Chapter Twelve

Sam pulled his unconscious brother across the floor and onto a motel bed. He slammed the room door closed and rushed over to the beds, throwing the covers from the second bed onto Dean. Sam hurried to the small kitchen, filling a glass with water. He hurried back to the bed, propping Dean up, his back against Sam's chest. Dean's head fell back onto Sam's right shoulder, mouth hanging open.

"Dean," Sam said urgently. "Dean." Sam put a hand to Dean's face, shaking his head a little. "Dean."

Dean's head jolted towards Sam's neck and away from the shaking hand.

"Dean, wake up," Sam told him.

"Mm," Dean mumbled as his limbs moved slightly.

"Dean, you need to wake up for me," Sam pleaded, bringing the glass of water to his mouth. "Drink, Dean."

Sam tilted the cup so the water trickled into Dean's mouth a little. As the water hit his parched, palate, Dean latched a hand onto Sam's forearm and began to gulp the water down.

"Slow, Dean," Sam told him.

Dean paid him no heed and was quickly done with the glass. As the refreshed charge left Dean, his arm fell back to the bed, and his head fell back against Sam's shoulder, once again completely out of it. Sam gently laid Dean back onto the bed, grabbing a chair and pulling it up close to the bed to wait for Dean to wake up.

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Dean slowly came back to consciousness little by little, feeling his body's protests to the treatment over the past month. His muscles ached as his starved body tried to nourish itself on the nutrients in his muscles. His brain felt foggy and light from the lack of food, sleep and warmth. He could feel a blanket over him, giving him a little warmth. He grasped the blanket and pulled it closer around him.

"Dean?"

Dean could hear his brother speaking, and he tried to open his eyes, but they wouldn't obey him. He rolled weakly over onto his back before he realized that he couldn't…he still had wings. Dean settled for lying on his shoulder and fought to pull his eyes open. An empty chair met his gaze, and he leaned up against the headboard of the bed to look down at the foot of the bed. Sam was standing in the doorway of the bathroom, looking at Dean anxiously.

"S'mmy…" Dean mumbled, lazily wiping a hand across his eyes. "I feel like shit."

Sam laughed a little. "I'll bet."

Dean laughed as much as he could with Sam, feeling a special ache in his right hand and forearm, different from all the others. It was as though he had used all the strength and power in that arm and hand to do something…

Dean threw his hand out, wrapping it around Sam's throat. The power in Dean's hand was unbelievable, the will power fueling his adrenaline. Sam grasped onto Dean's hand, trying to pry it off his throat. He gasped as Dean squeezed his throat shut. Sam fell to his knees, still trying to get Dean's hand off of him.

Sam looked up into Dean's face. Dean stared into Sam's eyes, his face a blank mask. He continued to crush Sam's throat, trying to get rid of this fallen angel once and for all…

It finally hit Dean what had happened: the brainwash, the conversation between him and Sam before he tried to crush his throat, the memories that had come flooding back at the last second…

Dean's eyes widened as he sat up straighter—or, at least, tried to. A weakened, half-powered lurch didn't do much.

"Sammy!" said Dean, raising an arm towards Sam as he tried to get to him. "Are you okay? Did it—"

"Dude, I'm fine," said Sam. Dean gave him a look. "No, really, I am." Sam raised his head a little so Dean could see that his neck supported no bruises whatsoever. "See?"

Dean relaxed into the bed, his adrenaline leaving him again. That caused Dean's strength to wane again, and he collapsed back onto the mattress.

Sam crossed over to the chair and sat down. "Are you okay?"

"I think so," said Dean. "What happened?"

"Well, I was hoping you could tell me," said Sam, leaning forward and placing his elbows on his knees.

Dean lay on his left shoulder, the wings collapsed onto the bed behind him, and he put his right arm to his forehead, rubbing it back and forth. "Uh…I remember talking to you and trying to…kill you. And then…it was like all the memories came back and I let you go, and you collapsed to the ground. Your throat was crushed, and you passed out. I tried to get over to you and help you, but I was so weak. Next thing I now, I blacked out."

"Well, you did help me," said Sam. Dean lowered his hand to look at him. "I woke up with your wing over my face. Looks like you healed me in your sleep."

"I did?" said Dean, a confused look on his face. Sam nodded. Dean smiled. "Of course I did. I'm your brother. I'm not gonna let anything happen to you."

Sam did not respond, but hung his head. He looked back up at Dean with the worse case of guilt Dean had ever seen on his little brother's face. "Too bad I couldn't return the favor."

"Hey, don't you do that," said Dean. "Meg kidnapped me and drugged you. You couldn't do anything."

"Yeah, I know," said Sam. "I just…I should've laid the salt down, and I…I didn't 'cause I was too tired."

"Hey, in case you remember, there's two of us," said Dean. "I didn't lay it down either."

Sam nodded, accepting that. "So, what happened? What did they do to you?"

Dean paused, looking down at the bedspread. "Sam, I…"

"No, Dean, you're not skipping out on this," said Sam. "I need to know what happened."

"Sam," said Dean, trying to get him to stop. "Later, okay?"

"Dean—"

"Sam, later," said Dean, with a look in his eyes that Sam rarely saw. "After I eat, please. I haven't hardly eaten the past few weeks."

Sam's eyes widened. "Oh, my God. Sorry."

Sam jumped up and headed for the food he'd bought for when Dean woke up. He came back over to the bed and helped Dean to sit up against the headboard, the wings on either side of him. Sam placed the bag of diner food next to Dean.

"You need help because you look weak, so—" began Sam.

"Sam, I'm thirty years old," Dean muttered. "I don't need anyone feeding me."

Sam smiled and leaned back in his chair to let Dean eat. Dean chowed down on his meal, practically inhaling it. Tossing the wrapper into the bag, he moaned.

"Oh, now that is good," said Dean.

"So…what happened?" prompted Sam.

Dean took a breath and crossed his arms across his chest. "I woke up in a basement. There was a cot, a table with a pitcher of water, and a plasma."

Sam just stared at him. "A plasma?"

"Yeah."

"What did they use that for?"

"Education," Dean answered. Sam frowned in confusion. "I'll get to that in a minute." Dean settled himself more comfortably on the bed. "Anyway, this woman walked in and started talking about how I've been corrupted by humans and that my name was Michael and that I was lost and that Dad had taken me and brainwashed me into thinking I was Dean. It was then that I realized that they thought I was Michael…the angel. Not that the whole wing-thing helped. We argued for a bit. No matter what I said, she would dismiss as some quirk in my unstable mind. Then the guy from the bar who drugged me came in with Meg. She was trying to get those freaks to think I was Michael so they would keep me there."

"Yeah, I heard that part," said Sam. Dean looked at him. "This demon Bobby and I captured told us the whole story. He said that Lucifer sent Meg to get you out of the way."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Well, that explains a lot. I thought Meg was just pissed."

Sam and Dean laughed together.

"And, well, they knocked me out 'cause I tried to get past them to the door," Dean went on. "When I woke up again, the TV came on and started playing a video. It was talking all about Michael and Lucifer and heaven and angels and the final battle. Then it was telling me that I was Michael and that I had a 'destiny' to fulfill. The video would turn off and the woman—Michelle—would walk in and ask me my name. It went like that every single day. They only fed me once a day, and it wasn't a big meal.

"Over time, the lack of food started messing with my head. I starting thinking they were right. I mean, why else would they punish me if I was telling the truth. Then the video came on one last time, and my brain seemed to accept it. I mean, in a twisted way, the story fit. So they came in, and I said my name was Michael, and they let me go upstairs with them. We talked for a while, devising battle strategies. Then I told them I had to go after the devil, and I flew out of there. And…well, you know the rest."

"Why did you choose me?" asked Sam, his expression a little hurt. "Why was I the devil in your mind?"

"I don't really know," said Dean. "The phrases from the video would trigger memories. That fight with Henrickson in the jail, surrounded by demons and you were there. When Zachariah took me to 2014 and I spoke to Lucifer in your meat suit. And then what Dad told me before he died." Sam nodded, showing he knew what Dean meant. "It all kind of melted together in my head, and that's what I ended up with. I mean, I hadn't eaten in a while, Sam. My brain wasn't a hundred percent. I can't say for sure why my brain substituted you for the devil. All I can say is, I'm sorry."

"It's okay," said Sam. "It wasn't your fault. Meg is a bitch."

Dean laughed, nodding. "That she is." Dean looked at the clock on the bed stand. "How long was I gone?"

"A month," said Sam.

Dean looked up at him. "Tell me we have time for that antidote."

Sam shook his head. "Full moon was a couple days ago. You have to wait another month."

Dean slammed his head back against the headboard, eyes closed. "Dammit. I was hoping Bobby had it ready for me."

Sam's eyes widened. "Oh, my God! Bobby!" He jumped up and rushed over to his cell phone on the table.

"What?" asked Dean, weakly leaning forward. "What is it?"

"I forgot to call him," said Sam. "He still thinks you're missing."

Dean leaned back against the headboard as Sam dialed the number. "Well, let's not keep him in suspense."