Spoilers: Through early Season 6

Warnings: Violence, ritual abuse and nudity with children present, but not involved. Distorted uses of biblical quotes/Christian doctrine/ceremony.

A/N: Takes place two years after 'Swan Song' and diverges from canon about two minutes before the end of that episode (no Sam spying on Lisa).

Written for spn_reversebang. Inspired by an illustration prompt by Puguita. Her beautiful illustrations can be found integrated with the story on my LJ, user real_funky_town. Mega thanks to agent_jl36 and ebony_quill for scene edits and ceaseless gratitude to durtydeefla82 for her complete read through and edits on very short notice.


A shiver trembled through Dean's naked body. While he struggled to remain on his hands and knees his lungs fought to hack the last of the salty, holy water from his lungs. The abdominal muscle spasms shot white hot pain through his bruised ribs. The stinging gashes crisscrossing his body seeped blood, staining the water that beaded from his skin and pooled on the concrete beneath him.

"Kneel."

While Dean's ears heard the priest's coolly spoken order, his brain had already left the party. At some point most of the spectators had too. Dean clung to the hope that the higher-ups were opting for a private ceremony because this was nothing but a crapshoot.

Super thought, but if wishes were horses his family would still be whole. He wasn't risking the world on off chance that his luck had suddenly taken a turn for good.

A sharp kick from behind buckled his knees. He hissed as the wounds on the back of his thighs slapped hard against the ones on his calves. A warm hand set against the chilled skin of his chest to push his torso upright.

"With this anointing of holy oil your mark as the betrayer is spiritually nullified."

Dean blinked his irritated eyes as the now cool, moist hand moved to his shoulder. Tilting his head, he watched the fingers curl around the handprint branded there. The grace of an angel had seared the mark into his soul and this monster thought he could purify that.

"You really got no clue what a crazy son of a bitch you are," Dean rasped.

"And you no concept of the damage you have done."

With a hitched breath, Dean closed his eyes before whispering, "You'd be surprised."

The priest crouched beside him. Dean didn't bother to raise his head. When he opened his eyes he found himself staring at the bright crimson stains of his blood against the stark white of the priest's alb.

"Then you acknowledge this gift. Despite your unfathomable sins you are being allowed to make amends. Through this sacrifice you will be granted eternal life."

"God, I hope not."

Though Dean barely breathed the sincerely spoken words the priest leaned close enough to hear. The man's face twisted in condemnation as if Dean gave a rat's ass.

"Your sacrilegious tongue is not required for this ceremony." The priest poured more oil onto his palm and slapped his hand harshly against Dean's cheek. Roughly he smeared the foul smelling oil up over Dean's forehead and back into his hair.

"Make the cuts slowly," the priest told the other men as he stood. Dean caught the flash off a dagger's blade being exchanged. "His heart must remain beating until the child arrives."

Dean had already overheard enough earlier to know that he had to survive until the end of the ritual or these bastards could spill all the Winchester blood they wanted and Michael still wouldn't be popping out of the box. There had only been two options – stop it from starting or end it himself.

The only exit was sealed. There were at least fifty fanatics praying outside even if he could bust out. Beneath the priest's arm Dean saw the gold etched binding of a familiar, heavy, leather book. It was the real deal and this was really it.

His heart raced as he took in his last few breaths of the basement's stale air. The holy oil poured over the symbol etched floor was lit. The fire raced to close the circle that now separated him from the priest but left two men standing beside him. He should have killed the bastards when he had the chance. There were a lot of things he should have done.

Latin began to flow from the priest's tongue. The sharp bite of steel cut into the flesh of Dean's arm. He grunted and forced himself to wait, shaking with the effort of remaining still. Another cut and he choked back a sob. It wasn't the burning of the wounds that left tears rimming his eyes.

They wanted it to be his baby girl beneath the blade. He didn't know where any of the others were, if they were even alive. Silently he prayed that there was still a family for him to leave behind.

The slick blade touched against his chest. Before the cut slid through his skin, Dean's fingers gripped the hand that held the blade. For a fraction of a second Dean stared into the empty eyes of the wielder, a smirk crossed his lips before he drove the blade into his own chest. At least he'd had a family to lose.

-o-o-o-

15 Hours Earlier
Sioux Falls, South Dakota

The words blurred together. It took five minutes for Dean's half asleep brain to process that the text wasn't in English. Another five for him to accept that no matter how long he stared at the letters they wouldn't rearrange themselves into anything he could read. For his effort he was left with a pounding headache and no relief for the ever-present ache in his heart.

He was willing to bet his truck that the words scribed on the smooth velum was Latin. Sam could have read it or at least found some geek site on his computer to translate it. Unless Dean could find someone who wasn't Bobby to read it for him he was going to be short a grand and no closer to unlocking his brother from Lucifer's cage.

If he had to break down and go to Bobby he'd get himself ripped a new one, if he had to go on a road trip to find a professor to translate it, Lisa would tear him a new one. It wasn't that he was afraid of either of them, just of disappointing them.

Getting a hold of the original copy of a medieval satanic text was all good in theory, but next time he would have to hold out for the secret decoder ring. The thing was, after two years of reading every useless piece of crap he could find he was running out of sources to check. As long as he didn't know what this book said he could still pretend it held the answer.

After rubbing his hand over his face, Dean blinked his blurry eyes and leaned back in the car seat. He reached for his thermos, unscrewed the cap and took a long swig of cooling black coffee that was barely enough to keep him conscious.

Large raindrops pelted down like thunder against the roof of the truck's cab. It was nearly loud enough to overpower the squeaking of his mud caked boots over the all weather floor mats while his legs shifted uneasily. The water washed down the windshield in sheets so thick Dean could barely make out the rest of the construction crew still stuck out in the rain.

He would gloat over his perfectly timed lunch break if he didn't feel guilty as hell for being the only semi-dry guy here. That and his stomach was so twisted in knots he couldn't even think about eating the sandwich Ben had packed for him.

With the weather begging for building to be done by cubits Dean struggled to resist the urge to call Bobby with a big, fat 'I told you so'. Despite what everyone kept telling him, Dean knew he wasn't crazy. Something more than just storm clouds was brewing on the horizon.

Absently Dean ran his thumb over the polished white gold of his wedding band. They'd stopped the apocalypse. As much as he'd like to think that qualified him to kick the ass of anything that came his way, this wasn't about saving the world, this was about protecting his family and in that capacity he had failed each and every time. It should be Sam wearing the ring, and him locked in the cage, but Dean had tried to make that happen and the world wouldn't have it.

Bobby had put him on lockdown, had dragged Lisa and Ben into the intervention. Dean hadn't been left any choice but to own up to another failure. At least that was what his mouth had said. In reality he hadn't cashed in his chips yet, but everything had changed and his old leap without looking approach didn't cut it anymore.

A thud at the passenger side window had Dean nearly spilling coffee over the 15th century book still laid open on his lap. Running on raw nerves and no sleep, he fumbled for the gun tucked beneath his seat. His hand had just tightened around the pistol's handle when Sid jerked open the door.

Dean released the weapon before it was brought into view and sat bolt upright in his seat. Sid climbed in beside him while Dean slammed the book closed.

With a heavy sigh of relief, Sid ran a hand through his sopping wet hair. "What you reading?"

"Uh...just an old Chilton repair manual." Sid raised a brow as Dean shoved the gold leaf detailed, leather-bound book under the bench seat. "Really old...like first addition. I collect old manuals."

"Really? I did not know that. You are a man of ever unfolding mystery." Sid gave the binding of the book another contemplative look. "You know, I might have some in my garage. Not like that, but...yeah."

"Awesome." Dean turned in his seat to stare at Sid. "Did you need something?"

"Your lunch break is officially over."

With a furrowed brow Dean pulled up the sleeve of his Carhartt jacket and glanced to his watch. It wasn't like Sid to play break nazis and Dean still had a good five minutes left by the clock.

Dean gave a shrug. "Yeah, okay." He grabbed his lunch sack and tossed it to Sid. "You better finish this for me."

Before Dean could open the door Sid's hand clutched his bicep. Every muscle in Dean's body went rigid. He shot a look over his shoulder expecting Sid's eyes to shine back black, if not yellow. At the sight of the purely human eyes of his friend, Dean forced himself to relax.

"Oh God, don't go out there," Sid said, "not without a scuba suit." Dean settled back against his seat while Sid started to rummage through Dean's lunch sack. "I mean they're calling it for today. Good men are literally drowning out there. I'm telling you, I've never seen a storm like this."

Dean took in an uneasy breath. "Yeah...it's been a while."

-o-o-o-

Whether it was thanks to the howling abyss of Lucifer's cage or the last two years of solitude, Sam had come to crave the quiet. Not literal quietness. Nearly every waking hour he spent hunting, fighting, killing. Yet in the midst of that struggle it was the quiet of not having to explain himself, of not having to be okay.

He couldn't feel a damn thing. Once Dean had wished for that apparent gift, to be free of the pain of hell, free of the guilt. To simply feel nothing. It wasn't what it was cracked up to be, but Sam was far from complaining.

Life had become a series of acts, not for penance or to help. It wasn't about saving people anymore. He did what needed to be done and the action was enough. It was something to do, something so instinctual and basic he could become lost in it. It was something that let him forget. By now he couldn't even remember what he had been trying to forget.

It was impossible to forget the icy sensation of being a bystander in his own body while his fists beat his willing brother half to death. He could never forget the all-consuming fires that charred away layer after layer. There was no relief from the silence of waking alone and knowing that would never change.

Whatever it was he had forgotten, it made it bearable to wake up in the morning and do it all over again. It was good enough. In this moment he simply focused on putting one foot in front of the other.

Sam's boots splashed through the flowing stream the now empty sidewalk had become. He barely noticed the water splattering up to soak the legs of his jeans. With a swipe of his hand he brushed back his dripping bangs and stepped into Hansen's Rare Book Treasury. The sharp chime of a bell announced his presence.

Inside it was the type of high-end antique store that made mothers tremble in fear at the thought of bringing their children inside. While books were the focus, the ornate reading tables were loaded with obscure breakables from all across the globe. The store was small and crammed to capacity. Even Sam had to maneuver carefully through the tight aisles.

He took in a heavy breath of the musty air that smelled of research and knowledge. Each book was meticulously aligned on the shelves with carefully hand written, yellowed signs marking each category. Beethoven's Ninth Symphony played softly over the store's speakers.

"Can I help you?"

The elderly man wore glasses with lenses thick enough to be used for hockey pucks and a dingy corduroy suit older than Sam. The few strands of hair he still had were painstakingly combed over and his eyes were evaluating.

"Gregory Hansen?" Sam asked. "I called yesterday. You have a book reserved for me, Carmenum Regnum Daemonis."

The hunched over man waddled behind the counter. He pulled out a notebook and flipped through the pages. After making some disapproving noises to himself he looked up. His expression shifted from critical to awkward.

"Sam, yes?" Sam gave a less than patient nod. "So, it would seem that you didn't get my message."

Gregory fidgeted with his pen as Sam stalked towards the counter. "Tell me you still have the book."

"Well, er...not exactly. I-I, however, do have some other, lovely first additions from the same time period. I think you will find their quality to be quite astounding...superior in fact."

Over the phone Gregory had droned on about the physical beauty of the book Sam had driven over two states to retrieve. In the hands of a collector the book was nothing more than an art piece. In the wrong hands it was an extremely dangerous text and rumor had it that a fringe group was trying to track it down.

"What part of hold the book was unclear?" Sam asked.

"You were outbid." Gregory pushed up his glasses, ducked out from behind the counter and scurried towards the glass case at the back of the store. He fumbled to pull a small set of keys from his overly tight pant pocket and jimmied the key into the lock on the case. "Now if you'll just let me show you..."

Sam came up from behind to loom over the relatively tiny old man. "Who did you sell the book to?"

"I couldn't possibly share that information with you even if I knew."

With movements so quick a demon would have struggled to keep up, Sam grabbed the lapels of Gregory's suit and shoved him back against the glass. The keys clattered to the floor while the shop owner's eyes grew wide with panic.

"I-I don't know," Gregory insisted. "I really don't. He paid cash."

"Five hundred in cash?"

"One thousand."

Sam raised his brows. It wasn't weird that someone would pay twice the listed amount for this particular book. What was off was that the ones after it had paid at all. He released his grip on the terrified man. It wasn't like Gregory could outrun him.

"Did he say what he was going to do with it?" Sam asked.

"No. The boy was simply quite insistent on needing it." Gregory busied himself with straightening the folds of his suit. "I really had no idea that your age group possessed such a fierce passion for ancient texts. It's apparently quite the untapped market."

While the old man babbled, Sam looked past him. "Is that on?"

Gregory followed Sam's eyes to the wall mounted security camera and gave an apprehensive nod. "Yes, but I assure you, I won't report you if you just leave."

"Show me the tapes."

Gregory opened his mouth to argue but thought better of it after meeting Sam's eyes. "Right this way."

For Sam it was a few short strides to the backroom door. The front of the shop was downright roomy compared to what was behind the scenes. Gregory wove easily through the mess while Sam barely fit. As he walked he had to catch several unsteady stacks of books to avoid them toppling around him.

In the back corner was a dusty stack of VHS tapes and a tiny television that was probably old enough to be a collectible in its own right. Boxes were mounded on top of it and more stacks of books leaned precariously against it. Sam's large frame could barely squirm past the shelves and boxes to get a clear view of the screen.

Despite the apparent chaos Gregory moved as if everything was immaculately organized and without having to be told brought up yesterday's security camera footage. After some fast-forwarding, he stepped aside so that Sam could see the television.

"I believe this is what you're looking for."

While the details on the screen weren't clear, every movement of the man entering the shop screamed of uncertainty. The demeanor was strange enough for someone just walking into a bookstore, but Sam was too lost in the sense of familiarity to notice. The denial he clung tenaciously to was torn away when the man walked directly in front of the camera. The grainy black and white image couldn't disguise that the man on the screen was his brother.

On one level it was unquestionably Dean and on another Sam didn't recognize the man. Dean's old leather jacket, layered flannel and worn jeans were replaced with a work coat, heavy pants and a t-shirt. His confident swagger had surrendered to reluctance and uncertainty. He was worried and was doing a crappy job of hiding it.

Sam was struck with how long it had been since he had last seen Dean. He'd left his brother broken and bloody beside the Impala. In Sam's mind Dean had remained frozen there.

But he knew that wasn't true. Dean had survived, moved on, and as far as Sam knew, Dean had kept his promise. Ask any hunter and it was as if Dean had dropped off the face of the planet. Sam had assumed it meant that Dean was retired and had taken it as good news.

There was no sound on the tape but by Dean's gestures he was negotiating with Gregory and not with his usual ease that would have gotten him the book for the original five hundred. He was desperate, even the stranger behind the counter could see it.

When he leaned in closer Sam could just make out that Dean was talking on his cell phone while trying to close the deal. Without hanging up, Dean pulled out a wad of bills. He made a sorry attempt at counting them, slammed them on the counter and left with the book. Sam didn't need sound on the tape or to see Dean's lips to hear his brother's snide 'keep the change'.

Even when the frame was empty Sam continued to stare at the screen. While he was used to feeling numb inside, his body now felt the same.

"Now you know everything I know."

Gregory's words shocked Sam back to the moment. "Yeah," Sam replied. "Sorry for the trouble."

He barely muttered the words as he ejected the tape from the VCR. Without so much as another glance to Gregory, Sam took both the tape of Dean and the current day's tape. His body left the shop on autopilot.

There was no good reason for Dean to be anywhere near that book let alone desperate to get a hold of it. For the first time in a long time Sam felt something. It was a sickening sensation, the old fear that his brother was heading for trouble.