A/N: This is a companion-fic to my other story "Each Our Own Devil". I was actually planning a direct sequel to that story, but the more I thought it through, the more I realised I wasn't going to make it through a proper multi-chapter continuation. I'm already struggling with two other WIPs; to take on another and to lose focus is a disservice both to the ideas in my head, and the people who read it. But I wanted to write more of this: so I decided to make it a 'verse, where I keep adding new stories. 'Sides, the colouring-in-the-blank-spaces method might actually help me tell a richer, more complex story, who knows.

This particular story is set a few years after the events of EOOD (and yes, it'd be better to read that first). It's an excuse to dip into Sam's (really, really screwed-up) mindspace. I know I've used the 'it's weird' excuse a lot before, but this time I'm actually trying to be weird, so. Be afraid. Be very afraid.

Warnings: SPOILERS upto 6.09: Clap your hands if you believe. Blood, gore, violence, references to torture, serious weirdness, present-tense, metaphor-abuse.

Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or any of its characters.

Brink

When he opens his eyes, he sees two different worlds.

One world is colour and light. There is life here, and sometimes, when Dean sits next to him and hands him a beer and points to the night sky, he remembers. He remembers loving and hating this world, and he remembers all that this world took from him, all that it gave in return. Sometimes, he thinks he can lose himself in this world again and forget everything else. Dean thinks he can do that, and he wants to believe Dean, wants to believe him so badly.

The other world is grey and dark. It is quieter here, a sort of strange peace that pulls him in, rather than him having to fight for it; there's pain and there's blood here, sure, but he knows them like he knows the air he breathes. He doesn't have to remember; he's known them for two centuries, and sometimes he falls into this world with disquieting comfort. He wakes up to Dean's panic first, then to Dean's resignation, where Dean mutters about bad days and hands him a bunch of pills. He's only ever asked once what the pills were for – Dean looked so startled and so sad that he's never dared to ask it again.

Most times, however –

"This is where it's going to go down," Dean says.

Sam blinks at him. "Where?"

"Ilchester, Maryland." Dean grins. His tongue pokes at the gap in his teeth like it always does when he's nervous or excited. "I know, where have I heard that before, right? But seriously, man. It makes sense. Back to where it all started."

It all started before time and place even had meaning. Sam reaches up to remove the bandanna around his missing eye. It's started to itch, and he's learned his lesson from the last infection. The gouges around his socket haven't gone away: a spider-web of scars that appears white and stark when he flushes. "I guess. What else do you have?"

Two Deans appear before him now – one is perfect, no missing tooth, no limp, no scars, but shadowed and grey, with light where dark is supposed to be and dark in light, like a photographic negative – and both are looking at him with exasperation. "I have exactly where demons and angels are going to meet to try and raise Lucifer again, Sam. What else do you want?"

The shadows around Other-Dean move in interesting ways when he's agitated. They swirl and pulse erratically like clouds in a lightning storm; Other-Dean's hands cut through them as he waves his arms around and talks. Little blue-white arcs of electricity connect his fingers every time he does that; sometimes Sam thinks he can smell the ozone –

"—hey. Sammy, you listenin'?"

"I'm fine," Sam says automatically. He narrows his eye, struggles to focus on Real-Dean. In the periphery of his vision, Other-Dean mirrors Dean's actions perfectly, bending down, frowning, peering into his face. "Just sayin', we need to be sure of this. How do you know—"

"Omens," Bobby says, dropping a pile of assorted newspaper clippings and scribbled notes on the table in front of Sam. "Lots of 'em, right around where that old church used to be. And about angels, well." He looks sideways at Dean, takes a deep breath. "That's the intel we got from Castiel."

There's nothing interesting about Other-Bobby – he's just a shadow, a moving, organic darkness that moves in perfect synchrony with the real one. It's just like everybo—

No. He needs to focus. He will focus.

(if you don't you'll die we'll all die sammy do you want that on you do you want to be responsi—)

"Castiel is human now," he says. "How did he get this information?"

Dean sighs and stretches. "He's still got contacts Up There, y'know. Apparently, Raphael isn't ready to bust Lucifer's cage yet; he needs the other end prepped. And that's exactly what Meg's cronies are going to do." He jabs a finger onto the pile of papers. "Tonight."

It's been six months since Castiel lost the war; since he appeared on Bobby's doorstep, bloody and battered and distinctly human. Six months since Raphael and his army invaded Hell; six months since Crowley was killed (his last words, meant for Sam alone, were do you know that you are due for Hell in five years? Sam wonders if that isn't a mercy, a dying being's last gift).

"Demons and angels working openly together," Bobby says, shaking his head. "Whenever I think that I've heard it all..."

"What are we going to do about it?" Sam asks.

"We're going to stop it, that's what we're gonna do," Dean says. "Cas, you and me, we're heading out now."

Bobby raises his eyebrows. "Wait. Sam? You're taking the key to the cage with you?"

"Yeah," Sam says. He looks sideways – Other-Dean nods. "I'm bait. Right?"

Dean only smiles.

There's a large crater where the convent used to be.

The buildings that surround it are burnt-out husks, overgrown with scraggly vegetation. Sam doesn't remember there being much around when he first came here all those (two hundred and five) years ago, doesn't remember much of anything except an aching need and giddy power (giddy with the freedom to destroy himself because Dean had damned him, too).

"Can't see much of anybody – or anything," Dean says, lowering his binoculars. Castiel does the same from where he's sitting on the edge of a windowsill, ten feet above where Sam and Dean are standing. "Me neither," he says. "Perhaps they have concealed themselves through... other means." He looks down at them. "Perhaps with angelic help."

Dean rolls his eyes. "Figures." He looks at Sam, raises an eyebrow. "Well, Sammy?"

Sam doesn't answer; he reaches up and removes his bandanna. It's dark enough now that the shadow-world doesn't seem so different; it's at moments like this that he feels like he has his whole vision back. Only as his normal eye adjusts to the darkness, where he can make out shapes against the night, can he realise he's seeing double of everything. Double-vision without even alcohol or coming down from a demon-blood high. Like he's the world's biggest insect, he likes to think.

"Sam?"

He looks up. Castiel remains blindingly bright in the shadow-world – a human shape made completely out of light. "I'm lookin'," he says. "Hold your horses."

He doesn't know when this started – perhaps at some point during the confused days after he'd gotten his soul back and lost an eye in the process – but now his missing eye can not only see, but can see things as they are in a shadowy parallel dimension. Demons, angels, monsters, people – they come in different hues and shapes in this world. It creeped Dean out when Sam first told him about it, but they've come to learn to use it well on hunts.

Turn even your biggest weakness into an advantage, Dad used to tell them. Sam wonders if he'd be proud, now.

He looks back at the crater – and there, right there: a ribbon of coiling red smoke, right at the periphery of his field of vision. He steps forward, feels Dean grab his elbow, and he shakes it off. He needs to concentrate; he needs to (focus goddammit sammy don't lose me again just focus) do his job. He ties the bandanna around his head again, now covering his good eye, still moving forward. He thinks he stumbles along the way, but Dean's hand is at his elbow again, steadying him.

Sam doesn't shake off his brother's support after that.

The crater's beginning to fill up: multi-coloured smoke is pouring in from at least four different sides, slowly starting to resolve into human shapes. They're congregating at the centre of the crater, and in each of their amorphous hands is something sharp and bright – the light breaking through even though the hands are closed over them, like they're cradling quasars –

"Five, as far as I can see," he says. "They're – they're meeting up at the centre, and –" He stops as the colours change rapidly, rippling through a rainbow like a diamond-edged deck of cards and the lights get brighter. "Something's happening; we need to move now."

He feels Dean's grip tighten for a second before it disappears altogether. "Then you know what to do, Sammy," he says, and that's all that Sam needs.

He walks until he stands at the lip of the crater. Small rocks skip down the sides as he drags his foot along the edge – he watches as they tumble, tumble into a bottom-less darkness, and thinks that maybe if they drop down far enough, hell will spit them back to him. After all, this is where its greatest – and most desperate – denizen still strains against the surface, waiting to break free.

(we were meant to set each other free sammy)

One of the coloured-figures turns his way, and on that featureless face appears a black grin like an ink-stain (like old blood) spreading. In that maw is a double-row of sharpened teeth, and they're dripping blood. "Sam Winchester," says that mouth on that empty face in that bloody pit where he is strung up on hooks for demons to come and tear chunks off his body and eat them in front of his very eyes before they tear out those too –

focus focus focus –

"In the flesh," he says flippantly, loudly, his voice carrying across the space like a clarion call. "I'm flattered you still remember me."

The demon leaves the congregation and walks toward him. "How can we forget, Sam," it says and spreads its hands – that pulsing quasar is now a protostar, blinding in its intensity. Sam forgets he cannot blink and stumbles back. "Come," it says. "We are ready for you, Sam. He is ready for you. He always has been."

It reaches out with one hand – the protostar still pulses white-hot and it is scorching him; it is calling to him with the promise of the perverse comfort of pain: the only thing that told him he was alive for nearly two centuries. He throws an arm over his eyes and thinks dean i can't do this anymore dean dean DEAN –

An invisible hand closes around his and he's being (burned) pulled down the wall of the crater, rolling down, rocks digging bruises into his skin before he finally comes to a stop and they're all leaning over him and the heat is so (wonderful) unbearable–

"HEY!"

Sam looks up. The heat recedes and the protostar blinks out of existence as Dean – no, no, Other -Dean – ploughs into the demon. The blade in his hand – Ruby's knife – is pitch-black, the symbols inscribed along its length glowing a fiery orange. It plunges into the demon repeatedly, and the coloured smoke swirls around Other-Dean even as he continues to stab. It finally dissolves, breaking up and sinking – sinking into Other-Dean, in through his chest, his eyes, his mouth. When Other-Dean looks up to smile at him, wisps of red smoke peek from between his teeth.

Sam can only stare.

"C'mon, Sammy, up we get." Other-Dean holds out a hand. Sam grabs it, hoists himself onto his feet. He can hear Castiel's voice booming in the background, reciting an exorcism – and the coloured-figures are struggling in the centre, their outlines wisping and dissolving. Sam frowns. "Why aren't they—"

"Trying to escape?" Other-Dean laughs, and the shadows laugh with him. "World's biggest salt-circle around this place, bro. Did it while you were, y'know, sitting around being spaced-out this evening. Spent about half of the local departmental store's salt supplies, but hey. All for a good cause, right?"

"Dean!" One of the figures – right there, right behind Other-Dean, there's no star in its hands, the hands that are snaking around Other-Dean's neck – and Other-Dean swirls, knife coming up, but it's too late –

(i'll always be here to watch you die)

—and Sam reaches into his own jacket-pocket, unscrews the bottle of holy water even as the demon is starting to choke the life out of Other-Dean, tries to ignore the smoke that creeps under Other-Dean's skin like it belongs there and flings the contents of the bottle on the demon—

—the colours change into fire as the water touches the demon; the green becomes a red that becomes orange that's a brightly-burning flame and as the demon backs away with the fire on its face and arms and Other-Dean's still on his hands and knees trying to regain his breath, Sam picks up the knife and swoops forward and plunges it into the demon-smoke-fire, watches it scream and break and dissolve into the earth—

"Benedictus Deius. Gloria Patri!"

Screams explode all around them as the demons leave; smoke clouds that rise into the air and disperse with startling speed.

Other-Dean stands up, coughing, one hand held gingerly over his throat. "Man, you were just supposed to be the distraction; I coulda handled the bastard."

"Sure you could," Sam says absentmindedly, still staring at where the demons disappeared, wondering if they took the stars (and the fire and pain) with them, too. Castiel runs toward them, his luminous figure slipping and sliding down the side of the crater before he stops in front of them, panting. Sam watches sweat drip from his forehead; watches the drops evaporate before they even hit the ground. "I trust you two are okay," Castiel says.

Other-Dean grins. "Given the circumstances? I'd say we're better than okay." He claps Sam on the back. "Couldn't have done without you, Sammy."

"You can stop treating me like I'm thirteen, Dean, thank you."

"Hey, I didn't mean–"

"We need to secure this area," Castiel says, raising his eyebrows. "They're going to come back once they realise that this effort was not fruitful."

Other-Dean shakes his head; little sparks fly from his hair. "I'll call Bobby and see if he has any ideas." He throws a look at Sam. "What about you? And for godssake, Sam, remove that bandanna."

Sam's caught movement just beyond the lip of the crater, behind a copse of dead-looking trees – a being made entirely blue smoke. He's just about to alert Dean and Cas to its presence when he realises that the face isn't as featureless as he first thought: there's a single eye on its forehead, and that eye – that eye –

(i see you, sam)

Sam reaches around to tear the bandanna off his head, but the demon's already gone, and Dean's already panicking. "Sammy? Hey, you okay?"

"I—" He backs away, stumbles against something, and nearly lands on his ass before Dean grabs his arm and steadies him. He turns to look what it is, and it –

It's a child's head, neatly dismembered at the neck. It's a girl, round cheeks, flowing black hair still tied up with a red ribbon. Sam feels bile rise at the back of his throat, stares at Dean for an explanation.

Dean sighs, and all the perfection of Other-Dean is lost in the defeated slump of his shoulders. "Those bastards were holding these heads in their arms. It... it might've been part of their ritual. I don't know, man, it's just so freakin' sick."

These were the stars, Sam knows. The stars I so desperately hated and loved for all that they promised.

The world sways beneath his feet and his knees buckle. Dean catches him before he hits the ground, and Sam leans his head against his brother's shoulder, breathing short and fast, trying to quell his nausea. "Can we—can we-?"

Dean tightens his grip around Sam's shoulders. "Sure, Sammy. Let's go home."

Finis