Revelation

by Faye Dartmouth

Sam wasn't looking for him. Sam wasn't out getting burgers. Sam wasn't out saving lost kittens from busy highways in the middle of the night. Sure, he didn't know what Sam was doing, but he shouldn't have needed an angel to tell him that Sam was lying.

Title: Revelation

Authors: Faye Dartmouth and Rachelly

Summary: Sam wasn't looking for him. Sam wasn't out getting burgers. Sam wasn't out saving lost kittens from busy highways in the middle of the night. Sure, he didn't know what Sam was doing, but he shouldn't have needed an angel to tell him that Sam was lying through his teeth to him, probably about a lot of things.

A/N: I started this as a gift to Rachelly, who is way too nice to me. Then I coerced her into writing it with me. This is the result. Beta done by sendintheclowns and much thanks also to shelby02 who gave this a last minute read over. I really wanted to get this posted before tonight's ep because it will quite clearly be AU after it. This could really be a two-shot, but I just want to get this out there, so it's really, really long for a one-shot. Really.

Disclaimer: Not mine.

-o-

It was a night of revelations.

As if witnessing the beginning of the tragedy for the entire Winchester family wasn't enough, he'd been taken back home without so much as a good reason why. Sure, there was a reason--this whole trip was designed to show him the truth, about his family, about who he was and where he came from, and mostly, about Sam.

That his little brother had been sold out before his own birth, that he'd been part of some unknown demonic plan, that he had demon blood in him. 

As if all that wasn't just peachy enough, apparently this all didn't end with the Yellow Eyed Demon. Nope, the demon blood in Sam was still pulsing strong, with or without its demonic donor. And in case that all didn't suck enough, apparently Sam had used his four months alone to restart that same dark destiny they'd spent the last few years avoiding.

"He's not looking for you."

And just like that, Dean wondered why he didn't see it sooner.

Sam wasn't looking for him. Sam wasn't out getting burgers. Sam wasn't out saving lost kittens from busy highways in the middle of the night. Sure, he didn't know what Sam was doing, but he shouldn't have needed an angel to tell him that Sam was lying through his teeth to him, probably about a lot of things.

The only saving grace for Sam in all this was that Dean didn't know who he was really mad at--his mother for selling him out to begin with, Sam for being so damn stupid, or Castiel for showing him all this to begin with.

Sam's luck didn't stretch much further than that. Dean couldn't kick Castiel's angelic ass and he had no desire to kick his mother's, which meant the only one on the receiving end of this anger at the moment would be his darkly-destined little brother.

Besides, Sam should have known better. He should have. Sam had gotten himself killed to try to avoid the going evil thing. Maybe it would have been more merciful to just let Sam stay dead then. Hell, maybe it would have been more merciful if their mother had just never made that deal and let neither of them exist.

He couldn't change the past though: Castiel in all his glory had made that abundantly clear. He just had to change the future. Sam's future.

Part of Dean wished he'd just stayed in hell, because in so many ways, he felt like he was still there.

-o-

The address was a warehouse, old and abandoned from the looks of it, just outside of town. It looked uninviting, perhaps a bit dangerous, which really made sense, when he thought about it. If Sam was on a bad path like his dear old angel friend seemed to say, then Sam probably wasn't hanging out in reputable locations.

Still, an old warehouse. What the hell was Sam doing here? He knew Sam had changed--Dean could see it clearly in the way Sam didn't look at him as much. Sam had always looked to him, always looked up to him, no matter how tall the kid had gotten. But Sam made decisions now so easily, so confidently. His little brother didn't seem so little anymore--for the first time in his life, Dean could see his younger brother for the sizable man that he was.

There was less conversation now. Less connection. He had always thought that he knew everything about his brother. He'd been wrong about things before, but never like this.

Sitting in front of that warehouse, Castiel's ominously ambiguous statement lurking in the back of his mind, and Dean realized just how untrue that was.

Nonetheless, he was still the big brother whether Sam was ready to acknowledge that or not. And after Dean was through with him tonight, Sam would never forget it.

Too bad Dean still hadn't gotten out of the car.

He didn't want to know. He just didn't.

He had never understood Sam's desire for innocence, for ignorance. He'd thought it was stupid and pointless and weak. But after tonight--after seeing the death of his grandparents, the deal his mother made--he wasn't so sure he really wanted to confirm what the angel was telling him. He wasn't sure he really wanted confirmation that the Yellow Eyed Demon had been telling the truth that night, that Sam wasn't 100 Sam, that there was no way out of the deal any of them had made.

He had never had the luxury of ignorance. And it was pretty clear that he wasn't about to any time soon, either. That much was pretty clear now.

Killing the engine, he pushed open the door and headed in.

-o-

The place smelled of rank fish, which was a little unusual considering they were nowhere near the water, and he figured that didn't say much for the condition of the place. Whatever his brother was doing, he clearly did not want to be found. That smell alone would keep anything living away.

Dean tensed a little, his fingers brushing against the gun stuffed into the back of his jeans. Sam would probably tell him that toting a gun in there would be overkill, and Dean could only hope that it was. He could fight off ghosts and demons and any garden variety supernatural evil, but nothing could really prepare him for his brother and whatever dark path he was on. He had no idea what he'd find and the simple fact was that if it was as ominous as Castiel made it sound, then he wasn't sure he wanted to know.

The door was open, slightly anyway, probably because the thing was no longer capable of latching. Through the opening he could see light--not much, but a little far off, and if Dean was any good at what he did as a hunter or a big brother, he would bank on Sam being there.

Quietly, he slipped inside. Stealth was a matter of habit as a hunter, and the fact was, whatever Sam was doing, his little brother didn't want to get caught, so Dean didn't want to give him a chance to hide whatever it was.

He heard a scuffle and a curse and his heart rate jumped. His hand went again to the gun and he quickened his pace.

The sound of movement ended as quickly as it began and he heard a grunt and a cry of pain, a strangled sound of desperation.

Dean was moving, much faster now, until the light came into focus and the scene before him became clear.

Sam was holding his hand out like he was freakin' Luke Skywalker or something and his face was lined with concentration, that same look Sam used to get when he was studying Physics or Calculus.

But he wasn't studying. He was...what the hell was he doing?

The person before him jerked, choking, before black smoke began to stream from his mouth.

It was an exorcism.

Without Latin or holy water or a devil's trap.

Hell--

Sam was using his powers.

The powers Dean had made him promise not to use. The powers Dean had told him not to use in his dying wish. The powers Sam had sworn he hadn't been using.

A wave of emotions came over Dean. Anger, betrayal, disappointment, sadness, disbelief. Castiel had told him. But seeing it for himself--

It was the worst thing yet.

His mother hadn't known what she was giving up when she made the deal. John's deal, his own--they had been out of love. But Sam was giving up his soul for no reason whatsoever.

Not if Dean had anything to do with it.

Storming forward, he charged at Sam. His baby brother, too absorbed in his evil power trip, didn't see him.

Well, not until Dean was pushing him anyway.

Sam stumbled, flailing backwards.

"What the hell are you doing?" Dean demanded.

Sam looked surprised and Dean struggled to fight the sudden urge to punch his brother. Sam looked so damned off-guard, like he'd never expected Dean to figure it out, and even worse, he looked so damn young and innocent when he looked like that.

Sam wasn't that young and he certainly wasn't innocent.

"Dean, I--"

Dean kept moving, pushing Sam again. "You lied to me? About my dying wish?"

Sam swallowed, holding his hands up. "Dean--"

"What, Sam?" he said. "What excuse are you going to tell me now?"

Sam's eyes were wide, terrified and guilty. He had the audacity to look chagrined and Dean felt his rage surge.

"I can't believe I was so stupid," Dean said. "I died to save you and you go and do this--"

Sam's mouth was open. "Dean, I, I mean, Dean--"

"What are you going to tell me, Sam? What could you possibly say?"

Sam's mouth worked again and it looked like he was going to say something, but then his eyes flicked beyond Dean, at something over his shoulder.

The demon. Sam hadn't finished the exorcism.

As Dean turned to look, he felt himself moving. The motion was fast, jerky, and he tumbled across the floor before stopping in a heap. After the shock wore off, he realized he wasn't hurt and he wasn't pinned.

It wasn't the demon that had thrown him.

It'd been Sam.

On his hands and knees, Dean turned to locate his brother. His vision cleared just in time to see Sam heaved into the air, propelled backwards with inhuman force. Unlike Dean's trip across the floor, Sam's was clearly intended to hurt.

Dean watched in horror as Sam's body was violently hurled against a row of oversized metal shelves that lined the far wall of the deteriorated warehouse. Sam's gut wrenching cry echoed as he crashed against the rusted metal frames that collapsed beneath him.

The demon, now exercising its new found freedom, began slowly, deliberately stalking forward clearly angered, bent on revenge.

Dean was up and moving within seconds—he needed to save his brother, needed to draw the demon's attention away before it exacted its retribution--not watch him get killed.

He'd bolted half way across the warehouse by the time the demon reached Sam's downed location. He couldn't tell how badly his brother had been hurt, his body was hidden behind the demon, but based on the intensity of the impact and his brother's cry, Dean feared Sam would be unable to offer much resistance when confronted.

As fast as Dean was moving, it wasn't fast enough. That was another Winchester trait, it seemed. Always being just too little, too late.

His brother had struggled to his feet, wheezing unsteady as he stood. But Sam had not managed to mount a defense against the demon, who was upon Sam now, wrapping its fingers around Sam's exposed neck.

And Dean still couldn't stop it. Couldn't stop the cruel sneer that was plastered across the demon's lips as it cocked its head and hissed, "Little Boy King, where are your powers now?"

Dean couldn't watch this happen. He wouldn't.

"Let him go!" Dean hollered as he tore up the remaining distance between himself and his brother's attacker. He was desperate to get the demon to turn on him and release Sam before it was too late.

The demon turned its head, looked coldly at the approaching hunter and tossed Sam bonelessly to the floor as if a piece of trash to be discarded.

"Do you honestly think you can command me?" the inhuman creature spat with disgust as it moved arrogantly in Dean's direction, its soulless eyes threatening to shred the defenseless meat suit before it. "Even your useless brother has no power over me now."

Dean glanced worriedly at Sam, whose body lay limp and unmoving on the cold cement floor, then grimaced as anger and hatred burned through his veins.

"I'm gonna kill you," he growled through clenched teeth.

The demon cocked its head in amusement as the corners of its mouth slid upward into a mocking smile, its dark eyes, empty and soulless, inviting the human before it to try.

In the blink of an eye, before Dean could calculate his offensive strategy, the demon reached out, flicked its wrist and tossed the unprepared hunter across the room. It wasn't the gentle movement of his little brother's protective force this time; it was violent, unforgiving, and meant to cause damage.

Dean's body smacked hard against the warehouse wall, causing the wind to be knocked from him, his ribs bruising instantly on impact. He felt a wall of pressure rush his body- pinning him.

The demon began a deliberate pace toward Dean, stalking him as it had his brother with murder in its soulless eyes. He tried to struggle, to free himself from its hold, but he was powerless to do anything.

Unwilling to give up, Dean struggled to think of something he could say in Latin, anything he could use to exorcise or at least deter the demon closing in on him. He began spouting the ancient language in a desperate attempt to save himself, to save Sam, switching between several that he knew by heart and pieces of various chants he'd heard his younger brother use in the past. But the demon kept coming.

Mere inches from Dean's pinned body, it held up its hand readying to inflict a mortal blow to its pinned captive.

Dean shuddered, his body tensing, prepared to receive its cruel condemnation. His thoughts whispering a silent apology to Sam for what had happened, what he'd done, how he'd failed to rescue Sam from his present dilemma let alone his condemned future. Then he looked the demon directly in its hollowed out eyes refusing to surrender in fear and waited for the heartless flick of its wrist.

Suddenly, the demon stopped cold, clutching at its throat as a horrifying scream escaped its mouth. Seconds later, a large cloud of smoke pilfered out of it.

He stared dumbly for a minute before he realized what was happening. An exorcism without Latin could only mean one thing: Sam.

He immediately glanced over to where his brother had been laying unconscious, eager to make eye contact with his sibling.

His eyes widened as he took in his brother's form. Sam was up, staggering, but up, with his hand held out and his eyes closed, brow furrowed in deep concentration. His whole body trembled with the intensity of what he was doing. His outstretched fingers, aimed directly at the demonic being, vibrated wildly.

Dean felt himself suddenly released, the wall of pressure disappeared as quickly as it had appeared and he dropped to the floor in a heap.

He quickly recovered and turned back to his brother taking in the wonder of what was happening.

Sam was using his powers.

And this time, Dean didn't stop him.

He quickly glanced back to the demon and watched with relief as its essence was violently expelled from its human host. The evil force twisted viciously, as if trying to escape a fate worse than hell itself. It couldn't avoid it, though. Smoke burst outward, raining down on the concrete floor until there was nothing except a stain on the floor.

The emptied host fell to the floor, still and unmoving.

It took Dean a couple seconds to realize it was over. It was over and it hadn't been just an exorcism. No, Sam had killed that demon. He'd actually killed the damn thing.

He had to admit, being able to kill demons would be a nice skill to add to the Winchester weapons cache. But this wasn't some magical gun or a supernatural knife. This was his little brother. The same little brother who had been fed demon blood as a baby and stalked by a demon all his life. Sam's powers were dangerous, there was no doubt about that now, and just because the power was impressive didn't make Sam any less culpable. Sam was tapping into his dark side to do it, and it had to stop.

With the demon properly dispatched, it was time to finish the confrontation he'd come here to have. His mind went back to Castiel and his warning, and that damn simple fact: that Sam wasn't looking for him. Nope, Sam hadn't been looking for him at all. Sam had been sneaking out to go after demons by himself. Which may have been stupid and suicidal enough as it was, but Sam was doing it by honing in on his abilities. Dean had been lied to and it was time for Sam to own up to everything.

Sam looked at him. There was exhaustion on his face. "I'm sorry, Dean," he sighed, more than a little breathless.

There were too many words, too many emotions, and for a second, Dean could only watch as his brother glanced down and shifted uncomfortably before turning his gaze back to Dean's. Relief settled across his strained features.

"I'm sorry," Sam barely whispered again.

But Dean wasn't looking for an apology. They were way beyond apologies. Dean needed to know why, needed to know what the hell Sam had been thinking, needed to make it stop. "Yeah, well, you should be," he growled but even before he finished saying it, he could tell there something wrong.

Something even more wrong than deals with devils and demonic powers.

Sam's eyes suddenly rolled up in his head and he dropped lifelessly, falling slack to the floor.

Well that wasn't part of the plan.

It took Dean a minute to really process it, to process Sam and his powers and a dead demon and two apologies and his little brother sprawled limply across the floor.

Dean was moving before he could finish his train of thought. He barely spared a glance at the victim on the floor--he probably should, and maybe a year ago he would have. But this was too much about Sam at the moment and he'd call the cops with a tip as soon as he got the chance. It wasn't that he didn't care about it, but his little brother had just exorcised a demon with his hand and passed out from the trauma of it, so Dean really had only one thing on his mind: Sam.

He dropped to his knees next to his brother, untangling his sibling's long limbs until Sam was flat on his back. "Sam," he called, gently jostling his younger brother's shoulder. "Don't think you can get out of this that easily."

Dean studied his brother's face looking for some kind of reaction. But his brother remained lax, his head lolled to the side with Dean's touch.

He moved his hand to his brother's chest, moving him again. "Sammy?" he called out more forcefully, hopeful that the strength of his voice would drag his little brother's mind back to the here and now where it belonged.

Sam remained unresponsive and Dean's nerves started to fray. It was never easy to see Sam unconscious and Dean had no idea if this was something Sam expected. Sam's visions had always given him headaches and given the level of concentration Sam had shown earlier, it was possible that unconsciousness was a nasty side-effect. But since Sam had never bothered to tell him about any of this, Dean was at a loss and it was beginning to piss him off.

There was nothing he could do except look Sam over and try to figure it out.

Slipping his fingers to Sam's carotid artery, he was relieved to feel his brother's steady, albeit racing, pulse beneath his fingers.

"Sam?" he called again, raising his sibling into his arms, his left hand falling to Sam's chest to gauge his respirations while his right reached to support his back.

Sam remained unconscious; his head tipped back, mouth open, arms loosely swinging down at his side as his body was held closer to Dean's chest.

A warm wetness suddenly registered against Dean's right hand as he continued to hold his sibling upward to gain a response. "What the…?"

Dean instinctively brought his hand into view. Its surface was coated with blood…Sam's blood.

Dean cursed, his heart thumping wildly in his chest as sheer panic gripped him. He immediately pulled his brother to him, his eyes searching for the injury that was causing Sam to bleed so badly.

A quick glance offered him little, but his searching hand was quick to locate the source--Sam's lower right side. He could feel the torn fabric and the growing wetness beneath his fingertips.

Dean's brow furrowed in worry as he gently laid Sam down on his side, exposing the wound for Dean to examine. He was careful to cradle Sam's head as he turned him so that it wouldn't drop against the cold cement floor.

"You're gonna be okay, Sammy," he assured, needing to believe it. "You hear me? You're going to be okay. I'm just going to check you out, see what we can do to fix you up," he explained.

Even in the shadowed light of the warehouse, Dean could tell it was bad. Sam's entire right side was smeared with blood as the thickfabric of his shirt wicked the viscous fluid away from the injury.

Dean raised his brother's shirt, slid his hand along his skin using his fingers to locate the injury and assess its level of threat.

Dean cursed when his fingers finally made contact. He could feel Sam's blood bubbling up in rhythm with his heartbeat. He instinctively applied pressure with the palm of his hand. He had to stop the bleeding or at this rate, his little brother could bleed out before Dean had a chance to get him the help he needed.

"Hold on Sammy, hold on," he counseled, his mind racing, trying to figure out how to keep pressure on the wound while getting Sam back to the car. There was no room for error. If he didn't plan his moves right, Sam would pay the price. No matter how angry he was at Sam, he wasn't about to risk Sam's life.

Dean readied to reposition Sam, so he could begin the daunting task of lifting his brother up enough to be able to carry him while keeping pressure on his wound, when he noticed Sam's blood was still leaking beneath his hand and oozing between his fingers. He quickly shifted his hand placing the heel of it directly over the wound so he could applying more pressure to stave the bleeding.

Sam flinched, a painful moan escaping his lips, and Dean immediately knew why. Beneath the flowing blood and torn tissue he felt something hard, something sharp--something that didn't belong.

Dean cursed. Moving Sam was a secondary thought now. He had to figure out what was out of place. A broken rib? Something impaled in his little brother's side? Whatever it was, movement could cause internal injuries if whatever it was shifted the wrong way.

Being unable to see what it was with Sam's blood flowing so freely, Dean briefly removed his hand and, using his fingers, he dared to press deeper, uttering encouragements as he went. Feeling blindly, Dean considered his first guess and probed more carefully. No, it couldn't be a rib. It was too low, too sharp, and the angle was all wrong. Dean probed a little further to try to figure out what they were dealing with.

Sam's eyes suddenly flew open and he cried out as his back arched instinctively to get away from the excruciating pain.

Dean's quickly stopped his probing and reapplied pressure on the wound while his other hand ghosted Sam's frame finding purchase back to still his now struggling brother against himself.

"Deeea," Sam desperately cried out, overwhelmed by the excruciating pain searing through him. "Dean, god," he gasped out as he writhed involuntarily, his body reacting to the deep hurt that was threatening to undo him.

"Easy. Take it easy, Sammy. I'm right here. Be still, you need to lay still."

"Hurts," Sam managed between his clenched teeth and hitched breathing. His body began to tremble, a clear sign he was going into shock.

Dean bit his lip, struggling to maintain his composure. Sam was in a world of hurt and he was hard pressed to know the cause or how to fix it.

After everything, after hell and broken promises and angels and demons, Sam was still his little brother. And Dean was still his big brother. It shouldn't take an angel to remind him of that.

"I know. I know. Just hold on, okay. I'm gonna take care of you, Sam. Fix you right up. Just hang in there for me, okay? Can you do that? Huh? Hang in there for me?" Dean questioned as he once again tried to figure out what he was feeling and if it was safe to move Sam.

Dean felt Sam's body tremble and go lax and he quickly began trying to assess Sam's wound. He removed his palm, slid his finger back inside the wound studying his brother's unconscious face for signs of awareness or pain, and finally made contact with the sharp, broken object. Nothing had changed much, it was still hard, sharp, and angled, only this time he could tell it was flat with a small ridge on one side and clearly not bone. It felt like...metal.

"Oh, god," Dean uttered softly, his tone almost a whispered prayer. He quickly put the pieces together as he anxiously grabbed Sam's shirt by the collar with both hands and hefted his brother upright. Sam had been impaled and worse yet, something had broken off inside his younger sibling's back--probably from those damn metal shelves. Sam had made quite a clatter when he was tossed into them. Whatever it was, Dean knew it was serious. The amount of blood Sam had already lost was unnerving. And he knew he'd have to remove it before he could repair the damage and prevent infection.

"C'mon, little brother, we gotta get you some help," Dean managed out in a strained voice as he allowed his brother to slump forward onto his ducked shoulder to be carried.

Sam's body fell heavily onto Dean's shoulder and draped limply across his back. His arms swung as Dean hefted him out to the Impala, slapping the back of his big brother's thighs as he ran.

Dean deposited Sam in the passenger seat, moving him onto his side to get another look at his wound.

It was bad, potentially life threatening, and Dean debated briefly if he should forget the motel and head straight to the hospital. He'd patched Sam up his whole life, but removing metal objects was a completely different story.

The problem was, however, that Sam was supposed to be dead. If the hospital figured out he was wanted by the FBI for murder, his little brother would be screwed. Being injured, Sam would be too vulnerable in the hospital and if they caught wind of who they really were, Sam wouldn't be able to escape capture. And worse, Dean probably wouldn't be able to stop it either. Given that the rest of that police station had gone up in smoke, they would both be looking at serious prison time or worse. He could handle that--it was an acceptable risk for him. But Sam? Sam would never be able to handle it, especially now.

Hospitals were too risky. Dean's only option was to patch his little brother up. If he couldn't or if Sam took a turn for the worse, he'd have to take his chances with the hospital.

Dean removed his outer shirt and balled it up, then pressed it into Sam's wound, apologizing when Sam flinched and moaned.

"Easy, Sammy," Dean offered. "I'm gonna get you patched up, good as new," he assured, half to comfort Sam, half to pacify himself. "You're gonna be okay. I promise."

"Deee...," Sam whispered almost breathlessly, his face drawn into a pain filled grimace, his eyes cracking open slightly, desperate to make eye contact with his older brother.

Dean moved closer, bringing his face up near his brother's. "Yeah, Sammy. I'm right here. You just hold on, okay? Just hold on."

"M'sssorry," Sam managed to get out before dropping once again into unconsciousness.

Dean froze, pained by his brother's hitched words. In the chaos of the demonic fight, he'd almost forgotten why he'd showed up here to begin with. Sam's "dark path." Castiel's warning.

He'd come wanting so much more than an apology. He'd been angry, livid, ready to make Sam pay for what he'd done, was doing.

He'd wanted to know why. He'd wanted to stop Sam. He'd wanted to fix this mess that was his family once and for all.

The best laid plans. The seeming story of the Winchester family. Now he had no answers to his questions and he had a seriously injured little brother on his hands.

The anger that had burned earlier in his veins had taken a silent back seat, having surrendered to abject fear. The quest to straighten his wayward sibling out with force if necessary seemed oddly pointless. If Sam didn't make it, none of it mattered anyway.

He had to fix Sam's physical wounds, save his life. Then, and only then, he could deal with the rest.

Clenching his jaw, he used his free hand to dig the keys out of his pocket. With a curse on his breath, he started the car. The Impala's engine roared to life and Dean remembered his father at the car lot, remembered the way the Impala had glinted in the sunlight, destined to be both of theirs.

To think how simple it had been for him back then. If only he'd known. If only any of them had known.

He glanced at Sam again, still slumped in the passenger's seat. Taking a deep breath, he put the car into gear, returning his hand to Sam's side before pulling out into the street.

-o-

By the time Dean reached the motel, his hand was completely slicked with blood. He could feel the sticky liquid coating everything, running freely over Sam's lower half, probably saturating the seat covers.

This car had been in the family how many years? Only to end up bloodstained and dusty from years of hunting. His mother's worst nightmare. His father's vendetta.

The life he couldn't escape. Not now. Not ever. Not even by going to hell.

Parking the car, he was grateful that the parking lot was quiet--nothing but bugs humming under the lights. The perfect setting to drag his unconscious brother inside. The last thing he needed after a night like this was explaining the situation to some confused passerby. That was just one thing he didn't need--and at this point, he wasn't really sure what he'd tell them.

And wouldn't that be his luck tonight. He should have never gone to sleep at all. That way he never would have been dragged through time on that Back to the Future rip off and Sam wouldn't have been able to sneak off to do his little dark science experiments and Dean wouldn't be in the position of having to save his brother. In every way possible, it seemed.

Stepping out of the car, he hurried around to the other side. As annoyed as he was, as tired as he was, as utterly and totally pissed as he was he was still Sam's big brother. Before he could royally chew the kid out and make sense of what had happened back there, he needed to fix Sam up.

Sam was still out cold when Dean opened his door. It took some creative maneuvering to pull his brother from the car, and Dean nearly dropped his brother as he fumbled to drag Sam toward the door. With Sam propped on one side, he used his free hand to find his key. It took some work and he could feel Sam's' breath hot and fast against his neck before the door swung open and Dean dragged Sam across the threshold.

Dean eased Sam's limp body down onto the aged double bed that seemed barely able to contain him, arranging his dangling arms and now bloodied legs to rest within its limited size. The bed moaned and creaked almost sympathetically under Sam's dead weight and Sam groaned with the movement.

He quickly flicked on the light on the night stand in between the bed, only to discover the three way lamp only worked on low, and its dim yellow glow would be useless to help him operate on Sam.

Sam suddenly trembled. Dean's eyes quickly darted around the room searching out the temperature controls. A small dial next to the bathroom caught his attention. He immediately darted to it and began turning the dial up as far as it would go. The room was cold and drafty and would offer little to keep Sam comfortable as he recovered. To his dismay, the dial rotated over and over and never reached its limit. Dean cursed. The damn thing was broken and he began to wonder if anything could go their way.

His attention was quickly brought back to Sam, who began mumbling incoherently as his body quaked uncontrollably. Dean quickly ripped the imitation wool blanket and paper thin comforter off a second bed in the drafty room. He bundled Sam up as best he could and cursed at the inadequacy of the accommodations as he watched his sibling shiver beneath them.

As glanced down upon his injured brother, it was hard not to despair.

Sam looked horrendous. His body glistened with a sheen of perspiration indicative of shock. Tiny tremors rippled through him as his body struggled to maintain its normal temperature and respond to the trauma it was enduring. His little brother's face remained taught, frozen in an expression of pain. Even in unconsciousness, his eye brows were furrowed, his lips taught in a grimace. His coloring was nearing gray.

"Hold on, Sammy. Just hold on," Dean begged as he patted his sibling on the arm before taking off to get the medical kit from the trunk.

Seconds later, Dean returned. He tossed the kit on the bed next to Sam, grabbed some supplies, ran into the bathroom to sterilize his hands, then returned to begin the daunting task of removing the foreign object from his little brother's side.

-o-

Nearly an hour and a half later, Sam was no longer likely to set off any metal detectors. The three inch strip of metal shelving had been removed.

Strewn on the bed were torn medical packages, bloodied gauze strips, cotton packs, suture supplies, an empty IV bag, bloodied scalpels, a pair of clamps with a crimson smeared sticky metal strip attached, suture scissors, iodine bottles and more. The dingy off-white sheets, comforter and blanket were stained red with splotches and spatters radiating outward from Sam's damaged frame.

Sam had remained unconscious throughout the procedure and for that the eldest Winchester was actually grateful. He'd had needed to probe much deeper than he had at the warehouse and, being out of morphine, his kid brother would have been in excruciating pain.

As best as Dean could tell, no vital organs were damaged. For all the crap that had happened that night, Sam's sudden drop in blood pressure, the bleeder Dean couldn't figure out how to stop at first, the difficulty he'd had removing the metal strip because it had gone to bone and lodged there making extraction extremely difficult and dangerous--something finally went right.

The rest of it remained an unknown. Sam was still in serious condition, having lost more blood than Dean thought he could have housed in his oversized body. Moreover, he was unconscious, still trembling from shock, and in danger of infection. Dean was fairly confident he had removed all the metal, sutured every torn tissue needed, and cleansed the wound extensively but still, a tiny shadow of doubt lingered in his mind. What if…what if a piece of metal or a shard had broken off in Sam's body, what if some fabric from Sam's shirt had been pushed in when he was impaled, what if something vital had been hit and Dean just couldn't detect it? What ifs ran rapid through Dean's mind stirring up his anxiousness to an almost unbearable level.

So even though the surgery appeared "successful", Dean could hardly take comfort in thinking Sam was out of danger yet.

But Sam was settled beneath the sheets, as stable as he could get for the time being. It was only then that Dean realized just how tired he was. Apparently time travel didn't afford much rest. In the short weeks he'd been back from his trip to the fiery down under, sleep had been more demanding than usual, claiming him quickly and deeply in a way he wasn't used to. He was used to a hunter's sleep, light and usually hard to find, where his mind was almost always just a heartbeat away from alertness.

Now sleep took hold of him completely and disturbingly. Not that he'd admit it, of course, but it was an unsettling thing. But thinking about that meant thinking about hell, and Dean wasn't ready for that yet.

He would have expected Sam to notice by now. But his little brother had claimed to have discovered an appetite to finally fit his massive frame. Dean had been tired enough and too focused on his own issues to realize how utterly asinine that was. Nope, his brother hadn't been ditching him for a quick bite to eat, which was one kind of insult. Instead his beloved kid brother was running out on him to work on polishing up his dark powers, thus eliciting the condemnation of angels.

Sam sure knew how to go all out.

The fact that said powers had saved his life tonight--well, that was another issue entirely. Sam shouldn't have been there alone. He shouldn't have been working with a demon without the proper materials--a devil's trap, at least. Or back up, in the form of Dean himself.

Sitting on the opposite bed, he let his eyes linger on Sam. His brother's pale face looked so tired. Worn. Hardly the same brother he'd left four months ago.

"What were you thinking?" Dean asked finally, rubbing a hand wearily over his face. "I worked my ass off to keep you safe and you go and try to undo all of it. I don't get it, man."

He didn't get it at all. Why Sam would give into powers that had scared the crap out of him. Why Sam had gone against Dean's dying wish. Why Sam had stood there and promised him and lied to him. He knew Sam was headstrong and determined and could be downright rebellious at times, but this? Dean hadn't really expected this.

There were apparently a lot of things Dean didn't know about his brother--at least, not anymore. Four months in hell had been an eternity, he was pretty sure, at least if the nightmares he could hardly remember were any indication. Four months here on earth didn't seem to have been much better for his kid brother.

It was time for some serious big brother action. Suddenly Dean totally understood his father's penchant for ultimatums when it came to Sam. The kid could be damn frustrating. In fact, Dean was pretty sure his brother still had a good ass-kicking on the way.

But Sam needed to wake up first.

Sam needed to be okay first.

The fact of the matter was that all this worrying, all this angsting was really rather misplaced on his part. The bleeding was slowed but not stopped. The wound was cleaned but still dangerous. Sam was alive but still deeply unconscious. And the simple truth was that Dean had no idea if his brother could survive the night in these conditions or not. No extra blood, no antibiotics. Just a cold motel room and makeshift first aid supplies.

Dean hated to admit it, the odds were not in their favor.

Before his mind could formulate any kind of course of action, there was a sound at the door.

It took Dean a minute to realize it was a knock.

Who would be knocking on the door at this time of night?

More to the point, who the hell would be knocking at their door?

Dean looked at his brother again, who didn't even twitch. Tensing, he looked back at the door, mentally cataloguing his next move.

There were no known threats in the area, at least none that they hadn't already taken care of. His angel didn't seem particularly keen on knocking and Bobby would call them first. It wouldn't make sense for it to be an attack, because really. What kind of baddie took the time to knock first?

This lack of sleep and stupid angelic mission was really screwing with his head. Not to mention his little brother's newfound penchant for darkness. Dean needed a vacation.

First things first: answering the door.

Dean pulled the gun out from his jeans--just as it was logical that it wasn't something nefarious waiting for him on the other side, he could also come up with no safe and friendly option on the other side of the door. The way his life was going, it was much better to be safe than sorry.

Standing, he placed a gentle hand on Sam's chest, waiting to hear the thump of his brother's heart before moving cautiously to the door. Tentatively, he peeked through the peephole.

On the other side was a girl, probably in her twenties. She had dark hair and looked vaguely familiar. She was glancing around, chewing her lip for a moment before she reached up and knocked again.

Then Dean recognized her. The girl from the motel room when he first found Sam. Kathy or Kenzie or Karly.

Whatever her name was, not even Sam remembered so how would he? But the real issue was: why was she here at all?

He'd never pegged Sam for a guy who was into one-night stands, but as Castiel seemed ready to make abundantly clear, Sam had changed--quite a bit and his newfound sexual discovery should have been a sign of that.

None of that answered the question: why was she here?

It was possible that she meant more to Sam than his brother had let on--but why would a girl who his brother couldn't call by the right name suddenly mean so much that she was showing up at his motel room in the middle of the night?

There were too many questions and Dean's head already hurt so he might as well just open the door and figure this out.

Cracking it open, he felt the night air rush in and the girl straightened, leaning forward anxiously. "Sam? Sam, are you there?"

Dean's eyes narrowed, getting a good look at her. She was pretty, more his style than Sam's. "Who are you?"

She pursed her lips, looking at Dean steadily. "Hello, Dean," she said. "Is Sam there?"

"You didn't answer the question," he said, not opening the door further. "Who are you?"

She sighed, smirking a little. "Aw, Dean, you sure know how to hurt a girl's feelings," she said. "I would think you'd actually like looking at this body a little more. Blondes were always more Sam's thing."

Then he recognized her. Not as the girl in the motel room. But the lilt of her voice. The cock of her head. "Ruby."

She smiled grimly. "It's Kristy these days, but close enough," she said.

Dean's jaw tightened. "I heard you were dead."

Her eyes showed no emotion. "A bit of an overstatement, I'm afraid," she said. "Sometimes we lie as a matter of self-defense. Don't we, Dean?"

"Oh, sister, don't even go there with me," he said. "I'm not keeping near as much stuff as Sam is. You know, for starters, you and then there's the issue of his abilities."

Her smirk faded. "So you figured it out."

"Found him in a warehouse, exorcising a demon--with his hand."

She shrugged. "That's just the tip of the iceberg," she said. "You have no idea what he can accomplish."

"Yeah, well, and I'm not going to either, and neither is he," he said. Then he laughed. "It's you, isn't it? You're the one who's training him."

"There's a reason he told you I was dead," she said. "You'd never trust me or him if you knew I was still around."

"With good reason," Dean snapped back. "Give me one reason I shouldn't blow you away right now."

"We both know it wouldn't do any good," she said. "And besides, I'm here to check on Sam. I saw that warehouse. I know the exorcism didn't go smoothly. And by the fact that you're standing there and Sam's not speaking up, I'm a little worried to ask."

"And what's it to you?" he asked.

Her face went tight and her eyes looked suspiciously earnest. "I've been helping him."

Dean snorted at that. "Yeah, thanks, you've been a ton of help."

"Hey, I'm the one who's been here," she said. "And I haven't helped Sam do anything he hasn't asked me to help with. I've been the one who's watched his back--not you."

Dean's face hardened. "Yeah, bang up job of that tonight."

"I've stepped back since you've been around," she said. "Sam didn't want me to interfere with you two. And Sam's a big boy--he only needed me to help find the demon, not to deal with it."

"So you just left him alone to exorcise that demon?"

"Sam's handled worse," she said. "And I was off making sure no other demons picked up on the scent. When I got to the warehouse again, it was a mess. I saw the blood. Since the host was still out cold on the floor and you're standing here, I'm guessing it's Sam's."

She was right, of course, but that didn't mean Dean felt overly inclined to include her in this. After all, this was still partially her fault. No doubt Sam was a grown man, but Ruby had been preying on Sam's desperation since Dean had made the deal. He didn't trust her, not at all, and if Sam wasn't bleeding to death in the room behind him, he probably would have exorcised her ass right then and there.

Problem was, though, that Sam was bleeding to death in the room behind him. Ruby was a demon and one he didn't want remotely close to his little brother, but--

But Ruby had saved both their lives. Multiple times. No doubt for her own reasons, but she had saved them nonetheless.

There was a chance she could help now. He didn't want to take Sam to the hospital. He wasn't sure he could do it himself. So maybe he could use Ruby--just for now.

"Can you help him if he's hurt?"

"Can you let me inside?" she asked.

Hesitating, he stepped away from the door. She cocked her head, almost impressed, and moved in. She slid past Dean, moving straight to Sam's bedside. Dean followed, watching her closely as she lingered, lifting the sheets and taking in the bandages, frowning as her fingers brushed his forehead.

She sighed, stepping back. "You got in the way, didn't you?' she asked.

"What?"

"You interrupted him," she said.

"What do you know?"

She turned on him, her own face lined with intensity. "I know that Sam's not this sloppy. I know that Sam would never let a demon get the better of him like this. I know Sam would never let his guard down for anything, anyone--anyone but you."

"He shouldn't be using his powers anyway," Dean snapped.

She shook her head with an incredulous laugh. "What do you know anyway, Dean? You're the one who died. I'm not sure you have much credence in this area. If we had used Sam's powers all along, he could have been ready for Lilith and you wouldn't have taken your little four month hiatus. Believe it or not, this is what I've been trying to prevent but every time you're around, Sam ends up more vulnerable than before."

"I don't know what your angle is, but my entire family has been used by demons," he hissed. "They've used us and spit us out and I will not let that happen to Sam."

She licked her lips patiently. "You don't have to trust me, Dean," Ruby sneered. "Just use your head. Think about it. You died. You know how you felt when Sammy died in your arms? That desperation that wouldn't go away? Well you got to make a deal and it went away, didn't it? Sure, you replaced it with a whole new kind of grief, but Sam? Sam didn't have that. Sam didn't have anything. Sam had a dead mother, a dead father, a dead girlfriend and a dead brother--and he blamed himself for each and every one of them. That kind of guilt, that kind of failure--it breaks a man. When I found Sam, he was broken. Don't kid yourself: without me, Sam would be dead right now."

Dean's throat tightened. "Sam's stronger than that."

She laughed. "That's what you tell yourself to make yourself feel better," she said. "Face it, Dean, you always wanted Sam back in this life with you. You knew he was giving up everything, all his dreams of normal, and you were glad. You were relieved. Because you were too afraid to lose your family. Well, you got your wish. Sam needed you as much as you needed him and you left him and there were no deals left to make."

"So what," Dean said. "I'm supposed to think you're some kind of saint for saving Sam?'

She just shook her head. "We all have our agendas, Dean," she said. "You sell your soul and get dragged back to save your brother. Great. But you don't even care about what he went through, the fact that he's been through hell, too. You'll never save him unless you understand that."

Dean glanced at his brother. Sam hadn't moved, still prone on the bed. The bandages were seeping red already. "Can you save him?"

"Do I look like a doctor?" she asked. She sighed and pursed her lips. "No. His injury isn't supernatural. It's not a spell or a hex. This is pure biology. That's not my area of expertise."

"Yeah, I forgot, playing Glenda the Good Witch with my little brother's screwed to hell emotions is."

Her glare was cold. "I'm not the one who stopped the exorcism."

"He never should have been doing it without the proper set up," Dean hissed back.

"You know, you had this holier than thou attitude even before an angel pulled you from the pit," she said. "Funny how lucky you are. You get to die a hero and come back on God's good side. And Sam here's watched everyone die and tried so hard but he's still damned, even before he was born."

Dean's anger snapped and he surged forward, shoving Ruby against the wall. "He's not damned.'

She smirked, indifferent to Dean's grip. "I know about the demon blood," she said. "So does he. He may not know why, but it doesn't matter. He believes he's damned. He has nothing left to lose, which is the only reason he's working with me to begin with. And just know this. It wasn't old Yellow Eyes or the demon blood that made him doubt. It wasn't even Jessica or his mother. It was you, Dean. It was how you died for him and he couldn't save you. The minute you died, he stopped feeling human and that's the most dangerous thing. Trust me, I would know."

His anger stalled, stymied by her words. His grip grew lax and she shrugged out of his grip.

"I won't come around unless Sam asks me to," she said, her voice a mixture of disappointment and disdain. She afforded Sam one lingering look. "If he makes it."

With that, she left and Dean let her go without a word. Her very presence was a testament to Sam's deception, but it was hard to deny that she may have been right. She had been there, she'd been here when Dean hadn't, and that very thought was more numbing than anything at the moment.

She couldn't save Sam. It wasn't her job and he didn't want her here anyway. She didn't belong here. She was a demon, a damn demon, one of the things they were fighting against.

Sinking to the bed, he really looked Sam again. His brother had not shifted and Dean could see the rise and fall of his brother's exposed chest. If anything, his brother looked worse.

It was too much. It was just too much. He'd seen everyone die. He'd seen his grandparents, his father. He knew about his mother. They were all dead and they were all gone and Sam was the only one that was left.

Sam was the only one. Even when Dean had been gone himself, Sam had been there.

Dean realized with sudden clarity just how horrific that could be. Because in that moment, he felt the weight of Castiel's warning upon him. Sam was on a dark path. Stop Sam or someone--something--else would.

After all of this, Dean didn't think he could deal with that. He didn't think he could watch another family member die. Or worse, he couldn't let another one make a mistake that cost them more than life itself.

He'd been protecting Sam all his life. He'd been dragged back from the grave to keep doing it.

He'd been dragged back by an angel. An angel who had work for him. An angel who wanted him to stop Sam. Yes, an angel that had threatened his brother's life, but Dean could suddenly see the statement for what it was. A chance to save Sam.

Sam was worth saving. He'd gone to hell because he'd believed that. But he couldn't save Sam if Sam were dead. If there was a God and justice, then Sam would get another chance. Just like Dean was getting his.

He needed to talk to Castiel. He needed to explain it, to tell him to save Sam. If an angel could pull Dean out of hell, then surely an angel could save his brother.

But how did he contact one? Pamela had tried and got her eyes burned out as a consequence. He didn't know of any summoning rituals for angels since he'd never believed in angels before.

A wave of exhaustion swept over him and he felt his knees give way. He sank wearily to the bed and dropped his head to his hands. He needed to think. He just needed to think, to figure this out, to--

He jerked his head up. There was a fluttering and Dean blinked once, twice. The room was still and dim. Sam was unconscious on the next bed, but something was off, something was different.

Then it hit him. This was a dream. This was a dream, just like the other one, just like--

"Some people consider prayer the most powerful way to communicate with God."

Castiel.

Standing, Dean turned to find the so-called angel standing in the corner of the room.

"Yeah, well, God's never answered my calls before," Dean said.

"So why do you call on him now?"

"I called on you," Dean said. "I've seen you so there's a difference."

Castiel didn't seem to consider it. "You should know by now that I am far too busy to come at your every beckon call. You are the one who serves under my orders, not the other way around."

"Yeah, well, you've been awfully concerned with me and making sure that I totally get what's going on with my family. So I sort of figured you might be interested in this."

Castiel simply looked at him. "You need to be prepared for your part in this battle," he said. "And I must complete mine."

Another time, he might have tried to figure that out. He might have been frustrated or curious or something, but now, right then, with Sam bleeding on the other bed, he only had one thing on his mind. "You have to save him."

Castiel cocked his head. "That is not my mission."

"I don't care about the mission," Dean shot back. "I care about my brother."

"I'm not here to fix all your problems or grant your wishes," Castiel told him. "This is a war."

"And you told me I had to stop Sam," Dean interjected. "You were giving me a chance to save him."

The angel showed no change in expression. "Perhaps you failed."

"Not like this," Dean said. "That's not fair."

"I have told you, that this isn't about fair," Castiel said pointedly. "This is a battle. I am not some guardian angel you can invoke to do your bidding. You are here because I pulled you out."

"Then why did you bring me back at all?" Dean asked. "You brought me here to try to save my brother. If you don't care about whether he lives or dies, why not just off him yourself. You can do that. I know you can. So if this is just about taking care of Sam then you didn't need me."

Castiel's brow furrowed. "You assume you can know the ways of God."

"I don't care about the ways of God," Dean snapped, his voice hedging with desperation. "I care about my brother. All of this, you taking me back, all you did was show me that this isn't Sam's fault. None of this."

"He's made his choices," Castiel said. "That is the nature of free will."

"Yeah, well, Sam didn't choose to eat that damn blood. He didn't choose to watch everyone around him die. He didn't choose to spend four months alone," Dean said and for the first time that really hit home. The desolation. The utter loneliness. "Where the hell was your God then, huh? If you wanted Sam to keep himself on the straight and narrow, where the hell were you then? If anyone would have believed in all this crap, it would have been him. He would have done anything for you and whatever cause you wanted to fight for. So you and your God and all your damn mysterious ways can just shove off, because if you won't save him, then I won't help you."

Castiel remained impassive, taking in Dean's rant indifferently.

Dean's chest heaved, trying to recover from the outburst, waiting for something. Anything. A smiting, a flash of lightning--something.

"Did it ever occur to you, Dean," Castiel began, "why we let you go to hell?"

Dean had considered a lot of things, had pondered a lot of questions, but, that? "What?"

"Why I didn't stop the hell hounds," he continued. "I could have. I was watching that."

Dean just stared.

"You had to go to hell," he said. "It was an experience you needed. One that you can't understand now and may never truly grasp, but one you needed."

"Well, that's a little masochistic," Dean said. "You may want to keep that one out of the witnessing brochure."

Castiel ignored him. "Sam needed to go through hell, too," he said. "But we're afraid that he won't make the right decision."

"So why not talk to him? Why not show yourself to him?"

At that, Castiel almost smiled. "He already believes," Castiel said. "But you don't. It's not all about Sam."

Dean was used to odd diatribes, to supernatural logic, though he had to admit, usually they had a much more sinister bent. It was hard, though, to listen. To listen about the suffering he'd been through, the suffering Sam had been through, to think that it had had a purpose. That all of these things, all these actions set in motion and falling on top of each other like a line of dominoes might be part of some plan. A plan he couldn't change.

A plan that might involve Sam dying.

Dean's anger went cold, replaced by a sudden fear. With everything he'd seen, with everything he knew, he was a heartbeat away from losing the one thing he had left. "You're just going to let him die?"

"If we wanted Sam to die, then we wouldn't have told you to save him," Castiel said. "We have work for both of you."

"Then save him," Dean pleaded. "Save my brother's life"

"That is not for me to do," Castiel said. "It is not even for you to do. It's his decision. You're only there to help him make it."

That was not the answer he wanted. That wasn't the answer he expected. "What, so Sam can just think his way to getting better? Last I checked, it takes more than positive vibes to heal puncture wounds!"

"You have believed because you have seen," Castiel said. "Blessed are those who believe and who have not seen."

Dean shook his head, his frustration reaching a boiling point. "I came to you for help," he said. "I came to you because I knew you could help. I believed it. And you're going to give me platitudes?"

"Dean," Castiel said. "Go to your brother."

A flash of light and Dean blinked. When his vision focused, the angel was gone.

Blessed are those who believe and who have not seen.

Go to your brother.

Dean's stomach turned with the word. Beneath the cryptic words, beneath the preaching, there was something else. Something like hope.

Closing his eyes, Dean dared to believe.

-o-

Dean came to with a start.

The room looked the same. Dark and musty and almost chillingly cold and still.

Nothing was moving. Nothing seemed alive.

It was easy to ignore the medical supplies strewn across the floor--the gauze and pill bottles Dean had looked through in haste. It was even easy enough to ignore the macabre debris--the remnants of Sam's clothes, old bandages and the blood-stained sheets.

It wasn't easy to overlook Sam. At the center of the morbid chaos, his brother laid still, flat on his back, partially obscured by a sheet. His face was waxy. He looked--

No.

He wasn't.

Dean had to believe that much.

Blessed are those who have believed and not seen.

Too bad Dean had never been good with faith.

Moving to Sam's side, Dean's hands were on his brother, probing, rousing, reassuring. "Sam," he called. "Hey, Sammy."

To his relief, his brother's head turned slightly toward him, his mouth twitching as a low moan came out.

His brother was alive, breathing and alive.

Gritting his teeth, Dean pulled the sheet away, gently peeling away the bandage. Beneath it, the wound was still raw and red, the line of stitches not totally stopping the seeping of the blood. The flesh was warm and Dean knew the danger of infection was mounting despite the antibiotics Dean had managed to force freed his brother.

So there was no improvement. And there was no further slipping.

Either way, Dean was out of options. Ruby couldn't help. Castiel wouldn't help. Bobby was too far away. A hospital--well, he'd given up on that hours ago. Both he and Sam were legally dead and he didn't need to risk showing up on the grid again. Not now.

He'd been so angry at Sam. He'd been beyond angry. How Sam could just lie to him like that. How Sam could just give into these powers, play into the plan that Azazel had set in place for Sam since before Sam was born.

They were all like that, though, he realized. That each and every Winchester seemed to be on a crash course with a destiny they couldn't change, one they couldn't fight, all living in an endless cycle of tragedy. One deal after another, one selfish, desperate moment after another, and they each ended up dead--until Sam.

Ruby wasn't right about a lot of things, but she'd been right about that. Dean didn't want to admit it, never wanted to admit it, but she was right about what it'd done to Sam. It was hard to think about, that the real Winchester legacy wasn't saving people, stopping evil. It was sacrificing yourself, selling yourself out.

It was a legacy they'd all succeeded at, from his mother on the ceiling to Dean's trip to hell. They'd all lived up to it, found success--except Sam.

Sam had been failing his entire life. He'd failed to make hunting and normal work together. He'd failed to save Jessica. He'd failed to make peace with his father. He'd failed to survive the Yellow Eyed Demon. Then, the worst thing of all, he'd failed to save Dean.

The only thing, in fact, Sam had succeeded at, was resisting his darkness back in Cold Oak. Sure, it'd gotten Sam killed, and yeah, it'd been so stupid, but Sam had saved himself in the ways that mattered.

Then Dean had gone and undone it and just created another failure for Sam to live up to.

Dean had known about his father's deal and he'd done it anyway. He hadn't known about his mother's but it seemed so damn right now that he did. The initial shock of it was wearing off. Now he could see it for what it was--not a random, inescapable evil. But a selfish, chosen one. They'd all had their reasons, of course, good reasons. Reasons of love and family and safety and normalcy. But deals with the devil were just what they sounded like and there was no whitewashing that--for any of them. All it did was delay the inevitable, pass it on to the next person, and there was something even worse about that.

The Winchester line was going to snuff itself out by its own weaknesses. And he was pretty sure the only way that was going to stop was through divine intervention. Why God cared, he wasn't sure. Why he deserved a second chance to stop this, he didn't have a clue. But he had a chance. This was his chance to save himself, to help Sam save himself.

Because Sam had his part in this, but so did Dean. And he wasn't going to help Sam prevent his own downfall by yelling and demanding. Because Sam was more broken than he'd ever imagined. He needed to fix that before he could fix anything else.

Lifting his head again to look at his brother, he could only hope that he'd have the chance.

That they'd both have that chance.

-o-

Dean had never wanted to believe in God. He'd never wanted to believe in anything. He'd just wanted cold hard facts, truth, undeniable realities.

There was a safety in that. There was a lack or risk. It was a simpler life, a starker one.

A colder one.

Because the truth was this: his mother had made a deal with a price she'd never known and they'd all been making deals ever since to try to make that first one right. But each deal just took them further from what got them there, further from love and life and happiness.

That was truth. It was reality. And Dean realized just how much faith had always been a part of his life.

It'd been faith that made him fight for his mother's memory. It'd been faith that made him follow orders all those years. It'd been faith that he'd fought to save his brother. Those were things he'd thought he'd known, thought he'd been sure of.

Then some freakin' angel of the Lord proved him wrong.

Faith was everything. It was everywhere. He'd always believed that hunting was his destiny. He'd always believed his mother was an innocent victim. He'd always believed that keeping his family together would make everything better.

He was wrong. About most of it.

Castiel was offering him a new kind of faith. No, he was demanding it.

And no matter how hard Dean tried to deny it, he wanted to believe. Because all he had in life was a legacy of selfish decisions and a little brother who was bleeding to death on the bed next to him.

Demons could fix that. Dean didn't have a shot.

Sure, he changed the bandage. He monitored Sam's heart rate. He tried to keep his brother warm and pumped his as full of antibiotics and water as his brother could handle. But this wasn't up to him. It never had been.

This was why Sam wanted to believe. Why he needed to believe. Because the world was too full of things they couldn't change. It had been enough to drive Dean to the crossroads. It had been enough to drive Sam to his abilities. They all had the need to control things, to make things better. Maybe he and Sam weren't all that different after all.

It was hard to see Sam like this. To see him stretched out on the bed. It reminded him of Cold Oak and the worst moment of his life.

It occurred to him then that Sam had been there, too. That Sam had held his body, that Sam had watched him die and been completely unable to stop it.

The thought made him nauseous. That kind of pain--that wasn't something he'd ever wish on any one. It wasn't something he'd ever forget. It wasn't something that even the horrors of hell could eclipse.

Sam had been dead for three days. Dean had been dead for four months.

Dean had never buried Sam. Sam had buried Dean.

There was a difference there. One Dean could only begin to imagine.

The difference was that Sam had to live without Dean. Sam had to live with that failure. Sam had to live and breathe and hunt alone. He and Bobby didn't share that connection that Dean had grown to cherish. Sam had no one. Could he really blame his brother for taking comfort where he found it?

And it wasn't so much comfort, Dean realized. It was survival. Ruby's words haunted him--that Sam would be dead without him. Dean had never wanted to believe it, but it was so clear in everything he saw in Sam now. Sam had shut part of himself off. Sam had let part of himself disappear.

Four months--it was a lifetime. It was Sam's lifetime. Dean had kissed his way to his own hell and inadvertently consigned Sam to his own. Just like his mother.

Sam lied to him. Sam was using his powers behind his back. Sam was clearly dabbling too close to darkness that even angels were taking notice. So Dean had every right to be mad. He had every right to be pissed at hell and to slap Sam upside his gigantic and stupid head.

But he didn't have the right to tell Sam that he was wrong. He didn't have the right to tell Sam that he was an asshole and a selfish bastard. Not anymore. Not when Sam hadn't had a chance in hell of making it through Dean's death without compromising something. Dean couldn't help but be grateful that Sam hadn't chosen to give up on living altogether--that would have been irreversible this time.

This powers thing? He and Sam needed to have a long talk about that, about the demon's blood and the damn apocalyptic army. But maybe Sam deserved some compassion.

Hell, even Dean had gotten that. He was sitting there after all.

In the back of his mind, Dean remembered why he went to Stanford all those years ago. Not because he needed to. Not because he really couldn't do it alone. But because he didn't want to. They were stronger together.

Maybe that was why Lilith wanted him gone. To make them weaker. And maybe that was why Castiel dragged him back. To make them both stronger.
That was something that a God might do. Maybe. And it was pretty hard to be mad at some kind of omniscient being for letting this happen. Because in the beginning his mother made a deal. In the end, they had kind of all had this coming.

The fact that they were getting second chances at all--well, that was some kind of grace. He just hoped it lasted through the night.

-o-

When Sam finally moved, Dean was so tired that he wondered if he'd imagined it.

But Sam shifted again, face scrunching up and his mouth emitting a small moan, and Dean realized that it wasn't his imagination. No, his kid brother was finally waking up.

Scrambling to sit up, Dean leaned close to his brother. "Sam," he called. "Hey, Sam, you with me?"

It took another minute, Sam's face tightening and slackening in equal turns, before his brother's eyes opened and stayed that way.

Watching his brother's struggle toward consciousness, Dean realized with sudden relief that Sam was going to be okay. Sam was going to survive. That it was over.

Well, not quite over. There was still the whole issue of how they got here to begin with.

Sam was blinking, slowly, as recognition lighted in his eyes. Recognition that gave way to regret.

Dean forced himself to ignore it and smiled instead. There was only so much he could handle in one night and the revelations of the past twenty-four hours were more than enough. "Look who finally decided to wake up."

The humor was lost on Sam. "Dean," he breathed, his eyes darting frantically around the room before settling on his brother again. "You're okay."

With a grim smile, Dean tilted his head. "Seems that way."

"The warehouse," Sam said, his mind clearly working as he tried to piece it all together. "I'm sorry."

"Yeah, well, next time you feel the need to exorcise a demon in the middle of the night, let me know first," he said, still completely ignoring the pink elephant in the room.

Sam was persistent. Dean was not going to get out of this conversation. "Dean, I just--God, I don't even know what I was thinking. What you must be thinking," he said. He lowered his eyes. "You have every right to be mad."

"Yeah, I do," Dean agreed. "You lied to me. About a lot of things. I mean, Ruby. Your powers. When you promised me, Sam. It was my dying wish. I didn't want to come back and find you like that."

Sam's jaw worked and he didn't look up. "I know," he said. "That's what makes it so terrible. What kind of brother does that? I mean, I don't know quite how it happened. I just--I mean--it was the first time in months I was able to do anything. You know, everything I did was wrong. I failed at everything. I already failed you in every way possible and I just--I just needed to do something. That's what it was. It was doing something. I could stop demons. I couldn't stop any of the ones that mattered, but it was the closest thing I'd had in years."

It made sense. It did. And Dean wished he'd seen it sooner. That Sam wasn't trying to hurt him. Sam wasn't trying to defy him just for kicks. Sam was just trying to survive. He'd gone four months on his own, Dean supposed it would take some time before he was used to a big brother influence once again.

Castiel's ominous warning might not just be one of condemnation. It could be one of grace, of hope.

Sam needed that right now, it was pretty clear. He needed forgiveness, he needed restoration. And Dean was a huge part of that.

"It's like I want to go back, all the way to the beginning," Sam continued. "Figure out where it all went wrong and how I can make it right again."

It was a wish Dean had made so many times in his life. And he hadn't realized until just recently how naive that had been. He just shook his head. "It doesn't work that way," he said. "I'm not sure we can make it all right. We just have to do the best we can."

Sam seemed to sag even further. "I didn't know what else to do," he said again, his voice small and tight. "I--I just wanted to be able to do something."

Dean closed his eyes, heard Sam's grief, heard his guilt, and felt his heart break. He opened his eyes and looked at his brother. "It's done now," he said. "We can't change what's been done. But we have to look ahead, now."

Sam's eyes were wide and wet and Dean could see that the pain was still leeching Sam's strength. The blood loss was still pulling his brother down, making him more open and vulnerable than he'd been the last few weeks. Without his strength, Sam's hardened facade was gone, showing Sam for the broken man that he was. "But--" Sam tried.

"Not now, okay?" Dean said. "You just woke up and you're probably still down a pint or two. There's time for talking later, and, yeah, little brother, we're going to have a nice, long talk about what you've been up to and what else you haven't told me. But for now, you need to rest. We need to rest."

Sam looked at him, just looked at him, eyes still dangerously watery, his features still pale from his injury. He sank down a little, nestling back into the bed, some of the tension easing from his body. "I am sorry," he said again. "For everything."

Dean remembered his mother's deal, his father's, his own--that domino effect that left Sam standing alone and it was all too clear to Dean just how devastating that could be. "Yeah, Sammy," he said. "I'm sorry, too."

In the end, that would have to be a good enough place to start again.