Sunday Bloody Sunday

by Sojourner84

Still reeling from the revelation of Dean's deal, the brothers hunt down the Hell Gate demons. But one hunt sends them to a place where secrets kill, sins are punished, and Sam and Dean feel the impact of an ageless war. Co. Gaelicspirit and Sojourner84

7. Sunday: Wrath

Disclaimer/Spoilers/Authors: See Chapter 1.

a/n: And we've come to Sunday. Thanks so much for your reviews, for reading, for lurking, for sticking with us. We're both kinda sad to see this story coming to a close but we so greatly appreciate the attention ya'll have given it.

There will be an epilogue, along with a "gift," but this chapter is the final showdown for this hunt. We both sincerely hope you've enjoyed the ride. We've had a blast writing this together.

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"Men often make up in wrath what they want in reason." - William R. Alger

"…And the battles just begun
Theres many lost but tell me who has won
The trenches dug within our hearts
And mothers, children, brothers, sisters torn apart!
Sunday, Bloody Sunday…"

Sunday Bloody Sunday, U2

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Sunday: Wrath

Forty-Seven.

That was the number of times Dean had been able to catch himself from plummeting over the edge of consciousness, drawn almost seamlessly between the thread of awareness he was dangling by, and letting go in order to lift the almost unbearable weight that had set into his eyes.

Twenty-three. The number of cars that had passed by outside since the last time his rest-thirsty eyes had taken in the time on the clock. It had been both too early and too late to care.

Twelve times a minute was how often Sam's chest rose and fell, giving life to lifeless silence with each breath that passed his slightly parted lips. Every once in a while, Sam's breathing would catch, a whimper or some fragmented speech would take its place, and Dean would tilt on the edge of his seat, ready to move, ready to stand in his brother's defense against whatever had crawled up from the dark to nest in his dreams.

He'd lost track of how many times he'd crossed the space between the bed and the chair to check on Sam and he was too tired to think about the hours that had passed. Hours that had crawled on, leaving him alone with his heavy thoughts, his aching body, and his abundance of unspoken fears.

His only motivation lay within his biggest fear at the moment—the fear that if he closed his eyes for just once, for too long, Sam would be gone.

He suddenly realized that it had been awhile since he'd checked the time. He knew watching the minutes flip over would only succeed in driving him mad. He could swear that the time had held its breath, or had decided to reverse out of spite. His solution was to just focus on Sam, to wait for other cues that time was sorting through the night minutes and not withholding day. He could tell that it was early morning now. He could hear the morning birds, and the traffic along the highway had picked up.

Through the gray of the room he could see Sam's brows pull into a tight line. His brother was rolled onto his side, muttering something softly. Dean had been listening to him do a similar thing all night. A few times he had to wake him, but every time Sam had looked up at him with knowing, clear eyes. He wasn't slipping in and out of fever, and Dean was grateful there appeared to be no infection. The nightmares weren't the product of fever, anyway. Dean knew first hand that whatever Sam was battling now was the aftereffect of wounds much deeper and far harder to heal.

Dean's stomach growled and he pulled his feet up into the chair, resting his knees against his chest. He ached for coffee, the extent of his addiction pulsing through his sleep-starved joints. He didn't want to leave Sam to satiate the craving for food and coffee, the basic fuel he needed to keep up his vigil for much longer. At this point it was hard for Dean to even remove his eyes from Sam, let alone gather the will power to leave his post. As long as the reason to fight was before him, the strength would follow…

Sammy had believed his entire life in things he couldn't see. Dean was a different story. He relied on what he could see. Sam breathing. Sam moving. Sam eatinglaughingjokinghuntingstudying…

Mending the wounds on Sam's back had brought Dean back to a place where his faith in something worth living for, worth dying for, had been shattered. Dean knew those memories weren't going to go away anytime soon. Watching Sam sleep, watching his movements as he breathed and his face contorted with the effects of his dreams, all of it helped ease the paralyzing fear that could sweep in at a moment's notice and drag him back to the darkest hour. He had never felt as helpless—as faithless—as that moment in the abandoned house in Cold Oak. Not even when they burned their father's body…

Their father…

It wasn't the first time that Dean's thoughts moved toward wondering about his father at the Hell Gate. It wasn't the first time either, that while alone with his memories Dean wondered if his father had known about the deal. The Crossroads Demon had known him. Had known a friggin' lot about him. She'd known about John, about the suffering he'd been in…

Maybe Dad knew…

Dean relived that moment in his mind; John's spirit wrestling with the yellow-eyed demon, giving Dean the chance he needed to end their twenty-three year struggle. The look in his father's eyes as they stood facing one another, the pride… His eyes had spoken so much, and Dean remembered standing there unable to unravel the messages fast enough. It was a moment that would forever haunt him. John's fight was done, and Dean's was just beginning…

Dean turned his head, breaking the memory he'd fallen into, pulling away from the imagined but still intense gaze of his father's eyes. He heard Sam stir again, more memories of his own tormenting him behind closed lids. Dean wanted to wake him and tell him to look at their father with him…

See? That…right there… is something to believe in, Dean thought as he saw Sam's brows crease deeper while he fought a battle that Dean couldn't fight with him. Dad's will—the friggin' superhuman strength it took him to climb out of Hell and save us…save me. If you can't believe in angels anymore, believe in that. Believe in him. Believe in me.

Dean shifted in his chair, the lack of sleep and desperation to make sense of everything that had happened was tugging painfully at his eyes, making them well up, glass over, threaten to spill. God he hated this… hated waiting for Heaven to finally step in, and for Hell to collect…

Screw them both.

I wouldn't leave you if I had a choice, Sammy. I just couldn't let you die. I tried so damn hard to protect you, all of my life, and when it really mattered, when you really needed me…I wasn't there. So, I had to make it right…and I'll make this right, so help me if it means I have to climb out of Hell myself…

The gray of the room was getting warmer, lighter. One more day…

Believe in me…

Dean pressed against his eyes with his fingertips, fighting back the tired twinge with pressure. When he dropped his hand back into his lap, he saw Sam's eyes were open, staring right at him with un-rested hazel irises. Dean wondered for a moment if he'd been inadvertently speaking out loud. It wouldn't have surprised him with how tired he was now. Holding conversations with himself probably wasn't the worst thing that could happen to someone who abused their body the way he did.

"What time is it?" Sam asked, his voice gravelly, carrying the same weight it had the night before.

The way Sam's eyes fell on him, Dean knew the kid had been hoping it had all been a bad dream, that he'd wake up somewhere else; a place where the lines of good and evil hadn't been so brutally and unforgivably blurred.

Dean returned Sam's question with a blank stare. He suddenly realized after a few beats of silence that Sam was staring back, eyes carrying concern. Dean shook his head, taking in a deeper breath, hoping that would revive his limbs a little and shake the encased-in-concrete feeling that had enveloped him. He looked at his watch. 5 a.m. This was starting to be a habit.

"Five," Dean answered, rubbing at the scruff around his mouth.

"This is starting to become a habit," Sam groaned.

Dean laughed a little at that. "Yeah…"

"Did you sleep?" Sam asked, and Dean heard the underlying I know you didn't, so don't lie to me, as clear as the make this better, Dean, that had come with Sam's waking words.

"I wasn't tired."

"Liar."

Dean shrugged a heavy shoulder, finding it easier to stay awake now that Sam was awake with him. His voice, his presence… all provided Dean with someone other than doubt and silence, which had been the only ones carrying the conversation until now.

"That's three nights in a row now…"

"Hey, neither of us slept very much the night before."

Dean pushed to his feet, surprised when his legs held his weight without wavering. He grabbed a glass of water from the table that he'd filled for Sam the night before. Two Tylenol lay beside it. He'd wanted to be prepared for the fever that thankfully never came. There was no doubt in his mind that Sam would want these for the pain before he moved much further from the bed.

Sam sat up, his pain-accompanied groans increasing as each bone realigned and his frame pulled against the wounds in his back. He took his time and Dean waited until he was sitting up completely to hand him the medicine and water. Sam's eyes lifted to his gratefully.

Sam threw them into the back of his throat, following with the water chaser before sagging to the side and leaning his body against the wall.

"We have one more to figure out," he breathed in a bone-weary, ancient voice that took Dean a while to register as his brother's.

Dean returned to his chair, settling into it slowly, allowing each achy muscle and bone to sort itself out. His head pounded a little with the exertion of standing and moving, and he could feel the blood pump behind his eyes, and pulse into his wound. He tilted his head a little to watch Sam. His brother was staring ahead, and Dean knew it wasn't at the wallpaper. Dean had been doing something similar all night. Reliving the encounter, trying to sort out the why's and the what if's.

Their first encounter with an angel hadn't exactly been what Dean had imagined. When he was younger, he had the storybook version of angel's in his mind. Nothing that even came close to Bob. Bob made him wish that they really were more like the pictures he'd seen, or like Roma Downey and John Travolta, hell the angel from Chuck Heston's Ten Commandments or Raiders of the Lost Arc would have been nice.

"Don't they…you know… rest on Sunday?" Dean asked.

He was relieved to see Sam's eyes soften, the corner of his mouth tick up. "I think it was just that one time. You know, with the whole making the world thing."

"Right, that," Dean replied, rubbing at the back of his head where the muscles had become tender. "Too bad… not really looking forward to running all of Carlos Montoya's priors."

Sam grunted in agreement, standing with some aid from the night stand and the wall. His face creased with the strain that motion put on his back and Dean waited, poised again at the edge of his chair to see if he'd need help.

"I need to clean up, then we can start."

Sam moved away from the wall and Dean slid back into the chair, waiting for Sam's back to turn to him before he surrendered to the weariness that had set in all over his body. He rubbed again at his face, unaware just how much the shadows of exhaustion were evident even in the dark. He didn't realize that Sam could see the way he'd melted back against the chair, the dark lines, the bruised skin beneath his eyes, all reflected in the glass before his brother.

Sam paused, staring at Dean's gray reflection in the bathroom mirror. Muted light from the room illuminated the narrow space between where he stood and where he was heading; he could see shadows gathering around his brother's inverted image. It was almost as if Dean were fading before his eyes. He watched Dean blink, slow, as though he were trying to remember if he were supposed to keep his eyes open or closed, then lift his gaze to meet Sam's in the mirror.

"What?" Dean asked, his voice rough.

Sam shook his head in reply, silently continuing on into the bathroom. He closed the door softly behind him, flicking the switch to his left and keeping his eyes down as the fluorescent bulb flickered and hummed, snapping to life with a staccato burst of light. He could see pills strewn on the floor and an empty bottle lying in the base of the sink. Thinking back to the wound on Dean's head, Sam knew this had been his brother's attempt to medicate. He wondered what had stopped Dean from taking the pills, or at least cleaning them up—then felt the hot, tight pull of the stitches down his back.

Oh…

He knew his brother. He knew the rhythm of Dean's life, the beat he measured himself by. Dean would have made sure Sam was okay before taking care of his own wounds. Sam felt a sharp pain in his heart knowing that if he couldn't do something to change the seemingly inevitable course of Dean's life, that rhythm that he'd grown up with, grown to depend on, would be gone. Sam would have no one to turn to when darkness threatened.

Sam eyed the bathtub with trepidation. Showering, as welcome as it would be to clean the dirt and sweat from his body, was not a good idea with the shape his back was in.

One deal with one demon is going to take you away from me...

Dean had left one of the duffels on the countertop last night. Sam's own was zipped closed, setting on the floor; Dean's opened to reveal the remnants of the first aid kit. Sam moved in a slow, stiff gait toward the sink, using his index finger to pull the canvas side of the bag toward him and peered into Dean's duffel. T-shirts were balled up and tangled with socks and boxers. Jeans scrambled with bullets for their own corner. John's journal rested on the top of Dean's silver flask.

Dean's scent wafted up from the cotton and denim and nearly drove Sam to his knees—car oil and sweat, leather and gunpowder, and a lingering scent of Old Spice from a bottle long empty. Sam ticked his head to the side, pulling his bottom lip in, catching it with his teeth. The sparse reminders of Dean's life contained in the duffel blurred; Sam felt his legs tremble and he sank slowly down to the closed lid of the toilet.

Memories of moments with his brother slammed into him and bowed his neck with their weight. Sam gripped the edge of the counter, trying to slow them down, trying to grab one, to hold it tight, but it was trying to catch smoke. Twenty-four years hadn't been long enough—he'd had so little time to know his brother. And he squandered so many moments, unknowingly.

It's not fair…

Rubbing shaking fingers over his burning eyes, Sam thought of the weary lines flanking Dean's drawn face. He had so little time left with his brother as it was, and now an angel with a wing bent out of shape was trying to take it from him.

Lucifer's minions will come for Dean. They'll drag him down in to the pit, burn him alive, tear him apart and rip open his soul for eternity, Sam. There is nothing you can do. No amount of praying is going to stop that.

I believed, Sam thought miserably. I believed and I was wrong... But... Dean shouldn't have to pay anymore. Not because I was wrong...

Using the countertop as support he pushed himself straight, wincing as the slices in his back crinkled, the skin reacting to the motion, the stitches resisting the pull. He gritted his teeth against the pain, closing his eyes.

Dean had paid his price in blood long ago. He'd nearly bled out in the cabin in Missouri. He'd escaped a reaper twice. He'd sacrificed his childhood, his future, his happiness for one purpose: to keep Sam safe. And now he was paying Sam's price with his soul.

Rubbing his palms roughly into the hollow of his eyes, Sam bit back a growl. He was going to stop this one—this last sin. This last death. He was going to end it. Today. He was going to end it for Dean. And if they were alone in this fight, then so be it.

Hell, we've been alone in pretty much every fight, according to Bob, and we've come out more or less intact…

"Sammy? You fall asleep in there?"

Dean's sudden voice on the other side of the door caused Sam to jump, then hiss when the movement snapped across his back.

"Gimme a minute," he called back.

"You okay?"

"Fine," Sam pushed himself to his feet. "Be out in a minute."

Sam removed the pill bottle from the sink basin, then scooped out the wayward meds, tipping them back into the bottle. He turned on the faucet, cupping his hand under the cool flow, then tipped some water into his suddenly parched mouth. Swallowing, he ran his wet hand over his gritty face, then turned slightly, regarding the dark lines of stitches flanked by slightly puffy, red skin framing the purple scar that ran along his spine.

Evidence of his brother's sacrifice.

I won't let them get your soul, Dean, he promised silently, meeting his own red-rimmed eyes in the mirror. I gotta save you… I will save you.

Slowly pulling his dusty jeans off, Sam changed to a clean pair, grabbing one of the rags from the shelf, wetting it, and running the white cloth over his face, neck, and chest until it came away gray with dirt. Head spinning, he bit back a groan as he lifted his arms, the skin and muscle in his back screaming, and pulled a T-shirt over his head, then grabbed a long-sleeved shirt. Leaning against the sink for a moment to still the wave of vertigo that rocked him, Sam pulled in a breath, then, shirt gripped in his hand, turned to exit the bathroom.

As he opened the door, his gaze hit his brother's figure, slumped in the same chair he'd been sitting in earlier, eyes closed, chin resting on his chest, perfectly still. A stab of panic shot through Sam causing him to gasp. Without pausing for rational thought, he crossed the room, grabbing Dean's shoulder.

"JesusChrist!" Dean jumped, his head shooting up, eyes blinking wide. "Dude, what the hell—"

"Sorry!" Sam yelped, stepping back, relief making him dizzy. "Sorry, I didn't realize you were asleep."

"Wasn't asleep," Dean grumbled, grinding his eye with the palm of his hand. "Just resting my eyes."

Sam sank down to the bed, using his free hand to guide him. He felt weak and shaky, his body detached from reality, from the moment, retreating into a safe place where he couldn't abuse it anymore.

"Sleep isn't a weakness, Dean."

Dean lifted a brow. "Yeah, well... someone's gotta what over your skinny ass."

"My ass is not skinny," Sam shot back, ignoring the instant reply of for how long that panged through him. "I happen to have a very nice ass."

"Says who?" Dean smirked.

"Lotsa people," Sam shrugged.

Dean rubbed his face again; Sam wondered if he were hoping that repetitive action would return to him what lack of sleep had taken away. "Dude, you got it all wrong…" Dean stood, wavering slightly. "You're the brains, I'm the bod."

Sam watched Dean reach out for the back of the chair to steady himself, his eyes traveling to his brother's bandaged hand. This hunt had not been easy on either of them, but Dean would never allow himself down time. As long as he could still physically stand without assistance, Sam knew his brother would keep going. And Sam could do no less.

"Well, at least one of those is still intact," Sam muttered.

"You ain't wrong, brother," Dean sighed, starting to turn toward the bathroom.

The vibration of Sam's phone against the table caught them both by surprise. Dean shot a look over his shoulder, meeting Sam's eyes.

"You think?" Dean tilted his head in question.

Sam took a breath. "Only one way to find out."

Creaking to his feet, Sam crossed to the table, picked up the phone and looked at the display. Ice settled in his gut and he looked at Dean, needing the balance of his brother's eyes.

"I'm impressed," Bob's voice held a lilt of amusement, as if he'd found a playmate. "You boys are very smart to have found Carlos as quickly as you did…"

"Not quick enough," Sam muttered. "Won't happen again."

"Oh, seventh time's the charm, is that it, Samuel?"

Sam remained silent, watching Dean seethe five feet away from him.

"Well, since you and your brother are so smart… I've decided to give you a chance to change the outcome of this lesson…"

Sam frowned. He opened his mouth to retort, but Bob continued.

"Human beings have one redeeming quality, Sam… if you can figure out what that is, you might have a chance to save the last one."

The line cut off and left Sam listening to a dial tone, his mouth agape.

"What?" Dean demanded.

Sam blinked at his phone.

"Sam!" Dean barked, causing Sam to jump. "What did he say?"

"Uh… he said that we have one redeeming quality, and if we could figure out what that is, we could save the last one."

Taking a breath, Dean sat heavily on the edge of the bed. "Son of a bitch," he muttered, shaking his head. "Another damn clue." He lifted his brows into inverted V's, twisting his lips into a rueful grin. "I miss the good old days when all we had to do was salt and burn…"

Sam simply nodded, thinking. Ideas, possibilities, chances bounced around in his head like a pinball reverberating against breakers.

"What would a bitter, fallen angel consider a redeeming quality?" Dean mused, voicing Sam's thoughts. His eyes were on the floor between his bare feet, his shoulders slumped, his bandaged hand resting in its mate.

Sam kept his eyes on Dean, filled with a sudden fierce emotion, an instinct to protect, to rebel, to rail against the evil that threatened to consume the only family he had left. He felt his lips twitch, his chin trembling, his eyes burning. Swallowing hard, Sam glanced away, refusing to cry.

How could you do that?

Don't you get mad at me… don't you do it. I had to. I had to look out for you. That's my job.

Sam curled his fingers into loose fists, gripping the phone in one hand, his shirt in the other, listening to the quiet of the room, the unnatural stillness of his brother as Dean searched for an answer to the question that could get them out of this hunt. That could end this hunt.

How could you do this to me, Sam thought, his eyes on the angry red skin on his brother's leg that peeked out from above the white gauze bandage. You bastard, Dean… you save me just to leave me?

Dean dropped his head, pulling in a deep breath, the slid his eyes over to Sam. "I got nothin', man."

If I didn't need you so much... hell, if I didn't love you so damn much... I might hate you right now, Sam thought, swallowing tears. Meeting Dean's weary eyes, Sam suddenly knew.

Oh my God...

Realization burst upon him like a light in the darkness. He felt a calm ease across his chest, steady the beat of his heart, relaxing the tight pull of his back as knowledge grabbed hold, took root, and grew.

"Sammy?" Dean frowned at him.

"Why do you think the angel picked Mercy, Dean?"

Pushing his lips out, Dean lifted a shoulder. "Town's full of secrets… seedy underbelly… easy prey… where you goin' with this, Sam?"

Sam shifted his weight. "Why do you think he picked a town called Mercy?"

Dean stared at him a moment and Sam watched the light gather in his brother's eyes. "No way…" Dean pulled his head back in disbelief.

"What makes us different from the angels?" Sam posed.

Dean pressed his hands to the bed, pushing himself up with an audible groan. "They got… wings and absolute power," he yawned, rolling his neck and turning toward the bathroom once more. "We got… classic cars and Zeppelin."

"Be serious, man."

Dean sighed, leaning against the doorway. "I don't know, Sam. Other than Mom sayin' they protected me… watched over me… I never really gave angels much thought."

Sam looked down. Maybe it's time I save your ass for a change… "We can forgive," he said softly. "We can show mercy..."

"What, and angel's can't?" Dean scoffed, his voice fading as he stepped from the carpeted motel room into the tiled bathroom.

"I don't know for sure, but… something Bob said last night… about how he protected us, defended us… and all we do is fail…"

Dean turned around. "And God loves us more…"

Sam nodded. "I mean… angels can't be wronged, can they? You have to have something to forgive in the first place in order to be capable of the act..."

Dean rubbed his face again. "This is another coffee conversation," he muttered.

"You know," Sam lifted an eyebrow. "If you slept once in awhile you wouldn't need so much coffee."

Dean matched his lifted eyebrow, not bothering to answer. With a quick shake of his head, he turned and closed the bathroom door behind him. Soon, Sam heard the rush of the shower and a low hum of a melody as Dean ignored the signals his battered body was giving him, threatening to shut down if he pushed it much further.

His long sleeved shirt still gripped in his hand, Sam sat down at the small table, setting his phone down and flipping his laptop open, booting it up. Dean was swift in the shower. By the time Sam had pulled up Safari's search page, Dean had exited the bathroom in a cloud of steam, wrapped in a white hotel towel, clutching his duffel which he dropped onto the unmade bed.

"What are you looking for?" Dean asked, pulling clean clothes from the tangle inside his bag.

"Cemeteries," Sam replied.

"Not churches?" Dean asked, his voice muffled by the cotton of his T-shirt as he pulled it over his head.

Sam looked up. "Why churches?"

Blinking in surprise, Dean shifted his jeans up on his hips, buttoning the fly with swift, sure fingers. "Isn't that where people go for forgiveness?"

Tilting his head slightly, Sam glanced out of the slit through the curtain-covered window. "Well, yeah, but…" he looked back over at Dean, thinking, "cemeteries are where people go to forgive."

Dean let his brother's words wash over him, sinking into the cracks that this hunt had created in his protective walls. Pulling his lower lip into his mouth, he turned, reaching into his bag for his gun, setting it next to the duffel on the bed, scattered memories of various cemeteries and graves he'd visited—and according to various law enforcement officials, desecrated—since he first started hunting flitted through his mind. Two stood out vividly: his mother's and his father's.

He pulled his Bowie out, laying it next to his gun, then began searching through the hastily-packed bag for his ammo. He hadn't been able to visit his mother's grave—not out of a lack of forgiveness, but out of a need for distance. Seeing a marker made it real, made her gone forever, made her not even alive inside of him. Which was why he'd been able to stand at John's grave, why he'd been able to speak to his father through the veil of protection that a false death afforded him: because he'd known even then that it hadn't been real.

"Ah-ha," Sam suddenly exclaimed.

"What?" Dean looked over at him, Sam's triumphant expression a curious pull. He stepped over to the table, peering over Sam's shoulder at the computer screen, reading the words there. "Who the hell is Patience Wild?"

Sam sat back, glancing over his shoulder at Dean. "Patience is the virtue for Wrath… the only sin that's left. She's the only person with that name in the Mercy cemetery."

"Huh," Dean bounced his head once.

"And get this," Sam leaned forward once more, tapping the mouse pad to scroll down. "She's buried in a mausoleum. No digging..."

Dean straightened. "Well, guess that settles it," he said, crossing back to his duffel. "We're going back to Mercy."

Sam frowned at him, watching as he dug into the bag, set John's journal aside, and retrieved two large, silver flasks. Dean opened one, sniffed the contents, frowned, then took a quick sip.

"Dude… what the hell?" Sam exclaimed at Dean's grimace of distaste.

"Gah—who knew whiskey could skunk so bad…"

"What are you doing?" Sam shook his head. Sometimes he really didn't understand his brother.

Dean dumped the contents of the flask into the bathroom sink and shot a look over his shoulder. "We're making a stop before we visit Patience."

"A stop?" Sam asked as Dean rattled the second flask with a satisfied nod.

Dean held up an empty flask with a grin. "Feel the need to confess a few things."

Sam echoed his brother's smile.

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Dean parked the Impala outside of Mercy's Memorial Gardens. The tall, wrought-iron gates stood open in lazy vigil of the neatly kept grounds that were covered with the late morning sun. The scene felt off before he even stepped from the car. The serene picture of light pouring over white tombstones through the surrounding trees didn't match the foreboding that was building within. Maybe if it were night… maybe if the place was in more disarray… maybe then his mind could match up what he was seeing with what he was feeling. Over the course of the week, Dean had come to realize that this was what Mercy had to offer: the comfortable masking the ugly.

They'd passed the church on the other side of the grounds at a slow crawl while looking for the mausoleums. The Sunday morning attendants didn't notice two guys in a black Chevy surveying the graveyard. They were too busy greeting one another with Sunday morning smiles, holding Sunday morning conversations… all of which had always seemed as fake to Dean as the serenity of the graveyard he stood in front of now.

There were only a handful of people that Dean had admired for the genuine nature of their faith: Pastor Jim, Layla… Sam.

As they'd passed the church, Dean had watched his brother's eyes follow the people up the front steps, then dart back to his knees. He saw the way Sam's shoulders sagged as they drove by. It reminded Dean of the way Sam would look out a window when they were younger, waiting for their father, who was already two days later than he'd promised coming back from a hunt.

Dean opened the trunk and tossed Sam a flask of holy water before stuffing one in his own jacket. Sam eyed his for a moment, shaking his head.

"So, what, they just gave you some?" he asked.

Pockets full of rock salt shells and holy water—their only known weapon against Bob the homicidal angel—Dean slammed the trunk shut and started through the gates. Sam followed, shotgun resting against his shoulder, rolling the flask over in his hands.

"There was no one around. Helped myself," Dean explained. "But… I didn't get away without a few awkward moments between myself and Father Sterling."

"Who's Father Sterling?"

Dean shrugged. "Guess he's the new Father Simons. He caught me at the door, flask in hand."

"Smooth, Dean. You run out of pockets?"

Dean lifted a brow. "Dude, it's called making a getaway. Anyway, I'm scheduled for confession next week…Oh, and I have AA on Wednesday."

Sam smiled a little at that as they plodded through the grave rows.

"I would have come in…" Sam started.

"I know," Dean interrupted, hoping that Sam understood that he didn't need any explanation. The foundation of a part of who Sam was had been shaken, and Dean could see that he was stepping back in case it fell apart completely.

They continued their walk in silence, the only sound crossing the stillness was the church bells in the distance and the crunch of sun-seared patches of grass beneath their feet. That was until Sam sighed, and Dean subconsciously braced himself.

"You ever think about Mom's grave?"

Dean almost paused, his steps slowing as he was taken by Sam's question. He'd just been thinking about her; about how he'd been unable to stand close to her grave. Sometimes it scared him how easily Sam could resonate on the same frequency as him in a moment—how Sam could call him out.

"What do you mean?" Dean asked, eyes lifting to Patience Wild's crypt in the distance. Suddenly it seemed miles away.

Sam kept pace with him, even when his movements became more brisk.

"You told me about how you went to Dad's grave, when you were trapped by the Djinn, but you didn't want to get close to Mom's back in Lawrence."

Dean shrugged, shifting the weight of the shotgun. "I needed Dad…" He admitted. "It's not like I didn't need Mom, it was just…different. Dad had always been my…my touchstone I guess."

Dean could feel Sam's gaze, knew that if he looked over he'd see the surprise etched on his brother's face, but he kept his eyes on the mausoleum up ahead.

"Dad and I never really talked," Dean continued. "I mean, sure we talked, y'know, 'bout hunts, you and your grades, the car, the guns… We would make sure we got from point A to point B, destroying evil sons of bitches and surviving odds… but we never really talked about how it felt to make that trip, y'know? To live through all that. But… until I went and got you at Stanford… Dad was pretty much all I had."

"I'm sorry," Sam whispered.

Dean shoved him lightly with his elbow, glancing down at the path they followed. "Don't be. You were busy growing up, man. It wasn't your responsibility. I wanted to keep you a kid for as long as possible."

"Yeah, but," Sam protested, "I talked to you… I talked to you all the time back then, and I guess I… just never stopped to think that you weren't talking back."

Dean lifted his shoulder, "I didn't need it as bad… Or at least I thought I didn't. It wasn't until I got you back that I realized how much I needed… this." Dean bounced a loose hand in the air between them. "You calling me out, dragging me out. Kicking and screaming sometimes, 'cause chick-flick moments like this really don't bode well for my reputation," he laughed lightly, shaking his head, then sobered. They walked a few beats in silence. "I didn't realize that I needed… you know… you."

"Aw." Dean heard the smile in Sam's voice, masking the real emotion crowded in his brother's throat.

"Shut-up," Dean shook his head, his lips cornering in a self-conscious grin.

Sam laughed. "Even with all the shit we've been through? And there's been a lot of shit…"

"Amen, brother. Hunts gone wrong—"

"Practical jokes—"

"Reapers—"

"Car wrecks—"

"Clowns—"

"You just had to bring that up didn't you?"

"Demon's upon demons—"

Sam slid his eyes over, "Is that stacked on top of each other, or end to end?"

Dean laughed, eyes crinkling around the edges.

They stopped. They'd made it to their destination and became quiet again, standing in the shadow of one of the largest mausoleums either of them had ever seen. They took in the large stone exterior and the heavy doors at the top of marble stairs blocking their view to the inside. It commanded a moment of awe and built upon the dread that had already settled at the base of both of their stomachs.

Dean was the first to move again, foot on the first step when Sam grabbed his arm. Dean looked back at him, thinking at first that his brother was trying to warn him, but Sam's eyes weren't looking past him at the crypt, they were reaching for him.

"I always needed you, Dean."

Dean stared at him a moment, letting those words spill over him and fill him. He'd needed to hear that. Probably more than Sam would ever understand. He rolled his eyes and turned to continue up the steps, breaking the moment.

"You pick the worst times to turn into a girl," he muttered.

Sam simply followed him, smiling.

They reached the door and Dean glanced back at Sam and shrugged. These things were almost always locked, but he tried it anyway. The door swung open with little effort and a part of Dean wished he'd had to pick the lock. It was too come on in for his liking.

The inside was massive. Stained glass windows surrounded the main floor and sunlight streaming down through pictorials of Jesus' life and death illuminated the lower level in a kaleidoscope of warm colors.

Dean was the first in, heading down more stone steps in front of Sam, his trained eyes sweeping the room. Sam followed with his shotgun ready, taking slow, calculated steps.

The silence inside the cavernous stone structure was suffocating. Gone were the easy sounds of the leaf-laden branches brushing against each other in the trees scattered around the cemetery. Gone was the din of muted church bells. Gone, even, the scattered chirps of mockingbirds as they circled the resting souls below.

Pausing at the base of the stairs, Dean hesitated to breathe, uncertain if that action alone would shatter the apprehensive stillness that surrounded them. Sam's boot scuffed the stone step behind him and Dean glanced quickly over his shoulder at his brother's tense face.

I always needed you, Dean… One deal with one demon is going to take you away from me…

Dean dared to pull in the air his body was suddenly desperate for, feeling oddly like it may be his last as he kept his eyes on Sam's profile, watching Sam search the room. He saw Sam's chin tip minutely up, the skin around his eyes tightening imperceptibly. Only years of watching Sam for any sign of pain, of need, of want offered Dean the ability to read these subtle indications that Sam had found what they were looking for.

"There," Sam whispered, his gaze intent on something across the room.

Following Sam's eye-line, Dean turned to see a stone sarcophagus partially hidden in the shadows tossed about the room from the stained-glass windows. Stepping forward, Sam fell in behind him as they approached Patience's coffin. The sides were chiseled stone, images that he assumed had meant something to Patience during her life. Atop the stone surface, a part of a poem was etched.

"Do not stand at my grave and weep, I am not there, I do not sleep…" Dean read softly. "Okay. Random."

"Lots of people believe that death isn't the end, Dean," Sam said, his voice hushed in the quiet of the room.

Dean lifted an eyebrow, glancing sideways at his brother. "Yeah? Well, it's not exactly the beginning, either."

Sam shrugged. "Maybe it's just… more of the same."

Dean shifted, turning to face Sam. "Sam—"

"Maybe we were wrong," Sam interrupted, looking around the empty room. "Maybe it was supposed to be a church. Maybe it wasn't forgiveness..."

Dean frowned. "This isn't like you, man."

Sam settled his eyes on Dean's. "Huh?"

"You don't… second guess," Dean shifted the shotgun so that he could better grip the barrel with his bandaged hand.

Sam looked back toward Patience's coffin. "Yeah, well… things change."

Dean started to shake his head when he noticed a shadow shifting across the smooth planes of Sam's face. A shadow that looked like… a wing.

With an abbreviated gasp of realization, Dean shot his eyes to the entrance, bringing the shotgun to point position as he turned. Bob stood at the top step, wings spreading, blocking the light that filtered in through the open doorway. Dean's finger flexed on the trigger but before he could fire, Bob tilted his head gently to the side, a slight frown turning down the edges of his lips as amusement crinkled the corners of his blue eyes. The tranquility of the angel's expression gave Dean pause, and was his undoing.

He had one second to register the shock on Sam's face, then was lifted into the air and flung violently across the room, his barely-healed back slamming against the unforgiving stone with brutal impact. Air rushed from his lungs, and Dean felt pain radiate through his chest and neck, rattling his teeth with its force.

"No!" Sam bellowed, and surged forward.

Instinctively, Dean lifted the shotgun he'd managed to somehow maintain in his grip. In one fluid motion, Bob glided down the steps and faced Dean, his head squaring up on his shoulders, his lips sliding up into a smile. With a brief flick of his fingers, Bob ripped the shotgun from Dean's hand, bending the barrel in half before Dean's shocked eyes.

"Son of a bitch," Dean gasped ineffectually. Tightening the muscles in his stomach, chest, shoulders, he tried to pull himself away from the wall. "Son of a bitch!" he yelled when he was unable to do more than tilt his head. He'd felt this before. Too many times. He was trapped, and Sam was vulnerable. Not again… notagainnotagainnotagain…

"Dean!" Sam raised his shotgun, keeping it on Bob and heading for Dean's pinned body.

As Dean watched, Sam seemed to slam against air, stumbling back and blinking as though he'd run into a brick wall. Bob chuckled, watching as Sam raised a tentative hand, feeling along the barrier that kept him from his brother. Dean had a wild thought that Sam looked a bit like a killer mime before he turned his back to Dean and leveled the shotgun on Bob once more.

"Where is he?" Sam demanded, his voice a low, dangerous growl. Dean felt a shiver build around his heart at that sound. Sam didn't sound like Sammy… he didn't sound like his little brother. He sounded like a killer.

Bob's wings folded, the blackened, mangled one shaking a bit as it retracted against the angel's back. The loose-fitting shirt ruffled a bit as the feathered appendages disappeared from view, and Bob crossed his arms, his smile turning into a satisfied smirk.

"Who?" he asked.

Sam cocked the shotgun. "Your seventh victim, you evil bastard. Where is Wrath?!"

"You think I'm just going to tell you?"

"Yes," Sam asserted, firing one barrel of rock salt just over Bob's shoulder.

With a muffled screech that sounded like a rabbit caught in a hunter's snare, Bob flinched, ducking his head into his shoulder. He brought his head back up quickly when Sam cocked the second barrel and Dean saw a deadly light emanate from the angel's large eyes. He tried once more to pull away from the wall, panting with the effort. His bruised back whimpered in protest.

"Samuel," Bob said, unnerving them both by chuckling once more. "You did figure out my little riddle, I'll give you that… but you just don't get it, do you?"

"I'm done with riddles, you sick fuck," Sam growled. "Tell. Us. Where. He. Is."

Folding his lips together in a mock frown, Bob tilted his head, looking over at Dean. In that moment, Dean felt a cold dread in his gut that he'd not felt since waking in the hospital in Missouri when he should never have woken up at all. His body began to tremble from the inside out.

Oh, God… Sammy…

Dean opened his mouth to warn his brother, to tell him what he'd suddenly seen written on Bob's face, echoing from Bob's eyes, but a blinding pain stole his breath, silencing him. He felt a hot slash at the back of his head, and arched his neck against the onslaught of sensation, pressing his head against the wall with an audible groan.

Dean clenched his teeth, knowing Sam heard him, knowing he was worrying Sam, trying to keep the pain locked inside, trying to understand why he suddenly felt wetness running down the back of his neck when he was shocked again by the stinging, familiar pain of cuts on the side of his face that had been healing from Andre's Hail Mary through the wall of the warehouse. His cheek and forehead opened up, blood spilling from these old wounds as though a week hadn't passed.

"Aw, damn…" Dean breathed, feeling his jaw tremble as he worked to brace against the pain. What the hell is happening to me…

Sam stepped toward him, his hand up against the invisible barrier. "Dean?"

Jesus, Sammy… don't… don't listen to him… It took Dean a full minute and the heavy impact of his brother's worried eyes to realize that he hadn't spoken aloud.

"You see," Bob said conversationally, uncrossing his arms, and rubbing his left hand with his right, the motion looking disturbingly like John Winchester habit of doing the same thing while thinking. "I'd planned this so perfectly. I had someone all picked out… the perfect ending to this saga. I would put your George Lucas to shame."

Bob turned from the brother's and began to walk toward Patience Wild's stone coffin. Sam tracked his motion with his body, shooting an incredulous look over his shoulder to Dean at Bob's words. Dean swallowed, wanting desperately to wipe the blood from his eyes.

"Sam…" he whispered. Bob cut him off.

"You see," Bob continued, running a slim, graceful finger along the edge of the chiseled stone. "Carlos Montoya's wife? Was Michael Reese's sister. She didn't know what her husband had done to her brother. And when she found out… well, her fury would have been beautiful. But then," Bob glanced over at Dean, his eyes cold. "I met you, Dean. Standing outside of that motel room. The weight of the world on your shoulders."

Sam shifted confused eyes between Bob and Dean.

"Sam!" Dean hissed.

"Do not stand at my grave and cry, I am not there, I did not die," Bob read, his voice an eerie sing-song. "Sound familiar, Dean? Guess what's dead didn't stay dead after all, did it?"

"Get to the point, why don't you?" Sam snarled, the shotgun flush against his shoulder, his eye on the sight, aimed at Bob.

Bob turned, resting his backside against the stone, crossing his arms with a soft laugh. "Oh, Sam," he shook his head. "I'm already there. I mean, don't you see? Dean is perfect. Perfect. He's a scoundrel, a rebel. His life is practically a homage to the Seven Deadly Sins. He is the reason the Ten Commandments were written!"

Sam lowered the shotgun slowly, looking at his bleeding brother pinned to the wall. "What…"

"He is a walking testament to pain. Do you know how fantastic it would be to turn that pain to rage? Howeasy?"

"Sam… no…" Dean whispered, trying to force something—anything—past his frozen lips, but his body refused to cooperate. Sam's doubt and confusion dug into him deeper than the wound at the back of his head, the cuts on his face. The cracks on Sam's soul bled more freely and Dean felt Sam waver.Don't listen to him, Sammy… Bob stepped forward at Dean's whispered plea and lowered his chin, his eyes pin-pricks of light.

Dean felt his forehead split open, hairline to eyebrow, and he cried out in helpless pain. Oh, you sonuvabitch… Blood ran across the bridge of his nose, tracking down the opposite side of his face as it had when he'd hit the tombstone in the graveyard in Wyoming.

"You leave him alone, you bastard," Dean panted, trying to focus on the middle image of Bob as the world swam around him. If it weren't for the invisible force holding him against the wall, he would have been in a pile on the floor, and glad for it. "Sam…"

"Dean!"

Dean thought he heard Sam's finger flex on the trigger of the shotgun seconds before Bob flung his hand casually behind him and sent the gun flying from Sam's grasp.

"But then… I looked closer," Bob stepped forward, watching Dean bleed. "Your soul has already been touched by darkness, Dean. You have already given it up. You could never feel a rage as deep or as pure as the desperate wrath that drove you to that crossroads… could you?" Bob tilted his head, his eyes glittering in the dim light of the mausoleum. "But... I know someone who could..."

"F-fuck you," Dean panted, his vision fading at the edges. He swallowed the burning bile that rose to the base of his throat. He felt the splintered cuts on his hand flex open, felt the hot, sticky wetness of blood fill his palm and drip from his fingertips.

As if parting a wave of water, Bob leaned through the invisible barrier until his face was inches from Dean. In a whisper he said, "I'm going to take him, Dean. I'm going to take him from you while you watch. I'm going to have my way with him and you will have given your soul to save nothing."

"You bastard!" Dean tried to growl, hating himself as he heard the weakness in his voice.

He was burning and shaking from a bone-deep cold at the same time. His terror for Sam surpassed the mind-numbing pain reverberating through his head. He could taste the copper of his own blood as it seeped into the corners of his mouth and watched as Bob pulled his face back through the barrier.

Sam shot desperate eyes to him and Dean tried to warn him silently, praying the communication that worked for them in battle didn't fail him now. Sam reached into his pocket and pulled out one of the flasks of holy water. Dean looked back to Bob, his heart in his throat at the sight of the knowing smile twisting the angel's features from beauty to bitterness.

The pain that blossomed in Dean's head at that look blinded him and for a moment all he saw was white. White and heat and Sam's eyes.

"Sam…" he breathed.

"What are you doing to him?!" Sam bellowed.

Bob smiled, looking at Dean who was hanging like a gory rag doll against the wall. At the sight, Bob's face took on an expression bordering affection, like a child regarding an animal with a broken leg. It turned Sam's stomach.

"I'm simply reminding him of his past transgressions, Samuel." Bob's voice was soft, almost gentle. "Reminding him of his failures through the perfection that is agony. The purity of pain. All of his old wounds, every one, will be revealed to him until Dean knows the truth."

Sam heard his brother struggle against another wave of pain, saw him rear back against the wall, gasping. Sam's eyes flicked back to Bob, full of fire.

"The truth? What fucking sense of truth could you possibly have?" he spat.

Bob's smile pulled tight against his perfect teeth. "The truth you both so badly want to overcome," he replied. "The truth that there is no Heaven, only Hell for Dean."

Sam's face was burning, the rest of him shaking under the volatile storm of emotions that had been building for days, weeks. The angel's mockery combined with the sight of Dean writhing, bleeding—the thought that Dean's wounds, blood he'd spilled to protect others, to protect their family, to protect him, were being called reminders of his transgressions and failures—all of it fueled the heating of his blood, the flooding of his heart with ire, until he didn't care what the cost of tearing Bob apart would be. All he knew was that his hands ached to be wrapped around the angel's lying throat, to still his deriding lips.

Sam tried again to pass the barrier that kept him away from Dean, but before he could take the first step, Dean's face went tight with pain, the muscles and veins in his neck revealed beneath strained flesh as another wound re-opened. Another abbreviated cry left Dean, piercing Sam's heart before it was cut off by his brother's attempts to fight back. Sam saw Dean's bottom lip tremble in wake of the reminder of the sensation that had prologued this scar. Sam recognized the wound…

He had been the one to give it to Dean.

Sam's eyes widened with horror at the sight of Dean's shoulder opening up, the blood from the old bullet wound blossoming and spreading across his shirt.

"No…"

Bob shrugged, his focus on Dean, watching the dark stain expand. "It doesn't matter if you believe it is true. Dean will pay the price."

Sam had unscrewed the cap on the flask, hands trembling, causing some to spill out. Bob's words were the breaking point.

"He's paid enough!" Sam screamed, lunging toward the arrogant being, flinging holy water at Bob's face.

Bob flinched back and away, stumbling and crying out as his hands flew up to bat at the burning liquid. Sam didn't stop his assault, lashing out again with another powerful swing of his arm. The slicing arc of water connected with Bob's chest, singeing him instantly, causing smoke to rise from his once neatly-pressed shirt. The wail of pain reverberating from the angel did nothing but make Sam loath him even more.

"What gives you the right?!" Sam fumed, tossing more water, drawing out thicker clouds of smoke. "To pass judgment on my brother's life?!"

Dean watched, helpless to do anything but stay conscious and hope Sam would listen to him, as his body was wracked with uncontrolled tremors from the shock. Sam was seemingly unreachable, unrelenting, dousing Bob over and over with a fury that rivaled and overcame that day at the Hell's Gate. The darkness of Sam's voice, his stance, the way his face was contorted in his rage… Dean barely recognized him.

"S-Sam."

Dean ground out the name between clenched teeth, trying again to break through what had taken hold of his brother, but another wound tore open in his forehead before he could try again. This one was deeper, more painful than the last, the pain blooming back in a rippling effect through his skull, while wet warmth pulsed forward over his brow. His head started to spin violently, and his eyes fluttered shut against the vicious unsteadiness.

Sam had heard Dean's call, looking back to the see the new wound standing out against Dean's paling flesh like black on white. He saw Dean's eyelashes beat rapidly in pain, then clamp together before more blood pooled in around the edges. Sam spun on Bob, seething, chest heaving in powerful surges.

"Stop! Stop hurting him or I'll kill you so help me God!"

Bob stumbled way at the force behind Sam's voice. He was still burning, clothing saturated in holy water, smoke coated his limbs, rising from his shoulders in thick plumes.

He thrust out both wings as he lost his balance, going down to one knee. The feathers cut through the smoke, dispersing the thick mist away from his body. It caught the light from the stained glass, coating the air. It settled like a weak fog throughout the space, and because of it, Sam didn't notice the darker mist collecting along the floor, crawling out from the shadowed corners like vermin.

"God?" Bob laughed. "Why do you still call on God? He's turned his back. God's not gonna help you, Sam."

Bob's eyes slid toward Dean, but Sam's hand flung out in response, splashing more holy water into the angel's eyes.

"Leave. Him. Alone." Sam's voice darkened, the threat carrying with it a promise, commanding Bob's obedience or he'd tear out every last feather from his undeserved wings.

Dean forced his eyes open, blinking back the thick film of blood and tears that had blanketed his eyes, trying to see his brother. He saw Sam throw more holy water from his flask, heard Sam speak to the angel in a tone that was unnatural from his brother's lips, and wanted so desperately to pull Sam back.

Bob's only response to Sam's order was a deep, mocking laugh. Sam threw himself onto him, taking them both to the ground. Sam's hands wrapped around Bob's throat, and his fingers dug into the soft tissue of his jugular. Bob was almost limp, the smile never leaving his face.

The arrogance of that smile thrust Sam deeper into his ferocity. He slammed his fists against the smug expression like he had the night before, this time the punches not only breaking open the scabs on his knuckles, but breaking open the burned flesh of Bob's face. Seeing the pain, the damage he was finally able to inflict, Sam didn't stop. Couldn't stop.

"Why aren't you fighting back?!" Sam snarled.

Dean took in a stuttered breath as Sam's voice brought him from the black he had been drifting toward. He lifted heavy eyes to the scene he had been condemned to watch and suffer the inability to save Sam from a distance. He knew, even through the pain-drunk condition of his mind, that he had to keep fighting. He knew there had to be a way to reach Sam, to make him listen.

He saw the smoke, like a dark blanket of snow had settled over the mausoleum's floor. It had gathered about Sam's legs, churning about them with a life of its own. Dean whispered Sam's name again, pulling his head from his chest, keeping his eyes open despite the way they burned. He knew what was happening, what would happen to Sam if his brother failed to separate himself from the pain that had wrapped itself throughout him.

He'd read it only yesterday in that damn book. The wrathful were suffocated in blinding pillars of smoke.

"Sammy…"

Dean's plea was barely audible, his voice a weak mockery of his normal hearty defiance, yet it reached Sam. It snaked past the rage, the fury, the rebellion against the utter unfairness of their lives that had enveloped Sam with complete passion and soaked into his consciousness, pulling Sam's dark eyes from Bob's pliant face to regard his weakened, bloody brother.

"Sammy," Dean managed, blood dripping from his lower lip to splatter on the floor as he brought his head up. "Just… just leave… w-walk away… leave him…"

"Dean?"

"W-walk away, Sam," Dean whispered, his eyes blinking slow, light fading around the edges of his vision until only Sam's form remained clear.

Sam released his grip on Bob's shirt, his fist relaxing as the angel fell back against the cold stone floor. The searing cuts on his back suddenly, vividly made themselves known as he slowly straightened, the dark mist curling around his ankles, wrapping up his calves like transparent vines.

"What are you talking about?" Sam demanded, standing, facing his brother. "There's no way I'm leaving you!"

"Sam," Dean pulled his lower lip in, tasting his own blood, trying to swallow, feeling the tremble emanate from his heart to his fingertips. "You c-can't…can't let him win."

"What?"

"I made that… that deal," Dean pulled in a breath, forcing himself to continue. "I made that deal so that they wouldn'twin."

Sam stepped forward, blood dripping from his damaged knuckles as he relaxed his hands. His back was on fire; he felt wetness there from pulled stitches ignored in the heat of a rage-filled attack. "What… what do you mean?"

"We win, Sammy," Dean said, narrowing his eyes, forcing all of his strength, all of his love, all of his faith through his gaze and onto his brother. "You gotta believe that, man… y-you can beat this… beat him… but you have… have to believe…"

Sam pulled his brows together, taking in the image of Dean pinned against the wall, his shoulder, hand, and face gory with blood from Bob's "lesson," then turned slightly to look over his shoulder at Bob, the angel's face wet with blood from Sam's own hands.

They'll drag him down in to the pit, burn him alive, tear him apart and rip open his soul for eternity, Sam. There is nothing you can do. No amount of praying is going to stop that.

"Sam!" Dean barked suddenly, strength he didn't have echoing in his demand for his brother's attention. He felt his body heat up, felt an energy he'd always attributed to his father fill his heart, swamp his being until he could bring his head up fully and force his eyes to bore into Sam's.

"You listen to me," he growled. "He picked you. You're Wrath. He thinks he can get to you... play you. He thinks he can win, but he's wrong, isn't he?"

Sam blinked, realization of the truth in Dean's words saturating him.

"Isn't he?" Dean bellowed. "He can't win if you believe in something… bigger than us, Sammy. You can beat this!"

Dean felt his chest constrict as the surge of strength that had allowed him to utter those words with the steel of the soldier he was born to be waned and he was left swimming in pain and blood. His lashes fluttered as his eyes fought to close and his head dropped once.

"Sam…" he practically begged, dragging his head up once more, willing himself to seek out his brother with burning eyes. "I need you to believe…"

Dean's exhaustion was complete, but he looked at his brother through heavy eyes. He needed to see Sam, find his brother's eyes, seek out his balance. Sam had always been Dean's faith. He knew that now with a certainty born from the reality of death. Dean had never believed in anything as he believed in Sam. And if Sam lost his faith…

As Dean watched, Sam stepped away from Bob, closing the distance between himself and the invisible barrier that kept them apart in two strides. The smoky mist that had been wrapping around Sam's legs began to fade, retreating slowly back to its mysterious origins.

"Dean, I—" Sam began, reaching a trembling, bloody hand toward Dean.

"NO!" Bob growled from the stone floor, his tone echoing the darkness of his fallen soul.

Dean blinked and Sam turned as Bob whipped his burned face toward Dean, holy water and blood splashing onto the stone around him with the force of his movement.

Sam caught his breath, complete fear filling him as he turned back to Dean, following Bob's eye-line. In a second, Sam's world stilled as Dean cried out with pain—a gut-wrenching sound that threatened to buckle Sam's knees as he was forcibly reminded of the moment in the Missouri cabin, their father staring at his brother with a hated, yellow-eyed gaze as Dean's life bled from him.

"Dean!"

"Aww… God…" Dean gasped as his chest opened up, blood spilling from wounds too deep for memory, too deep for healing, too deep to survive. His agony was complete. He could barely pull in air, the sharp pain in his chest denying his lungs the ability to function as they were designed to do. He was fading, the edges of his vision crumpling to steal away his one focus, his one reality: Sam. "Sam… please…"

"No…" Sam stumbled forward with a sob, reaching out, unable to get close to his brother, unable to save him.

Dean met his eyes for one brief moment and Sam felt his brother's pain through the hazel depths pleading with him. Blood spilled from Dean's mouth, joining the trail of red already dripping from his chin, and fell to the stone floor beneath him. Sam felt hot tears trail from the corners of his eyes to the corners of his mouth as he watched Dean blink slowly, his brother fighting to stay with him, fighting to stay in this.

Rage flashed white-hot inside of Sam.

"No!" No! No way it ends like this! Noway Dean dies like this!!

Sam turned with a wordless roar, striding up to Bob's still-sprawled form and emptied the remaining bottle of holy water onto the angel's upturned face. He panted with grim satisfaction as Bob writhed in pain, his scream that of a thousand voices crying out in terror. Sam didn't flinch, didn't duck, didn't cover his ears. He relished the pain he was causing, soaked up the screams, enjoyed the thrashing of Bob's body as it bucked against the burns incited by the blessed water.

When the water was spent, Sam reached for Bob's trembling body, unaware of the gray mist that had wrapped up his legs, coiled around his waist was traveling in a steady, focused path for his neck. Gripping Bob's soaked shirt, Sam started to haul the angel's limp body forward, rearing his fist back, when he heard Dean's voice as close as if his brother was standing next to him.

"Sam," Dean whispered. "If you do this… you kill us both."

Sam whipped his head around to look at Dean. His brother's eyes were barely open, his lips hardly moving, but Sam could hear him clearly.

"Don't give up on me. D-don't give me up, Sam. You gotta believe… in something bigger than us, man…"

"Dean," Sam whispered.

"You'remy faith," Dean's voice asserted, pain unable to weaken the conviction held inside of those four words.

As Sam watched, Dean's eyes rolled back in his head, his lashes brushing his bruised, bloody cheeks, and his head dropped to his chest, his body limp against the invisible force holding him to the wall.

"God, no…" Sam moaned.

Bob cackled in Sam's grip.

The cruelty of his laughter pulled Sam's attention, and he reluctantly looked away from Dean to look back at the thing in his hands, saw it celebrating victory with merciless eyes. Sam's hands loosened their grip on Bob's shirt in his devastation, and he found himself compelled to stare. The once hot rage that had fueled his strength was waning, cooling, dying off with every second that passed where Dean's silence was louder than the twisted sounds flooding past the angel's bloodied lips.

Bob's face was red with welts and blisters, disfigured by blood and bruises. Sam took in the bright blue of his eyes, saw the insanity churning there. He saw his own wild rage reflected, saw the manic nature he'd just given in to, and his breath caught with realization of how close to the edge of losing himself he'd been. Bloody tufts of feathers surrounded them. Bob's wings were as broken and twisted as Sam felt.

We can forgive…

For a brief moment, Sam felt sorry for him.

Something within Sam broke past the hate. The sight of what his hands had done culminated with the desire to get to Dean and the knowledge that his anger would only hurt his brother more, and it forced him to pause.

You're my faith…Dean's words washed over him like a balm, centering him, pulling him back toward a part of himself that he'd stopped listening to after all that he and Dean had faced. Sam stumbled back, legs suddenly weak from the gravity of what it took to open himself up again, to trust, to have faith.

He was aware of the smoke now, could see the way it was curled around his torso, but as he continued to back away from the angel's mocking laughter and blood-smeared visage, the supernatural mist started to dissipate.

In the next instant, Bob shot to his feet with unnatural speed, his movement so surreal and startling that Sam fell back against the stone floor. He could see the murder in Bob's eyes, agitated more by Sam's retreat.

"There are more wounds to inflict!" He growled. "Your brother led a very violent, bloody life!"

Sam scrambled to his feet, shaking slightly from the sudden change in direction, from the panic that was building within him knowing that Dean was dying, from struggling against everything inside of him that wanted to fight back. He shook his head in defiance of Bob's incitement, sliding one foot behind the other, hands raised in surrender. He wasn't looking at Dean, or the blood collecting beneath his broken brother's feet. He wasn't looking at the irate creature in front of him, the symbol of faith lost, of wrath, of death. Sam wasn't looking at anything within the confines of the mausoleum.

His heel connected with the wall, and he couldn't go any further. With a trembling hand out in front of him, he reached for the floor, bending down onto one knee, eyes lifted.

"Please," his voice wavered, barely carrying the whisper. "Please. He has to live…"

The grotesquely disfigured wings at Bob's back opened to reveal bloody bone and large chunks of feathers missing from his once majestic span. His deranged appearance was made only more complete by the wrath-drunk look in his eyes at Sam's actions. Sam's pleas for Dean's life only added to the livid curl of Bob's lips.

"Not likely," he snarled, thrusting out a hand toward Dean, fully intent on causing the last moment of pain, wrenching the last bit of blood Dean's body held at bay, pulling the last bit of life from him.

But nothing happened.

Dean hung against the wall, blood still pouring from his wounds, running in rivulets down his fingers and lips, but no new wounds appeared. Bob roared in frustration, holding his hand out again to Dean, but this time Dean fell forward, released from his invisible restraints, and crumpled into a heap at the base of the wall.

Sam scrambled to his feet and sprinted to Dean's side, sliding in beside him, the barrier that had kept them apart eliminated. He pulled Dean's limp, bloody form up into his lap, cradling his brother's head against his chest. Sam felt warmth spill over his hands, his legs, his torso, and it took all he had to keep from loosing what strength he had left, drowning in the hopelessness that the sight that Dean this broken, this close to death, created.

Sam heard Bob bellow in an unparalleled rage; heard the sound of hundreds of voices wailing, howling, crying out, all intermixed within the soul-jarring noise that had infected the air around them. Sam pulled Dean closer to him, protecting him with the shield of his body, readying himself for the attack that he could feel building in the storm of resonance surrounding them.

The angel had been denied his seventh victim because Sam believed, because Dean had faith in him, and his resulting fury shook the very foundations of the building and poured over them in waves of heat and wind that made it hard to breathe.

Through the chaos Sam risked a look at Bob, lifting his eyes through wind-whipped bangs without moving his body, remaining Dean's last safeguard. Bob stood with crooked wings outstretched, shaking, broken, and bone bare. One clawed hand, reaching toward both of them, was trembling more violently then the tattered appendages behind him. He appeared to be stopped by something, frozen by his own invisible barrier, trapped like Dean had been.

The smoke that had been twisting around Sam's legs moments ago suddenly shot up from the ground, encasing Bob in a whirlwind of darkness. The force of the winds, the power behind the strange mist, was tearing away at what was left of his wings, filling Bob's mouth and nose, and pushing into his eye sockets, destroying the blue light. The screams were cut off, choked by smoke, and in their place was a dry rasping cry that gurgled to a stop as Bob was completely consumed by the product of his Wrath.

Sam had one last look at the shell of what Bob had been, the shriveled remnant of a once-beautiful creature, and then he was gone in a single bright burst of light and fire, that seared Sam's eyes, forcing him to look away with an abbreviated cry.

The air stilled, became less thick, and Sam's heart ached with the staggering loneliness that moved in swiftly after the smoke had dispersed.

He was alone.

His brother was bleeding to death in his arms.

"Dean," Sam whispered his name, choking on the weight of his tears. "He's gone now… you can wake up."

Sam felt a bead of moisture run down along his cheek, followed by another which collected on his lips. He tasted the salt of his tears, watching a few drip from the end of his nose and mix with the blood on Dean's lashes. "Go on, Dean, open your eyes. Open your eyes. DEAN. Open your eyes. I heard you… I listened… I believe, Dean."

Dean didn't move, didn't flinch. Sam watched his chest rise and fall slowly, barely moving beneath the fabric of his blood-soaked shirt. He could feel more of Dean's blood filling his hands, pressing its way through Sam's fingers. There was too much pouring from his wounds to try to stop. He knew this, yet he kept pressing against the jagged openings, telling himself that Dean would be all right if he could just get him back to the Impala, if he could just find something to tie off his shoulder, to pack his chest…

"Dean…"

Sam could feel Dean slipping, could feel his brother leaving him with every increasingly-weaker breath he took, with every pulse of warmth that spilled over Sam's hand…

There was nothing Sam could do to save Dean, and with that final realization, he felt something tear loose inside of him.

Sam threw back his head and screamed with a broken, hollowed-out sound that only a soul being rendered in half could make. The hopeless cry ended in a gasping sob that ripped through the empty, quiet crypt in a gut-wrenching echo. He tugged Dean closer to him, wrapping his arms around him tighter, rocking a little like a scared child.

Sam's eyes lifted to the stained glass, taking in the colors, the pictures that were supposed to bring hope... They held nothing for him, and the glare burned his tear-raw eyes. He ducked his head back into the shadow of his body, pressing shut his eyes, pushing out large, hot tears.

"I prayed…every day..." He whispered. Inside he was open, a wounded mess. "Everyday…and I'm still going to lose you…" He sucked in a breath, felt his chest shudder against the weight of it, and shook his head. He'd never experienced more perfected agony.

"Please…" The plea barely passed his lips, showering more tears upon Dean's pale cheeks. "Dean gave everything for me—all of his life…" Sam lifted his eyes again, not caring if it hurt to stare directly into the light pouring in through the windows. "When will it be enough? Please…don't…"

It was the question of soul left bare. It was all he had left. Sam closed his eyes, holding his brother tight, willing his warmth to seep into the cold that wrapped around Dean. I'm not ready…

Unable to do more, he bowed his head, trying to appeal to the one thing that had never let him down: his brother's will.

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Dean was cold.

Achingly cold. To-the-bone cold. He'd felt this before. He remembered falling through the ice once when he was young—eight or nine. He'd been trying to take a short cut through a wooded lot to get to John, hadn't seen the snow-covered pond, and before he could take a breath, he'd gone down. It had only taken a minute for his body to go numb, for his heart to pound painfully in his ears, behind his eyes, for his lungs to scream in protest. He'd felt his bones crackle with the pain of the cold before his father's strong arms sluiced through the frigid wet to grasp his reaching hands and haul him to safety.

That chill was nothing like the sensation that currently wrapped around him. He knew it was the grip of death that held him, pulling him to the icy center of hell that Dante had described so vividly, trapping him in a lonely existence of burning cold, demonic taunting, helpless struggles. He wanted to breathe, wanted the relief of air filling his lungs, the warmth that meant life, light, hope.

He wanted to tremble, to shiver, to move.

He's gone now… you can wake up…

Who was gone? Dad? Wait, no, not Dad… Dad had fought his way free, had climbed from the depths of the Inferno itself, had returned to him the very moment he'd so desperately needed his father, had saved his life. Then who…

Dean suddenly felt something familiar gripping him tightly, holding him close. Something he'd know anywhere, something he'd know blind: Sam. He knew his brother better than anyone. He realized he was no longer pinned to the stone wall of the mausoleum. He could feel the closeness of his brother's warmth, hear his brother's voice, sense the tremor of terror held at bay in Sam's words.

He struggled to bring those words into focus, struggled to understand the weight, the meaning Sam's voice carried with it. But he couldn't… couldn't move, couldn't breathe, and he was beginning to panic. Not breathing was bad. Not breathing and being so cold… God he was so… cold…

Salty wetness fell against his slightly parted lips, rolling slowly across the wounded surface and trickling onto his lax tongue. Tears. Sam's tears.

Open your eyes, Dean… DEAN. Open your eyes… Please… I heard you… I listened…

Heard him? What had he said?

When will it be enough? Please…don't…

Dean fought against the overpowering weakness that swamped him, pulling him down into a darkness so complete he instinctively knew there was no coming back, tugging at him with greedy fingers of desire, dragging him low before he was ready.

I believe… I believe… Dean? You hear me? I believe… I—

"…believe. Dean? Okay? You can open your eyes now. C'mon, man, please. Please don't do this."

He heard him now. Heard Sam. He grabbed onto his brother's words like a life line, climbing away from the seductive lure of the dark, tightening his fingers around Sam's bloody hand, squeezing back as hard as he could.

"Dean?"

Dean forced his eyes open, succeeding in separating his lashes with a small sliver of green, seeing Sam's glistening eyes in the soft light of the mausoleum.

"Dean, you with me? Hey… hey man, keep those eyes open, okay? We won, Dean. We beat him. I believe, okay? I believe. You were right…"

Sam's words trembled and tumbled from him like water over rocks, tripping in an eagerness to convince his brother that he needed to stay.

Dean dug deep, pulling from his gut his last reserve of strength, just enough to whisper two words: "I know."

He took a shuttering breath, knowing this time with certainty that it should be his last. His weariness took hold of him. His will was tapped. He'd fought the last good fight, and as he predicted, saving his brother had been the last thing he did. He felt his mouth relax into a smile as Sam's desperate tears dripped from his chin to splash against Dean's bloody face. He felt Sam's hand crush his face against him and relaxed against the familiar smell that was Sam, ready to give in.

In that moment of surrender, Dean's body was filled with heat—heat so intense that it seared his heart, his lungs, his throat. He fell victim to the power of that heat, his back arching against Sam's arms, his head falling back as he cried out in pain. He was on fire, his chest alight with it, his shoulder burning, his head in flames. Every wound that Bob's power had opened shook through him with a frighteningly concentrated force.

"Ahhh!!" Dean screamed, his cries covering the echo of pain that shot through Sam as his body bucked in his brother's arms.

Sam had jerked in fear when Dean suddenly arched in his arms, screaming as if he were being cut in two. Light shone from Dean's body, shooting from his opened mouth, his closed eyes, his ears, his wounded chest, his fisted fingers—shone in a blinding brilliance that illuminated the dim cavern of the mausoleum and shot through Sam's bowed body with a surprising shock of heat and pain, burning the slashed wounds that traversed across Sam's back from the angel's attack.

His body a volcano of pain, Dean tried to reach for Sam, wanting to ground himself as he was taken over the edge, wanting to hold on just a little bit longer, but he could do nothing more than clench his jaw and hope for an end to the torment. His throat felt torn, his body trembling, his hands shaking. He could barely feel Sam's arms around him anymore.

And then it was over.

Silence once again surrounded them, broken only by the harsh sounds of their breathing. Dean's heart beat in his ears, behind his eyes, in his throat, everywhere, it seemed, but where it was supposed to beat. He cautiously opened his eyes, looking up, then around. He was lying against Sam, his back and head on Sam's legs, Sam's arm under his neck.

Sam was curled over him in an exhausted, protective slump. He could feel Sam shaking and carefully rolled his eyes to find his brother's features, afraid that any sudden movement of his head would send it rolling from his shoulders and across the stone floor of the mausoleum.

Sam's tears tracked down his smooth face, collecting on his chin, but no longer gathered in his eyes. He was blinking at Dean in bewilderment.

"What…" Dean tried, swallowing against the rawness of his ravaged throat. "What happened?"

"I…" Sam started, then looked over to the center of the room where Dean had last seen Bob.

Dean reached a hesitant hand to his chest, realizing for the first time since the intense heat had ended that he no longer felt pain. No pain. Not in his chest, his shoulder, his hand… no pain in his head. His fingers trembled as they traveled from his chest to his face, feeling for the cuts he knew had opened up there. Blood was wet on his chin, down his cheek across his forehead, but...

"They're… Dean, they're gone," Sam whispered.

"Gone?"

"Yeah," Sam tugged the sticky, blood-soaked shoulder of Dean's T-shirt down a bit, touching his brother's scarred, healed skin in wonder. "All of them. Gone."

"How?" Dean tightened his stomach muscles and pulled himself forward, feeling Sam's hand press against his back, helping him sit up next to his brother in a tangled heap of confused wonder.

Sam swallowed. "Um…"

Dean started to shake his head. "Wait… you don't think…"

Had he been... healed? The heat… the light…

"You told me to believe, man," Sam said, blinking at Dean. He reached up to wipe the back of his hand across his tear-streaked face. "You knew what Bob was doing. You knew how to get rid of him."

Dean pressed his hand against his chest once more, feeling the sticky wetness of blood there, but no wounds underneath. "I was trying to save you, Sam," he said, hearing the weakness still present inside of his own words. "I didn't think—"

"What? That you could be saved, too?" Sam challenged.

Dean blinked at his brother, wanting to believe, afraid to trust. He looked down at his wet T-shirt, wiping ineffectually at the blood covering his hand.

"All I know, man," Sam said in a low whisper, "is that… you screamed… and the whole room filled with this… this blinding light…"

He'd been healed. "I… I don't… I don't believe it." Dean stared at his bloody hand, seeing the evidence of the pain he could still remember but no longer feel. He'd told Sam to believe, he'd needed Sam to believe, instinctively knowing that it was the only way to save his brother, the only way to defeat the angel. But he hadn't thought that he…

He felt Sam's hesitant fingers touch his forehead where moment before a deep gash had been and he flinched back.

"Sorry," Sam whispered. "I just… there was so much blood, and you… God, Dean, you were…"

Dean swallowed.

"I'm not ready." Sam's voice was barely audible, but it cut as deep into Dean as the old wounds Bob had revisited upon him.

Dean closed his eyes, unaware that he'd once again pressed his hand to his chest, his hands slipping a bit on the blood saturating the cotton of his shirt. I'm not ready… Sam's confession echoed the quiet plea of his own heart. The words he could never say to Sam. The knowledge that Sam would one day know the pain of holding his brother in his arms and know he wasn't sleeping… he wasn't coming back…

"Hey," Dean said suddenly, looking up at Sam's face, seeing the achingly young look in his brother's eyes. "What about you?"

"Me?" Sam frowned, confused.

Dean reached for Sam's shoulder, turning him so that he could get to the back of his T-shirt. "What about you?" he repeated.

"Hey!" Sam protested, trying to twist away, but Dean was too quick. One glance told him that the triple tracks of stitches he'd carefully applied last night to Sam's back were no longer there.

"Holy shit," Dean breathed. You have to believe in something bigger than us, man…

"Gone?" Sam's voice was hopeful, hesitant.

"Yeah," Dean whispered. "Yeah, Sammy, they're… they're gone."

The sat together for a moment, eyes down, backs bowed with astonishment, silence their only reverence. Dean was the first to raise his head, staring at Sam's profile, waiting for his brother to meet his eyes. He cleared his throat, trying to regroup, working to assimilate all that had happened to them that morning.

"What about Bob?" Dean asked, his lips quirking at his own pun.

Sam looked over to where he'd seen the gray mist of Wrath's punishment wrap around Bob. A small pile of white feathers topped by a single, singed, black feather was the only reminder that a fallen angel had once stood among them.

"Smoked," Sam said.

Dean looked at the feathers. "How's that for poetic justice, huh? Angry angel taken out by Wrath."

Sam nodded, then with a sigh, pushed himself slowly to his feet, reaching a hand down for Dean.

Dean looked up at him. "We did it, man."

"I guess," Sam allowed as Dean gripped his wrist, hauling his brother to his feet. He flexed the muscles across his back, relishing the lack of pain, the absence of the tight pull of stitches that had been there just minutes before.

Dean wavered a moment. "Whoa."

"Take it easy, okay? You lost a lot of blood."

"Guess blood loss isn't..." Dean swallowed, blinking, working to focus his eyes. "Isn't covered in the Heavenly Healthcare Plan."

"No, guess not," Sam gripped Dean's upper arm until his brother appeared steadier. "But I'll take wound healing over the alternative."

"Yeah, me, too," Dean nodded, toeing the pile of feathers with the tip of his boot.

"Think we should do something with those?" Sam asked.

"Like what? Stuff a pillow?"

"Not funny, man."

"It was a little funny," Dean grinned, leaning slightly into Sam's strong grip.

"You're unbelievable," Sam shook his head.

"Dude, seriously? Do not bum me out on this. We defeated an angel."

Sam frowned. "He defeated himself. All we did was survive."

"Yeah, well," Dean held Sam's eyes. "Some days, that's enough."

Sam sighed, allowing his face to relax into a smile that echoed his brother's. "You ready?"

Dean nodded, letting Sam turn him toward the door and the stone steps. Sam kept his hand on Dean's arm, feeling his brother's unsteady tremble beneath his fingertips.

"I've had about enough of the Friendliest Goddamn Town in Oklahoma," Dean muttered as they stepped from the gray interior of the mausoleum into the bright sunlight of the Sunday afternoon.

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a/n: Thanks all for reading and letting us know what you think. We wouldn't want to do this without you.

The poem carved on Patience Wild's coffin is Do not stand at my grave and weep by Mary Frye, 1932

To be concluded…