A/N: Thank you everyone for sticking with me through this story. TraSan and Heather03nmg have been very persistent about asking for a little hope…And I think the time has come, I promise actual hope by the end of this chapter.

Warning: Contains references to forced drug use, human sacrifice, torture and very disturbing imagery.

In Darkness Let Me Dwell

Chapter Seven

Foe of mankind, why murd'rest thou my love?

Evening light lit the ranch house, the scent of rotting flesh rolling towards them on the light breeze. Bobby glanced around, his team was ready to move in. The police had alerted them the night before. Four days in Carlsbad and finally something, of course it's halfway back to Roswell. Bobby raised his hand and gestured for the team to get moving. He walked onto the porch and opened the door, steeling himself as the stench increased. Altar first.

Since they'd found Dean, Bobby took extra care in destroying the altars. He enjoyed watching them shatter, hoping that each one brought them a little closer to killing the thing that had taken Dean. He'd spoken with Sam the night before. Bobby could hear the exhaustion in the young hunter's voice. Sam was starting to break. Bobby had seen it coming for weeks, now with Dean back physically, but still lost to them, Sam was starting to lose himself.

It scared the hell out of Bobby.

He was panicked that he would lose Sam, too. Bobby accepted Dean was gone, dead for all intents and purposes, but Sam was starting to have hope, Bobby could hear it in his voice, and he knew that hope would eventually kill Sam. The tight control Sam maintained was terrifying—knowing what it was doing to Sam to was even more frightening.

Bobby had called CJ the night before, he'd been keeping touch more than usual this time out. It'd been four days since he'd headed south to Carlsbad. Bobby knew that Sam had taken Dean home, and was now bringing him to and from the small house. CJ told Bobby that Dean followed Sam like a puppy, never straying away, eyes focused on his brother as he walked—and if Sam was out of sight for more than a second, Dean panicked.

One of his boys was gone, the other slowly killing himself.

Bobby walked to the altar and shoved it over, watching as it broke apart. The room looked a little different than the others he'd been in. Everything is a little different for some reason. He turned and walked into the antechamber. Not many bodies.

They'd been at Carlsbad Caverns two days before. The park hadn't been very cooperative, but the police and Sam had forced their hand. Bobby and his team had found a sacrificial altar deep in the earth, the old blood stinking in the dark cave. They'd spent another fifteen hours looking for more evidence of the thing and its followers, but except for one broken jade bowl, there was nothing else.

"Bobby!" Ian called. "We've got a host." Bobby ran down the hall, stopping in the doorway. The man was crouched in the far corner, cringing, making small whimpering noises. Ian was kneeling beside him, for all his brashness, Ian was gentle with the victims.

"I'll call the clinic and let them know. It was time to head back, anyway," Bobby said, pulling out his phone. He called Sam first.

"Hey, Bobby, how's it going?" Sam's voice was weary.

"We found a host."

"Alive?"

"Yeah, we're bringing him up," Bobby said.

"Good, we'll meet you at the clinic," Sam said with a sigh.

"Sam? What's wrong?"

"Dean…" Sam stopped. "Nothing, Bobby. I'll see you in a couple of hours."

"Okay." Bobby broke the connection. That's it. I'm talking to him as soon as I can, he can't go on like this.

XXX

"Bobby's on the way back," Sam said, putting his phone in his pocket. "They found another host." Two sets of eyes were watching him. Dean and Harry were curled up together on a blanket in the dappled sun under the peach trees. "He won't be back for awhile, you two rest."

Sam took a breath, trying to control the pounding of his heart, trying to control the smothering guilt flowing through him. Sam had risked taking a shower at home. In the days since he'd brought Dean back to the small house, his brother seemed calmer, more at peace. An hour before, Sam had left Dean sitting quietly on the floor of the bathroom, Harry beside him and had stepped into the shower. As he shut the water off, Sam heard a car going through the alley, music blaring, the bass thumping so loudly the window rattled.

When Sam opened the shower curtain, Dean wasn't in the room. Sam panicked, racing through the house, calling Dean's name, trying to keep his voice calm. Harry's bark from the back bedroom alerted him. Sam had run into Dean's room, Harry was standing by the closet. Sam looked into the dark space. Dean was pressed into the corner, arms over his head, whimpering. After half an hour, Sam managed to coax his terrified brother out and into the sunlight.

Sam sighed. Dean was doing better physically, the wound was healing, his pain response was starting to function correctly again, he was even gaining a little weight. But mentally, he's still gone. Sam knew Bobby wanted to talk to him. They'd had the conversation twice already. "You need to accept it, Sam, like you told me. Dean's gone, dead. Not coming back. You have to take care of yourself." Somewhere inside himself he knew Bobby was right, he'd said it himself when they'd first found Dean, but over the last few days, his brother had started responding more, recognizing more words…

It gave Sam hope.

The hope will kill me, I know it.

Sam scrubbed his hands across his face and turned back to the reports. They'd lost all but one of the victims. The thing swept through the clinic every night, taking the few remaining hosts. Sam spoke with CJ and they decided sedate the last victim and keep him that way. Now we've got another host on the way. Sam sighed, shuffling through the papers. Every time he thought he'd found an answer to the thing's identity, the lead would fall through. I wish… Sam clamped down on that thought before it was fully formed.

"We should get going, Dean," Sam said two hours later. His brother looked up at him. "You ready?" Sam stood, Dean pushed himself off the ground. He patted Harry, then walked over to Sam.

"Mfph?" Dean asked, wrapping his hand around Sam's wrist.

"It's okay, Harry will be here when we get back to the house." Sam smiled and led Dean through the house. Once they were out the front door, Dean broke away and dashed for the car. He was in the passenger seat before Sam could pull the keys out. A vague memory from childhood swam into his awareness. Dean, at age ten, shouting "shotgun" and racing to the car. Sam swallowed the sudden pain, trying to keep the tears in his eyes. After he started the car and backed out, Dean reached over for his hand. The fact that Dean understood he needed to wait before taking Sam's hand was another source of hope for Sam.

Dogs learn that kind of thing too, it doesn't mean he's coming back. You need to face that. Sam pulled onto the main street. He's not coming back, this is your brother now. Sam swallowed. No. He'll make it back. He has to.

Sam pulled into their spot at the clinic. Dean waited in the car until Sam walked around and opened the door. His brother stood and let Sam lead him into the building. They came and went through the back door, it was less visible from both the parking lot and the building. Once they were in the office, Sam settled Dean in the recliner, covered him and buzzed CJ to let her know they were there.

"Sam?" Bobby's voice pulled him away from the computer sometime later.

"Hey, Bobby," Sam said, blinking. Dean looked over at Sam, making a small sound. "It's okay, Dean. It's Bobby, Dean. Bobby." Sam reached out and laid his hand on Dean's arm. "Talk to him. Use his name. He recognizes his name."

"Dean?" Bobby walked towards the desk. Dean shifted closer to Sam, he could feel his brother trembling under his hand. "Dean, it's me, Bobby, remember me, Dean?"

"Mfph?" Dean looked at Sam.

"It's okay, Dean. Bobby is our friend." Sam looked at the older hunter, Bobby's face was tight with pain, his eyes bright with unshed tears.

"Yeah, Dean, I'm your friend, Bobby, remember, Dean?" Bobby crouched down beside the chair, so he was lower than Dean. "I bought you your first bottle of tequila, Dean, remember?" Bobby looked up at Sam. "John was a little pissed when he found out."

"You did? I never knew," Sam said, smiling at the older hunter.

"Yeah, it was after a hunt when you were fourteen, you'd been hurt, Dean was upset, and once we knew you were going to make it, I got Dean drunk." Bobby reached out and put his hand on Dean's leg.

"Mfph?"

"It's okay, Dean," Sam said. "You said you found another host?"

"Yeah, CJ checked him, five entries."

"Five?" Sam frowned. "The guy we caught, he said he served the one of seven and the one of five."

"You think this victim was with Dean?" Bobby asked.

"Maybe." Sam looked at his brother. If they were together—how would seeing him affect Dean? "I want to see him. Dean? Want to take a walk?" Sam tugged on Dean's hand. His brother stood and followed Sam and Bobby through the hallways. Sam pushed the door open on room eight and walked to the bed drawing Dean with him. He heard Dean's breathing accelerate. His brother dragged him to the bed, whimpering and reaching out to the still figure.

"Mmm, mfph," Dean said, patting the man's arm, looking at Sam, tears on his face. "Mfph, mfph."

"He knows him, Sam," Bobby said quietly.

"Yeah, maybe Bobby." Sam looked at his brother. "Maybe not. I think Dean knows this victim is like he is, went through what he did." Sam put his arm over Dean's shoulder, his brother leaned against him, still patting the victims arm. "Do you know him, Dean? Was he there with you?" Dean looked at him, the emotion in his eyes taking Sam's breath away. Oh god, Dean.

Two Weeks Earlier

It was dark, cold and damp. The cold filled every waking moment. Dean was beginning to suspect the drug had something to do with the all-pervading chill. Even outside in the sun he was cold, like the warmth of life was slowly being pulled out of his body. He took a breath, grinding his teeth against the pain. Whatever had happened the day before had left his upper body throbbing and covered with tiny wounds. A vague memory of sun on his face, the buzzing of insects and an odd sensation of something crawling on him was all he could bring to mind.

He shifted again. They'd stopped shackling him after they murdered Sam. When the drugs wore off that day, he found himself in a small room on a blanket, Randy's dead body stiffening beside him and his left wrist bound with a filthy bit of cloth. In the days since Sam's death the wound had healed a little, to Dean's surprise it hadn't become infected. Something thumped on the other side of the wall by Dean's head.

"Marco?" Dean said, the words tearing at his throat, sending a shaft of blinding agony through his body. Speaking was beginning to take a huge toll.

"Polo," Nick answered.

"Randy's really starting to stink."

"I can smell him in here."

"You okay?" Dean asked.

"Yeah, I think so. It look like something was chewing on me."

"Me, too. It reminds me of this time I saw a swarm of wasps on a dead deer," Dean said. "I'm not sure what happened."

"Me either. The drugs…"

"Yeah," Dean said.

"Dean?"

"What is it, Nick?" They both made an effort to use each other's names, to counteract the continual demands to forget who they were.

"I…I give them my arm."

"I do, too," Dean said, relieved he could say it. Since his brother's death, Dean willingly gave them his arm, knowing the pain each dose caused, knowing it was taking a little more of himself away each time. Sometimes it felt almost as if it were loosening his skin. Still he gave them his arm—sometimes the pain of whatever they were doing to him, in combination with the drugs, would trigger a memory. It didn't matter what the memory was—they were all good. Sam was there, sometimes his father and Bobby, but mostly Sam. So he held out his arm and waited for the needle, hoping for a few moments with his brother before the pain overwhelmed him.

"Oh, good. I thought it was just me."

"No, it's not just you." Dean sighed. "It's close, the ritual when it will take us and we become hosts."

"I know. Maybe we'll finally get lucky and drop dead."

"We can always hope. They've lost two before the final ritual."

"Yeah, maybe today. I think today might be…"

"I know. I hope I don't scream like that poor bastard the other day."

"Me either." Something that sounded like a laughter drifted through the wall. "You know we will, Dean."

"I know, Nick." Dean heard a muffled thump from somewhere over their heads. "They're coming. I hope you die, Nick," Dean said, offering their now-ritual parting.

"Yeah, Dean, I hope you die today, too."

The door opened and Red Eyes came in. Dean pushed himself into a sitting position and held out his arm. He watched as the needle was shoved in, then sighed as the drug ran through his system, the pain starting almost immediately. He wondered what was next—each time they came it was a little different. His mouth was forced opened and something poured in. Whatever it was tasted like rotting vegetation smelled. Dean swallowed.

"Open your eyes." Dean's eyes opened. "What's your name?"

"Dean." Pain lashed through his body.

"You are Nameless."

"Not yet."

They dragged him to his feet. He closed his eyes as they pulled him through the house. Suddenly there was sun on his face. Nick's right, it is today. Oh god. Dean stumbled down the steps towards the sunlit table covered in flowers. He was barely aware when he was pushed down onto the hard surface. Chanting began. Please, Sam, are you here? Something was laid on his body, Dean opened his eyes and looked at the flowers covering his chest, then up at the attendants. One had a tray with the offering bowls, the other was holding a long spine in his hands. Oh god. A memory drifted over him. Dean sighed. Sam.

"I'm going to get my tongue pierced," Sam announced one night at dinner.

The chanting continued. The drum sounding a bass note pulsing through Dean's body.

"No son of mine is getting his tongue pierced," John shouted.

Hard hands grabbed his arms and legs, yanking them down away from his body, the edge of the table cutting into his flesh, pressing against bone.

"All the other kids are," Sam continued stubbornly.

"I don't care," John snapped. Dean wondered for the millionth time when his father would realize sometimes Sam enjoyed yanking John around.

His mouth was pulled open.

"Why the hell do you want your tongue pierced?" Dean finally said when their father went from red to purple.

Pain, agony, the warm rush of blood over his face. Someone was screaming.

"I don't know." Sam shrugged. Their father was spluttering. Dean chuckled when Sam met his eyes.

"Well, if it hurts too much, don't come crying to me," Dean said, their father turned an even darker color of purple, the explosion imminent.

"It hurts? Really? In that case, I think I'll skip it," Sam said with a laugh. John took three deep breaths, looked at them both, opened his mouth, closed it and stormed out of the house.

"That wasn't nice," Dean said, smiling at his brother.

"No, you're right. I'll apologize in a while." Sam smiled back.

Something was thumping by his head. Time had passed, he had no idea how much time. Dean rolled over. He was back in his room on the blanket against the wall. The drug had already worked its way through his system. It's mostly gone, it must have been a day at least, maybe more. How much time? Does it matter?

"Dean?" Nick's voice was thick, almost unrecognizable.

"Nick?" Dean answered, suddenly aware of the pain in his mouth, the throbbing of the wound in his tongue.

"You screamed."

"You did, too."

"Yeah, I did. This was the last one."

"Yeah, which of us will go first?" Dean asked.

"I don't know. What do you think it's like?" Nick's voice was full of fear. Dean knew exactly how he felt. They'd been "honored" by attending one entry ritual. They both knew what was coming. Watching what would happen to them, knowing they would be aware for at least part of it, terrified him.

"Death, but worse, because when you die at least it ends," Dean said.

"Not always," Nick said. "I died once. Back when I was still in uniform. Kid shot me."

"Yeah, I've died, too. Once or twice."

"This won't be like that."

"No, it won't. I'm sorry, Nick."

"Me, too, Dean. Hurts to talk, more than usual."

"I know." Dean leaned against the wall. "If they take me first and you get the chance…"

"I'll try, Dean. You, too."

"If I can kill you, I will."

"Thank you." There was silence for a long moment. "I..."

The door to Dean's room slammed open, four men in masks striding into the room. "I know who's first, Nick."

"Dean!" Nick shouted. "They're here too, I'll try. I promise."

"Thank you."

Two of the men stepped forwards, grabbing his arms and pulling him to his feet. Red Eyes walked up to him. "What's your name?"

"Dean. You freak." One of the men hit him. "Dean."

"You are Nameless." Red Eyes shoved a needle in his arm.

"Dean," he repeated.

"You will now serve him." Another needle jabbed into his neck.

"Dean Win…" His legs buckled. "Dean Winchester," he managed to get out before they dragged him across the floor.

He was carried to the altar room. It was already full of people in masks, chanting in time with the drum. Dean heard something behind him. Nick was pulled into the room, forced to kneel in front of the altar. Dean looked at Nick, met the other's eyes and smiled. He won't get the chance to kill me. Sorry, Nick.

They lifted Dean onto the altar, garlands of red and yellow flowers were placed around his body. One of the attendants poured blood over the flowers, over Dean. The last of the blood was poured into Dean's mouth. The coppery taste had something else in it. Pain pulsed through his body.

The chanting increased.

Red Eyes and another man were standing before the altar calling out the response—they would speak, the others in the room answering. It reminded Dean of a church service he and Sam had attended once years before. Sam, maybe, maybe I'll get lucky and join you before it comes.

"Sit up," Red Eyes said. Dean's body obeyed. Attendants stepped forwards, one leaned on his legs, two others grabbed his arms and pulled them away from his body. Oh god. Dean watched Red Eyes pick up the blade from a tray. He held it up then walked around the altar seven times, finally stopping behind Dean. A moment later, Dean felt the touch of the knife as it slid down his back, cutting a strip of flesh away. He ground his teeth together trying not to scream. He was laid back down. Oh god, please, please no.

"He is ready."

The chanting reached an ear-splitting level and the curtain by the altar was pushed aside.

It was there.

It oozed up to the altar, the mass of it without a hosts body covering it's horrific form. It slid around him, the sick-sweet scent of rotting human flesh flowing off of it in giant waves. It sighed and ran what might be a hand over Dean's face, along his body. It caressed Dean's face for a moment, then stepped away.

Even though he'd been expecting it, when Red Eyes hands closed around his throat, Dean was startled. The hands slowly closed, cutting off his air supply. Dean wished it would kill him, hoped it would, but knew it wouldn't. Black spots began dancing, an ache began in his chest. Dean struggled.

"Don't fight it," Red Eyes whispered. Dean's body relaxed.

It slid onto the altar, its breath covering Dean. The flowers were moved aside. Dean hovered at the edge of consciousness, but try as he might, he couldn't take the plunge over the edge. He was held there, without air, with his body refusing to obey.

It touched him. The sharp point sliding down his sternum before stopping. He felt it, a gentle pressure at first, then a biting pain as a long claw cut through his skin, digging into him, making space.

The claw withdrew and something else touched him. He wasn't sure what it was, he just felt it slid in, under his skin, inching up through his body with the slow, agonizing movements of an earthworm. It would move forward, withdraw, then push itself further in. It slid up his ribs, down his legs, stretching the skin, sending blinding shafts of pure agony through his body. It liked the pain, he could sense that now as it entered him. When the movement reached his neck, the hands were withdrawn. Dean fought the sensation of choking as the thing inched up his neck and into his face. He felt it as it slipped along his cheeks, along his nose and lips, filling him with itself. He knew when he was seeing with its eyes as they superseded his own. It slid along his scalp.

No, god no, let me die. Please let me die.

He felt it as it moved into his ear canal, felt the gentle probing touch and then it was in his mind racing through it, destroying it as surely as it violated his body.

He thought he heard someone screaming, then there was nothing but the touch of the thing and endless, mindless pain.

The shock of pain as he hit the floor brought him back to awareness. He was in the dark, stinking room. Something was thumping by his head and a voice was shouting something. The sound was repeated. "Dean" the sound said, over and over.

It didn't matter.

He was bleeding from his eyes, his nose, his ears.

It didn't matter.

His throat was aching, bruised, it was hard to breathe.

It didn't matter.

The wound in his abdomen was seeping, the blood cool on his overheated skin.

It didn't matter. None of it did. The core of who his was, all he had been was no longer there. His name, his memories, all removed.

Dean Winchester was gone.

Taken. Shattered and lost beyond all hope of recovery.

He rolled onto his side, wrapped his arms around his chest and wept.

Present

It was quiet in the office. He was warm, curled up in the chair beside the one who rescued him—Sam's—desk. The blanket Sam had put over him was soft and fuzzy. He was running his hands over it. The fabric was softer than Harry, but it reminded him of the big dog. He sighed.

"Dean?" Sam looked up at him. Sam said something else, the sounds flowing together, but always "Dean" scattered throughout. Another word had begun to make sense. "House." He knew it was where they went at night, after a ride in the big black car that was home. Harry was at house, Sam was there, it smelled good. He liked it there and looked forward to returning each night.

"Sam?" A rough voice said. "Dean."

"Bobby," Sam said. He knew the other man's name was Bobby from the way it had been repeated. Bobby had gone with them to the room where the other was. The one from when he was in that place. Tears pooled in his eyes. "Dean?" Sam said.

"Mfph." He reached out for Sam, wrapping his hand around Sam's wrist.

Sam said something, then turned to Bobby. He watched as they spoke. After several minutes, Sam turned back to him. "Dean, house," Sam said, standing. That one waited as he got up, then led him through the hall and out to the car. The car was warm when he sat down in it and the sound of the engine lulled him into something close to sleep.

"Dean?" Sam said.

He opened his eyes, they were at house. Sam helped him up and they walked into the small building together. Once he was in the house, he raced towards the back. Harry's bark greeted him as he opened the door. "Dean!" Sam called. He looked back and waited for Sam before going into the yard with Harry. The large dog ran around the yard, tail wagging, before coming over to their blanket with a stick in its mouth. The dog waited for him to take the stick before sitting down beside him.

The wind suddenly changed, bringing with it the smell of… of… something familiar, terrifying. It was too much. He leaned into Harry, wrapping his arms around the dog and cried. A moment later, he felt Sam's hand on his back, then the warmth of Sam's arm over his shoulder. He couldn't stop the tears.

"Dean?" Sam said gently sometime later. The tears had passed. He was lying with Harry on the blanket, Sam was sitting beside them. "Bed?" It was another word he knew.

"Mfph," he said, standing. He swayed on his feet, Sam caught him and helped him inside. He pulled him into the room beside the bedroom and set him down on the edge of the tub, carefully lifting his feet in, then running water over them. Once they were clean, Sam helped him into the bedroom and settled him on the bed. A moment later Harry hopped up beside him. The dog knew the routine. Wash feet, then bed.

"Dean," Sam said, patting his chest. He nodded to let Sam know it was okay to leave. He knew Sam would be back in a few minutes. Sam stayed in the room every night. One night he woke up, terrified, and Sam had been there. As long as that one was there—the one who rescued him—it was okay. He sighed, put his arm over Harry and listened for Sam to return.

"Dean?" Sam said as he settled on the edge of the bed.

"Mfph," he said and let himself drift to sleep.

It was the place between waking and sleep, the moment when everything was perfect—before the world crashed back in and he drifted there for a moment. There was a bird singing outside the open window, the scent of flowers drifted into the room. Not a heavy, sickening floral scent, but the crisp—somehow clean—scent of roses. The bed was soft, the pillow smelled clean, fresh, just laundered. There was a heavy weight beside him, Harry the dog was snoring.

Dean opened his eyes and looked around the small bedroom, his bedroom. How did I get here? The last clear memory he had was the moments before the final ritual. Rolling over he stared up at the ceiling. Grief washed over him in a huge wave, the thought of the small house, with Sam dead, gone, was almost too much. He ran his hands over his chest, pausing at the wound. It was healing.

"What are you going to do?" Bobby's voice came from the kitchen. Dean could hear exasperation in the older hunter's voice. Bobby was worried and frustrated with someone. "You can't keep it up, it's killing you."

"I'm managing," an exhausted voice answered. Dean held perfectly still, his heart pounding. It sounded like Sam.

"No, you're not. You can't keep going like this. I won't lose you, too."

"He's not lost," the growl was fierce, desperate. Dean sat up, still not daring to breathe, the voice was familiar, so achingly familiar, but there was a note in it that was completely foreign.

"He is. The man you knew is gone, you need to…"

"No! I can take care of him."

"He's dead."

"Dean is not dead." Each word was carefully annunciated, the near-shout was accompanied by the sound of something hitting the wall and shattering. The pain in the voice propelled Dean out of bed and across the small hall to the kitchen door.

"Dean," Bobby said, glancing at him.

Dean nodded at Bobby, but his whole focus was taken up by the figure silhouetted in the doorway. His back was to Dean, the familiar set of the shoulders reflecting pain and exhaustion, hands shaking, body trembling with carefully controlled emotion.

"Dean?" Bobby said in a completely different tone. Dean ignored him.

"Sammy?" Dean whispered, pain flaring in his chest, the words hard after so long. "Sam?"

The figure turned. His hair was a little longer, the planes on his face a little harder. "Dean?" his brother said, anguished. Tears were running down his face. "Dean?" he asked again.

"You're alive," Dean said, tears in his own eyes. Four long strides and Sam was across the room, pulling Dean against him in a crushing hug. "You're alive," Dean said, holding his brother, feeling the strong beat of Sam's heart under his hand. You're alive, alivealivealivealive.

"You're here," Sam said in the same moment. "Dean, you're back." Sam leaned into him, holding him. Finally he pulled away. Before Dean could say anything Bobby pulled him into a tight hug.

"Welcome home, son," Bobby said, his voice gruff.

"You are here?" Sam asked quietly. His hand on Dean's shoulder, his eyes searching Dean's face.

"You are alive?" Dean tried for a teasing tone. It didn't work at all. Sam chuckled, the laugh quickly became a sob and Dean was pulled back against his brother.

"I've missed you," Sam said, letting him go, but staying close enough so their shoulders were in contact.

"I know, Sammy, me too. God, I thought…" He swallowed. "I saw…You were…"

"Dean?" Sam frowned, the squinch of concern curling between his eyebrows.

"They… Oh god, Sam." Dean took a steadying breath.

"It's okay, Dean, it doesn't matter. It's over."

"Sam…" How do I tell him?

"What is it, Dean?"

"It's not over, Sammy." He leaned against his brother. "It's about to get a lot worse."

To Be Continued