Dean Winchester was aware that all was not well.
Considering he was a demon, that was a bit of an understatement.
A bit. He snorted quietly. Yeah, just a bit.
He brushed the dirt off his jeans and wondered, absently, what Sammy's reaction was going to be.
The absent thought stayed, and became not so absent.
He didn't even know where he was, so how was he going to find anyone else, let alone his brother?
As it turned out, it took only ten minutes to find civilization. Or, you know, the closest thing to it.
He walked into an abandoned convenience store and got a few things. Food, mostly. Chips. Water. God, water.
He just used the word 'God' in his thoughts.
He shook off the strangeness of the idea and continued taking things.
Mints ('cause how long had it been since he'd last brushed his teeth? Years without mouthwash had really done a number on him), more water, a few still-fresh sandwiches.
Pie.
Was it getting hot in there or was it just him?
Probably just him. Sammy never could appreciate the pie-er things in life.
He put it all in a bag and walked out.
Time to find his little brother.
He called Bobby first.
"Yeah?"
"Bobby?"
"Who is this?"
"It's me, Bobby. Dean."
When Bobby threatened to kill him if he called again and then hung up, he decided it might be a better idea to find Sammy before doing anything else.
He found his brother way sooner than he should have. It seemed Sam was getting rusty without him.
He found the motel and then Sammy's room, and knocked.
Imagine his surprise when a gorgeous brunette answered the door.
"Uh, yeah, I think I've got the wrong room . . ."
Then his brother came into view.
The first thought in his head was, "Dude, how?"
Sammy stared at him, his familiar eyes widening. "Dean?"
"You go, little brother," he said instantly.
Then holy water splashed his face.
He stumbled back, cursing and burning as his eyes flicked black. Sammy grabbed the demon-killing knife and was on him in two seconds.
"Not my brother's face, you bastard," his brother hissed just as he was about to kill him.
"Sammy," Dean wheezed, "not cool. I don't kill you when you come back from the dead."
"Don't call me Sammy," he said sharply. "You're not Dean."
"I kinda am."
Then he disarmed Sammy and threw the knife . . . somewhere. He didn't see, mostly because his brother (his brother) was right there and he didn't really think he wanted to look away just yet.
Which was how he finally noticed it.
"Dude, you doing the demon blood?"
Sammy looked startled for a moment before he masked it.
"You are," Dean said accusingly. "I didn't raise you to take candy from strangers, Sammy."
"You didn't raise me at all," Sam hissed. "You're a demon."
"Wow, ouch. I think you just broke my heart, Sammy. You have to fix it now."
"Don't call me Sammy!"
"Sammy, Sammy, Sammy," Dean taunted. "Samantha. Samster. Sambo. Sammy McSammerton."
Sam looked positively pained. "Oh, God. Stop it, Dean."
He saw the moment Sammy realized what he'd called him, and could really have done without it.
"I brought pie," he volunteered. "If you have beer then we can have a party. We can invite all our friends and get them drunk and force them to wear really stupid hats and take pictures for blackmail and everything. Whaddaya say, Sammy? Think Bobby will go for it?"
"You're not-" Sam began
"I'm not Dean? Hate to break it to you, Sammy-Samantha-Samster-Sambo-McSammerton, but, actually, I am. I haven't hurt you, have I? Kidnapped you? Trashed the room? Taken your beloved health-drinks and salad-in-a-glass or whatever and banished the abominations from this forsaken world forever?"
"You're a demon."
"I'm a handicapped citizen."
Sammy snorted in spite of himself.
Dean grinned. "C'mon, Sam. Give your big brother a manly, but nonetheless affectionate, embrace."
That prompted another, louder snort, but he did hug him.
Dean waited patiently for him to speak, though the patience was waning. (Because he really had missed his brother, missed his voice and his smile and the way he said his name and the reassurance and just his immense physical presence, he'd missed him through the blood and the screams and the metal sliding beneath his skin-)
"Dean?" Sam's voice was muffled against his shoulder.
He snapped out of it, pulling away. "Yeah, Samantha?"
The nickname didn't work, because there Sam was, looking at him with such familiar worry and concern for his demon brother and it could burn away the things crawling inside him or save him like he was supposed to save Sammy or maybe bring a guy to tears if he lingered on it and since when did he start thinking like this anyway?
He dismissed the thought for what it was.
Way, way, way too deep to look at or even briefly contemplate.
"You seemed a bit out of it for a minute there," Sammy said. "You were holding me pretty tightly."
Dean gave him an appalled look. "At least phrase it differently. The way you said it makes me want to bash my brains out or punch you in the face."
Sam held up his hands. "Okay, okay. But seriously, are you alright? I mean, you just got out of Hell."
"Yeah. It was a real fieldtrip down there. Except without the fresh air and trees and squirrels and stuff. Wait, how long was I gone, anyway?"
"Four months," Sammy told him.
Dean paused. Then his lips split into a smile that really should not ever be seen on a person's face and he started to chuckle.
"Dean?"
"Four months." The words were drowning in something too disturbing to be called something so human as bitterness. "Lemme just tell you something, Sammy. Time, it goes on differently in Hell. Four months up here?" His lips twitched into that terrible grin. "'Bout forty years down there."
Sam seemed to lose his words. If his thoughts at that moment could have been described in one word as a sound, it would have been 'scream'.
"No," he breathed out.
Dean's smile faded at the edges. "Yes."
"How . . . how did you get out?"
He furrowed his brow. "I don't know."
"Really?"
"Yeah, I just suddenly woke up, buried alive . . . or, y'know, not . . . in a coffin. I dug myself out and couldn't tell where the hell I was."
"That's . . . worrying."
"You're tellin' me."
Dean suddenly noticed Sammy staring at his eyes, and recalled they were a demon's black. "I can change them, you know," he said.
"What?"
"My eyes. I can keep them green."
"No, no," Sam said quickly. "It's fine. It'll take some time, but . . ." He smiled, and shrugged. "It's you, Dean. I'll get used to it."
"Really?" Dean said doubtfully.
"Really. You're my brother, Dean," Sam said, his voice suddenly serious. "I've lived without you, and I'm not doing it again. There's nothing I wouldn't do for you."
Dean shifted on his feet, all at once embarrassed and warm inside. "Thanks, Sammy. Now if only you'd remember that when I tell you to get my pie," he joked.
"Can you blame me if there's more interesting things going on?"
"Dude. It's pie."
"I guess that answers my question."
They met the angel just a few days later.
They had parked at some motel for the night and Dean had just gone to get a few things from the nearby convenience store. When he came back, he saw Sammy, fighting for his life. And he thought,
That was his brother, in danger.
That was his brother, struggling against demons.
That was his brother, blood painting the pavement.
That was his brother.
And no one touched him. No one.
He dropped the bags and pulled out his gun, shooting the demons in the head. There were at least five of them, and the bullets didn't do anything except make them pause for a second or two.
Then there was a sound-wings?-and the demons were gone, and he was suddenly on the ground with a knife to his throat.
"Any last words, demon?"
"Dean!"
"Sammy, stay back!"
The man stared into his eyes, waiting, the knife positioned just centimeters from his throat.
"Ever heard of personal space, man?" Dean wheezed.
"I have. Are those your last words?"
"Can I get a rain check on that?"
The man started to kill him, then paused at the at the sound of Sammy's cry.
"Dean, no!"
"Stay back, Sam."
The man looked down at him, cocking his head as he brought his face closer to Dean's.
"Dude. Personal bubble here."
The man frowned briefly, then said, "This is not what we meant for you, Dean Winchester."
"Oh, you know my name. Should I be flattered? Are you a fan?"
An expression of confusion crossed the man's face. "I'm sorry? I am not a device used for circulating currents of air."
"Uh, yeah. I noticed that."
"Then what . . . ?"
"Dean."
"Not now, Sammy."
"Someone's trying to steal your car."
"What?" he cried, starting to struggle. "Stop them, Sammy! Do whatever it takes to get them to leave my Baby alone! And leave no evidence for the cops to find! Bury the remains once you've taken your vengeance!"
"Whatever you say, Dean."
Dean let his head thump on the ground and stared up into the man's blue eyes.
"You are not like other demons I've known," the man said.
"Yeah. I know. Can you get off me now?"
"What makes you so different?"
"I have a conscience?"
"Do you," the man breathed, his eyes suddenly brightening.
"Yuh-huh. His name's Sammy."
"Sam Winchester." His head tilted. "Interesting. You truly care for your brother."
"Well, yeah. I mean. Obviously."
"Would you allow me into your heart?"
"Uh, sorry, but I don't swing that way."
"Swing . . . ?"
"Nevermind. Why?"
"I want to know what is in it," the man said honestly.
"Er. Just as long as you don't stay there too long."
Castiel reached out to the abomination before him and-
-brotherohSammymySammymybrotherhellburningDadscreamsandSammybloodbloodbloodpainSamshamemySamohGodhellSamnoAlastairpainpainSamI
needSammyohSamhellDadwhynogetmeoutSammybrothermybrotherIneedyoumySammynodon'tseemeSammybrotherhelpIhurtneedyouSamohmyhellSamishere
getmeoutbefreefrommebutstayhereIwillhelpSammyhellandhellandgetmeoutofherebecauseIwillprotectyouguardyoumybrothermybrotherfromtheheartmybrotheroh
mySammymysoulsavememyhellohbrotherbrotherSamSamSamSam-
-wrenched out of the beautiful darkness cradling the demon and his fire-lit soul.
It was like touching something burning and yet comforting and wanting and full of something impossibly pure and bright and warm and alive that it was so clearly like touching love.
"Hey. You okay there?"
Castiel looked down at the demon, speechless at something no words could ever accurately describe.
Dean stared up at the man holding him down with a hand that was suddenly very gentle, severely discomforted by the expression of soft wonder on his face as he looked at him.
"Dean Winchester," he said in a hushed voice. "How did I ever believe you were a demon?"
"Uh. Maybe because I am?"
"No, you're, you're bright," the man murmured earnestly. "Bright and pure and so clearly burning, warm and light and deeply shining, alive, afire . . . with yourself. You're beautiful," he said in that same hushed tone.
"Okay, getting a bit awkward here."
"My apologies," he said instantly, back to the earlier monotone. "I did not intend to make you uncomfortable."
"Yeah, could you get off me now?"
The man nodded politely and stood up.
Dean grunted and got up, dusting off his jeans. "Who are you again?"
"I am Castiel," he answered. "I'm an Angel of the Lord."
"Seriously?"
A small frown of confusion crossed his face. "You do not believe me?"
"Bingo."
"I'm sorry?"
"Forget it. Oh look, here comes Sam. Hey, Sammy," he called, "Trenchcoat Weirdo here says he's an angel. D'you believe that?"
"You're an angel?" The words were rushed, as if Sammy was in a hurry to get them out.
He looked absolutely delighted.
"Down, boy," Dean muttered.
"I am," Castiel said.
Sammy held out his hand. "Sam Winchester," he replied, smiling widely. He looked like a damned cheerful golden retriever, standing there like that.
Castiel looked at his hand oddly.
"You're supposed to shake it," Dean supplied.
He sighed when the angel shot him a startled look. "Show him, Sammy."
And so Sam proceeded to teach Castiel the Angel of the Lord the art of the friendly handshake.
His brother had been attacked by demons, his car was almost stolen by an either suicidal or incurably stupid carthief, he'd nearly gotten killed by an angel, and now said angel was probably going to follow them around like a lost puppy.
All in all, not the worst day he'd ever had.
He had a feeling he'd better go insane soon if he wanted to make it out able to tell a rock from Sammy.
He'd get right on it. Starting . . .
. . . sometime later.
Hey, what could he say? He was a sucker for sanity.
(But not really because otherwise he really would not be anything right now other than a torturer and a murderer and a failed brother.
(Or dead.)
Dean hadn't been sleeping, and he knew Sammy had noticed.
"Is that a demon thing?" his brother had asked.
"Nah. I could sleep if I wanted to."
"Why don't you?"
"Waste of time," Dean had lied. "Not like it'd do anything other than make me go unconscious for awhile."
Sammy had let it go, but Dean got the feeling it'd come up again.
He was right.
Five days later, Sammy brought it up.
"You should get some sleep, Dean."
"Nah."
"Why not?"
"Already told you, Sammy."
"Dean, it's not healthy, staying up all the time."
Dean frowned at him. "I'm a demon, Sammy. It doesn't do anything to me."
"You may be a demon, Dean, but your body is human. You know it's gotta sleep sometime."
"Sammy . . ."
"For me, Dean? Just get some sleep."
He wavered, faced with the power of Sam's puppy-dog eyes.
"Fine," he muttered, getting up and going over to flop on the bed. "But only this once, Sammy."
"Yeah, Dean." They both knew when Sammy asked again, he'd do it.
So Dean closed his eyes and tried not to fall asleep.
Inevitably, the pull of darkness didn't even try to pass him over, and soon he was drowning in it.
His cries joined the eternal screaming as the demon before him wielded the knife with an almost loving hand. Alastair gave him an offer. He refused, and his screams became interspersed with the fray once more.
But in this nightmare, an illusion was weaved and Sammy was there, and he knew that the pain would stop only if he killed his brother.
He couldn't do it, and was labeled 'pathetic' by the demon, as he was every single time he refused to stab his brother with an imaginary knife.
Because every time, every time, he imagined the knife dripping with Sammy's red blood, his Sammy crying out in pain, the brother he would do anything for being killed by the brother Sam had trusted, and he just . . . let go of the knife.
It fell to the floor, and he was back on the rack with Alastair all over again.
And then the illusion changed.
His brother, his Sammy was there, telling him "It'll all stop if you just kill yourself. Dean, Dean, make it stop. Make it stop."
So he did.
And Alastair mocked him and insulted him and it didn't matter at all, because his brother was alive and not in Hell and he knew it would be all right as long as he was the only one there.
Alastair could cut him and burn him and hurt him, he could torture him and slice his skin and break his bones and mangle his body, and it didn't matter so long as his brother was well out of Hell.
Because he knew, he knew Alastair would be all the harder on Sam for his brother's painful refusal.
And sometimes he hated Sammy, but it was all added to the terrible things swirling around inside him and it was fine that he hated him because it never lasted and it was really (painful) okay because what he hated was himself and that, that wouldn't ever go away.
His blood would run and his bones would crack and his skin would be burned away, but his brother was safe and he could deceive himself that all of it was okay and that hadn't changed in all his time in Hell, so it
meant
nothing.
And then his brother shook him awake, and it became true.
"Dean."
"Hnn. S'mmy? Fhwa?"
"You looked like you were having a bad dream."
"Wh' g've you tha' idea?" he mumbled.
Sammy tapped the side of his eye.
Dean reached up and brushed away . . . water.
Sweat, no doubt. (No doubt.)
"Z' n'thin'."
"Doesn't look like it was nothing, Dean." He hesitated. "Do you . . ."
"Want to talk about it? Who do you think I am, your girlfriend? Please. When do I ever want to talk about anything?"
"Dean . . ."
"Sammy. Leave it."
His brother let out a breath. "Whatever you say, Dean. But you know I'll be right here if you change your mind."
"Which I won't," Dean said pointedly.
Sammy smiled wryly. "Which you won't."
Dean smiled.
Alastair may have (cracked him and cut him open and) broken him, but his brother was here and he was real, and he would not let anything take that away.
Never again.
(Never again.)