Sam felt like throwing up. The world spun, the interior of the bar stretching and mixing and morphing around him. The hunter dragged his hands down his face and groaned.

Relax, you're not killing him. You're just… stalling. It's like cryogenics: people with terminal illnesses who freeze themselves until a cure can be found. That's all. You're not killing him. You're just keeping him safe until a cure can be found.

Sam dropped his hands to his sides. His right hand shook as he grabbed the tequila shot from the bar and downed it in one go.

But what if there is no cure? What if you're just condemning him to life in a prison? Alone, miserable, no way out… no way out…

The hunter slammed the shot glass back onto the bar. The bartender jumped slightly at the noise. He looked at him through narrowed eyes.

"Another?"

"Fuck yes."

Maybe you're not killing him directly, but you're abandoning him. Betraying him. And, sometimes, betrayal is worse than murder. It's murder of the soul.

The bartender slid another shot to Sam. It clinked into the mound of empty shot glasses in front of him, bouncing off one and sending it into another. What was that Olympic sport called again? Curling? Dumb fucking name. Dumb fucking game, too.

"This is your last," the bartender said. "I think you've had enough."

I'm going to murder my brother.

"Not hardly."

Sam walked the length of the motel, the floor creaking and moaning with each heavy step. His tired eyes glanced from room number to room number, trying to find the right one. His head pounded too much to remember them, so he spoke the numbers aloud as he passed.

"106- 108- 110- 112- This one, Sam-"

Sam stopped in his tracks. Over the metal slab where the door number should be, someone had taped a piece of paper with the words "This one, Sam" written in perfect cursive script. Sam furrowed his brow and reached to the paper, peeling it from the number plate. Underneath, he saw the room number he was looking for: 114. Sam muttered something under his breath and knocked twice. Immediately, the door opened.

"Hello, Sam," a deep, raspy voice greeted him. Sam lifted his eyes to look at the fallen angel. Dark bags drooped under his bright blue eyes, and his brown hair looked like it'd lost a fight with a hurricane. The tan trenchcoat he usually wore was nowhere in sight.

"So, how do you want to do this?" The words felt heavy in Sam's mouth.

Castiel's lips stretched thin. He opened the door as far as it would go. "Come inside."

Sam stepped into the dimly lit room. It was your standard motel layout: bed in the middle, bathroom in the wall. Two tall, stern figures stood in the corner of the room next to the drawn blinds. Sam froze in place, vaguely aware of the door closing behind him.

"Sam, these are Gamiel and Hosea. They are some of Heaven's greatest warriors, and my greatest allies."

Sam narrowed his eyes at the angels. They stared back, unblinking and unmoving.

"I thought you didn't have any allies."

"In the war against the Demon, we are all allies."

Sam closed his eyes and dropped his head, nodding slightly. "You mean, in the war against my brother."

"Samuel Winchester, the danger the Demon poses is great," Gamiel stepped forward. "That your brother became the Demon is regrettable. But you must understand that while he walks the earth, all of God's creation is in danger. One as powerful as he cannot be allowed to wander freely."

Sam was too tired, drunk, and angry to argue. He knew they were right; the bearer of the Mark was too dangerous to let out of sight. The Mark led Lucifer to rebel against God. It led Cain to murder his brother. It turned Dean into a demon, and not just any demon: a Knight of Hell.

A few months ago, when Sam first learned that Dean had been resurrected as a demon, he was hopeful. A demonic Dean was better than a dead one, and plus, they knew how to cure demons. All they had to do was drag him back to the bunker and perform the ritual of purification. Eight hours and eight syringes of sanctified blood, and he would be good as new.

Except, that hadn't worked. Dean had escaped unharmed, breaking through both the demonic handcuffs and the devil's trap in the process. On the way out, he nearly crushed Sam's skull with a hammer, before stopping himself mid-swing and choosing to knock him out with his fist instead. When Sam awoke, the bunker was empty, and Dean was nowhere to be seen.

It had taken two months to track him down again. And, with the ritual of purification out of the question, there was only one option left.

"I know," Sam breathed, opening his eyes once more. "What do you need me to do?"

"Underneath this town runs a series of burial tunnels," Hosea said. "At the end of those tunnels stands an impenetrable prison. It is cursed with the strongest of Enochian and Primordial magic seals, much like the cage where Lucifer resides. You must lead your brother to the prison and close the door behind him. Be warned that, once the door is closed, none but the strongest magic can reopen it."

Castiel looked over to Sam. "We will guard the prison and the tunnels until you lure him in. Then we can assist you in entrapping him, if you need it."

Sam could hear his heart pounding in his ears. He couldn't believe they were suggesting this. He couldn't believe he was going along with this. After all Dean had done for him, was he really going to betray him like this?

Not betrayal. Just cryogenics. Dean will thank you when he's cured.

If he's cured.

"And how am I supposed to lead him there?"

Gamiel and Hosea nodded at Castiel. Cas' lips drew into a thin line as he walked into the bathroom. When the angel reemerged, he held his wadded trenchcoat in his hands. He reached into the trenchcoat and pulled out a familiar weapon.

Sam's eyes widened. The First Blade.

"How did you get that?" Sam whispered, staring at the blade. Cas slid it back into the folds of the trenchcoat. "Dean never lets it out of his sight."

"That is irrelevant," Hosea said. "We have it, and the Demon will want it back. The Mark calls to the Blade; they are one and the same."

Sam felt uneasy. Maybe it was just the hangover starting to set in.

"When did you want to do this?"

Gamiel, Hosea, and Castiel looked at Sam.

"We have alerted the Demon that we have the Blade. He is to meet us at Harvey's Bar tomorrow night. You will go in our stead while we guard the catacombs."

Sam felt bile rising in his throat.

"Here for another round?"

Sam plopped onto the bar stool. The hilt of the demon knife jabbed into the side of his hip. He looked up at the bartender, a dull aching in his head all that remained of yesterday's hangover.

"Just a soda, please," Sam drew his lips into a thin line, glancing to the door in front of him.

The bartender noticed his gaze, turning to the door himself. "Meeting a friend?"

"No," Sam sighed, adjusting the demon knife hidden under his clothing. "An enemy."

The front door of the bar swung open, slamming into the wall and shattering its glass pane into a million pieces. All heads in the bar looked up simultaneously. Sam didn't have to look to know who it was. He reached down to touch the demon blade hidden under the fabric of his clothing, checking that it was still there. His foot tapped in rhythm to the beat of his heart.

"Hey, Dean."

Dean gave the room a once-over before walking forward. His hair, four months past due for a trim, laid limply around his face, and it looked like he hadn't changed in weeks, at least. He adjusted his grip on a silver, double-edge knife - apparently, his First Blade replacement - in his right hand. Finally, he looked directly at Sam, his eyes filled with malice as they flashed black. For a moment, Sam stopped breathing.

"Everyone, leave," Sam said to the people in the bar, his eyes fixed on Dean. Some people stood up and slowly began to gather their things. Most just stared at each other with confused faces.

"NOW!" Sam shouted. The entire bar seemed to jump in unison before flocking to the emergency exit in the back of the bar. Dean, uninterested, watched the people leave.

"I know you have the Blade, Sam," Dean spoke once the bar was clear, his voice unnervingly smooth and even. "Looks like one of your angel friends betrayed you."

Sam set his jaw, pausing a moment. "I don't have it with me."

Dean stared at him with hollow, yet piercing, eyes. "Don't lie to me, Sam."

"Or what, you'll kill me?"

Sam knew this was a risky move. He needed to lead Dean into the catacombs, and he couldn't do that if he were dead. Dean had always been a force of nature when pushed to the limit, even before he turned into a demon. But he couldn't betray his brother if there was any shred of doubt he was still good inside.

"You couldn't kill me before," Sam continued. "Tried to bash my head in with a hammer, remember? You stopped yourself."

"I won't make the same mistake twice, Sammy," Dean snarled, still standing near the shattered door. His thumb stroked the hilt of his knife. Sam reached down to touch the hilt of his. "If you cross me again, I will kill you. I can promise you that."

Dean gave Sam a once-over, probably gauging how capable he'd be in a fight. Sam's broken arm was healed, so at least he had one more arm to fight with than he had last time they met. The demon looked back into Sam's eyes, waiting for a response. When none came, Dean rolled his eyes and moved to the bar. Shattered glass crunched under his shoes as he walked behind the bar, grabbing an open can of beer that someone had left there. He lifted it to his lips and drank eagerly.

"One last chance, Sam," Dean said as he finished the bottle. He wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt. "You know you couldn't beat me in a fight, and I know you don't have backup. Tell me where the Blade is."

Sam blinked. His breath hitched. "It's hidden. With magic. You'll need me to take you there."

Dean eyed him suspiciously. "Well, isn't that convenient." He turned his back to Sam, his eyes scanning the shelves of empty shot glasses and half-emptied bottles. Sam's muscles tensed; beyond shattering the door, Dean was way too calm about the situation. Sam had the Blade, or at least, had knowledge of its location. That Dean wasn't at his throat with his knife right now was a red fucking flag.

Or, perhaps, it was a good sign: a sign that he wasn't as far gone as everyone made him out to be. They were still brothers, still shared a lifetime of memories together. Dean hadn't killed him that night at the bunker, and he couldn't kill him now. His brother was still in there somewhere.

Betrayal.

No. Cryogenics.

Dean decided on a malt scotch. He set his knife on the bar, in reach of Sam, and poured a shot into an empty glass. He downed it in one go before speaking again.

"So, you gonna tell me where it is, or show me?"

Sam eyed his brother's silver blade. Dean held the shot glass in his hand and watched. Finally, Sam swallowed and turned back to his brother.

"I'll show you."

Screw keeping the Demon Blade hidden. As he entered the catacombs, Dean in tow, he held onto the hilt in a death grip, keeping an eye on Dean at all times. Cas had shown him around the catacombs yesterday, so that he'd know where to go, where the traps were, and how to disarm them. The traps leading up to the prison were mainly Enochian: simply profess that you're the servant of God or something, and they would let you pass. God and Enochian were the antithesis of demonism, and the Demon - Dean, Sam reminded himself - couldn't pass on his own.

Apparently, according to Gamiel, the town had suffered a deadly epidemic a few hundred years ago, killing many of the townsfolk. They didn't have enough space in the graveyard, so they buried the bodies in the walls of the coal mine running underneath it. The tunnel was narrow and constricting; if they had brought torches instead of flashlight, they'd probably be choking on smoke right now.

Well, Sam would. Dean would just walk through it. Perks of being the living dead, he supposed. Dean would fit right in, buried in here with the rest of the decomposed corpses. Right after Sam finished betrayed him.

Not betrayal, Sam reminded himself, although he didn't really believe it at this point. Just cryogenics.

He gave a shaky breath and kept moving. He glanced to his left, where Dean was keeping pace with him. Dean stared in front of him, his eyes harsh in the dim lighting. He hadn't spotted the angels yet, which was good.

Although, come to think of it, neither had Sam. They must be extremely well hidden. Or maybe they were just guarding the prison; there was no need to guard the tunnels while they were protected with Enochian seals.

Something jabbed into Sam's stomach. He jumped back, raising the Demon Blade in a defensive posture, a rush of adrenaline preparing him to fight back.

No one was there. Sam heart raced as he spun to look behind him. Dean stared at him like he had two heads.

"You ran into a bone, genius," Dean said, pointing at the wall.

Sam followed the direction of his finger, locating a thick, yellowed bone protruding from the dirt wall. Sam tilted his head and lowered his weapon, his mouth agape.

"Someone's on edge," Dean narrowed his eyes. "Not expecting anyone, are you?"

"No," Sam breathed. He rolled back his shoulders and moved forward. "Just a bit jumpy."

"Because, you know, if you were expecting back-up, I'd have to kill them. Then I'd have to kill you for going behind my back."

Sam was silent for a moment. He didn't dare turn to look at him. "Of course not."

"Good," Dean nodded. "Let's pick up the pace, then. I want to be in and out of here as quick as possible."

It was hard to believe this metal box was powerful enough to rival Lucifer's cage in effectiveness. It was around 6 by 6 feet with rusty metal on all sides. A small door was punched into the tunnel-facing side of the box, its hinges appearing to hang by a thread. Sam remembered what Hosea had said: once the door is closed, none but the strongest magic can reopen it. It made Sam shudder at the thought.

"The Blade's in there," Sam swallowed, pointing to the prison. He caught the flicker of a shadow in the corner of his eye. It looked like Castiel.

Finally. Took your damn time showing up.

"You don't honestly expect me to just waltz in there, do you?" Dean glared at Sam. Sam eyes flickered to Dean's and back to the prison. He let out a deep breath, closed his eyes, and reached out a hand to the box.

"Behvo tah moehn tah beh gehsah baba loehn."

The outstretched hand was unnecessary. So was the Enochian incantation, but he had to trick Dean into thinking the box was safe to enter, that all wards had been dispelled. A symbol toward the back of the box glowed a bright white and fizzled out, falling to the floor like ash.

Dean set his jaw and stared at the box suspiciously. "And how do I know it's in there, and not just a trick?"

"It's there," Sam said, maybe a bit too quickly. He hesitated a moment and looked back to the shadow in the corner. It was still there. Good. He'd need the backup. "You can't see it from here… it's kinda tucked in the corner… here, just come with me."

Sam and Dean walked side by side to the entrance of the prison. Sam's heart began to race. He knew that getting Dean into the box on his own was extremely unlikely; he wasn't that naïve. He and the angels would probably have to shove him in and slam the door behind him.

They were very close to the box now, only a few feet away. Sam pointed to the corner, where the Blade was tucked away in a sheet of orange fabric. Sam stopped, not daring to get any closer. Dean stopped, too.

"What's wrong, little brother? Afraid you'll set off your trap?"

Sam's heart skipped a beat as he snapped his head to face Dean, who was looking at him with the smallest hint of a smile. Sam looked over Dean's shoulder to the shadow in the corner. He could see the shadow better from this angle. Sam's eyes grew wide and his breath hitched.

It was Castiel. And he was dead.

An angel blade had been thrust through his chest with such force, it had pinned him to the wall of the tunnel. The blade was still there, encrusted with the dried blood that saturated his shirt and the front of his trenchcoat. A small trickle of blood ran down the corner of his mouth. At his feet, crumpled in the corner, lay Hosea and Gamiel, also drenched in dried blood.

Sam squeezed the hilt of the demon blade and swung in an arc toward Dean. Dean easily stepped out of the way, his eyes flashing black as he raised his hand. Sam was knocked backwards by a sharp impact to the air, flinging him into the outer wall of the box. Sam gasped as the back of his head slammed into metal. He set his heels firmly into the earth, trying to avoid stumbling to the ground. He jabbed the knife forward, slamming it into the meat of Dean's chest. The Demon looked down to the blade and back to Sam.

"Weak."

Dean removed the knife easily, the wound healing itself in seconds. Sam looked up to Dean's eyes, desperate and pleading.

"Don't do this, Dean," Sam whispered. "You don't have to do this."

Dean grabbed Sam's collar and pulled him from the wall. Dean's eyes turned completely black as he thrust the palm of his hand into Sam's chest, sending him backwards, through the open door of the metal prison, at full force. Sam's back slammed into the back of the box. He crumpled to the floor in a heap. The hunter tried to draw a breath, but found it hard to breathe. He crawled forward like his life depended on it, towards the door of the box.

The door slammed shut in front of him, plunging him into complete darkness. The metal of the box creaked as Sam shifted his weight, staring into the blackness with wide eyes.

"I told you, Sammy," Sam heard Dean's voice from the outside, muffled by the metal walls of the prison. "I won't make the same mistake twice."

Sam gasped for breath. He was at the verge of tears. "B-but the Blade! The Blade is still here, you need it!"

Dean gave a dark laugh. "Please. I never let it out of my sight." Sam jumped as a bang sounding like the hilt of a blade sounded from the outside, knocking three times into the closed metal door. "Like I said, someone betrayed you. Led me down here a few hours ago; your angel pals barely put up a fight, it was disappointing, really. Never trust an angel to have your back, Sammy, they're way too good at dying. Anyways, have fun with your fake blade. And make yourself at home! You only have… what? Twelve hours until you run out of oxygen?"

Sam crawled to the door on his hands and feet, the thin layer of dirt on the floor grinding into his exposed skin. He ran his hands over where the door should be. He couldn't find it. The door crack must have completely disappeared. Sam shook.

"Dean! I know there still must be good in you, don't do this!"

The Demon didn't respond. Sam continued to call Dean's name as he heard footsteps walk into the distance, becoming quieter and quieter until all that was left was the frantic beat of Sam's own, small, trembling heart.