Disclaimer/ Spoilers: See chapter 1

WARNING: This story carries a bit of a darker theme than I've written before; wanted to give you a heads up. I caution for bad words and the like in the chapters to come.

a/n: Thanks for coming back! I wanted to get this up earlier, but had some family things to attend to this weekend and was unable to find time. My apologies.

You guys really intrigued me with your responses to the way (and order) in which Dean is losing his senses. When I planned this story, I tried to think of it in two ways: what would frighten me most, and what I thought would frighten Dean most. It was a toss-up. So I just tried to tie the loss of senses to how the story rolled out.

I hope you continue to enjoy!


"He who fights with monsters might take care lest he thereby become a monster. And if you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you."

- Friedrich Nietzsche

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Sam's gut tightened as he plowed through the rising flood in the parking lot, his eyes darting quickly from the water-logged windshield to the rear-view mirror at the blue and red lights illuminating the unnatural darkness of the day. Frowning, he shot a second glance in the mirror as he saw a figure of a woman—blonde, slim, dressed mostly in black—duck into their ruined hotel room.

"Go, Sam! Get the hell outta here."

Dean's voice shook, causing Sam to catch his breath. If it wasn't shaking from pain, that meant his brother's body was simply reacting, and that scared him. Pain he knew. Pain he'd lived with. Pain he could ignore.

But this virus was causing damage beyond his twenty-seven years of dealing with pain.

The Impala hydroplaned as Sam punched the gas, sending them out of the parking lot at a sprawl. Working the wheel with sure, practiced hands, he fought to keep the car under his control as his heartbeat slammed crazily against the base of his throat. Adrenaline coursed through him, giving him a heady high and forcing his movements to be almost too aggressive.

He thought he could hear Dean breathing over the cacophony of rain beating against the car, filling his vision with momentary sweeps of water-soaked blindness. Another shimmy on the wet road and he heard Castiel's free hand slap against the side window as he fought to brace his body. Dean hadn't said a word since imploring him to get out of there, and Sam was too afraid to release his grasp on the steering wheel and risk a glance back at his brother.

"How's he doing?" Sam called back to Castiel, catching the angel's blue eyes in the rearview mirror.

"He is not conscious," Castiel replied.

"Dammit."

"He needs medical attention."

"Tell me something I don't know!"

"The antidote is a second dose of the virus," Castiel obligatorily responded.

"Okay, yeah." Sam blinked. "Didn't know that."

"If we summon this demon, we must be prepared for a fight," Castiel continued.

Sam turned hard right, skidding onto an exit ramp, slipping over the state line to Missouri and into the bowels of Kansas City. He didn't know how the police worked this border town, but he was hoping if any of the Kansas squad cars had caught sight of the fleeing Chevy in the ruckus of the rainstorm, it would take them time to coordinate pursuit with the Missouri officers.

"I know the Eye of God doesn't work," Sam said through gritted teeth.

"It works," Castiel countered.

Sam shot his eyes up to the rear-view mirror, a protest ready on his lips when Castiel cut him off.

"If worn by a true believer, it works."

"So…not a demon with a price on its head, then," Sam grumbled.

"You must be completely free of doubt or duplicity," Castiel said. "And I have yet to encounter a human with that quality. It is not possible with a demon."

"Doesn't matter anyway," Sam said, holding his breath as he shot past a cross street, water splashing up to momentarily cover the Impala's windshield. "Dean lost track of it after the accident. It could be anywhere."

"Even if we had the Eye of God, I would not hand it over to a…demon," Castiel asserted. "We will be forced to get the antidote by different means."

"Plan B it is," Sam whispered.

He dared a look over his shoulder, catching a quick glimpse of Dean's torso, dark with rainwater and blood, beneath Castiel's hand.

"Keep pressure on his side," he ordered, taking a left into an alleyway, eyes skimming the narrow cross streets as he barreled through, his heart in his teeth. "I know you said you couldn't heal him before—when Alistair worked him over—but this is different."

"It's not about the wound."

Sam clenched his jaw. "Don't suppose there's any way any of these brothers of yours—"

"They will not help us in that way," Castiel replied, his voice heavy with regret.

Sparing a glance in the rearview mirror, Sam saw that Castiel's eyes were down, presumably on Dean, and the unmistakably human expression of worry had drawn lines between his brows, pulling his mouth into a thin, tight line. Before Sam could say anything else, Castiel continued.

"There are some that believe as I do—that God is out there. That He will save us, help us put order to the Heavens. And there are others," Castiel grunted as the Impala went slightly airborne, returning to Earth with a shimmy of shocks and a quick shower of sparks, "who believe Dean is our only hope. By serving as Michael's vessel, he will allow us to finally bring peace back to this world. They do not agree that he has a choice in the matter, and are…angry…that he is fighting them."

"So, what," Sam frowned, "are you playing both sides against the middle?"

He slowed as he saw a garage-like opening at the base of an abandoned warehouse, the entire top portion of the bricked building flanked by a series of small rectangular windows. The light from the hundreds of white and red bulbs that illuminated the famous Western Auto sign atop one of the nearby warehouses in The Bottoms cast an eerie electric glow onto the windows in the storm-induced, mid-day darkness.

"I am simply gathering information as quickly as I can to protect Dean. And…you."

Castiel's reluctant addition twisted Sam's lips as he pulled into the darkened opening, the rain suddenly relegated once more to background noise. It was dark inside the warehouse, the Impala's lights helping to keep him from running into a support beam or side wall.

"Careful, Cas," Sam groused, "you might sprain something including me in your mission."

"You are an abomination," Castiel said calmly, his placid voice contrasting with the stinging cruelty of his words. "You have channeled demonic powers that soured your humanity."

"Yeah, well…I got over it," Sam protested, not liking the fact that he had no choice but to listen to Castiel's bias against him. Not liking that part of him didn't blame the angel.

Atonement was a long and lonely road.

"True," Castiel allowed. "You did overcome the addiction. But you are to be Lucifer's vessel—"

"Over my dead body," Sam snapped, heat rolling under his skin at the thought. "I get it, okay? I'm not your favorite person. I'll try to live with that. But right now, we got bigger things to worry about."

"Indeed," Castiel replied as Sam pulled up to a stop inside the echoing building and turned off the car. "It is troublesome that this demon has risked exposure just to inflict this virus on Dean."

That…and my brother is bleeding to death in your arms.

Sam forced himself to breathe through his nose as he reached into their glove box, pushing aside the spare .45 Dean always insisted they keep there, and grabbed the heavy MagLite flashlight. There were times listening to and talking with Castiel gave Sam the same physical reaction of frustrated fury he'd felt when his father had been alive.

"Just…stay here for a sec and keep pressure on his wound."

"Where are you going?"

"Need to find a place we can take him."

Sam ducked out of the car, straightening and shining the light around in an arc as he stood inside the opened door. He saw that just beyond the Impala was a series of railroad-like tracks with small boxcars parked and rusting. The weak daylight filtering through the windows above him was only enough to cast impenetrable shadows in various corners of the empty building. Looking up, he saw that light from the Western Auto sign sparkled slightly through some of the beveled pieces of glass.

"Sam."

He startled a bit at that. Castiel seemed to refrain from using his name unless absolutely necessary. He ducked his head back into the car.

"We should hurry."

Sam bit his tongue at the automatic retort that no freakin' shit they needed to hurry—the clock was ticking and they had both a demon and the cops on their ass—when he saw the Castiel's free hand was on Dean's throat. His brother's face appeared to be still wet from the rain, but his coloring was off: too pale overall, heightened color in his cheeks.

Sam took a shallow breath. "Wait here. I'll be right back."

The inside of the warehouse was, thankfully, dry. Bird droppings covered nearly every surface. As he made his way deeper into the room, Sam saw a metal staircase winding upwards to a partially-collapsed landing. Dropping his light from the edge of the landing to the wood floor where he stood, he saw a number of work benches with clamps and some kind of rusted saw shoved off into the corner as well as several overturned tables.

Moving quickly, he set the flashlight on the edge of a workbench to illuminate his surroundings, pulling a few of the tables around to create a mini-shelter and platform to lay Dean on. He narrowed his eyes at the dried excrement, but decided he didn't have much choice in the matter; they would simply have to find an inventive way to cover it.

"Sam."

He jerked, spinning around, a curse berating Castiel for abandoning his post ready on his lips. It died the moment the flashlight hit the figure of the angel. Castiel stood in the odd half-light of the beam, strange, wing-shaped shadows bouncing across the walls behind him, Dean hanging limply from his arms.

Sam gaped for a moment; his brother was no light weight. He was slightly shorter than Sam, but compact and all muscle. Sam had been forced to haul Dean's boneless form around more than once. He knew the strength that took.

Seeing the angel effortlessly holding him—Dean's head against Castiel's shoulder, his arms and legs dangling like a child who'd fallen asleep and was being carried to bed—tweaked something against Sam's heart.

"What—"

"We need to mend his wound. Now."

Pressing the back of his hand against his trembling lips, Sam thought quickly. "Can you hold him for another minute?"

"I can hold him as long as it takes," Castiel said simply, the angel's voice betraying nothing of what such a statement might mean to the brother whose whole life he held in his hands.

Nodding, Sam ran to the Impala's trunk, tossing their wet bags onto the floor, then leaned far into the recesses of the compartment for the spare towels they'd accumulated from numerous hotels. Grabbing them, the first aid kit, and one more flashlight, he headed back to the make-shift treatment area he'd constructed.

"Bring him over here," he said as he passed Castiel.

He moved the flashlight to focus on the table, then turned on the spare and did the same with it. Spreading the towels on the table, he covered the dirt and filth, and then indicated with a nod that Castiel should lay Dean down. His gut bottomed out at the sight of his brother's pale, still face. Dean's forehead was smooth, his lips slightly parted.

"Cas—" Sam practically choked. "Is he…."

"He's alive," Castiel replied. "His body is working to combat the damage. Pain is only a word associated with sensation and as he cannot feel the hurt—"

"Okay, enough talking," Sam waved a hand at the angel. There were too many words floating around the dusty, abandoned warehouse, and none of them were the words he wanted to hear. He moved closer to Dean trying to shine the beam of light his brother's wound. "Dammit, I need more light."

The flash that followed his curse left an after-image on the backs of Sam's eyes. He blinked in confusion, shaking his head as a negative-like outline of Dean's profile flashed across his vision.

"What the hell?" He looked around. It was as if the windows above him had captured the electric light from the sign and channeled it into a beam that spotlighted his make-shift med station. "How—"

"You needed light," Castiel said, his voice a shrug.

"Right," Sam shoved his wet hair from his face. "Right, okay."

He untied the towel from Dean's side, the blood-soaked bandage pulling away with a wet, sucking sound. The gray Henley was ruined, drenched with blood and rain and torn from Dean's fight with the demonic maintenance man. Sam reached into the first aid kit and pulled out a pair of scissors he'd stolen from the bar he'd worked at when separated from Dean.

Cutting the shirt open, he saw that the slice in Dean's skin was roughly two inches across and still steadily spilling blood. Taking a breath, Sam lifted his eyes to Castiel.

"I…I don't know how deep it went," he confessed. "There could be bleeding inside."

"Why do you doubt yourself?" Castiel asked, his frown fierce.

Sam blinked in confusion.

"You have repaired your brother on numerous occasions with no medical knowledge beyond what your father provided and you learned on the road," Castiel continued. "You have yet to kill him."

Huffing out a grudging laugh, Sam looked at Dean's pale face. "When you put it that way…."

He used one of the towels to wipe away the blood, and then reached for the bottle of antiseptic.

"Any other time," he said softly to his unconscious brother, "I'd worry about this waking you up."

He poured the antiseptic over the cut, wincing as he pried open the torn flesh to make sure the cleansing fluid reached inside and flushed away any particles of glass or torn bits of shirt. The memory of how that felt sent shivers through him. Shifting his eyes quickly to Dean's face, he wasn't sure if he should be dismayed or relieved when his brother showed no reaction.

"How can I help?" Castiel asked quietly.

"Uh…," Sam tried to find a clear path of thought in the maze of fear and worry in his mind. "Salt. Along the entrance. Look in the trunk."

Sam peered into the bag and pulled out the suture kit and bandages. He hastily searched his memory for things that could help Dean that they didn't have on hand. "And he needs fluids. Saline IV. Antibiotics. And pain meds, even—" He looked up as a strange whisper shook the air around him, "—tually."

Castiel was gone.

Taking a breath, Sam began to sew his brother's skin together, trying to stay ahead of the blood, being as precise as possible despite hands shaking from fear and adrenaline. He'd placed nearly eight stitches when the whisper cut through the rain-soaked quiet once more.

Sam took a breath, steadying the needle. "Dean has a point about that bell."

"Will these help?" Castiel asked, his voice quavering slightly.

Looking up, Sam's eyebrows bounced in surprise. "What the hell happened to you?"

Castiel's lip was bleeding, his hair disheveled, and his trench coat slightly askew. "I was…met with resistance."

Frowning, Sam tied off the last stitch. "What'd you do, rip off a hospital?"

"It wasn't local," Castiel replied.

"Unbelievable," Sam muttered, reaching for the saline IV bag and catheter that Castiel held. "No wonder you and Dean get along so well."

Castiel set the medication next to the first aid kit. "What else?"

Sam placed a white square of gauze over the sutures, securing it with medical tape. He frowned when he saw the gauze almost immediately tinge pink along the line of stitches.

"Did you line the entrance with—"

"Salt, yes," Castiel nodded.

"Well, if you're going into hunter-gatherer mode," he started, "Water. Food. And then there's the stuff we need to summon a demon."

"Perhaps you should make a list," Castiel suggested.

Sam narrowed his eyes. "Are you kidding?"

Castiel peered over Sam's shoulder. "No."

Brow puckering with irritation, Sam shifted, blocking the angel's view. Castiel simply moved to the end of the table, his eyes intent on Sam's progress as he searched for a vein on the inside of Dean's forearm to insert the catheter.

"Only had to do this twice before," Sam confessed, blinking sweat from his eyes. "'S not easy."

"You are doing fine, Sam," Castiel assured him.

Sam glanced up, taken aback at the gentle praise. "For an abomination, you mean."

Castiel looked at him without a trace of malice, the drying blood on his lip giving him an air of vulnerability. "And a brother."

Looking away, exposed by the angel's eyes, Sam hung the IV bag on one of the workbenches. Scratching at his nose, he looked back down at Dean. The torn shirt revealed the bruise from the virus needle stretching with purple vengeance down Dean's ribcage and spilling over onto his belly, just shy of the bandaged glass cut.

Maybe it's a good thing you can't feel anything, Sam found himself mentally projecting toward his brother.

"Can't give him the medicine until he wakes up," he said. "Wish there was something else we could do."

Castiel shuffled closer to Dean, cocking his head to the side as if studying a work of art. Without a word, he shrugged out of his trench coat, laying it across Dean's bared chest, and adjusting it so that it reached his knees.

"That was nice," Sam commented.

"He will wake up when his body allows," Castiel replied. "If we move quickly, we could have the antidote by then."

Sam leaned back against the workbench near the IV bag. "Doubt it. We're not supposed to get that lucky."

Castiel narrowed his eyes. "You didn't always believe that."

Shoving his drying hair away from his eyes, Sam huffed. "So you have been watching us awhile. Guess I win the pool."

"You both were known to me before you were born," Castiel said, moving around to the other side of the table where Dean laid, his eyes on the unconscious man. "You were known to me before your parents were born."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Because of our destinies?"

"No," Castiel looked up at him. "Because of who you are."

Sam rubbed his face. "If you say so."

"Do you know why I was sent to Hell to rescue Dean?"

Sam looked over at the angel. "To stop him from breaking the first seal."

"Because he sacrificed his life for you," Castiel countered, his normally gruff voice deepening, his eyes oddly aglow in the captured light. "Angels are always angels, Sam. They are never anything else."

Sam frowned, confused. "Yeah, so?"

"There are some demons that were once human," Castiel said. "The demon you called Ruby was once a human witch."

Sam pushed away from the workbench, stepping closer to the table, listening. Without consciously realizing it, he dropped his hands down to rest on Dean's arm, seeking balance.

"Hell erases humanity," Castiel continued. "It is the complete absence of God, of all things good. It is devoid of hope. Without even the chance for light, the human soul disintegrates and a demon is born."

"Cas…," Sam whispered. "Did Dean ever…was he a demon? Y'know, in Hell?"

He hadn't realized how close to the surface that question had been—if Dean had succumbed, if he'd slipped the hold of humanity to torture souls on the rack. Somehow, if he had, then all Sam had done after Dean came back—the blood addiction, sleeping with Ruby, exorcising demons with his mind, killing Alistair—could be justified in Sam's mind.

He wouldn't be the only brother to have gone to the dark side.

Castiel shook his head. "His humanity burned bright," he said, looking down at Dean. "They pierced his flesh…broke his bones…skinned him alive. And yet he held tight to his soul."

Sam felt bile burn the back of his throat as Castiel spoke of the torture Dean had endured. Torture Dean had never told him about. Torture that Sam knew still visited his brother in his sleep, night after night. Even after all this time, after all they'd survived—together and apart.

"He said…," Sam forced out through stiff lips. "He said he climbed off the rack. That he started to…that he did to other souls what they'd done to him." Sam looked up at Castiel. "You said he broke the first seal."

Castiel nodded. "He called out to each of us," he said softly, his voice like crushed gravel. "He called out for help. But we were prevented from hearing. Until his heart broke. And the sound shook the Heavens."

"But…he was always…human?" Sam searched for confirmation. "Even when he…did that stuff?"

Castiel was quiet for a moment, his eyes still on Dean. "When you exorcised demons using only your will, were you still human?"

Sam felt a rock lodge in his chest, behind his heart. He couldn't answer. He couldn't move. He could only stare at Castiel.

"When you drank the blood of a demon and felt the power surge through you, were you still human?"

Castiel lifted his eyes and Sam felt his lungs trip over breath at the dual expression of accusation and understanding echoing from the angel's gaze.

"When you killed Lilith," Castiel said, his voice barely above a whisper, yet hitting Sam in the gut with each word, "and your eyes turned black with the force of that moment, were you still human?"

"Yes," Sam choked out.

"Dean's actions at the behest of his captors were only a temporary solace." Castiel looked up at the prismatic windows. "He never lost his humanity. The pain that bled through his soul was my beacon." Sam watched as the angel clenched his fist. "My sin is that I was not fast enough."

"Sin?"

Castiel looked over at Sam and he felt his heart slam hard against his ribs at the naked pain exposed for a brief moment in the angel's gaze.

"My atonement is protecting him now," Castiel said, looking down and leaving Sam swaying with the residual impact of his eyes. "As best I can."

Sam swallowed, any words he thought to say meaningless in the wake of Castiel's confession. The noise of the rain that had been relegated to background noise in the rush to stop Dean from bleeding to death seemed to surge in and fill the gap of uncomfortable silence. It beat against the myriad of windows that surrounded the top of the building, hammering on the metal roof far above them.

Closing his eyes for a moment, Sam took a breath, tasting with that intake of air the dampness of the weather, the age of the building, the regret and pain that swam between the three men huddled in the shadows.

Time ticked by without remorse and Sam knew he could no longer afford moments to simply breathe.

"I can get you that list."

Castiel tilted his head. "List?"

"For supplies. And, y'know…demon summoning…stuff."

Castiel looked up and around, nodding. "Yes, this should be a sufficient location."

"Any idea how we're going to get the virus away from her?" Sam asked. "Assuming she has it."

Castiel's blue eyes seemed to flare. "I've learned a few…techniques," he said. "They manufactured two vials—and apparently we killed the chemist."

"Wish I could talk to this source of yours," Sam grumbled, using the stub of a bar pencil and the back of the gauze package to write out what he remembered all too well as the elements needed to summon a demon.

"You would not like him," Castiel informed him, averting his eyes, his expression troubled.

"Can't argue with you there," Sam muttered, handing the list over. "We're going to have to move fast when you get back. And I don't expect her to just accept that the Eye of God won't work for her."

"It does not matter if the demon accepts it," Castiel said, his voice a low growl. He closed his fist around the list. "We will not allow it to win."

It took Sam a moment to realize that he was once again alone in the abandoned warehouse with his brother. Leaning forward on the table, bracing his hands at Dean's side, Sam let his head hang low, trying to steady himself, pull in air, deny the unexpected press of tears.

He'd lost track of how much time had passed since they'd left the motel. How much longer did Dean have? How fast would he lose his last two senses? How quickly would he suffocate, his brain unable to command his lungs to fill?

How many times had he been forced to watch his brother die?

Pushing away from the table, Sam rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. He dragged a hand down his face, pulling at his lower lip, then slid down the side of one workbench to sit on the floor, his knees tented, one hand cupping the other, resting against his lips as if keeping sound at bay.

We are so screwed up, Dean.

They hadn't stood a chance; all this fighting, all the struggle, and they still end up wounded, alone, forcing back the darkness. Dean's recent words slipped in through the chaos of his mind.

I was so worried about watching your every move that I didn't see what it was actually doing to you….

What it was actually doing to him…. He'd been so tangled up in Ruby, in the rush of power, in the need to do right—do it on his own, without his family's approval or assistance…. He hadn't stopped to see what he was doing to himself. What he was doing to them.

The rain slapped the windows overhead, marking time like a stopwatch. He rested his eyes on Dean's still form, Castiel's reveal of what his brother had been through in Hell bounced around Sam's head like a pinball made of mercury, splashing against memories of Dean's tense sleep, the sounds of the nightmares eating through him, the way he'd looked at Sam when he'd discovered his blood addiction…the accusation, the betrayal.

His body grew cold, stiff, from sitting on the floor, his thoughts a sour companion.

He'd let Dean simmer in his post-Hell pain. He'd seen what it was doing to Dean, and he'd let it happen. And if he were honest with himself, he hadn't really cared. Dean had been back, had gotten his second chance, and had done so without Sam's sacrifice. It was the worst kind of survivor's guilt: Sam had gotten what he'd wanted without having to give anything in return.

"Dammit, Dean," he whispered, closing his eyes, fury building hot and fast inside him, burning around his heart, flaring against the base of his throat.

If he opened his mouth, he wouldn't be surprised to see a thread of fire slip free and engulf both of them.

"Why didn't you tell me, man?"

If Dean had just told him what Hell had been like things might've been different. If he'd just known. He could have done it differently.

He would have wanted to do it all differently. There would have been a reason. Dean could have stopped it all—Ruby, Lillith, maybe even Lucifer—if he'd just trusted

"Sam?"

He jerked in surprise, sniffing as he looked up at Dean. "Hey," he greeted his brother's groggy gaze. "How are you fe—" He stopped, swallowing the last word. He pushed to his feet and moved quietly to Dean's side.

"Where…?" Dean frowned, pulling his brows together across the bridge of his nose. He rolled his head on the table, eyes taking in their surroundings until they finally rested on Sam. "You okay?"

Sam huffed. Typical. "Yeah, I'm okay. Stitched you up."

He watched Dean's eye track from his face to the tube dangling from the IV bag.

"Where'd you get that?" His voice was scratchy, drained.

"Cas," Sam replied.

"How?"

"I really don't think we want to know," Sam replied.

"How…long've I been out?"

"Uh," Sam looked at his watch, trying to remember when they'd arrived. "Few hours."

Dean closed his eyes. Sam watched him swallow, his lips pressed tight. He rested his hand on his brother's arm, flexing his fingers automatically in reassurance. Dean took a breath and opened his eyes, looking over as if to speak.

Sam saw the moment Dean recognized that he was being touched. He saw Dean see his hand on his arm. See it, and not feel it.

Sam pulled his hand back as if Dean had been on fire.

"I'm sorry," he said quickly.

"Forget it," Dean mumbled. "Help me up?"

"Maybe you should just give it—"

"Sam." Dean's voice was the crack of a whip. "I'm running out of time."

Sam nodded, feeling the rock that had lodge behind his heart earlier drop low, settling into his stomach. He gripped Dean's hand, folding his brother's fingers around his.

"Got me?"

Dean nodded once. Sam slipped a hand behind Dean's shoulder, then flexed, pulling him forward slowly, allowing Dean's equilibrium to adjust. Castiel's trench coat slipped down the length of Dean's body, pooling around his waist.

"Huh," Dean looked down at the garment. "Don't think I've ever seen him without this."

"He wanted to help," Sam explained, pulling the coat free and setting it next to Dean. He moved to his brother's arm, removing the needle and tubing from the empty IV bag, and pressing a square of cotton over the tiny puncture wound. "Probably could've used more than one of these," he muttered. "You lost a lot of blood."

Now that Dean was awake—and talking to him—the mayhem of Sam's thoughts seemed to cool, quiet, abate. Sam was content to let Dean's noise fill the silence that was too easily ruled by the darkness inside of him.

"We can worry about that later," Dean said, lifting the edges of his ruined shirt. "We got anything else I can put on?"

"Maybe," Sam said, offering his hand to help Dean slide off the table.

"Whoa," Dean whispered as he swayed, fumbling to brace himself against a table he couldn't feel.

Sam watched as Dean's hand skipped along the surface, resistance against movement his brother's only assertion that he was, indeed, touching something.

"You okay?"

Sam flinched at the look his brother shot his way.

"Yeah, stupid question," he recanted.

"I just…," Dean shook his head slowly. "It's so…. I know I'm here." He lifted a hand hesitantly from the table turning it over. Sam watched the light spill across his brother's fingers. "I see me," Dean continued, his voice trembling slightly. "You…you're talking to me. I'm here."

"Yeah, you're here, man," Sam whispered, feeling himself fall inside, seeking balance and finding none.

Then Dean looked at him and the naked fear swimming in the green irises seemed to grab Sam by the throat, shaking him roughly, and setting him once more on his feet.

"I can't feel anything, Sam," Dean said, emotion tearing the corners of his words. "Nothing. It's like I'm…I'm disappearing."

Sam felt sick. Dean wasn't supposed to sound like this. He hadn't sounded like this since…. With the force of a punch, Sam was reminded of that moment under the viaduct so long ago now when he'd first learned about the rack. About Dean's survival. About the moment his brother broke.

"That's not true."

Fear was real. Fear was human.

He never lost his humanity.

"What?" Dean's question was a breath.

"You still feel, Dean," Sam stressed.

Dean looked away and Sam darted into his eye line.

"You told me once you wished you didn't feel anything," Sam reminded him. "You remember that?"

"This is different, Sam."

"Bullshit," Sam spat. "Bullshit it's different!" Sam grabbed Dean's arm, tugging it roughly so that the motion caught his brother's attention.

"Dude! What the hell!" Dean staggered slightly.

Something dark twisted inside of Sam. Something angry and hurt. Something that both wanted to save Dean from this new version of Hell and at the same time wanted to use it to remind them that Dean wasn't alone in this fight. That he wasn't the only one who had suffered. That they were both fighting a double-fronted war against angels and demons.

And that Sam had come back. Had returned to the fight.

I am here, too.

"You got your wish."

"You don't know what you're talking about," Dean snarled.

Sam forced himself to match his brother's heated stare, made himself stand strong, not back down. "Yeah, I do."

Dean reached up and curled shaking fingers into Sam's shirt, his hands lacking the fire Sam remembered. It wasn't the grip of the brother who had matched him blow for blow before telling him if you walk out that door…don't you come back.

It wasn't the grip of the brother who had found him—against all odds—the moment Lucifer rose and tugged him close, trying to get them both out of the room before Hell broke loose. It wasn't even the grip of a brother who had hauled him out of harm's way more times than he could count.

It took everything in Sam to not close his hands around Dean's fists.

"No," Dean growled. "You. Don't."

The anger that had been simmering in the wake of Castiel's words and Sam's own helplessness snapped, releasing a fissure of frustration inside of him.

"Okay, fine! Maybe you're right, Dean," Sam said, hearing his voice flinch, and then harden. "Maybe I don't know what it's like…to be skinned," he said, the rock in his belly completely filling his gut as Dean lost what little color he'd gained. "Maybe I don't know what it's like to scream for help and have no one hear me."

"How do you…." Dean dropped his hands, stumbling backward, only stopping when his thighs hit the table behind him and halted his motion.

Sam took a step forward, pressing the issue. "But I do know what it's like to cut another person just to make the pain go away."

"Shut up, Sam."

He heard the edge curve around Dean's words, and kept going.

"Maybe I don't know what's it's like to dig my way out of a grave—"

"You shut the fuck up, Sam!" Dean pushed at him, his hands clumsy against Sam's damp shirt.

"—but I do know how much it sucks to face people again after they found out what I'd done."

Dean's fist lacked force, but his aim was true. Sam felt the crack across his cheekbone and he took a staggering step backwards. He looked back at Dean, watching as his brother's lips twitched with anger, his eyes large in his pale face.

For a long moment, the only noise in the abandoned warehouse was the far-away sound of rain and thunder. They stared at each other, Dean breathing hard, his tattered shirt fluttering against his bruised, bared torso. Sam resisted the urge to touch his throbbing eye.

After a moment, Sam took a chance. "How you feeling now?"

"What?" Dean blinked at him.

"Pissed? Scared? Confused?"

Dean closed his mouth, looking away. Sam saw his shoulders drop.

"You still feel, Dean," Sam continued. "You aren't disappearing."

The rain beat against the temporary silence.

"They can't take it all away from you," Sam said softly. "And we're going to take the rest back."

Dean nodded once, not exactly agreeing with him, but not arguing either. His expression was tense, careful. It was the same expression he'd held when Sam met him in the abandoned lot. When Dean had handed over the demon-killing knife, trusting him. Wanting him back. Nausea rolled through Sam, making him sweat.

After a moment, Dean looked down at his bandaged side. "Sorry I hit you."

"'S okay," Sam replied, touching his face carefully. "I deserved it."

Dean huffed slightly, looking around. "Yeah, you did."

There was a strange energy shimmering between them, something that warned Sam that he basically just lit a fuse and that he was ill equipped to keep from getting burned.

"You wanna change your clothes?" Sam started to move toward the parked Impala.

Dean held up a hand, instinct and automatic reaction apparently overriding sensation. "I'll get it." He turned his hand over, studying it once more, the knuckles now red from where they'd made contact with Sam's cheek. Without looking at him, Dean said, "Thanks for stitching me up."

Sam shrugged. "Couldn't let you bleed all over your car."

Dean nodded again, his quiet unnerving. Sam thought of the weeks he'd spent away, working a normal job, returning to an empty motel room, dreaming of Jessica until the Devil found him.

It had been so quiet.

When he'd finally called his brother—already on his way to find him—the noise that seemed to simply follow Dean around was like a sigh of relief. He needed that now. The noise that was his brother.

"We're gonna get out of this mess, Dean," Sam stressed, once more reaching out, resting his fingers on Dean's arm, closing his eyes briefly when Dean didn't react. "Cas is getting the stuff we need to summon the demon."

Dean moved away, Sam's hand slipping free, unnoticed.

"He shouldn't have told you that stuff," Dean said quietly, having apparently surmised how Sam had known even a fraction of the tortured he'd endured.

No, you should have. Sam rolled his bottom lip against his teeth. "It's not like I didn't know some of it anyway."

Dean looked at him out of the corner of his eyes, the broken blood vessels in his left one giving him a slightly sinister appearance in the strange, borrowed light of the room.

"I was in control of what you knew before," Dean said, his eyes sliding away, landing on nothing. "Starting to think there's not much I can control anymore."

Sam frowned as Dean made his way over to the wet bags sitting in the discarded pile just beyond the trunk of the car, thinking about what Dean had said. He forced himself to calm down from the inside out, once again regaining control of the anger that had threatened to control him so many times before.

"Well," he leaned against the barricade of tables. "You can control if the angels use you as a vessel."

"True."

"And you can control the next place we go from here," Sam continued.

Dean glanced at him, pulling off his ruined shirt with more ease than Sam knew he would have if all had been right in his world. "Which will not be anyplace we've been in the last month or so. Pretty much done with random demons stealing bodies to try to kill me."

He bent over to grab a shirt from the wet duffel bag and Sam saw a bright spot of blood appear on his bandage. Before Sam could say anything, though, Dean pulled the wet garment over his head, the darkened material clinging to his body. He looked down at himself.

"Guess it's good I can't tell how uncomfortable this is," he muttered.

Sam slid off the table, gathering the medical supplies. "We need to be ready to move when Cas gets back."

He heard a click behind him, and turned to see Dean holding his 1911, sliding the chamber back and frowning.

"Everything is wet." Dean's brow was puckered as he crouched down to pull out the rest of the weapons Sam had hastily thrown into the duffel bags.

"Well, don't know if you noticed," Sam remarked, beginning to move toward his brother, the first aid kit in his arms, "but it's been rain—"

"Doesn't help that it's been raining for like four days," Dean said, stepping on the end of Sam's sentence.

Sam stopped short.

Dean continued to set out the weapons, moving clumsily as if there were boxing gloves on his normally nimble fingers.

Sam took a breath. "Dean."

Dean paused and glanced up. "Yeah?"

Sam exhaled. "I just thought—" He stopped again when Dean frowned and shook his head, as if trying to rid his ears of water. "Dean?"

Slowly, as if afraid it would explode, Dean set the gun he'd been holding down on the dry, dusty warehouse floor.

"Son of a bitch." He rubbed at his left ear, then his right.

As Sam watched, Dean pushed to his feet, wavering, then lifted his eyes. "Is it still raining?"

Not taking his eyes from his brother's, Sam nodded, all-too aware of the sound of thunder rolling behind the heavy splashes of rain against the windows at the top of the building.

Dean closed his eyes, swaying slightly. "I was afraid of that."

www

It was as if he were standing in the middle of a transparent balloon.

Opening his eyes, Dean glanced over at his car, lifting his hand and resting his against her black skin, water droplets having dried in streaks in the time they'd been hiding inside the warehouse. He couldn't feel her warmth, but he appreciated the resistance. The support. The non-verbal I'm still here…I'll always be here.

The rain that had been so loud moments ago was muted, distant. If he held his breath, he could still hear it, but barely. Swallowing a roll of nausea, he looked at Sam.

"Say something." He could still hear his own voice, trapped inside his head as if he were listening to a TV set from an adjacent room.

Sam opened his mouth, then closed it once more, eyes darting quickly in thought. "We have to figure out how we're going to make that demon give up the antidote," he said.

It was like listening to someone underwater. He got the gist of Sam's words, if not the distinct words themselves.

Holding very still, oddly afraid he'd lose even that connection, Dean nodded. "And just hope she didn't hide it five states away."

"It's a second dose of the virus," Sam revealed.

"Swell," Dean muttered, rolling his eyes. He had yet to step away from the support of the Impala. "'Cause the first dose was so much fun."

"That bad, huh?" Sam's eyes tracked to Dean's chest.

Dean reached up to touch the remembered bruise. "It was like getting humped in the neck by a porcupine, Sam."

Sam lifted a shoulder. "Bright side? You won't feel it."

"Now who's Mr. Silver Lining?"

Sam's flinch was his only warning that there was someone else in the room. Dean turned, following his brother's rapid look, and saw Castiel standing near the abandoned trolley tracks just beyond the Impala. He was wet, dried blood on his mouth, and his hair was shoved back from his forehead as if sent there by anxious fingers.

He gripped a gym bag in one hand; Dean guessed that to be the items they'd need to summon the demon. He felt lightheaded, remembering her anger, her hatred, the way she cursed at him, her scream so loud as he cut into her that it had literally made his ears bleed. He knew why she wanted revenge.

And part of him didn't blame her.

Dean looked over at Sam, saw his brother was speaking, but couldn't pick up on the words. There was a sensation of water in his ears, flowing around his head, building fast. He felt himself drowning.

"Sam?"

The fact that his brother turned to face him was the only proof Dean had that he'd actually spoke out loud. He couldn't even hear his own voice anymore. The balloon was complete: he could see the world, but he was not a part of it.

Stepping away from the Impala, Dean staggered, his vision tilting as the world shifted around him. He couldn't keep his balance, his stomach rolling with the lost equilibrium. It seemed unfair that he couldn't detect touch, but he could still feel nauseous. He took a step toward Sam and nearly fell, caught by something.

Looking unsteadily over his shoulder, Dean saw Castiel next to him, his face covered in a sheen of sweat, his hands gripping Dean's arm and side. Looking directly into Castiel's eyes, Dean dropped his guard, for just one moment, and let the fear and anger and pain that had been tightening around his heart since he'd woken up in Raya's apartment shine out.

He watched Castiel absorb it, his nostrils flaring slightly as if breathing it in, his head drawing back as if it were too much. The angel's eyes softened. And Dean heard his friend's voice, clear in his mind, like ice crystals on snow.

"I've got you, Dean."

Dean closed his eyes, nodding. When he opened them again, he was sitting on the ground, propped up by what he assumed was the Impala, without connection, looking back at his brother and his friend.

Something was wrong. Sam's face was lined, his eyes small, his lips thin. He only held that look, Dean knew, when he was both scared and out of options. Dean couldn't see Castiel's face, but whatever the angel was telling Sam caused the blood to drain from Sam's face and turned Dean's heart sideways.

Looking up, he found the door handle of the Impala and reached for it. He was spinning, the world turning three beats faster than it was supposed to, just enough to make even the simple attempt of grab handle, grip handle into a forced agenda. Pulling himself to his feet, he breathed through his mouth, staving off the nausea and turning to face the other two men.

"Sam."

Sam's hazel eyes shot over to him, but then back to Castiel as he snapped off several rapid words.

"Sam!"

Dean knew he was speaking. He couldn't hear his own voice in his head. He couldn't even feel the vibration of sound in his throat. But he knew because every time he said his brother's name, the soft skin around Sam's eyes tightened. It had been this way their entire lives: Sam always responded to Dean's saying his name.

But this time, Sam was focusing on something else, something more important, something that Dean didn't understand.

And that pissed him off.

Look at me, dammit!

"SAM!"

He put as much effort as he could into the cry, bending from the waist as he punched the sound into the silence surrounding him. Castiel and Sam both turned to face him.

And then the world seemed to explode.

Lightning flashed—bright, blinding, leaving negative imprints on Dean's eyes—inside the warehouse. He saw wind slashed at their bodies, sweeping Castiel's trench coat behind him in a twisted tail and pressing Sam's loose shirt against his skin.

Gripping his ears, his face fisted in pain, Sam went to his knees. Castiel whipped around to face the entry to the warehouse, situated several feet behind the Impala. Dean's eyes were pinned to his brother, confusion as to what was causing him such pain evaporating as he watched the windows from the top of the warehouse rain down on them in a shower of glass.

Hurrying forward on wooden, uncooperative legs, his balance shot but his focus keen, Dean staggered to Sam, dropping to his knees and protecting his brother the only way he could. He curved his body around Sam's bowed shoulders, putting his hands over Sam's, forcing himself to press hard, working to close out what he knew now was the voice of an angel.

Glass fell on and around their bodies as Sam curled into himself, his eyes closed tight, his mouth opened in what appeared to be a silent scream.

The windows, Dean realized.

The angel's voice had shattered the windows that flanked each side of the top of the warehouse, sending the glass down to cover them in deadly droplets. He spared a fleeting thought for his Impala, hoping the voice hadn't shattered her windows as well.

Dean wasn't sure if the glass cut either of them—something told him he couldn't afford to lose much more blood and he desperately needed Sam to stay whole. He shifted up close to Sam, keeping his hands over Sam's, working to stave off what he knew all-too-well as a soul-piercing screech of sound.

He lifted his eyes to find Castiel and was dismayed to see his friend pushing himself to his feet as if he'd been slapped down, turning furious eyes toward a shadowed figure. Castiel spoke and Dean jerked, startled by the sound of the throaty voice inside his cotton-wrapped world.

"You achieve nothing by being here."

Swallowing, Dean looked toward the shadow, narrowing his eyes as he tried to make out the human features of this angel's chosen vessel. Castiel had told Sam he'd had a source, that there had been someone who'd warned him about the virus. As Dean stared at the figure, though, a sick feeling grew in his gut. He couldn't hear the other angel's words, but Castiel's reply was all he really needed.

"Dean is the only one who can decide that. He has to be the one to say yes to Michael."

Something forcibly shoved his hand away from Sam's ears and Dean looked down, realizing that Sam was trying to shift to his knees. Dean dropped his hands and Sam instantly flinched, curling into himself once more, drawing his forehead down to his knees. Dean wrapped around his brother, tucking Sam's head against his chest, keeping his hands in place and glaring at the shadow.

"You arrogant sonuvabitch," he muttered, not knowing or caring if this new angel could hear him.

Castiel shot a look over his shoulder at Dean and then was suddenly shoved aside with enough force that he folded in half like a broken doll and slipped quickly into the darkness at the edge of Dean's sight. Dean felt his breath catch against his teeth as he fought for control of his fear.

The shadow suddenly glowed, the shards of glass lifting from Sam's body, hair, from Dean's arms, from the ground around them. Dean blinked, narrowing his eyes as the glass floated up, watching as it seemed to blend with the rain that now fell into the warehouse through the broken windows. The glass and water began to spin until Dean found himself forced to blink, unable to focus on the cyclone that filled the air, narrowing to a point just above where the new angel stood.

Dean looked at him, able to see him now as the electric sign from outside caught on the thousand points of light emanating from the angel-powered storm raging silently above him. The man the angel had chosen was dressed in flannel and overalls, looked to be in his mid-fifties, with thinning brown hair and non-descript features. Dean felt a tug of pity for him; anything he'd been before, anything he'd hoped to be, was gone now.

Erased by the presence of an angel.

"Am I supposed to be impressed?" Dean said. Shouted. He wasn't certain. He just forced the words loose.

The angel spoke, tilting its head like a curious dog. Dean lifted an eyebrow, instinctively ordering his muscles to tighten around his brother, pulling him closer.

"Hate to break it to you, pal, but for all I know, you're singing Sweet Child of Mine."

The angel stopped speaking and Dean saw the glass tornado shoot overhead, bypassing each of them. He turned his head to watch the mess of deadly shards land in a heap on the far corner of the room, sparing them. He whipped his head back, recoiling when he found himself face-to-face with the new angel.

"Whatever you want," Dean said, feeling short of breath, "you're not gonna get it."

The angel spoke again, and Dean blinked in surprise at the half-smile he saw shift across the angel's mouth. Before he could think of anything else to say, the angel was gone. Dean sat still, Sam curled against his body, his world shifting steadily around him as if the loss of his hearing had tweaked something deeper inside, something that had always kept him steady, sure, in stride with his place in the universe.

Something moved his hands, and he looked down to see Sam unsteadily pushing Dean back and away. Dean dropped his hands and waited as Sam managed to crawl upright, his face sweat-covered, his shoulders moving as he drew in large breaths. Sam spoke, his lips moving in what could only be a plea for reassurance.

"He's—it's…the angel's gone," Dean told him, pinning his eyes to Sam's face, his mouth, needing that connection to the world so desperately he was scaring himself.

Sam was touching him, lifting his shirt, moving his head one way, then the other. It took Dean a moment to register that his brother was checking for new wounds from the falling glass. He opened his mouth to tell Sam that he was fine when it occurred to him that he could have a six inch blade buried in his back and the only way he'd know is if he passed out from blood loss.

He sat still as Sam's quick fingers checked and reassured them both that Dean had no new holes in him. Sam ruffled his own hair, searching for latent glass.

"You're okay, Sam. The angel, it…all the glass is over there."

Dean reached up, gripping the back of his brother's neck, moving his hand so that Sam's head wobbled. Sam winced and Dean made himself lessen his grip, watching as Sam reached up and clapped a hand on Dean's shoulder, sliding his hand down the front of Dean's chest. It was like looking out through someone else's eyes. Sam rubbed his face, mumbling something, and Dean watched each motion, each movement.

Dean watched his brother's mouth, fear slicing through him as he worked to keep up. Suddenly Sam opened his eyes wide, and Dean saw a name on his brother's lips. He echoed the realization.

"Cas!"

"Over there." Dean pointed to the shadows where he'd seen his friend thrown.

Sam scrambled, all legs and arms and hurry, and moved in the direction Dean indicated, the dark swallowing him whole before Dean could get to his feet. Stumbling forward, Dean breathed through his mouth as his lungs seemed to grow heavier, and fell to his knees next to Sam and Castiel.

The angel was unconscious, though no other markings or wounds were visible. Sam was frowning, cupping Castiel's face gently, speaking, though Dean had no idea what words were being said. Panic began to climb his spine, perch in the back of his throat, scratch at his eyes. He couldn't quite seem to steady his breathing. He needed to know what Sam was saying.

It was the only way he could decide what to do next. How to fix this.

Because he had to fix it.

This was happening to them because of him. Because he'd had a chance for mercy and he'd chosen wrath. Because he'd wanted the pain to go away. Because he'd wanted to feel nothing.

And he'd told her that.

She cursed at him, accused him of the one thing he truly feared beyond all else: that he'd become one of them. She'd pleaded with him, begging him to stop. All he'd wanted was for her to stop talking. To stop screaming.

So he'd made her stop.

"Adonael."

Dean jerked, brought roughly back to the present by the sound of Castiel's gruff voice in his head. He looked at Sam, then back at Castiel who was blinking himself aware.

"His name is Adonael. He leads a garrison."

Sam reached forward, easing Castiel away from the wall. Dean watched Castiel slump slightly forward, then gather himself. He was speaking, Dean realized belatedly. He was speaking to Sam and Dean couldn't hear the words inside his head.

"Cas!" Dean shoved at the woozy angel's shoulder. "Don't shut me out, man."

He saw Sam look at him, confused. Brow puckered, shadows dancing across his face from the rain-drenched light spilling in from above, Sam began talking to him, reaching out and gripping Dean's arm, pulling at him.

"I…I can't…," Dean shook his head helplessly, darting his eyes from Sam's mouth to his brother's eyes, trying to find sense in the torrent of words. Sam slid closer, moving his hands to Dean's shirt. Dean glanced down and saw Sam's fingers curled in damp cotton. His head bounced slightly as Sam shook him, still talking, still silent.

Dean looked back at Sam, shaking his head as Sam slid one and down to Dean's arm, pulling at it. "Jesus Christ, Sam, please…just stop!" Dean jerked his arm free. "I can't hear you, man. I'm sorry, but…."

Sam looked at Castiel, who offered him an explanation that Dean missed. Sam sat back on his heels, dropping his head forward and shoving his fingers into his hair, the heels of his hands digging into his eyes. Dean began to back away, his movements awkward, clumsy, sluggish as if alcohol flowed through his system and not a strange, demonic virus.

Castiel was struggling to his feet. Sam was supporting him. Neither of them glanced at Dean. But Dean couldn't take his eyes off of them. They were his lifeline. They were his only connection. Crab-crawling away from them, he kept moving backwards until he was met with resistance, unable to move further.

Craning his neck, he saw that he was once again up against the Impala, her windows intact. He quickly looked back toward Sam, terrified that he might lose sight of his brother. Terrified that he needed this so badly; that he'd lost everything else. Everything that made him real.

This was what they'd tried to do to him for forty years. Take away everything that made him whole, made him human. They'd tried with pain and they'd tried with deprivation. They'd tried with taunts and they'd tried with orders. They'd used his fears and his weaknesses against him. They'd put his shortcomings on display and wrapped his doubts in pretty packages.

But he'd fought and he'd survived. He'd returned to the world only to come close to losing Sam. He'd allowed the self-righteousness of survival turn him into an echo of himself, gripping that persona tightly up until the moment he found out that Sam had given in.

Until he saw the Devil look back at him from his brother's eyes.

He wasn't going to get back into his life only to lose to the treachery of a demon. He wasn't going to let Sam fight this battle without him. He wasn't going to lose himself. Not again.

www

"What do you mean, he can hear you? Just you?"

"If I allow it," Castiel answered, his voice a wince as Sam steadied him on his feet, "he can hear my voice."

Sam glanced at Dean, heard him working to calm his rapid breathing, but decided against reaching out to him again—the fear and panic lacing Dean's expression and voice had Sam coming undone. Instead he turned his attention back to Castiel.

"What the hell was all that, Cas? Why is some angel—"

"Adonael."

"I don't give a shit what his name is!" Sam yelled. "Is he your source? About the virus?"

Castiel nodded, his face lined with true exhaustion. "I did tell you that you would not like him."

"Why did he come here? Why did he hurt you?" Sam kept his hand on Castiel's upper arm, slightly unnerved by the fact that it seemed the angel needed the support.

"He came for Dean."

"What?"

Sam shot a glance over to his brother, surprised to see that he was now backed against the Impala, hands braced at his sides, rhythmically dragging in measured breaths, his face pale in the odd light slipping through the windowless walls. Pulling Castiel with him, Sam made his way toward Dean, watching how his brother's large eyes followed him closely.

"What do you mean he came for Dean?"

Castiel stood, his shoulders bowed, and looked at Dean. "I wasn't…warned about the virus." By the quick, surprised jerk of Dean's head and the way his eyes widened as he stared at Castiel, Sam surmised that his brother was hearing the same thing he was. "I…discovered…the information. I wasn't as careful with my retreat this last time."

"So all that stuff about…some of your brothers understanding your search," Sam frowned. "It was all a lie?"

Castiel looked over at him. "No. That part is true. Adonael is just not one of them."

"Lemme guess…this guy's on Zach's side, huh?" Dean spoke up, his voice like sandpaper on rock.

Sam glanced at him, aware that he was seeing Dean as close to the edge of losing control as his brother had ever been. He was trembling visibly, his lips lined with a bluish tinge. His fingers flexed against the ground as if he were consciously reminding himself that the ground was, indeed, there.

Castiel closed his eyes, then pulled himself straighter, squaring his shoulders. He looked at Sam, renewed strength in his gaze. "Adonael saw the virus as a potential for weakening Dean's resolve. He came now because Dean is vulnerable."

"Cas?" Dean called. "Hey! Don't…what are you saying?"

Ignoring him, Castiel continued. "If they strip away everything that makes Dean human, he will have much less reason to resist."

Darting his eyes between Dean and Castiel, Sam asked, "But why would Michael want a human vessel without his senses?"

"Michael would make his vessel…whole."

"Sam?" Dean called his name, his voice quavering with tension.

Sam saw him using the Impala to stand, but couldn't bring himself to move to help. The implication of what Castiel was saying had begun to sink in.

"And this demon…she's just, what? A means to an end? You guys working together on this?"

"The angels are not working with the demon," Castiel said, tiredly. "It is seeking revenge for what happened in Hell. That…and protection through this artifact."

"So…you're saying that the angels knew about this…demonic virus," Sam said, looking at the floor, but seeing his brother tied to a chair, neck and shoulder bruised from the injection needle. "And instead of warning you…they allowed the demon to find Dean?"

"Sam." Dean's voice was harder now, the edge of it cutting through the air like the glass that had fallen moments ago.

"Yes," Castiel admitted softly.

"And this Adonael guy…how'd he find us?"

"He found me," Castiel said, looking away. "I…triggered him when I gathered the items we'd need to summon the demon." He gestured to the gym bag discarded on the floor next to the damp duffels.

Sam felt the anger of earlier resurging, refocusing, centered on Castiel. "So he found out you'd been spying, and came to give you a beat down, that it?"

"And to get Dean to say yes to Michael," Castiel looked over at Dean, evidently allowing his words to be heard. Sam saw his brother pull away, his eyes going solid with resolve.

"Like hell," Dean whispered.

"'Cause he thought the virus had almost taken away what made him human," Sam concluded, his eyes on his brother.

Dean looked back at him and Sam felt that same shimmer slide through the air between them. His breath caught and for a moment he felt certain that all of the anger and darkness he'd allowed to sneak in while Dean had been unconscious was lying naked and exposed in his eyes.

"Yes," Castiel replied.

"He's not gonna let us get the antidote is he?" Sam asked softly. "He'll find the demon before we do."

"We don't work that way," Castiel protested.

"We?" Sam countered, glancing at Castiel. "Seems like you made a choice sometime back, Cas."

"Angels don't work that way. He won't work with the demon."

Sam looked back at Dean. "Will they save him?"

Castiel was quiet.

"Cas," Sam reached out and tugged Castiel's sleeve. "If we run out of time…will the angels save my brother?"

Castiel looked at him. "I do not know. Once I would have thought yes, but…," he looked down. "Adonael is a general. If he has chosen this path, then…I don't know what to think of the choices my brothers might make."

"What made him leave?" Sam asked, speaking slowly, watching Dean's eyes hit his lips, watching his brother listen the only way he could. "I couldn't hear anything except that…screeching sound."

"Angel's voice," Dean replied.

Sam nodded.

"Dean made him leave," Castiel said.

"How?" Sam looked away for a moment, glancing in surprise at Castiel.

"Essentially," Castiel shrugged, looking at Dean. "He told him to go to Hell."

Sam choked on a spurt of laughter, then looked back at his brother, feeling tears burn the back of his eyes. He knew Dean's hands had pressed down over his, keeping the inhuman sound from bursting his eardrums. He'd been tucked up against Dean's body as the angel rained glass down on them.

The demon's virus had taken away four of his brother's five sense and yet he still fought, still worked to protect Sam.

"That's because none of them know what makes us human," he said to Dean, his voice soft because it didn't matter; his eyes full because it did.

Dean swallowed roughly, and for a split second, Sam allowed himself to believe that there had been a mistake—the virus wouldn't kill Dean, the angels would intervene and save him, it was all going to be okay.

"You might be singing a different tune," came a female voice, "if you'd seen your precious brother in action."

Sam jerked, surprised, and saw Dean frown out of the corner of his eyes, following his motion. Castiel turned slowly. All of them faced a blonde woman, dressed in black, who stepped from the rain, through the shadows, and into the borrowed light of the room. Sam knew who she was—what she was—before she said anything else. He looked hurriedly at the entrance and realized that Adonael's aeronautical display of power had erased the protective salt line.

"Son of a bitch," Dean practically growled.

"Not exactly," the woman said, moving closer.

Sam found it hard to take a breath; the slim build, the guileless smile, the long blonde hair…if she smelled like lilies he knew he would come apart. She could have been Jessica's sister.

Moving closer, the woman smiled at Sam. "What's the matter, Sammy? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"You," Sam forced himself to take a breath, "were at the motel. Weren't you?"

"Been tracking you," she nodded. "Harder to find than I thought. So, y'know, kudos to you."

"Guess we don't need this," Dean muttered, kicking the gym bag away, and glancing askance at Castiel.

Sparing a thought for what gathering those ingredients had cost the angel, Sam took a step toward the woman, purposely putting his body in front of Dean. "What do we call you?"

"Ask your brother," the woman sneered, looking over Sam's shoulder. "I told him everything."

Sam heard a gasping, strangled sound and stumbled aside as Dean was pulled forward, trying to grab anything to halt his movement. Sam reached out to him, but Dean's body was flung aside, crashing against one of the rusty boxcars cars on the far side of the room.

"Stop!" Sam yelled, oddly dismayed when Dean didn't so much as cry out with the impact. The only sound was a rough gasp as he worked to catch his breath.

"Wait." Castiel lifted a hand. "We can give you the Eye of God."

Sam looked at the angel in shock.

"Now," the woman declared. "I want it now."

Castiel shook his head. "Give us the antidote first."

"You've already managed to attract the attention of an archangel," the woman scoffed. "Let's not waste time bargaining. Give me the Eye and Hero over here gets to feel things again."

"You expect us to trust you?" Sam spat. "You don't get a thing until you give us the antidote."

"Trust is a two way street, kiddo," the blonde sneered. "You gotta give a little to get a little."

"You already have the advantage," Sam countered, searching for a way to get around her and get to Dean. "Just…c'mon, leave him alone. Give us the antidote."

"You have the Eye?"

Sam darted a look to Castiel.

"We can get it for you," Sam hedged.

"You've had almost two days," the blonde scoffed. "What are you waiting for? Heavenly intervention?"

The boxcar rattled and Sam shot his eyes to Dean; his brother was jerking, thrashing against the demon's hold, working to free himself.

The woman moved closer to Dean, shadows dancing across her face, exposing the evil creature using the human body like a puppet. Dean pulled his face up, twisting it away as she reached up to trace a finger down the side of his face. Sam knew that his brother couldn't feel her touch, but the sheer disgust on Dean's face seemed to tell a different story.

"Did you tell your brother how you cut into my body? How you ignored my cries? How I begged you to stop and you just closed your eyes…and took me apart."

Sam felt his heart turn over, his stomach clench. The demon spread her fingers at the base of Dean's chin, and then wrapped them almost gently around Dean's throat.

"Whatever you're saying to them," Dean rasped, "you weren't innocent."

"We're all innocent," the demon hissed. "Until we burn into this."

"You killed a priest," Dean went on, "and then sacrificed souls to get out of your deal."

"And you're so much better?" The demon countered. She looked over her shoulder at Sam. "Seems to me the word was your brother tried everything to free you," she looked at Castiel, "and the angel that hauled your skinny ass out of the Pit isn't allowed to go home," she returned her eyes to Dean and Sam saw him pull back. "And you sure as hell didn't escape without blood on your hands. My blood."

Castiel moved forward again, but this time the demon lifted a hand, pointing at him.

"I may not be able to stop you," she growled, "but I can do plenty of damage to these two before you get to me."

"This isn't our first rodeo," Sam shot back. "We can take care of ourselves."

The demon squeezed Dean's throat and Sam felt himself go cold as he heard the rattle of breath in Dean's chest. He curled his fingers into fists, eyes searching the room for something he could use as a weapon.

"Doesn't…work," Dean wheezed.

"What?" The woman turned back to him. "What was that?" Sam saw her squeeze harder.

"Eye of…God…doesn't…work…."

The woman blinked, her grip relaxing slightly. Sam bent low, his fingers skimming the ground until he found Dean's 1911 where his brother had set it out to dry. He knew it wouldn't kill her, but he was banking on it distracting her long enough that they could get her away from Dean. He cursed himself for not having the foresight to protect the warehouse with a Devil's Trap.

"You're lying."

"Kill…me…or not," Dean gasped. "Doesn't matter."

The woman released him and Sam heard Dean's feet hit the ground seconds before his brother fell to his knees, opening up the shot for Sam. He pulled the gun up and fired.

The gun clicked uselessly. Sam swore, remembering Dean's lament that everything—even his weapon—had gotten wet.

The blonde demon slid a smirk over her shoulder as Dean coughed roughly, working to pull air into his body. Sam watched him lift his eyes to the demon.

"You're going back to Hell, bitch."

The woman crouched down until she was eyelevel with Dean.

"You still wonder if you made love to me or her, don't you?" The woman whispered. Dean simply stared at her; the fact that he couldn't hear the words didn't erase the look of hatred that was fixed on his face. "I suppose you'll never really know."

"Maybe not. But I will."

Sam turned quickly, instinctively training his weapon on the new voice. He pulled the point of the pistol up quickly when he recognized the dark-haired woman standing just inside the doorway, rain slicking her hair to her head, .38 pointed at the blonde.

"Raya?" Sam cried. He looked from the detective to Dean to Castiel and back. "Are we Lo-Jacked or something?"

The blonde demon stood, raising her arm. Raya fired two quick bursts, not hesitating, her aim true. The demon bucked, falling backwards.

Sam rushed across the room to Dean, grabbing his brother's upper arms and pulling him to his feet. It was like balancing a drunken man: Dean was wobbly at best, clutching at Sam's shirt for steadiness. Sam ducked under his brother's arm, supporting him as they looked toward the demon.

The blonde didn't stay down long. Before Raya could reposition around Sam and Dean for another shot, it surged upward, eyes black.

"That hurt, you bitch!"

"Damn," Raya countered, not lowering her weapon. "It was supposed to kill you."

"Raya, you can't—" Sam started.

The blonde demon crossed the room in a heartbeat, her eyes boring into Sam's. "Your brother is dying," she interrupted him. "If you want that antidote, you meet me at the corner of Nickel and Strand in one hour. Bring the Eye of God, or I destroy the antidote."

Raya stumbled backwards as the demon crashed into her, exiting the warehouse too fast for any of them to catch her.

"Sam," Castiel said suddenly. "He is bleeding again."

"Dammit," Sam grumbled. "C'mon, Dean."

He tugged on Dean's arm, moving toward the Impala at the same time, trying to get Dean's attention. Dean nodded, his eyes down. He'd seen the blood.

"What's the matter with him?" Raya holstered her weapon and moved further into the warehouse, her boots clunking against the floor boards as she approached.

Sam glanced over at her. "You bring your friends with you?"

"Don't have a lot of those right now," Raya replied. "It's just me."

"How'd you find us?"

Sam propped Dean against the Impala's trunk, noting the way his brother kept shaking his head, blinking his eyes wide as if he couldn't focus. He had yet to mention Raya; Sam was beginning to wonder if he'd noticed her.

He lifted Dean's shirt, moving the gauze away. Two of the stitches had pulled loose. Raya hissed in sympathy.

"How'd that happen?"

"It's too complicated to explain," Sam sighed, thinking of the series of random events that had culminated in his brother's battered state. "Cas, can you—"

"Salt," Castiel said. "Yes."

"Salt?" Raya frowned, reaching out to hold up Dean's shirt as Sam dug through the first aid kit for the sutures and bandages.

Sam saw Dean's eyes hit Raya's face, and watched as his expression closed up, folded inward. He didn't say a word, and Sam found that he suddenly had trouble breathing. He needed Dean to keep fighting. He needed Dean's voice. He needed the noise.

"Keeps the demons out," Sam explained.

Raya nodded slowly. "Okay, next grocery trip? I stock up."

"How'd you find us?" Sam repeated, setting the supplies next to Dean on the Impala's trunk.

"I'm a cop, remember?" Raya handed Sam suture kit as Dean leaned backwards across the car, giving his brother access to his wounded side. "I woke up and those two bodies were gone. I needed to know what the hell happened to me."

She paused a moment as Sam began to stitch, keeping Dean's shirt up and out of the way. "I just started retracing your steps. Found out what motel you were staying at, got there right after the squad guys. Saw blondie beating the hell out of the maintenance man to find out where you'd gone, so I followed her."

"She tracked the virus," Castiel reminded Sam.

"Yeah, I figured that," Sam muttered, tying off the stitches and reaching for a new bandage. "So glad you went and accidentally signaled your friend the archangel. That worked out great."

"This series of events was completely unpredictable," Castiel said.

"I know," Sam sighed, taping the bandage in place.

He nodded to Raya who dropped Dean's shirt and stepped back. Dean's narrowed eyes were trained on a point just beyond him, brow furrowed as if in thought. Gripping his brother's shoulder, Sam shook Dean slightly to get his attention.

"You're set," he said as clearly as possible.

"What's the plan?" Dean rasped.

Sam flinched. Dean may not be able to feel the hell he'd had been through, but his body didn't know that. His voice was pain.

"What's this antidote she was yammering about?" Raya asked.

Sam kept his eyes on Dean, aware of the other two people in the room, but looking only at his brother. Time had ticked away from them before and he'd lost Dean then. He wasn't going to lose his brother this time. No matter what it cost him.

"They injected Dean with a virus. It's killing him."

"I won't let it beat me, Sam," Dean vowed quietly, continually narrowing his eyes as if to focus. "I can't, not now."

Sam's jaw was tight as he nodded. "I'll meet her. I'll get it from her."

"How?" Castiel asked.

The room seemed to shift around Sam, the almost visible shimmer of energy between himself and Dean twisting, coiling, tightening.

"Any way I have to," Sam said, knowing he could do it. Knowing how to do it.

Dean shook his head. "No, Sam."

It didn't matter that he couldn't hear him; Sam knew that Dean would follow his thoughts from point to point until it led to demon blood.

"I have to save you, Dean," Sam whispered, willing his brother to understand.

Dean blinked his eyes wide, reaching up a clumsy hand to wipe at them.

Sam frowned. "Dean?"

"You can't…," Dean shook his head again, blinking, then peering with narrowed eyes at Sam. "You can't do that again. Not for me. Not for this. Don't let this send you back there."

"I'm getting the antidote," Sam vowed. "I'm not losing you again, man. I can't."

He began to step away, acutely aware of Raya's eyes and Castiel's silence. Dean's arm swept out toward him, grabbing at him—and missing. Sam went cold. He slowly took Dean's arm, feeling his brother tremble beneath his fingers.

"Dean?"

"Son of a…." Dean's curse faded as he shook his head again, reaching up to wipe at his eyes.

Sam felt himself sink as Dean's his blood-red eye began to water. With a quick, desperate motion, Dean stared around him, narrowing his eyes in the direction of darkened corners, lifting his face to the light from above. He face completely drained of color.

"Oh, fuck, Sam."

Sam stepped back at the desolation he heard in Dean's voice. He didn't release his brother's arm; even though he knew his grip couldn't be felt, he was afraid that if he let go Dean truly would fade away.

"It's…it's gone," Dean choked out. "It's gone."

"Oh, God," Sam breathed. No…no no no…it's too fast it's too soon I need him not yet not yet not—

"Everything just…melted," Dean revealed, his voice a breathy waver of confession. "And then…you were gone."

Sam stood completely still, gripping Dean's arm, his brother's fingers flexing spasmodically on air, searching. The blue around Dean's lips creeping further into the flesh, contrasting sharply with the death-pale hue of his cheeks. His eyes were wide, the pupils eating away the green.

For several heartbeats, the only sound in the abandoned warehouse was the rain: hitting the roof, slapping the pavement, running down the interior walls from the broken windows above.

And then Dean's voice—a familiar air of toughness wrapping around fear so real it was palpable—called out hesitantly. "Sam? You're still there, right?"

Sam felt air leave him as Dean stumbled sideways with nothing to balance him. Not even the sight of his environment. Sam tightened his grip, and then gently pushed at Dean, backing his brother up against the Impala, desperate to find some way to tell him that he was still here.

"I'm gonna fix this, Dean," he vowed, swallowing unbidden tears. "I'm not gonna let them get you. Not again."

"I will help," Castiel said softly from behind him.

"Me too," chimed in Raya.

Sam looked over at her, surprised. "Why?"

Her eyes were pinned to Dean, her face devastated. "Because he didn't walk away when I thought he would." She looked up at Sam. "And because everything you said about having that…thing…in my body was true."

Sam moved Dean's arm again, not knowing any other way to show his brother that they were together on this. Not able to imagine how alone Dean had to be feeling, cut off from—literally—everything. It was a version of Hell that scared Sam more than he wanted to contemplate.

He pressed down gently on Dean's shoulders until his brother allowed himself to be eased to the ground, leaning against the wheel well of the Impala.

"Cas?" Sam looked at the angel. "Will you stay with him?"

Castiel frowned. "You will need my help."

"He can hear you, you said," Sam implored. "And I can't…I can't leave him like this…not alone like this." Sam glanced at Raya. "Besides…I got the law on my side."

"He isn't going to be happy when he finds out you've gone after the antidote without him," Castiel predicted.

Sam looked at his brother, his stomach hitching at the sight of Dean's searching eyes, seeking something concrete, viable, real. His hands were fisted at his sides, pressing hard enough against the floor to turn the knuckles white. His breath caught and Sam watched him force air out slowly before pulling another in.

You just keep breathing, Dean.

"He can kick my ass later." Sam looked at the angel. "Cas?"

Castiel looked at him, and Sam felt the angel's blue eyes peel away layers in a glance. "I will stay."

Sam nodded, then moved around to the trunk, lifting the false bottom. Raya followed him.

"You need a spare weapon?" she asked, pulling a .45 from a side holster.

"I got it covered," Sam said, leaning into the trunk and grabbing the demon-killing knife, a rock salt-filled shotgun, his Glock, and Dean's flask of Holy Water.

Raya whistled. "When this is all over, you really should tell me what you two do for a living."

Sam slammed the trunk closed. "We just try not to die."


a/n: Thanks for reading! The final showdown is around the corner. And we climb inside of Dean's sensory-deprived head a bit in the next chapter (the one I've been looking forward to writing since I started this journey).