later?” she murmurs. He nods and ducks his head down so they can kiss. Dean’s sure his face is equally as befuddled—and disgusted—as Bobby’s. The embrace ends only when the priest teasingly grabs her rear end. The woman chuckles, swats him on the hip, then continues walking toward the church. Dean, still dumbfounded, follows.

The chapel’s quiet at a grave as she leads him down the stone corridors. “So, uh...”

“My name’s Casey,” the woman provides.

“No, that poor girl you’re wearing’s name is Casey,” Dean counters.

“Casey” snorts. “Fair enough. Though, I assure you, Casey’s still in here, alive and kicking.”

“Thought demons usually partied too hard for the host to last.”

Her grin turns mischievous. “We do. But Sam doesn’t like it. He prefers it if the bodies remain whole.”

Well, that’s good at least. Hopefully. “And those sad saps we saw on our way here...?”

Her smile thins. “Don’t worry. Their bodies were already dead by the time they received their... punishment.”

“Great,” Deans mumbles. “So, uh, ’Casey.’ What the hell was that back there with Father Bad Touch back there?”

“Oh, me and Father Gil?” Her expression, bizarrely, turns a little dreamy. “We’ve been together lifetimes. Centuries, even. To be able to serve at his side... it’s a dream come true.”

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Dean scoffs. “You two are, what, in love? You’re demons!”

Casey stops in her tracks and Dean thinks he might just have thrown away what little goodwill is possible to have with a demon. But when she looks at him there’s nothing but patience in her eyes.

“That’s why I follow your brother, you know,” she says suddenly. Dean blinks at the non-sequitur.

“What?”

“I’ve been hearing for a long time what the Boy King was supposed to do for our kind,” she says. “Bring liberation. Order. Destruction to our enemies. Everything that a good bit of propaganda promises. But all that changed when I met him. It didn’t matter what he was going to do for us. He didn’t promise anything at all, in fact. What mattered was why he was doing what he was doing.”

“And why is he doing all this?” Dean asks dryly.

Casey looks at him in surprise. “For you, Dean. He’s doing all of this for you. Because he loves you.” Dean’s mouth snaps shut. “All of this, everything he’s done, is because he loves you. I know he does because I’ve felt it and a love like that makes you absolutely insane. And that’s something I can trust... more than Azazel’s bullshit proselytizing, anyway.”

Apparently done with her lecture, Casey turns on her heels and continues down the hall. It takes a while for Dean to remember he’s supposed to follow.

“I’ll never be convinced demons can love, you know,” Dean says after a moment.

“That’s your business,” Casey replies. “But can I tell you something, one experienced lover to another?” Dean huffs and studies the ceiling. “Oh, don’t act like a prude. I can smell the vice all over you. You’re a huge manwhore.”

“Hey!”

Casey ignores his outrage. “As I was saying. When you love the person you’re with? I mean really, truly love them? The sex becomes ten times better.”

“You do remember we were talking about my brother a minute ago, right?” Dean grouses.

“You do remember, I’m a demon, right?” she counters. “No judgments here.”

Dean slowly shakes his head. “You are very, very weird.”

A surprised, full-belly laugh bursts from his demonic companion. “Coming from the brother of the anti-Christ I’ll take that as a compliment. We’re here, by the way.”

They stop before a pair of large wooden doors leading to what Dean can only assume is the main sanctuary. “Here’s where I leave you,” Casey says. She almost sounds a bit regretful. “I hope you get what you’re looking for.”

“You do know I’m here to stop him, right?” he calls as she walks away. Casey waves over her shoulder without stopping, shaking her head and laughing.

“Good luck, Dean Winchester,” she says. Casey rounds the corner and is gone.

“Very, very weird,” Dean says under his breath. He looks back at the door. Through the cracks spills light tinted rust red. “I’m coming, Sammy,” he says.

Dean opens the door.

Sam stands shirtless before a large, white, marble altar. Though his back is to him Dean can tell Sam’s cleaning off a knife from the repetitive motion in his shoulders. On the floor lay a young woman, blonde. Her throat is cut in bleeding her eyes are open and aware. They fix on Dean as soon as he steps inside but all she can do is gurgle. Her blood spirals on the floor, too geometric to be natural, the stone gleaming with a dark red light. As he approaches the circle on the floor, Dean is struck with the sensation that he could fall; as if any minute the ground will open up and swallow him up, or like he’s standing on the edge of the cliff. He doesn’t walk across the floor.

“Hey, Sammy,” Dean calls. The girl on the floor won’t stop looking at him. It’s unsettling. “I, uh, was hoping we could have a conversation. You know, alone.”

Sam turns around. As Dean suspected, he’s cleaning the knife, undoubtedly recently used on the woman at Dean’s feet. What is surprising, however, is Sam how healthy Sam appears, every inch of his exhaustion stripped away. He looks like a predator looking out over his domain. Dean’s pendant still hangs around his neck. “Her name is Ruby,” Sam says. “She volunteered.”

“I... see.”

“She had some ideas about the cage, how to get it open.” Sam glances dispassionately at the demon on the floor; she looks back, pleading. “But it turns out she works for Lilith. And she really talks too much. All I needed was her blood anyway.”

“Sure, okay,” Dean says awkwardly. “Sammy, look, it’s time to stop this.”

Sam’s gaze drifts up to Dean’s visibly perplexed. “Stop this?”

“Yeah, stop this,” Dean says. “Let’s just get out of here, walk away. Nobody out there is gonna stop you. I met Casey, yeah? She seemed okay, you know, for a demon. She won’t try to stop you. We can just go.”

But Sam shakes his head. “Stop this? Dean, it’s already started.”

The light within the floor flares. The earth rumbles with a big booming sound like the reverberations of a bass drum. The weird vertigo brought on by the blood circle has Dean’s stomach swooping.

“No, Sam,” Dean argues. “No. It’s not open yet. We can still stop it.”

“It just needs a little more.” Sam walks to the edge of Ruby’s blood and holds he freshly cleaned knife against his palm.

“Sam—”

“You know I have demon blood in me too, Dean,” Sam says sadly. “And not just any blood. Azazel’s blood.”

“Don’t!”

Sam slices his hand open. The pain doesn’t seem to bother him as he tightens the wounded hand into a fist, squeezing blood out of the cut. Sam’s blood joins Ruby’s on the floor and the hellish glow in the center of the sanctuary burns brighter and brighter, transforming from flickering candle to raging wildfire. A dull roar fills Dean’s ears, accompanied by the shriek of twisting metal.

“What have done?” Dean shouts over the sudden din. Ruby’s twitching body begins sliding towards the center of the room and he steps over it as he dashes to Sam’s side, skating the edge of shining circle. “Sam, you have to stop this!”

“I won’t!” Sam shouts back. “I won’t! The voice says—”

“Screw the voice!” Dean bellows. He grabs Sam by the shoulder and clamps down, tight. The skin beneath his hand is burning hot.

“He says he’s going to ask me a question,” Sam yells. “Just one question. And if I say yes then he’ll protect you! He’ll save you!”

“But he didn’t save me, Sam! You did!“

Suddenly, the world quiets. The chaos around them is reduced to muffled static. Sam looks at him with wide eyes that remind Dean of that thirteen-year-old, trying his best to provide comfort when really he’s the one who needed it most. And Dean knows exactly what to say to that kid.

“You saved me, Sam. You did, and nobody else. And I haven’t even thanked you for it yet.” Dean cups his cheek, mirroring Sam’s touch from... was that only a night ago? Sam’s eyes flutter shut. “I’m not too hot on the method admittedly, but you did this. You saved me, you’ve been protecting me ever since. That’s your job, right? Just like it’s mine to protect you?”

Sam’s fist uncurls and falls limply at his side. “But what if... they could still...”

“Let ’em try,” Dean says. “But whatever they throw at us we’ll take it on together. You won’t let me fall, right, Sammy?”

Dean Winchester is twenty-eight and his brother looks at him like he hung the moon and stars. His heart flutters. He might be in love with his brother.

“Sam.”

Sam clutches at Dean as they search for the source of the voice. Ruby’s corpse, gleaming with crimson light, watches them. Her neck remains split open but no longer gushes blood and tilts her head at an odd angle. Her face is strangely blank.

“Sam. You’re almost there,” Ruby rasps.

“Ruby...?” Dean questions.

“I don’t think that’s Ruby,” Sam whispers back.

“Just a little more. You can feel it, can’t you Sam? How we’re connected?”

Sam’s veins pulse orange and gold and he gasps, body temperature skyrocketing. Dean steadies him as he stumbles.

“I can help you, Sam,” the voice purrs. Dean recognizes it now underneath the feminine lit of Ruby’s own tones; a mother’s gentle scolding, a father’s reassuring encouragement, and a sibling’s unwavering faith—all false.

“You’re dying, Sam. The power in you is too much. But I can fix you. And then I can keep your brother safe. You’ll never have to watch him die again. He can be by your side, always.”

“Sam d—” Don’t listen is what he means to say. But Ruby’s flat eyes jump to him and suddenly it’s as though a hand is clamping down his vocal chords. He can’t even reach up to claw at the invisible grip at his throat. All he can do is watch.

“How can I trust you?” Sam asks. Dean despairs at the hint of doubt in his words.

“Do you have a choice?” the voice asks.

Sam looks back at him and Dean pleads wordlessly for his brother to understand. To trust him. To trust them.

Sam smiles.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I think I do.”

Before Dean realizes what Sam is doing, his brother dashes forward to jam the knife straight into the center of Ruby’s neck, severing her vocal cords completely. Her mouth opens and closes in inept outrage. The grip on Dean’s neck vanishes.

“Nice,” Dean approves. But his gratification drains away when Sam turns to him. He swears he can see steam rising off of him. ”Hey, are you okay?”

Sam shakes his head. He looks like he’s on the verge of collapse. “Hurts,” he manages.

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” He doesn’t think of the demon on the pole, dead but never dying. “Look, you’ve got all that power inside you, right? You’ve just gotta send it somewhere?” Sam’s eyes wander downward. “N-not there, I don’t think. How about, out, okay? Just out and up?”

“Out and up,” Sam repeats. “But, Dean, what if you—”

“Together, remember?” Dean reminds him firmly. “Together. I’ll be okay.”

Sam nods sluggishly. “D-don’t know if I can.”

“You can. So, forget that douchebag in the ground. I’ve got a question for you.” Dean takes Sam’s hands in his own, gripping them tight. “Can you let go of it, Sam? For me?”

Sam gives him the one answer he wants to hear.

“Yes.”

Sam stands tall before the circle. Whatever power allowing them to talk at normal volume drops away and Dean is once again buffeted by shrieking light and power. Sam, though, just drops his head and closes his eyes. Breathes.

The red light consumes him, traveling from the floor into his legs and then up his torso. Sam absorbs the light; no, he collects it, channels it, funneling it through his body and away from the fractured lock that had been eagerly absorbing its might. After a few moments, Dean has to squint to see his brother. He can hear the voice screaming his fury like an echo in a cave.

Sam’s eyes snap open and they’re a brilliant amber. Dean almost steps back but forces himself to remain in place. Sam has it under control.

The light builds and builds. Dean has to hold his hand up to shield himself from the intensity. And just when he’s sure it’s going to be too much... Sam lets it go.

Up and out. The light pours out of Sam, up through the roof of the convent, and fans out like a volcanic plume. Up and out, turning the early evening back into high noon. Up and out, stretching thin until nothing remains. And Sam...

Has wings. Wings of light, spreading out like a Renaissance statue’s proclaiming the glory of Heaven. A halo circles his head, burning with white fire. His eyes are vats of liquid gold.

“Dean,” Sam says. “I see it.”

There’s no time to ask what, exactly, Sam sees. The wings vanish. The halo goes out. And Sam collapses to the church floor. The blood is gone, leaving only a silhouette of ash in its place.

Dean drops to his brother’s side, pressing to fingers to his neck. There—a pulse. Faint, but undeniably there. He breathes a sigh of relief.

And then another goddamn earthquake starts.

Dean manages to get both himself and Sam out of St. Mary’s before the roof collapses on their heads. Bobby runs to meet him and together they get Sam into the backseat. They peal out of there like the devil’s on their heels as the entire compound turns into rubble.

He expects to be met by hordes of furious of demons as they escape but there are none. What there is are bodies lying up and down every street and sidewalk as if every single one of them simply dropped where they stood. Dean has a feeling they did.

“It was that light,” Bobby concludes. “What the hell was that?”

“It was Sam,” Dean says. “The light was Sam.”

Bobby doesn’t ask any more questions until they get the hell out of Ilchester. Sam doesn’t wake after they cross state lines or when they stop for the night. In fact, almost three days go buy until Sam shows sign that’s he’s more than just a Sam-shaped vegetable.

They’re at Bobby’s place, upstairs in the room they always shared at kids. Bobby suggested a hospital more than once but Dean couldn’t risk it. Who knew how many demons were still out there? Besides, Sam would be fine. He damn well better be fine.

Turns out he was right not to worry. As Sam blinks his way into his consciousness Dean jumps to his feet, doing his best to look like he hasn’t be sitting in the exact same spot, unmoving, for forty-eight hours.

“You know,” Dean drawls and Sam groans, struggling to sit upright, “I thought about using a door stopper to trap you in here for a few hours. You know, just long enough for you to panic. Get a taste of what it feels like.”

Sam grimaces. “I thought I was saving your life.”

“Sure, sure. But you couldn’t have at least thrown for a presidential suite? Or at least somewhere with better, ah, premium options?”

“I’m too tired for this,” Sam grumbles, flopping back down.

“Nuh-uh,” Dean says, tugging him back up. “I don’t think so. Not until you get some food in you at least. You’ve been asleep three days.”

“I have?” Sam exclaims. Dean nods. “Feels longer. What’d I miss?”

Dean walks him through the aftermath of St. Mary’s. Hunters everywhere are talking about the mysterious wave of light that mass-exorcised every demon within a hundred-mile radius. Most of the victims of possession even survived, if their bodies hadn’t been too badly damaged. Demonic activity everywhere has been down, omens dwindling down to almost nothing. It’s almost like the devil’s gate in Wyoming had never been opened.

“Doubt it,” Sam says darkly. “It’s too easy.”

“Don’t rain on my parade,” Dean huffs. “I’m chalking this up as a win until proven otherwise, alright?”

“I can live with that,” Sam agrees. They don’t talk about Sam’s contract or if Lilith will decide to crawl out of Hell to deal with it. A win’s a win.

“Hey, before you fainted—”

“Passed out,” Sam corrects.

“That’s what I said, fainted. Anyway, before you fainted like the princess you are, you said you could see it. See what exactly?”

“I don’t know,” Sam admits. “I don’t really remember that part. Just you asking me to let it go.”

“And you did,” Dean reminds him warmly. “And it all worked out.” Well, he supposes Sam might have just been spouting nonsense. It’s not like he was entirely himself at the time. And even if it wasn’t, it doesn’t matter now. All that power Sam had is gone and it’s not coming back.

“Oh, uh, here.” Sam lifts the bull-headed pendant off his neck and holds it out to Dean. “I never apologized for taking this. You were right. I did want you with me but I was so afraid... Anyway. You should have it back.”

Dean takes the necklace and gratefully drops it over his head. He didn’t realize how much he missed the feel of the leather string around his neck until it was gone. A knot sitting in his chest he didn’t even know was there finally loosens. “Thanks, Sammy.”

But Sam is fixated on the bedspread, fingers twisting in the sheets. “Uh, Dean. There’s something else we need to talk about.”

“What’s that?” Dean asks. His heart goes double time in his chest. Don’t say it.

“The night before the convent, in your dream. I, uh, said some things. Showed you some things.” Did something. “And I just wanted to know... I mean, if it’s okay...”

“Yeah, Sammy,” Dean blurts. His face feels hot. As in, burning up with psychic demonic energy hot. “It’s fine. We don’t have to talk about it.”

“But... I want to.” Sam looks up. “Don’t you?”

Dean’s fingers twitch along the top of the blanket toward Sam’s. He takes a deep breath.

“Well, look who’s up!”

Bobby throws open the door. Dean snatches his hands back. Sam hides his under the covers. They don’t look at each other.

“Y-Yeah,” Sam stutters. “Hey, Bobby. Good to see you.”

“‘Good to see you?’ Is that all I get after this? ’Good to see you?’” Bobby chastises.

Sam’s eyes grow big. “No, of course not. I mean, it is good to see you. Better than. Great, even. I mean—”

Bobby rolls his eyes. “I’m just messin’ with you, idjit. Now, do you think you can handle soup? I’ve got some one the stove, already hot.”

“Yeah, Bobby,” Sam confirms. “That would be great.”

“Good.” Bobby’s eyes slide over to Dean. “And you. Take a shower, will you? It’s been two damn days, you’re not a farm animal. I don’t want my house smelling like that damn motel room of yours—pizza and depression.”

Sam explodes into laughter as Dean flushes, caught out. Bobby leaves the room chuckling under his breath, leaving him and Sam alone once more. Sam grins at him, wide and carefree and Dean knows he doesn’t have to worry, at least for now. They’ve got time. Whatever comes their way they’ll handle it. Together.