Okay, let me start off by saying a few things.

I uploaded the first chapter of this story on September 24, 2018. It is now March 1st, 2019. That makes...uh...let's see...a little over five months since I've last visited this? I just recently checked back to it not too long ago, and I saw 10 freakin' reviews, with 7 likes and 18 follows! For a 2k word chapter story that I didn't plan on really continuing, that is amazing feedback, and I've never had anything like it. So, I appreciate everybody who read and enjoyed this, and especially those who commented!

I hope this chapter is just as good as the previous one. I don't know when I'll update this next, but it certainly won't be five months from now. I also hope to update Volition shortly, too. So...if you could give me the same feedback you guys did this one...it would make my day! Let me know how I did with this!

Also, side-note, I do not ship anybody in this show. This is a completely GEN and PLATONIC story.

Warnings: Profanity of a sailor.

Enjoy!

Dean hit the hardwood with a grunt, curling his fingers into a fist to try and absolve his onslaught of anger. He got to his feet and blinked the dizziness away with a slight bit of difficulty, looking around. The silence was oppressive. He glanced around confusedly, eyeing everything in his surroundings with care. He was in the bunker. He was alone, too.

The comforting and familiar scene of the common room greeted him, and he stumbled over to one of the tables for support. He was still completely dazed, the floor shifting dangerously. It was as though nothing had happened prior to the whole showdown with Amara.

As he was leaning against the oaken table, Dean felt his fingers brush over something sharp and chipped. He immediately snapped his gaze down, and found an array of burn marks spread over the top. It seemed newly placed, reading two words:

Thank you.

Dean swallowed, an uncomfortable feeling settling into his stomach. "Sammy?" he called softly, but choked when his throat presented a deep burning sensation and forced him to cough roughly. He made his way to the kitchen, gathering a bottle of water and downing it within thirty seconds—he was completely parched, and also hungry, but that would have to wait because he needed to find Sam.

Resuming his task, he said again, this time more loud, "Sam? Where are you?"

Nothing but quietude responded. "Come on," he muttered to himself, and began searching the closer rooms. Not too long later, he came up to Sam's door, and caught himself about to knock. Shaking his head, he instead just snatched the doorknob and opened it with no caution.

A limber form lay on the bed, and he released a deep breath of relief. Sam was fine. For now, his mind added unnecessarily.

He ran a calloused hand through his hair and sat down on a nearby desk. The only person he could think of that had the power to put them back here was Chuck. Or Lucifer, but that was simply disgusting to think about—completely out of question.

Anxious, he stood again and walked over to Sam's side. He was clearly sleeping. Careful not to disturb him, Dean took Sam's left arm and turned it over, then rolled up the sleeve. The Mark was still there. Red and luminescent, swollen skin surrounding the area. He blinked, still not comprehending. Some would say it was denial, others grief. Dean thought neither—it was anger, at himself.

He'd fucked up so bad.

The sudden outburst couldn't be withheld; he snapped, and before he knew it books were flying across the room, pages and spines becoming contorted from hitting the wall, and the desk lamp was nowhere to be seen. Huffing, he looked back to his brother—still asleep. He'd expected the commotion to wake him.

"Sam?" he pried.

The form on the bed didn't even twitch.

"Shit," Dean cursed, a subdued version of fear gripping him. "I swear, if you keep dreamin' on and don't open your eyes for me, I might have to start calling you Sleeping Beauty from now on." The attempted humor fell flat, and Dean's heart plummeted at the dearth of response.

"He'll wake up soon. Chuck wanted him to get some rest. He's going to need it."

Dean snapped around to face the entrance of the door, the familiar voice sparking something in his mind. Immediately, he felt many different emotions wash over him—relief, gratitude, shock. Because that definitely wasn't Lucifer. That was…

"Cas?" Dean asked disbelievingly. His best friend, wearing a tattered beige coat and blue tie, was standing before him; he looked exhausted beyond belief, wrinkles exposed and bags bright, but was there. With Lucifer possessing him for the last few months, Dean had been at such a loss. It was as though there was a piece missing from him, absent, and their family wasn't complete.

Sure, he was pissed as hell at his friend. Completely and utterly angry. It was unfathomable the betrayal Cas had caused for their entire family, and he couldn't even know where to begin accepting what the angel had done. Sam had gone through so much pain, so much disaster and heartbreak and panic attacks, for the Devil to simply be loose again. Cas had undid everything that they'd been through, and Dean didn't think he'd ever be able to fully forgive him.

But seeing him there, alive and himself, was enough for Dean to take five quick paces forward and tug Cas into a large embrace. Cas seemed to melt into the touch, and they stayed like that for a long while. It wasn't more than just two friends, separated by unforeseen means, and alas reunited after a terrible tragedy.

Breaking apart, Dean studied his friend incredulously, and trailed off, "How…?"

Cas shrugged his shoulders. "Chuck went away. I don't know exactly where, but I can presume we won't be seeing him for a long while. He took Lucifer with him."

Dean laughed humorlessly, hysterical. "Lucifer's gone?" he asked, seeking clarification he'd heard right.

"He is."

The elder couldn't help but physically double over in relief and ghastly chortles. Having the archangel in the bunker had been one of the worst things for both of the brothers to endure. After the torture Sam had went through being in the Cage, the fact he was trapped in an underground, secure place—despite being his own home—with Lucifer again, was unimaginable. After Lucifer had marked his territory in Sam's bedroom—scattering books, ripping the bedspread—the episode Sam'd had was awful. It took Dean dragging him away in the Impala to calm him enough to the point he could breathe again.

Dean couldn't blame his brother. If he was stuck like this with Alastair...he didn't think he'd be able to keep himself composed enough to continue the job. It was horrifying to think about, and he knew for Sam it must be ten times worse. Then again, though, Sam was always more mentally strong than him—Dean knew that easily.

Snapping back to the present, Dean switched his gaze between his friend and sibling. His brief moment of happiness gone, sorrow began to reign him back in again, keeping him leashed and muzzled with the predicament they now found themselves in. He cast his eyes downward.

"Can you help me move him?" Dean asked suddenly.

Cas looked confused. "Why? Would he not want to wake up in the comfort of his own bed?"

"No," Dean harshly said. "Not with him having been in here."

Cas didn't need clarification on who Dean was talking about. He nodded.

In tandem, they began to lift Sam up from the mattress. It was awkward for sure, both of them carrying the ridiculously tall brother to Dean's room, but with Cas's increased strength it wasn't difficult. Eventually they got Sam settled under Dean's covers, and Dean pulled a chair from his desk and collapsed onto it.

"What happened back there?" Dean asked finally, breaking a minute's silence.

"The plan was successful."

Dean rolled his eyes, irritated. "No shit. I got that part. But what else went down? How did we end up at the bunker?"

Cas came to a stand in the peripheral of Dean's vision, but Dean didn't turn to look at him. Instead, he determinedly kept his eyes trained on his brother.

"Well, after Sam accepted the Mark, Amara was ripped back to the interdimensional cage she was kept in before she was released. Balance was restored. Everything returned to how it was. You weren't aware, but afterward, Chuck sent everybody back to where they belonged. He freed me, stole away Lucifer, and ran. He could be light years away by now. And so...here we are."

Dean processed the information as it came rushing at him. He was beginning to realize the severity of the situation. "Get Rowena," he ordered. "Make sure she has the Book of the Damned with her."

"Dean...you can't…"

"No!" Dean shot back, getting to his feet. "If you think that I'm just going to stand here and watch this thing turn my brother into some...some monster, then you're wrong! I know how that feels like, trying to combat the effects of internal rage, and let me tell you, Cas! It ain't pleasant! It feels like your body is at war with itself, fighting for control and not caring if you get caught in the crossfire. It feels like you're being torn apart. And...Sam? I can't...I just can't watch him go through the same thing. I won't do it." More solidly, he repeated, "I won't."

Cas seemed stunned into silence. Before he could let the few tears of weakness running down his face show, Dean turned away to face the wall. His hands were interlocked behind his head, as though trying to gather breath after a tough running session their father had forced upon them. He couldn't do this.

"Get Rowena here. Now. I don't fucking care if we release God's sister again. He's going to have to learn how to sort out family quarrels the normal way."

"Dean, you don't understand."

He dried his face quickly as anger overtook him. "What don't I understand?" he snapped, turning around.

"The book...Chuck destroyed it. He figured you'd want to do something like this...so he exploded it into atoms. It can't be recovered."

Dean stared straight ahead as a multitude of feelings came about him.

No, nonono.

He thought back to the incinerated words of thanks singed on the table. Well, Chuck could take his piss-poor expressions of gratitude and shove them up his ass. It was truly over. His brother had the Mark...for good. He couldn't take it.

Suddenly the room seemed to press down on him and he couldn't breathe. He couldn't breath.

Cas sensed his distress. "Dean?"

Hurriedly, Dean fumbled out an excuse of, "Let me know if he wakes up," and exited the room at a jog, leaving his friend behind. The corridors blurred past him in a flurry of movement as he made his way through the building, mind spinning.

Finally, he reached the library. It was the first place that had come to mind—Sam's favorite location in the structure. Full of lore and stories, novels and references. Dean fell to his knees, at a loss for what to do with himself. He'd never felt this broken. Not when Sam was soulless, or dealing with hallucinations, or the trials, or when they were separated after Gadreel. Nothing compared to this kind of grief he was feeling right now, knowing the at some point in the foreseeable future, he'd have to enact measures to keep his brother locked down to where he couldn't do anybody else harm.

"You lock me up where I can't hurt anyone, and throw away the key!"

He could never do that. Never.

He pressed his forehead to the cold hardwood floor, letting the waterworks run rampant. He'd walked his brother through enough panic attacks and gone through a fair share of them himself to know this was one he was experiencing right now. However, he didn't have his sibling to hold him this time, to murmur comforting words, to ground him with his own heartbeat, to match his breathing with, to cry into his shoulder.

Because Sam was lying unconscious on Dean's own bed, the dark breath of evil on his forearm.

And there was nothing Dean could do about it.