Sam took another swig of whiskey. He had long since given up using an actual shot glass and instead just drank from the almost empty bottle. Sam could feel his eyes getting heavy. There wouldn't be enough whiskey in the world for Sam to forget what he was feeling. I'm proud of us. Dean's words echoed in his head and the bottle fell from Sam's lips and onto the table, spilling the remaining drops. In a sudden fit of rage, Sam hit the bottle off the table with his forearm and pressed his palms against his head, willing the memories of the recent events to leave his mind. Dean couldn't be dead. Dean, who survived hell and purgatory and everything else in between, couldn't have been foiled by just a blade thrust into his heart. It just didn't feel real to Sam. However, he did feel the weight of the darkness that he sat in, felt the cold and empty walls of the Bunker. Sam clenched his hands and pressed them even harder into his skull. He tried to control his emotions but it was just too much at once. Too much anger, guilt, and sadness. If only Sam had predicted that Dean was going to knock him out. If only Sam had just run a little bit faster to Metatron. If only he had forgiven Dean before the last breath had escaped him. If only.
Dean couldn't die. Sam couldn't let this happen again, couldn't let down his big brother for yet another time. That was what he confessed in the church after all. That he was sorry that he had let his brother down so many times. And yet here Sam was again, letting his brother down, after his brother had spent his entire life protecting him. Sam pushed himself out of his chair and away from the table. He kicked aside the fallen whiskey bottle and went to the dungeon, swaying slightly as he moved. Sam, in a mad determination, started gathering ingredients and after several minutes, had everything he needed to summon a demon, or, in this case, the King of Hell himself. Dean wouldn't have been in this mess if it weren't for Crowley. Crowley was the one who had made Dean take on the mark of Cain, who used Dean as a method of killing Abaddon. It was his fault. And he is going to fix it. Sam struck a match, bent to the ground, and dropped it into the bowl, watching as the bowl illuminated the dark dungeon in a fiery light. Sam straightened himself, his eyes looking amongst the shelves in the room. He was expecting to hear "Moose" anytime now, but the silence was deadly. Sam looked down at the summoning ritual that he had made, and knew everything was correct. So then where was Crowley? The blaze started to die down in the bowl as seconds turned into minutes, and minutes turned into hours. After trying unsuccessfully again, Sam dropped to his knees in defeat, collapsing forward so that his elbows touched the cold, hard ground. Crowley was Sam's only hope, and now even that had failed. Sam cried out in frustration, and his cries and sobs echoed in the dungeon and lasted into the night until the whiskey finally caught up to him.
"I know I'm worth the wait, but that's just pathetic." Crowley's sarcastic voice rang in Sam's ears as he slowly came about. Sam gradually opened his crusted eyes to see a pair of expensive, black leather shoes. He pulled some of his hair out of his mouth and eased himself up to a sitting position. Sam tried to get a sense of where he was and how he got there, and then all at once the memories came rushing back to him. He looked up, saw Crowley's face, and jumped up. Sam saw the mischievous glint in Crowley's eyes and punched him in the jaw, the momentum causing Crowley to stumble back and hit his head against one of the shelves.
"Are moose always this feisty in the morning?" Crowley inquired, rubbing the jawline that Sam had just bruised.
"Where the hell were you?!" Sam moved towards Crowley again, looking desperately around for a weapon.
"Easy. I was doing you a favor. You should be hugging me or bowing down at my feet or something. Honestly. This is how I get repaid?" Crowley's calmness through all of this pissed Sam off even more, and Crowley took a step back precariously.
Sam had no time for playing games but had to go along with Crowley since he was weaponless. "What are you talking about?" Sam remained a close proximity to Crowley, making sure that he was close enough that he could hit him again if necessary, or even if unnecessary for that matter.
"Obviously you were summoning me for a trade for your brother's life. Your soul for his, or whatever you do that manages to keep you boys alive. Well unfortunately for you, I'm not here to make a deal with you Moose. But I am here to tell you that if you weren't down here wallowing in self-pity and passed out on the floor, you would have already noticed that your dear brother is alive upstairs." Crowley tilted his chin and raised his eyebrows at Sam. "Well? You're welcome."
Sam stared at Crowley with pure hate in his eyes. "You're lying," Sam evenly said, now having a better grip on himself and his emotions.
"Am I? Go see for yourself," Crowley retorted, nodding towards the back staircase.
"I'm not letting you out of my sight," Sam sneered.
"Don't worry. I'll follow you like a puppy if that will help you get your head out of your ass," Crowley rolled his eyes.
Sam went over and grabbed Crowley by the arm roughly and forced him forward towards the staircase. They ascended the staircase to Dean's room, Sam now holding both of Crowley's arms behind him, stopping only to secure a pair of demon-proofed hand cuffs. When Sam got to Dean's door he stopped. He didn't want to open it in fear that Crowley was really lying. He didn't want another glimmer of hope to be lost once again. Sam shook his head to get rid of those thoughts, took a deep breath to steady himself, and pushed open the door. The bed was empty. Sam walked over to Dean's bed where Sam had placed his body only to see the dark blood stains on the sheets. Sam's eyes widen in shock and confusion and turned towards Crowley, who was casually leaning against the door frame.
Crowley shrugged. "Don't look at me with that pathetic face. I told you he was alive. You didn't tell me I had to chain him up here."
A noise came from the kitchen. Sam glanced towards the hallway and started to push Crowley away from the door frame. Crowley tried to match Sam's long strides as Sam rushed to the kitchen.
"Oh about that whole lying thing," Crowley started, "there's something else you should probably know."
But Crowley's words were lost to Sam as he entered the kitchen. Sam stopped suddenly in his tracks. There was Dean, less than twenty feet in front of him making coffee, wearing the familiar plaid shirt he had been in, his back to Sam. Sam's voice was caught in his throat as he tried to make sense of the situation.
"Dean?" Sam's voice came out scratchy as he hesitantly called out to him. Sam could still see the blood stains on Dean's shirt and neck, but it didn't matter. He was alive, and it didn't matter how, just that he was.
Dean turned around and Sam could see his brother's face, his green eyes wide and freckles scattering his face. But something was off. The smell of sulfur started to overwhelm Sam's senses and Sam stood in the kitchen doorway uncertainly, unaware of the full situation. That was until Dean took a step towards Sam. "Sammy?" Dean reached out towards his brother, but as he moved, Dean blinked, and when they reopened, they were black.