It is from Our Great Dark King, Six-Winged Lucifer, that we, the Infernal Race of Demons, sprang. It was by His Hand that Lord Lilith, Alabaster of Eye and First of Our Kind, was drawn from a Human Soul, and so have we all followed. It is to Our King we owe our existence, and that of Our Realm. To Him is every Demon Beholden. We are but Horned Worms in the presence of a Stygian God.

Without Him on our Throne, low do our Fires burn. Shallowly do our Blades cut. Tenuous is our hold on the Human Souls from which our brethren will come.

Without Him, Hell is Weakened and Confined, the True Power of our Race lost.

Our Beautiful Deceiver lies bound in a foul Cage far below our Deepest Fires. To his Freedom and Return to our Throne is sworn every Prince and Lord of Hell, gold and pearl, and all onyx below them. Without a King, there is no Hell, and We the Infernal die a Third Death every day.

A Dark Messiah, we have been told, Fallen as is Lucifer, gorged on our Infernal Blood and shot through with Sinful Wickedness, shall Free Him. So it is written, so shall it come to pass, no matter the Price nor the wait. No Infernal Life may outweigh the Freedom of the Morning Star.

Also have we been told this Tainted Light may take Lucifer's Kingdom in His stead. A Shadow Son, a Black Lamb, who will Ascend to the Throne that was always His Intended, and Hell shall enter a glorious New Age of Darkness and Blood, and so shall all the Infernal bow before our New King. The Evening Star, heir of Lucifer.

This is the Will of Hell and of the Serpent, that the Throne remain not empty. A King shall Rise in one form or another, and every Prince and Lord and all below shall ensure.

So it has been Decreed. A Key or King shall come, and by Force shall We the Infernal take Him.

If it should cause the Seas to Boil, Heaven to Fall, and every Human Soul to be cloven in Two, so shall we take this as a blessing.

Sacred texts of Hell, excerpt from section concerning rulership (translated from Bastard Enochian)


Sam dreamed.

Mostly, it was bad.

There was the arctic nightmare, blood and flesh frozen into screaming, cracking glaciers, something wearing his face striding through it all with an infernal court in tow. Horns on its head and bisected wings on its back, light like blood and rotten honey pouring out of eyes and mouth and fissures all over the body. A spire rose in the far distance, and he only vaguely recognized it as the Washington Monument, icy veins twined around it.

Click. It was jarring when the dream changed, old film spliced poorly together.

There was the white-eyed demon sitting in a slick highrise office, surrounded by infernal goblets and paperwork dotted with sticky red fingerprints, looking bored. Multiple TV screens lining one wall showed breaking news broadcasts from all over the world, shocking violence, murders and riots and war crimes, and more than a quarter of the bystanders in every crowd had black eyes.

Click.

There were the spotless white hallways, antiseptic and lit with a source Sam couldn't figure out, men and women in sensible suits moving up and down past doors labeled with Enochian. He saw himself in a spacious room, sitting on a fairly plain chair in a well-tailored suit, his head canted unnaturally to one side and a blank expression on his face. Behind him, a pair of wings the same shape as Castiel's had been burned into the white, white wall, ash glittery. Above that, a counter like a digital clock read sixty-seven years in blocky red letters.

Click.

There was Dean, sitting at a rickety table in a dingy motel room, a piece of paper and an unloaded gun in front of him, looking thin and rough and years older, a scruffy beard grown in. He stared off at nothing as he aggressively tapped one end of the pencil he was holding against the paper, several things written on it but all scribbled out black and angry. Minutes passed. Finally, he shook his head, shoved the paper away from himself. It fluttered. He picked up the gun, started loading it, then clenched his jaw and closed his eyes as he put the muzzle under his chin.

Click.

There was the house. Sam couldn't see much of it beyond a weather-beaten, sturdy porch. He was sitting on the steps with a heavy quilt draped around his shoulders, and he didn't look healthy, exactly, but not like he was actively dying, either. Dean was behind him, arms around him, eyes shaded black against the bright sun coming in patches as clouds scudded across the sky. A grassy slope ran down to a rocky beach, stiff gray waves crashing, and they were watching Vaughn and the dogs running through the foam.

Click.

There was the wooden shell of an abandoned building. No glass in the windows, snow falling outside, a soft gray sky bleeding murky twilight. It might be sunset, he couldn't tell. He could only see the walls and ceiling from his vantage point, but they were absolutely covered in warding and symbols, hundreds done in a dozen different substances, chalk and spray paint and what Sam thought might be blood, hours and hours of work. He recognized most, but wasn't sure he'd ever seen some of them working in tandem before, hadn't even considered the combinations. Wind whistled lonely outside, and floorboards creaked as someone walked around.

Sam waited for the next click, but it didn't come. Instead, discomfort started setting in. He was freezing cold, ears and nose aching. Whatever he was laying on wasn't meant for it, hard and poorly-shaped. He was tired.

Then there was pain. Car-crash aches he remembered from septicemia, all over. Eyes stinging like they were full of sand, a hot pulse of something bad on his neck. And below all that, a frightening hollowness under his skin. Like something fragile and essential to holding him together had burnt off, and even the ash had sifted free of him.

He didn't think he was still dreaming.

Sam remembered unlocking his powers, and the Trials. Did he finish the Third one? He hadn't exploded, at least. Obviously. So that was good.

He went to push himself up. He had to move slow, since his body didn't want to move at all. He was bundled up on some kind of bench, multiple layers of clothing on him, other shirts, jeans, and jackets he recognized as his own tucked around him.

Gasping, he went to put a hand to his neck with the hot, bad thing there throbbed with a sudden vengeance. It hurt like nothing had since the first time the painkillers wore off, right after the wendigo. He grimaced. It was so difficult, like dragging his arm up through water. He could hardly move and didn't even wind up touching himself.

Maybe he was still dreaming.

He looked around at the sigils again, wished absently he had something on him to take notes, even if he doubted he could hold a pencil at the moment. There was salt in the doors and windows, all along the baseboards, and poured in thick rings around him. Protection. But from what?

Head pounding, his nose dripped. Sam saw it was bleeding when he put another numb, slow hand to it. His face felt tight and itchy, like he'd been bleeding from his eyes and ears, too. He was about to lay back down, moving on autopilot, but then he saw somebody on the other side of the building, aggressively scrawling smaller runes in between the larger spell circles. Tall, broad, bowed legs.

Dean, Sam realized with a slow-rolling shock.

He didn't think he'd said his name out loud, but Dean looked over at him right then anyway, eyes wide and black. Then he dropped the nub of chalk in his hand and practically sprinted for Sam. He stopped dead at the edge of the salt rings, then stepped over them with a look of concentration on his face, moving like he was pushing through a wall of wet cotton. Soon as he was inside, he came straight over to Sam, one hand falling on his shoulder and the other smoothing across his face.

"Well, hey there. Welcome back to the land of the living." Dean's relief dripped off every single word. He was smiling, but it was jittery, nervous. "'Bout damn time. How you feeling?"

Sam had to unstick his tongue from his teeth so he could answer. His mouth tasted like something crawled into it, had babies, raised a five-generation family, and then died.

"Fine," he rasped, and Dean shook his head.

"Yeah, sure you are. Didn't think you were ever gonna wake up."

There was a pause, long and painful. Sam flexed his fingers, feeling coming back into them. He thought he was getting better. Just needed to wake up bit by bit.

He remembered. Hadn't finished the Third Trial, still needed to cure the demon. He'd been gonna use Dean. Had permission to use Dean now. That was really good.

"I got this place locked down," Dean told Sam, whose concentration broke like sugar glass. "With any luck, nobody's gonna be able to tell you're here. Or that you were here. Or sense any of that Jesus magic you spilled all over the place. Not without a seriously turbo-charged spell, at least...which everybody looking for you's definitely gonna break out sooner rather than later, but that's okay." He nodded, like he was trying to convince himself. "'Cause I just wanted to keep you in one place 'til you got done with your coma. Now you're awake and, y'know, kinda okay, we can take off."

"Uh huh," Sam agreed, and swung his legs off the bench. Dean's hand slid off his shoulder. "Gotta get to a church." He looked up at Dean, getting his thoughts together, giving his body a second to find whatever strength might be left in it. "Need consecrated ground to cure you."

"...yyyeah," Dean began, slowly, "I know. But we're in a church, Sammy. Right now. You remember me bringing you here?"

Sam looked around, took in the structure, the cross he'd missed. The bench he was on was a pew. He did remember, maybe halfway or so.

"Oh," he said, then coughed wetly. "Yeah. Right. Well, that's perfect."

"Yeah, don't get too excited." Dean patted the side of Sam's face. "Only one getting cured anytime soon's you."

Sam looked at him, and decided he was ready to get up. He was starting to think he'd been wrong by the time he was actually on his feet, all the layers making it even harder, but forced himself to stay there, and kept the swaying to a minimum. Dean took his hand off his face.

"I gotta do the Third Trial," Sam told Dean deliberately, because maybe he just didn't understand. "'S the only one I got left."

"You're sick, Sam," Dean answered flatly. "More than sick. I'm not even gonna try to figure out what all's wrong with you right now, but you're in no shape to even start the Third Trial, never mind live through it."

"I can start it." Sam looked, found his backpack. He took a wobbling step towards it.

"Oh, you can hold a syringe right now?" Dean demanded. "You can draw your own blood? You really think you can somehow kick my ass hard as it'd take to make me play nice for eight whole hours?"

Sam stopped. He looked at Dean.

"You said," he told him, and swallowed. "You said you'd…'go gentle.'"

"I didn't know you'd be like this when I promised that!" Dean flung his hands at Sam, and Sam shook his head, laughing. The noise fell out of him bleak and twisted.

"You're lying to me again," he said, then coughed. It didn't scratch the crawling, seeping itch in his chest. "And I'm starting to get sick of it. You were never gonna keep that promise, were you?"

"You want me to choose between finishing the Trials or keeping you alive." Dean's hands were fists. "And I'm sorry, but I know which one I'm gonna choose. Every goddamn time."

Sam looked at his backpack again. The syringe was in there. He just had to get to it, then he'd figure out the rest. He took another step.

"Wait," Dean commanded. "You remember the promise you made, Sam?" Sam looked at him. Lightning flickered off in the distance, weird for a snowstorm. "That if I asked you, really asked you, you'd choose me over the Trials. Over closing the Gates. Same as I'm choosing you, same as I would've chosen you back when I was still human, too. If I'd had you then."

"Don't ask me that," Sam warned, shaking his head. "I told you not to."

"Well, too damn bad, 'cause I'm doing it anyway."

He took a couple steps towards Sam, coming slowly, gently, hands held out. And suddenly, a wave of wrath stronger than anything Sam had known he could still conjure up crashed through him, nearly knocking him over. He couldn't even contain it. It blasted out of him, a thousand whipping arms, and Dean flew backwards almost to the nearest wall of the church, boots dragging trails through the salt.

He dropped to his knees, staring at Sam. There was a beat of shocked silence between them, and then Sam turned to his backpack again.

He almost made it. But then Dean was there, grabbing him, forcing him to the ground in a tangle of long legs and thick fingers, and Sam realized that the church he'd seen in his very first vision, Dean black-eyed and on top of him, was this one.

"You fucking asshole, why the hell are you so goddamn determinted to kill yourself?!" Dean yelled. "Is living with me really that bad? Are you that desperate to get away from me?!"

"Of course not!" Sam yelled right back, throat raw, voice hoarse, eyes stinging. "I don't wanna die, I just wanna finish the Trials, Dean, I wanna close the Gates of Hell, and that - don't you realize how big of a deal that is? How - " He folded up as he coughed. "How much of a win it'd be for everybody? How do you not get that just one person dying is the best deal we could hope for?"

"Because that one person's you!" Dean was straddling him. "And I don't get how the shot of maybe closing the Gates is worth your life."

"You don't get it." Sam shook his head, skull rolling painfully back and forth on the floor. "If I stop now, it was all useless. All of it. Everything."

"Everything? You really believe that?"

"I need to do this."

"You don't get that you really don't, and I don't know how to make you figure that out."

"This is what I'm supposed to do."

"How the hell d'you know that?" Dean demanded. "Huh? 'Cause Castiel thought it might, maybe, be 'God's plan' for you? Fuck God, Sam, he left the building, you can do whatever you want, and that doesn't have to be this. I know you don't really want this."

"If I don't do this, then I'm not - I'm not good for anything at all!" Sam burst out. "I'm worthless!"

That was when Sam realized that, before then, Dean hadn't been angry. Not really. Frustrated, sure. Definitely emotional and upset. But not mad. Not really pissed.

He saw him get angry then.

The wind exploded in through the windows, all of them, a microburst maelstrom, and the heaps of snow it carried sublimated instantly into steam, because the temperature had jumped forty degrees in ten seconds and was still climbing fast. Somewhere, there was fire; Sam smelled ozone and char and, above all, sulfur. Smoke curled out of the pores of Dean's vessel, and he wasn't sure if it was his soul, or if his meat was literally burning. It traced the outlines of wings and knuckles and antlers.

Sam couldn't breath. Dean's hands on him were searing.

It lasted, maybe, half a minute. Then Dean closed his eyes, head bowed, grimacing, and the smoke slowly trickled off. The wind and the lightning, the heat. The smell remained, something that carried a clean reek of Hell, but it faded fast as the cold inched back in.

Sam was shivering by the time Dean spoke again.

"No," he started quietly, "you're not." He opened his eyes. Glossy black. Glossier than normal. "And how dare you say that to me, Sam. How dare you tell me I wasted my time with something whose only purpose, all along, was to die here for a stupid ritual that might not even work. Don't you know what you are to me? Don't you know how I feel about you?" The hands he had around Sam's biceps shook. "Ignoring everything else. Everything you've done in your life. All the books you wrote, the people you helped, the lives you saved...Vaughn, your family. All of it. Everything that came before me, and after me, too. Take all that outta the equation, and what you've done to me and me alone?" He slid off Sam, pulled him up so they were sitting across from each other, legs hooked together. "That's still enough for you to be a long fucking way from worthless, Sammy."

Sam shook, staring, burning and freezing and hurting with a raw, yawning ache, wanting to be both released and touched so much more than he was being right now.

"You are worth everything to me," Dean told him, enunciating every word clear. "Everything in the entire world. Nothing could ever outweigh you, and you asking me to turn my back on that so you can die, just to...to save people who hate you, hate us, or don't even know us…" He shook his head, grimacing. "That's the worst thing anybody has ever done to me."

Sam opened his mouth with a wet, sticky noise. His spit tasted like rancid metal on his tongue and his eyes pulsed with tears that seemed to hurt a lot more than they should. He felt like something torn in half, and Dean's hands on either side of him were the only things keeping him together. But an ocean would spill out of him anyway, just as soon as he spoke.

Before he could say a word, the church doors slammed open, and Dean's face filled with horror and anger as a voice Sam recognized asked, "I'm not interrupting a...lovers' quarrel, now am I?"

Sam knew what he'd see, but he turned to look anyway.

Alastair was standing in the doorway, white-eyed, framed by a faint-glowing sky and falling snow.

And every protective sigil in the church had been burnt useless. Most still smoldered.

Dean was on his feet and in front of Sam in a blink, feet planted and shoulders squared. Sam started to struggle up again, eyes on Alastair as he looked around.

"Not much of a love nest you've got here," Alastair commented, then looked at Sam. "I can't believe you're still alive. I felt all that power you were wasting just vanish and assumed you'd burned yourself out, like a cheap lightbulb. Pop. And I came out to collect whatever was left of my prodigal Knight." He laughed. "You know, when we felt you bearing down on us? I thought for sure you were coming to kill him. I definitely would've, if I'd been in your position. Even though it's supposed to be what your kind are known for and all, Sammy-boy, it's the rare Messiah who can actually forgive the thing that betrays them. In fact, I was so sure Dantalion was dead meat I took a souvenir to remember him by. Since he was always my very favorite." He reached into the pocket of his peacoat and pulled something out. Burnished bronze gleamed dully. Without actually touching the metal, Alastair casually spun Dean's amulet around one finger by the leather cord as he talked. Something in Sam sparked, sharp and ugly. "This thing's like carrying around Chernobyl rubble, but the best things in life always hurt a little bit." He smiled at them, pocketing the amulet again. "You two know exactly what I mean."

"Leave, Alastair." Dean's voice was tense and quiet. "He can't help you. His power's drained." Sam heard the dry clicking of his throat working, then he roughly added, "He's dying."

"Dantalion, Dantalion, Dantalion." Alastair clucked. "Where's your imagination, son? Where's your hope? Yes, our boy here's broken…" He stepped into the church, and began to walk a slow, wide circle around them. Dean moved with him, keeping himself between Alastair and Sam. "Very broken. But there's nothing wrong with him that can't be repaired." Alastair smiled at Dean. "You're Mr. Fix-It! I saw that when I had you in Hell, even Cain commented on it. And you're especially good at putting things back together wrong. That could really come in handy here."

Alastair stopped in the back of the church, in front of the cross. That'd been burnt, too, arms uneven, ash crumbled to the floor. Alastair smiled beatifically, and spread his own arms.

"You wore his crown of thorns," he told Dean. "You bound yourself to him, and I know losing him will shatter you more completely than I ever could, Dantalion. I won't deny I'm a little jealous. But you know this is the only way to save his life. This is the only way Sam survives. With us. Our King. Your King. The ruler of a world that won't constantly chew at your smoke the way this one does, making you keep all those beautiful urges I gave you in check." Alastair blinked his eyes clear. "Don't you want that? To save Sam?"

Sam felt like his muscles, shaking taut, were about to snap his cactus-rib bones, because he already knew what Dean's answer would be. He'd do anything to keep him alive. To make him better. And Sam hated him for it even as he understood it in a way he didn't want to.

He had his knife, inside his jacket, rusted over with Dean's blood already. But it wouldn't kill him, would barely hurt him. And Sam was so weak right now. And even if he wasn't, even if he was in peak condition and had a knife that could kill a Knight of Hell with a scratch...he knew he wouldn't do it.

Useless, someone murmured inside his head, maybe his dad, but he didn't really believe it. Dean had taken that from him, too. All Sam could do was wait for the answer he already knew was coming.

"Not like this," Dean told Alastair. "Everybody here knows it ain't saving him. Not the real him. It's not worth it."

Sam swallowed, knees weak. Alastair sighed heavily.

"Oh, Dantalion," he stated. "I'm so disappointed in you." Dean's shoulders twitched. "Guess we'll have to do this the hard way." He cleared his throat, and when he spoke again, his voice had the same strange, weighty timbre to it that it'd had back in the convent. "Stay put."

He completed his circle. Dean strained in place, like an electric current was locking him solid to the floor. Sam turned, pressing his back to Dean's, heart jumping, as Alastair stopped in front of the open doors again. There was a sudden burst of wind, and Alastair's voice rose powerfully above it.

"Secure the Messiah," he commanded, "and then let's go. We've got a lot of work to do."

Dean turned stiffly. Sam faced him, backed away a couple steps, but didn't go any further. Dean was looking past him, shaking like somebody trying to hold up a car. Smoke frothed out of his mouth when he opened it.

"I don't think you get what kinda shape he's in right now." Dean spoke like he was being strangled. "If you make me get too rough with him, he'll die. Then what'll you do?"

"If you accidentally snap something important?" Alastair asked from behind Sam. "No big deal. We'll just...pick up the pieces and put him back together. Same as what we were planning on anyway, just with an extra step. And if, for some reason, his puzzle's too jumbled, we'll sweep what's left under the rug and work on controlling as much of the planet as we possibly can before the next Messiah's born. Just to make sure we find it." He laughed. "With how fast things are going down the toilet, it won't be long. Fifty, sixty years, max, 'til somebody pops out the next one. So we'll have to move fast and hope Heaven keeps sending their turkeys down one by one for us to pluck." The command voice came back. "Take him down, Dantalion."

Dean shook harder, bleeding smoke. Sam expected to have to fight back fear as he walked up to him again, no distance between them, but he wasn't afraid at all.

"It's okay," he promised, and put one hand on Dean's arm, squeezing. With the other, he slipped his knife out of his jacket, held the handle firmly as he could. "I'm sorry."

The black of Dean's eyes rolled as, briefly, he glanced at Sam, and then he was looking at Alastair again, like there was a thread pulling his gaze to him.

Sam hugged Dean, tight, and it was like trying to hold onto a jackhammer, he swore his fillings were rattling, but he stayed put. And stared down at his knife in the fading light. He wouldn't hurt Dean, and that didn't leave him many options, but he knew he wasn't going quietly. He couldn't.

"I love you," Sam told Dean quietly.

"Aw," Alastair cooed. "You two are practically enough to rot teeth, aren't you?" Another loud gust of wind. It'd really picked up. "And Dantalion. That's quite the impressive backbone you seem to think you've grown. I'll applaud you for that, but...who do you think you're kidding? You can't keep this up long."

Dean's voice was a raspy, strangled growl when he answered.

"Don't have to."

The ring of a gunshot sliced over the wind. Dean sagged immediately against Sam, groaning low, cords of tension instantly cut. Sam turned to look behind him, one arm still around Dean, half-protective and half keeping both of them upright.

Alastair was still standing there, a look of utter shock on his face. One eye didn't seem to be sitting quite right in its socket, blood leaking out of the corner. He tried to move, but it looked a lot like his feet were glued to the floor.

The wind lulled. A voice, female and British, called, "Hurry, gag him right now, or we'll have Dean to worry about, too."

Someone rushed into view around Alastair, small. Sam wasn't sure if it was the fog in his own head or the beanie that'd been pulled down over the bright orange hair, but in the low light, it took him way too long to recognize Vaughn. One hand was free, the other full of rags. Vaughn stopped when he saw Sam, stunned, eyes shining wetly and a ripple of rot passing over his face as his glamour shivered.

"Vaughn!" Bela snapped, coming around Alastair's other side, in a parka, carrying bulky handcuffs and a pistol. Vaughn snapped out of it, turned back to the Lord of Hell.

Alastair, still in shock, reached for Vaughn, and he immediately slammed a wrist spike through his palm. He held it up and out of the way until Bela could grab it, securing Alastair's wrists behind him. Vaughn packed his mouth full of cloth and what Sam thought might be a hex bag. Finished, he knotted it firmly into place, and Alastair struggled and choked.

Vaughn immediately swung back towards Sam. Sam thought he was about to break into a sprint, but Dean hoarsely warned, "Easy there, kid. Gentle. He's only so much dry kindling right now."

So Vaughn approached, much more slowly than Sam could tell he wanted to, and then put his arms around him soon as he was close enough. He pressed his face into his chest, voice muffled when he spoke.

"Thought you were dead."

Sam wrapped his empty arm around him, holding him tight as he was Dean, then looked at Bela. Pistol gone, she had a replica of his demon-killing knife in one gloved hand and was tightly gripping Alastair's arm with the other, ignoring the look of white-hot hate he was directing at her. Obviously picking up on Sam's confusion, Bela nodded to Alastair.

"Devil's trap bullet," she explained. "Won't kill him...not really sure how to kill something like him, actually. But it'll certainly root him in one place, which more than serves our needs." She looked back to Sam. "We got your suicide note last night."

Sam felt Vaughn twitch viscerally against him.

"Your computer whiz - Ash - tracked your mobile down. We happened to be closest, so we decided to make the trek out, see what help we could offer." She gave Alastair a tug. "Looks like we got here right in the nick of time, but...Sam. You really gave everybody quite a scare." Mildly, Bela told him, "You really ought to be ashamed of yourself."

Her eyes strayed to Vaughn, and Sam was hit with a wave of guilt that nearly buckled his knees. Only Vaughn and Dean kept him on his feet.

"We appreciate the save, but he needs a hospital," Dean stated. Bela shook her head.

"Far too dangerous. Do you have any idea how many people, and things, he's got looking for him? The other hunters alone make any hospital a no-go. But let's get everything packed up, and we can figure out something that's good as."

Sam felt more than heard the frustrated growl that rolled out of Dean's chest. Bela raised both eyebrows.

"Do you have a better idea, then?"

Dean said nothing.

"Didn't think so. Put your boy in the van, the heater's running. I'm going to do a little backup binding on your boss here, and then you can help me with him." Bela tapped Alastair's chest with the point of her knife. "Chop chop, Dandelion."

"Fucking Christ," Dean said, and this time, it was a wave of near-hysterical giggles that nearly collapsed Sam.

"Is that his stuff?" Vaughn asked, stepping back from Sam and pointing to his backpack. Dean nodded.

"Yep. Just shove everything in there and throw it in the van, we'll deal with it later."

Sam was annoyed that everybody was talking around him rather than to him, but only vaguely. As Vaughn headed for his backpack, Dean put one of Sam's arms over his shoulder and walked him past Alastair, who was shaking a lot like Dean had been earlier, especially as Bela unbuttoned his coat and sliced his shirt open. Standing between the Alastair and Sam, Dean paused, then reached into Alastair's pocket. When he handed Sam the amulet, he almost dropped it, then just stared at it for a long couple seconds. It wasn't until they were in the doorway of the church that he moved clumsily to put the amulet back over Dean's head.

Dean leaned away, then came to a stop just outside, their feet sunk to the ankles in dry, fluffy snow. The wind had died completely and the silence pressed in at Sam's ears. The light was fading fast.

"No," Dean told him quietly. The snow ate his voice, practically before it even reached Sam. "Not 'til you're ready. Not 'til it feels right, 'til everything's behind us and you feel the same as you did on Christmas again. But this time, it's real, 'cause we ain't lying to each other." Dean put a hand on Sam's, folded his fingers over the amulet, pushed it back towards him. "I know that's gonna take a while. And I'm okay with that."

Sam blinked, then mumbled, "Okay, Mrs. Darcy."

Dean shook his head. "God only knows how high your fever is right now. Fucking nerd."

He picked Sam up then, one arm around his shoulders and the other under his knees, and carried him away from the church. His boots squeaked in the snow and Alastair began to scream, muffled and strained, from inside. Sam tipped his head back, hands and amulet on his belly, snowflakes on his face, and closed his eyes.