I know I'm a huge hypocrite. It used to drive me up the wall when Dad refused to take a break because he was hurt. I couldn't stand him calling Bobby to ask about cases before the cast came off, or scanning newspapers before the stitches came out, and then there was that one time, after the rawhead. He wasn't even back on solid food yet and I came home from school and found him packing us up for a witch hunt. Pretty sure that was one of the worst fights we've ever had.

I don't want to admit it, but...I think I might get why he was like that. Why he did that. I don't think I can handle it much longer. This...itch.

I'm not talking about getting out there and physically tracking down a werewolf or something. I'm still messed up, I get it. I just barely got out of the hospital. But nobody will let me do anything and it's killing me.

I could do research for people. I could look up cases and hand them out, like Bobby does. I could go over the Roadhouse's books for Ellen. I could do school stuff - I was supposed to graduate this year!

But there's...nothing. Ash comes in with San Andreas. Jo comes in with Lord of the Rings. Bobby says I need to take it easy. Ellen says it'll take time. And I get that. I get it. I'm taking the antibiotics and the painkillers, I'm keeping it elevated, I'm letting it heal. But what nobody seems to get is that I'm ready to stop being useless.

I'm not delirious anymore and I can sit upright. I can read, I can write, I can make phone calls. I can help.

I want to help!

Every time I lay down to go to sleep, it's like Dad's standing over me and I can hear him reminding me that people are dying out there. I could stop it, or help other hunters stop it, but I'm not, and that's eating me away.

He'd tell me I'm not doing anybody any favors like this, if he wasn't [illegible]

He'd tell me it's past time I found a way to make myself useful.

- Personal journal of Sam Winchester, c. 2001

It was about a week after New Year's (celebrated "right," as Dean put it, with alcohol and illegal fireworks that scared the dogs half to death) that the Second Trial came up again.

Sam was alone in Bobby's study, on his laptop. Bobby himself had checked out to do some "solo research," which was code for taking a nap. Castiel was outside. Bela was in town. Dean had gone with her initially, but then gotten bored and teleported back to watch Jeopardy. The den was only one room over, so until he'd dug out his headphones to block the noise, Sam had been treated to him hollering answers ("What is the Suez Canal?!") and then whooping loudly when he got it right.

Sipping ginger ale because his stomach had been bothering him again, or maybe something in his chest, Sam looked up when Dean appeared in the doorway. "Commercial break?"

"Yep," Dean replied with a grimace. "Can you believe Bobby doesn't have TiVo?" He walked into the study. "So how's the research going today?"

"Good." Sam turned to his laptop to pull up a Wikipedia page he'd just closed. "Actually, I, uh, got bored, and Googled your name...the Knight one. And it turns out you're not a Knight."

"Oh, really."

"Yeah, you're a Duke of Hell." Sam pointed at his screen. "Also, you can 'cause love.' Which I really wish I would've known about nine months ago." He raised his eyebrows.

"Well, shit, me, too," Dean commented. "I've just been doing it the hard way, like some kinda idiot." He picked up an old book that'd been resting on Bobby's desk. "You know they recycle those names, right?"

"Really?" Sam turned to face Dean fully.

"Yeah." Dean nodded. "Lucifer named all the original Knights and Princes and Lords and everything."

"Like God naming the angels." Sam brought up a blank Word document on his laptop. "A-a perversion of it."

"I mean, I guess, but it was more like re-naming 'cause they all already had human names to start with..." Dean started to flip through the book, but abruptly lost interest. "Anyway. It's tradition now or some shit. Big-shot demon dies, his name goes on the roster, next poor bastard whose soul Cain carves up gets saddled with it. So." Sam heard him shrug. "Maybe the original Dantalion could force love or whatever it is you said."

"So only Knight names get recycled?" Sam typed furiously. "I thought nobody'd ever killed a Prince or a Lord before. Mostly because they didn't leave Hell all that often 'til..." He glanced up at a massive calendar on the wall, months going back a decade, that Bobby used to track demon activity. "...recently. Even if one of them did die, though, can anybody besides Lucifer make one?"

"I don't know, I didn't care and nobody ever told - " Dean stopped abruptly. "Dude. Are you seriously writing this down?"

"No." Sam minimized the document, shoulders hitching up into a guilty hunch.

Dean snorted in fake disgust. "God. Can't even turn the geek off for a minute, can you?" He paused then, and Sam felt fingers in his hair after a second. It felt nice. "Gettin' kinda long again." Dean swept Sam's bangs off his forehead. "Want me to trim it?"

"Yeah, over my dead body." Sam slapped Dean's hand out of his hair. Gently. "How's, uh, Jeopardy going today?"

"Awesome. If I were actually playing, we'd be rich."

Dean took a seat on the edge of Sam's desk, exhaling. His amulet, winking bright, pulled Sam's eyes right away. Dean had worn it constantly since Christmas. Bobby smiled, in the eyes, at least, every time he caught sight of it.

When Castiel first saw the bronze pendant on Dean, it'd very obviously thrown him for a loop. He wouldn't tell Sam anything about what it was or meant to him, though. No matter how much Sam badgered him.

"All right, let's get it over with. I know that feeling." Dean broke the silence. "The one you had when I first walked in. What were you looking at, and what's on your mind?"

Turning reluctantly back to his laptop, Sam brought up what he'd been poring over for the past couple hours: lore on Purgatory, Hell, and souls. There wasn't a whole lot of information out there. Not that rang true, at least. Sam was pretty sure he'd managed to scrape together almost all of it

Dean bent forward to look. Sam cleared his throat after a while.

"I've been...thinking about the Second Trial, recently," he admitted. "It feels like it's time to get started on it."

Dean nodded a little, taking that in. He opened his mouth to say something, but Sam cut him off before he could.

"I'm not sick anymore," Sam pointed out. "Obviously. Haven't been for weeks. And we found Bobby."

Dean pulled in a breath.

"I know my Messiah powers were the real big thing here," he went on, "but I've learned a ton about all this stuff, with Bobby. And thanks to Cas, I've come a long way in keeping my...abilities under control. What I am hidden." It was a lot like standing up straight, which his father had used to needle him about all the time when he was a teenager and had started slouching to hide his rapidly-increasing height. It was tough at first, but it quickly became second nature when he put some effort into it. "I haven't had a slip-up in a few days. You know you would've felt it if I had, but I haven't so much as made a lightbulb flicker."

"Oh, he's 'Cas' now, huh?" Dean didn't sound very impressed by the nickname. "Okay, listen, Sam, I - "

Sam knew he should let him talk, and didn't have to be an empath to pick up on Dean's mounting frustration with him. There was just so much he had to remind him of before they actually discussed this. He practically had to interrupt him.

"I get that we needed the downtime," Sam started. "And I know it's not like we haven't been doing anything at all, but...I can't help feeling guilty. About spinning my wheels for almost a month." Sam spread his hands. "The longer we wait, the worse things're gonna get as far as the demon sit - "

"Sam." Stuff rattled on Bobby's shelves as Dean stopped Sam in his tracks, and Sam wasn't sure if it was Dean's voice or his mind doing it. "I...really need you to shut up for a second, okay? I get it, I really do. Honest." Voice dropping back down to a normal volume, Dean lifted both hands. "And I agree with you."

Sam, gearing up for a major argument, hadn't been expecting that. "You...do?"

"Guess I'm just a little surprised you don't wanna stay here longer, keep your claws in all...this." Dean waved a hand to indicate everything in Bobby's office. "You've been nerding out twenty-four-seven. Would've thought this was your ideal vacation."

Sam snorted.

"But, anyway...'course I do." Dean shook his head, incredulous. "Agree with you, I mean. I did say we were gonna do this and I was gonna help you. I know how bad you want it, how important it is, and...you're right." He huffed. "We found Bobby, he's totally on board with it, and Feathers has definitely locked down your Jesus powers." Dean pointed at Sam, eyeing him. "Only good thing you're gonna hear me say about him."

Sam opened his mouth, shaking his head and spreading his hands again. "I definitely get how you two feel about each other, and why, but he's been super useful..."

"Didn't say he hadn't been," Dean defended, looking at Sam. Examining him, really, especially his eyes. Sam got the odd feeling Dean was waving the psychic or demonic equivalent of a TSA wand around him, just waiting for it to crackle. It must not have; he eventually sighed and continued. "I'd like you to go a little longer than just a few days without slipping, but it seems like you've got your lid on pretty tight over there. And you're right about another thing. Longer we wait, the shittier it gets out there."

Dean slid off the desk, stood up. "How d'you feel about it? You good, or you wanna knock off another hunt first?"

"I'm good." If they had all the time in the world, a warm-up case might be a good idea. But they were at war, like Gordon had told Sam over the phone months ago. Every life lost gathered like a drift of dead flies deep in his stomach. And as long as the Gates were open, they ran the risk of Hell realizing Sam was the guy they were looking for.

"You need your hair cleaned up, at least..."

"Dean, if I see you coming at me with scissors, I swear to god." Sam brandished his Kurdish dagger, always close at hand, only half-playfully. "I-I'll start cutting stuff off."

"You think you'd see me coming if I didn't want you to?" Dean scoffed. "But seriously. I promise I'm not gonna touch your hair. We can hit a Great Clips or something."

Mollified, Sam put the knife away.

"We'll take a day or two to get everything set up." Dean leaned against the desk, all business. "Your hair cut, our crap packed...everybody involved filled in. Then we gotta figure out an innocent soul for you to spring. And then - " Dean smiled. "We'll track down the reaper who got me in and outta Hell, back in the day. His name's Ajay. He's a taxi driver."

"But..." For the moment, Sam set aside how bad he'd like to hear about a reaper with a day job. "...why can't you just take me down?"

Sam knew he shouldn't have asked as soon as the last word was out.

"Well, y'know. I didn't..." Dean coughed. "Spend a whole lotta time in Hell when I wasn't. Actively getting my soul cut down. I wouldn't know where to take us." He glanced away, and his pupils briefly shivered. "Plus, I'm not totally sure I could get us topside again, either."

"Okay." Sam shouldn't have brought it up at all. Dean returning to Hell. "Ajay the taxi driver it is, then." In the den, the Jeopardy theme suddenly blared from the TV. "Uh, wow. Long break, huh?"

"Can't miss it now that it's back, though." Dean patted Sam's knee. "Go ahead and take care of any more research you gotta do. Then we'll talk to Bobby at dinner, and start packing tonight."

Sam looked at his eyes as he straightened. His pupils had firmed back up. Dean left the room, and Sam leaned back.

That went...way better than I was afraid it might.

He reached for his ginger ale, but the can was empty. His stomach was feeling better, too, so Sam went to pour himself a cup of coffee in the kitchen. He could use it. Now the conversation about the Second Trial was over with, he was fried, eyelids heavy and thoughts sluggish.

Sam could admit he wasn't looking forward to leaving Bobby's place. It was so...peaceful here, which wasn't something he was used to. When he took the mug out onto the porch, the sky was a January patchwork of blue and gray, and a light snow was falling.

Stress could probably account for what was going on with his stomach. Maybe even the pain in his chest. And it was only going to get worse, so he should really -

Having just taken a sip of coffee, Sam's thoughts stalled out as he choked. Then he was coughing, a wet, lung-ripping, eye-tearing hack dragging itself up out of his core. He doubled over, pale coffee slopping everywhere. Entire body shaking, Sam barely made it to the railing, clutching it in a death grip.

"You okay?" Of course Dean had heard. Bela'd probably heard, all the way down the mountain. "That sounds really bad."

"Fine," Sam somehow managed to gasp out, strangled. "Swallowed wrong."

"Oh." Dean sounded caught between concern and disgust, but with concern winning. "Lemme...go grab you a glass of water or something, okay?"

Sam couldn't even nod. It was a good thing Dean left when he did, and that he seemed to have decided to walk rather than teleport. Because as soon as the door closed, Sam felt something break off inside him, and come up with his next few coughs.

Red. It was just so damn red, dark like it'd spurted straight out of a vein and made even more striking by the snow.

Sam had just coughed up blood.

At least the coughing itself was dying down. Sam tottered weakly down the steps to get a closer look at the scarlet splash.

It'd melted decently into the snow. Hot as Sam's insides. Suddenly, impulsively, he kicked more snow over it, enough to cover any hint of crimson and then some, and tamped it down for good measure.

Then he looked around, at the empty lot and forest. Bela was gone, Bobby was asleep. Dean wasn't back yet. Castiel was nowhere in sight. And Sam didn't think he should tell any of them about what'd just happened.

It wasn't even a big deal. He'd probably just had a nosebleed from the cold, dry air, high up enough in his nose to run down the back of his throat. And then some of it came up when he choked on the coffee.

Coffee could explain the color, too. Make it look darker and richer than it really was, mixed in.

Sam swallowed hard at the penny taste in his mouth, scrubbed at his lips with his sleeve. Sharing this wouldn't do anything but scare everybody for no good reason. They didn't need that right as they were about to do the Second Trial. Especially because Castiel was bound to kick up a fuss already.

Sam looked up as the door creaked open and banged shut, Dean coming out with a glass of water. Stepping over the puddles of coffee on the porch, he commented, "Nice mess, Sam." He glanced at him. "What're you doing down there?"

"Uh, cleaning off my boots." Sam shuffled them in the snow. "Got coffee on 'em."

"Right." Dean leaned over the railing to hand him his water. "You're just a - a paragon of human grace and beauty, huh? And total not-grossness." He folded his arms. "Why wouldn't I wanna force you to love me?"

"That's an SAT word." Sam gulped at the water, washing away the last traces of blood. Dean shook his head.

"So you're okay now?"

"Yeah." If it happened again, Sam decided, he'd tell Dean. "I'm fine."

Otherwise, he didn't need to know.

Sam went out to practice that afternoon with Castiel. It was their routine now. He hadn't been exaggerating to Dean about how much better he was doing, and how much more control he had now; he didn't even need Castiel "guiding" him anymore.

Now that he was sure he ever really had. Part of him wondered if that hadn't been what was holding him back initially.

"You're doing extremely well, Sam," Castiel commented from nearby. "I hope you realize that."

Sam grunted in acknowledgment. He had three rocks in the air, feet from his outstretched hand, and was moving them slowly, clumsily around each other. His outbursts had always been effortless. Doing it on purpose...wasn't.

"I'm extremely impressed," Castiel continued. "Especially given the short time frame."

Sam nodded, and felt a drop of sweat run down the pounding hollow of one temple, despite how cold it was. His telekinesis wasn't anywhere near as easy and elegant as Dean's, but that was fine. He didn't plan on using his powers regularly if he could help it.

"The rest of my garrison have also been quite pleased by my updates," Castiel finished. "Not to mention my superiors."

Sam was done. The rocks bounced off the frozen ground when he closed his hand into a fist. Ashcroft and Powell, who'd come out with them, startled a little, then settled back down.

Sam shrugged out of his jacket, hanging it on the nearest tree branch. Hands on his hips, he focused on drawing in air, catching his breath. After a little while, he realized he could feel Castiel looking at him. He cracked an eye. "What?"

"Are you all right?"

"Yeah." Something tickled in Sam's chest. He ignored it. "Of course. Why d'you ask?"

"No particular reason."

Castiel dropped it, and Sam finished his cooldown. The angel didn't say anything else until he went to put his jacket back on, sweat chilling on his skin.

"In the coming months, we'll focus on more powers of yours besides just telekinesis and clairvoyance," Castiel told him. "Because, of course, there are many." He fell silent as the dogs approached him. "Zachariah...my commander. He may wish to meet with you, to discuss your potential and the possibilities. Once you reach a certain point."

"Right." Sam cleared his throat. "About that." He whistled and the dogs came readily to him, if slowly, tails wagging. They just ignored Dean these days. Castiel, they seemed to like. "I've been talking to Dean, and...we've decided now's a good time." Sam swallowed. "For the Second Trial."

Castiel practically flinched at that. He glared, and it was once in a blue moon Sam could read his feelings or tell what he was thinking, but he could swear there was betrayal in his eyes.

"You can't leave," Castiel snapped. "It's not safe outside the warding."

"But...I can shield myself now." Sam forwned. "No more hiccups. Wasn't that the whole point of me being on lockdown here? Keeping demons from sniffing me out while I was still out of control?"

"You haven't even gone a full week without an upset," Castiel stated, harsh. "That's hardly 'in control.'"

Sam swallowed again, something snagging bitter in his throat, then forced himself to smile as he shrugged. "Dean thinks i'm fine." Castiel's upper lip twitched. "Especially because we're in a time crunch. And what better place to practice all this - " Sam gestured to the rocks he'd just dropped. " - than on the road?"

"I have told you," Castiel started, teeth gritted, "in no uncertain terms, that you can't finish the Trials. Heaven is fully opposed." Castiel took a step closer. "Your blatant disregard for your self-preservation and your stubborn rebelliousness are very quickly becoming tiresome."

A sudden growl startled both of them, rattling and underlining the tension at the same time. Sam looked down. Ashcroft was on one side of him and Powell was on the other, both of them with their hackles up, ears down, and teeth bared.

A second passed. Castiel seemed as surprised as Sam; neither dog had so much as snapped at him or Dean since that first night. But Castiel backed off, and the dogs relaxed. Mostly. They still looked like they were on high alert.

Castiel looked up at Sam, no expression. "It would seem Dantalion's rubbing off on them."

Sam shook his head. "Are you just upset about...people who made crossroads deals or whatever flooding Heaven?"

"No, this is about you," Castiel shot back. "Your survival. Your ability to play your intended role and not throw all of Creation into chaos."

Sam sighed. "Are...you gonna stop us, then?"

There was a pause, and then it was like a switch flipped in Castiel. "Weird angry" to "almost smug." If he'd had visible feathers, they would've ruffled, and as it was, he nearly smiled.

"I won't have to," he replied, lifting his chin. "I'm aware Dantalion entered Hell with the help of a reaper when he was attempting the Trials himself. That's essentially the only option open to a non-demon." Castiel blinked. "But the reaper that assisted him two decades ago is dead."

Sam's mouth was dry, tongue numb and cracking. "How?"

"I don't know," Castiel answered, "and it hardly matters. The point here is that you have no other options. Dantalion can't ferry you to Hell himself, he's a fugitive. Obviously, I'm not going to help you, but even if I wanted to, an angel - especially a seraph - can't set wing inside the Gates without waging a full-on war."

"Then we'll find another reaper." Sam threw his hands up. "If that's the only way I'm getting to Hell."

"None of them will help you." Castiel spoke with a rock-solid certainty. "It's unlikely you'll even be able to speak with one. As a race, they pride themselves on their neutrality and their devotion to their given duty. You've spent a significant portion of your life studying monsters, beasts, supernatural creatures. You should know this, Sam."

Sam didn't see a point in getting into the research he'd actually done on reapers.

"One getting involved in affairs on either side of the Veil, as the reaper who assisted Dantalion did, is so shockingly rare as to be considered a fluke," Castiel went on. "You'd have better luck going to Death himself."

Sam barked out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. "Right. Yeah, if I could get to Death, I wouldn't need him to take me to Hell."

"He's risen with the recent spate of demonic activity." Castiel seemed to realize, even as he spoke, that he maybe shouldn't be telling Sam this. "At least none of the other Horsemen have been released...yet."

Sam stared. Then, "So how do I find him?" Castiel almost laughed before answering.

"You can't," he stated, flat. "Death is..." Castiel paused, glanced briefly upwards. "Very nearly on par with God. He's a force of nature, tracking spells don't work, I don't know where he is...not that I would tell you even if I could." He shook his head. "There is no finding him unless he wants to be found."

Sam said nothing, a muscle jumping in the side of his jaw.

"Sam." Castiel's voice gentled considerably. "I'm sorry. I really am. But it's time you gave up on the Trials. This isn't how you save the world." He walked past Sam, paused to glance over his shoulder. "I'm...going to go and speak to my garrison. I'll see you later."

He left, wind gusting off his wings and over Sam. Sam closed his eyes and grimaced at the chilly breeze. Once it'd died down, he took a second, then patted his hip and led the dogs back to the cabin.

It was slow going. His leg kept cramping on him.

"So, I'm just gonna be totally level with you." Dean raised both hands, palms out. "I don't know how much I like this idea."

"No, it'll be okay. I promise." Sam dropped onto their mattress. "We literally just had a whole conversation about how good I'm doing. Remember?"

It was dark in the workshop besides the fire Dean'd just built. Sam leaned over to turn on his lamp, bathing both of them in a soft white pool. When he straightened back up, Dean's arms were folded and his lips were pressed into a thin line.

"Yeah, I remember," Dean agreed. "I also remember what a vision does to you." He paced, from the stove to the door. "It takes you right down, it wipes you out, it's scary as shit to watch, and - " He turned to Sam. "In case you forgot, I'm a demon. I don't do scared."

"I have triggered one before, though." Sam raised his eyebrows at Dean. "On purpose, with Cas. And it was fine! I stayed upright and everything."

"That was just a little one." Dean shook his head, glancing away. "You saw Bela tripping over one of the stupid dogs. You didn't track down Death."

"All I'm saying is I know how to do it," Sam replied, reasonably, taking off his boots. "A-and I think I should at least try."

Dean just stared him down. Sam stared right back. He'd come up with the vision thing during dinner, seething at the dead end they'd run up against, and it was like a door he'd thought was part of the wall opened for him. This was probably the only shot they had. He hadn't had any more nosebleeds. He was ready.

"Yeah, okay, I get that, but..." Dean broke eye contact, biting his bottom lip. "Are you...sure about this? About Death?"

"What d'you mean?"

"Just feels kinda like you might be rushing this. I'm wondering if you shouldn't think this whole thing over some more before you knock yourself out. Literally." Sam frowned up at him. Dean rolled his eyes, then sat down next to him. "Look, Sam. I've. Dealt with stuff like this before, a couple times." He looked sideways at him, green glowing on the rims, pupils deep and troubled. "Gods and. Things."

"Seriously? Which - " Sam was itching for his laptop all of a sudden, a notebook, anything. "Which ones? When? What happened?"

"Why the hell's it matter?" Dean snapped.

"I'm..." Sam sucked in a breath. Focus. "I...guess it doesn't." He coughed, looked at Dean. "I would like to hear about it sometime, though."

"Guess you're SOL, then, 'cause I don't remember any details." Dean shrugged and Sam wondered if, sometimes, "I don't remember" was just code for "I don't wanna talk about it." "Might ask Bobby if you're really burning up." He reached over, hesitated for a second, put his hand on Sam's shoulder anyway. It was warm and smelled like ash and sulfur. "I brought it up 'cause it's not fun, dealing with things like that. We might be biting off more than we can chew here."

Sam looked away, running a hand through his hair and licking his lips.

"Hey." The hand came off his shoulder, but Dean moved closer, nudging him. "Didn't you summon Marduk once? Swear you told me that. At your cabin?"

"Uh, yeah." Sam tipped his head back, sighed. "Got a...Sumerian spellbook. Well, copy of a copy, and in terrible condition. Can't believe the rite even worked."

"And how'd it go?"

Sam realized he'd taken half a second too long to answer as soon as he spoke. "Fine."

Sighing loudly, Dean patted Sam's back. "Okay. Right."

"Dean..." Sam looked at him again. "Death is kind of our only option here. But if you're really worried, and I definitely get why you are, we can try to figure something else out."

It was a long, long time before Dean spoke again, eyes black for a fraction of a second. "Clarence tell you what killed Ajay?"

"He said he didn't know." Sam glanced at the door, closed, locked, and warded. "Is he back yet?"

"Nope."

He must still be talking to the other angels, Sam reasoned. He didn't think it was time to worry yet. And the further away Castiel was, the smaller the chance of him interrupting if Sam did do this.

"Guess we oughta see if this'll even work, first." Dean sighed. "You finding Death with a vision." He looked hard at Sam. "You're laying down for this, though. Don't care how cocky you're feeling about your powers, I don't want you killing yourself when you go down."

"Right." Sam shook his head. "Of course."

Boots off, Sam stretched out on the bed. Dean turned off the lamp and put Sam's head in his lap, cradling it in his folded legs. Dean touched him with rough fingertips, brushing hair away from his temples, and Sam closed his eyes.

He focused hard on Death and finding him as he did what he'd done last time: visualized feeling along the dark and furrowed underside of his brain, turning a valve there, and letting what lay on the other side pour into the waiting space in his head. One of Castiel's rare pieces of good advice had been to think of this as a latent power, always present and ready for him to call on it. Even then, the process had been mostly trial and error.

Only a couple minutes in, Sam realized he didn't actually know how to direct a vision. The Bela one had just kind of...happened. Hopefully, thinking about what he wanted to see would be enough.

This time was just like the first one, in that it didn't come right away. It took a few passes, kept getting derailed by the constant noise of Sam's thoughts. And when the pain blossomed, Sam choked on a raw moment of panic, utterly convinced this was the worst mistake he'd ever made.

That faded, thankfully.

Clairvoyance was still kind of the opposite of telekinesis: it hurt much less when it was done on purpose. It still felt like somebody was trying to excise Sam's sinuses with a can opener as the vision waxed. But it wasn't the worst pain he'd ever had anymore.

It faded more quickly, too, and then there was a series of flashes. Vignettes, shivering like they were coming off an old-school projector, thousands of tiny, fractured pictures Sam couldn't process encrusting a few big enough for him to understand. Like diamond dust. It reminded him of that very first vision he'd had, right after the First Trial.

There was Castiel, glaring down at a bottle of beer. Sunlight shattering off a brilliant metal arch. Dean glancing up through his lashes and blinking his eyes liquid black. It was film ticking across the bulb at a fever rate, someone in the cutting room going slowly crazy as they spliced together a story that didn't make sense.

It stabilized eventually and Sam got a clear scene, one he saw as crisply as if he were actually there.

It was a restaurant, dark. There was a koi tank set into one wall, its moon-faint, ethereal light reflecting off the metallic accents of a Chinese dragon painted on another. All of the tables except for one were empty, a tealight in a red glass only barely picking out the faces of the two people sitting at it.

There was an old man, skeletal, his dark hair slicked back and a suit somehow well-tailored and ill-fitting at the same time draped over his thin frame. In the weak light, his face looked like a skull except for the prominent nose, eye sockets full of shadow.

And Sam saw himself, too. His hair was different. Shorter. He looked pale and nervous, hands folded on the table, but there was a familiar set of determination to his eyes and jaw. It was weird to see it from this angle.

Dean and Castiel were nowhere in sight.

This was Death, Sam knew. It had to be. He seemed to be studying Sam, who waited tensely. Something glittered far back in the depths of his eye sockets. It was a shock when he spoke.

"You're right," Death agreed in cultured, mild tones. "It definitely is. I'm a very busy being, Sam, as I'm sure you know." He reached for the Chinese-style teacup in front of him, lifting it delicately to his thin lips. He had a large ring on one withered hand, with a square white stone. "But I think I'll help you anyway."

Sam saw himself start to react. He straightened up in his chair, eyes widening. Then the vision dropped him.

Sam jerked in Dean's lap, eyes breaking open and breath stuttering. It felt like one of the violent twitches that sometimes came before sleep. His pulse beat painful under the corners of his jaw, and he was alone and present in his body again as he sat up.

"Crap." Dean sounded equal parts relieved and frustrated. "You okay? I hate watching that, man." Sam glanced over his shoulder at him. He'd barely noticed a wet tickle on his upper lip when Dean grimaced. "You got a, uh, nosebleed."

"Shoot," Sam mumbled. He started to dig through his backpack, hands feeling like they were mittened in gauze, as Dean got up behind him. The blood crossed his lips and he licked reflexively at it, wincing at the copper wash on his tongue. Dean tapped him on the shoulder with a roll of paper towels after a second. "Oh. Thanks."

"So..." Dean sat back down. "What'd you see?"

"Uh." Sam turned towards him, a wadded paper towel crushed against his nose. "Death. He was...he was telling me he was gonna help me."

"Are you serious?" Dean asked, disbelieving.

"'S what I saw." Sam tipped his head back.

"Well..." When he looked at Dean, he seemed troubled, staring at nothing in particular. "I mean, these visions of yours, they've been pretty accurate so far. Haven't they?" Sam swallowed. Blood dripped thick down the back of his throat. "Bobby's alive. Demons showed up to kill Kubrik and his family. So if you actually, really saw Death agreeing to help us out...that changes things some. I guess." Dean glanced at Sam, sidelong. "Where's he gonna be?"

"St. Louis," Sam realized even as he spoke. "I saw the arch. He was in a-a Chinese restaurant."

Dean blinked, long and slow, then deliberately asked, "Sam, you got any idea how many Chinese restaurants there have to be in St. Louis?"

"There was a mural on one of the walls. A dragon." Details spun up. "And an aquarium full of koi fish."

"Oh, sure," Dean agreed sarcastically. "That narrows it down."

"It does," Sam argued. His nose was still bleeding. "I can find it, I know I can. I just don't know when it was, so we gotta leave as soon as possible." He looked at Dean. "Dean. You're a hunter."

"I'm a demon," Dean stated flatly.

"You're a hunter," Sam repeated. "We both are. We're the same, we were raised in it, and we just started up again a few months ago. Together." With his free hand, he reached for Dean's, finding it and gripping tight. "Aren't you ready to get back on the road? To get back to work?"

Dean didn't look at Sam as he sighed loudly through his nose, then pulled his hand free and stood up. He shook his head.

"That's nasty," he muttered, eyeing the paper towel where Sam could feel blood starting to seep against his fingers. "Let's just get rid of it." He reached down and touched Sam's nose, eyes burning black. It cracked painfully high up inside as the bleed sealed off. Sam dropped the paper towel, blinking away a sudden crop of tears. Dean yawned, swayed, then steadied himself. "Far as Death in St Louis goes...s'pose checking it out's the least we can do. Shoot for leaving tomorrow, I gotta recharge and I know you do, too."

Sam washed the last of the blood off his face, relieved and exhausted. Visions always wiped him out, so he assumed that was all it was. After he and Dean had undressed and gotten into bed together, Dean mumbled, "Angel's gonna be an issue."

"Yeah..." Sam closed his eyes. "I know."

A pause. "Okay, lemme rephrase that, 'cause I'm not sure you're getting it. He's gonna be your issue."

"Nope, I got that." Dean was still wearing his amulet, and it was practically pressing a bruise into Sam's back. "I'll handle Cas in the morning, all right?"

"'Cas.'" Dean snorted. "You call him that, I call you Sammy - "

"Like my dad did. 'Cause you've got some kinda incest thing, apparently. Speaking of, are we still brothers?"

" - why don't I get a cute nickname?"

Sam cracked an eye, turned his head some. "You don't like Dandelion?"

"You know what, fuck you," was Dean's reply.

"Fuck you, too, then." Sam smiled.