Somehow, they had managed to regulate Sam's temperature to a non-dangerous level, but he was still weak and frail. His body looked thinner and his muscles didn't have the definition Dean was used to seeing. They had managed to make him a sickly homemade cocktail of various vitamins and nutrients Bobby had in his pantry. It was sweet and looked like something that would block a drain. However, it seemed to perk Sam up a little and he was beginning to talk in actual sentences.
'Dean I hated the heat.' Said Sam, his eyes still wearily opening and closing, as he sat up in bed.
'I know buddy. But Jesus, that shower could've killed you.' Replied Dean, rubbing the bottom of his own face. He hadn't shaved in a few days.
'No Dean, I hated the heat.' Said Sam again, his eyes attempting to focus on Dean's, but instead they just ended up going cross-eyed.
'Sammy you just said that. I get it. It's cool. You were hot, the shower was cold. I get it.'
'NO. Dean. You're getting it not. No, not it getting. No, God damn it. NOT GETTING IT.' Sam fumbled over his words.
'Alright.' Dean said simply and patiently.
Dean knew that if Sam got better, he'd tease him about this. When he got better, rather. Because he was, thought Dean, he was going to be fine.
Sam looked defeated but took in a deep breath and started again. He hadn't used his speech in so long; the signals in his brain were way off.
'Dean.' He began firmly 'I hated the heat. HatED. Hell, Dean. I hated Hell.'
Dean's eyes moved into a frowning position and he cocked his head to one side in confusion.
'Sam. I know. I know you hate Hell. Damn, who likes that place?' He finally said, not quite sure what Sam meant.
'No one. No one likes it there. It's so hot. I just needed to be cold again.' Sam said, his eyes avoiding Dean's glance.
'You're sick Sammy. Not in Hell.'
'I am Dean. You wouldn't understand. It's not something I can just explain.'
'Well God Damn Sam, I want to help. I've always wanted to help. Just try.' Dean said, moving closer to Sam's face, until he could smell the musk on Bobby's old clothes.
Sam looked at Dean, and the tension rose. He tightened his jaw and his nostrils flared. He knew he would have to explain to Dean something he had always avoided.
'Imagine this.' Sam began, turning his glance away. 'Fire tearing through layers of skin and fatty tissue. It slowly turns your bones to charcoal and seeps through to your blood until it curdles. You let the blazing inferno lick and penetrate your raw body because you have no choice but to wait for death. Except you never die, because your body isn't your life anymore. You have to smell your own hair being scorched off your scalp. You feel your rib cage crumble and fall away from what's left of your frame. Then, it stops. It's over. You're you again except you're not really you. Because none of it was ever real. It was imagined inside the only place I trusted.'
As he spoke, Sam's breathing got quicker and quicker, and he subconsciously took off the blankets surrounding him. His skin become blushed and marbled with rosy tints. When he had finished he just stared into no particular space unconsciously rubbed at his hairline. Beads of perspiration had already started to form.
'I guess you got your voice back.' Said Bobby, wheeling in, surprising them both.
Bobby had been at the doorway of the room and neither Sam nor Dean had noticed. Bobby had rarely spoken about his time in Hell, but he never once said 'go to Hell' to anyone after he returned.
'B-Bobby.' Muttered Sam, starting to feel his fever return.
Bobby didn't say a word. He just pulled away the blankets from the bed, and folded them onto his lap, wheeling back out again.
'Sam. Your fever…' Began Dean, reaching towards Sam's forehead.
'Don't.' Said Sam, grabbing Dean's wrist and stopping him.
Sam lay back down onto the bed, and closed his eyes peacefully. It was like he had just confessed his sins.
Dean wanted to care for him, to make things right, but he couldn't. This wasn't an illness that a doctor could cure. It wasn't even one that Dean could cure.
With Sam back asleep, Dean fell into a slight depression. He was lost and confused and so was his brother. Looking at his watch, he swore: Sandy. He had completely forgotten about her. It was way past two in the morning. Dean wanted to go and wake Bobby to search for her, but he'd be asleep and he could leave. Sam was his brother, Sandy was just a girl. A woman.
Somehow, by a miracle, Dean managed to sleep that night. A good few hours too. But the good mood didn't last when he realised Sandy still wasn't back. After checking on a sleeping Sam, he walked into the living room. Bobby looked tired and hadn't even bothered to switch on the TV.
'Bobby, there's still time.' Said Dean.
Dean wasn't great at sympathy. He said the wrong things even though it was well intentioned.
'Dean, both you and I know the chance of Sandy comin' back and it's hella slim.' Bobby said resigned.
'Slim is still a chance.'
And it was still a chance. Dean knew it.
Then, as if some miracle had been granted, an almighty crash echoed around the house, making Dean reach for pistol.
'Bobby stay back. I got this.' Dean said, edging his way to the front door, where the sound seemed to have come from.
Dean walked carefully, his pistol in a tightened grip in his fingers. As the door came into view, he saw the wooden frame had splintered away and was hanging by a few pieces of wood.
But something else caught Dean's eyes. Sandy. She was bloodied and bruised, standing a few feet away from the door with a smile on her face.
'Sorry 'bout the door.' She said, 'Jeez Dean put the gun down, I'm not a bloody criminal.'
Dean slowly lowered his gun.
'Where the Hell have you been Sandy? On what in fudge name happened? Dean questioned, hoisting the gun back in his pants and walking out towards her, trying to assess the damage done to her face and body. The top buttons on her shirt had come away, leaving her cream coloured bra a little exposed.
'Oh Dean you are going to LOVE this. You ready?' She said, with a keen look on her face and not even noticing Dean was staring at her chest.
'Ready for what?' He replied, wishing Sandy would come inside. The cold was still bitter and she looked freezing.
'I got one.' She said proudly.
'Got what?'
'A Vegat Dean I got one! I found the lair, and the werewolves put up a fight to give it up but the Vegat, it's in an Angel's form. The werewolves were definitely trying to go against it.'
'Oh. Right, yea. So where is it?' Dean questioned, not believing that Sandy had spent hours hunting this Vegat whilst Dean had been playing nurse.
'In the boot, I'll show you. I had to subdue it with this blade he had. Looks like an Angel blade but it's too hard to tell. Could be what the werewolves use to kill them. Then I mentioned you guys and he practically volunteered himself. He probably wants a piece of you so stand back.'
Sandy walked over to the boot of the trunk, and propped it open. Standing proud like a kid in show and tell.
Dean was stood a foot away stumbled backwards even further, losing his breath at what he saw. A man crumpled in a heap, his dark hair disheveled and his cream coat smeared with blood.
'Th-that's not a Vegat Sandy. That's an Angel.' Dean said, looking in horror at Sandy.
She looked half-bemused half-confused.
'There's no way you can tell Dean.' She said, looking at the man in her trunk.
'Yes, I can.' Said Dean 'that's Castiel.'