Sam was on his third cup of coffee and playing with his oatmeal when Father Green sat down across from him in the cafeteria. He looked like he'd gotten about as much sleep as Sam had. And he couldn't be sure, but he thought he'd pulled his collar up higher than it usually would have sat, covering his entire throat. Directly under his jaw, Sam could see the darkening finger of a bruise. It reminded him of H. Estes.

"Rough night?" Green asked sympathetically. He had his own cup of coffee. Reaching for the sugar bowl on the table, he pulled out two cubes, dropped them in.

"Yeah." Sam exhaled.

Green nodded. "I could tell. You looked like you weren't going to make it through Vespers."

"Sorry," Sam said with a grimace.

"It's all right." Pausing, Green eyed his bowl. "Not much of an appetite, either, I see."

"I…" Sam glanced down at the oatmeal, let go of his spoon. "...no. Guess not." .

Green tasted his coffee, added another couple sugar cubes. A couple of seconds passed, Sam reaching for his own coffee, before Green surmised, "You're worried about Dean. Mr. Kemper."

Sam paused with his mug halfway to his mouth.

"Your dedication's commendable, Sam," Green told him. He stretched a hand across the table, like he wanted to take one of Sam's, but didn't actually touch him. "But you need to understand he's no longer your burden to bear alone. I believe we're all very, very eager to cast out the demon that has tormented both you and Mr. Kemper for so long."

Sam's eyes were drawn, unavoidably, to Green's throat. He was luckily able to pull them away immediately after.

"With that said, Mr. Kemper is absolutely an extreme case, as we discussed yesterday. He's almost certainly going to require multiple exorcisms." Green made eye contact. "His first ritual's scheduled for this morning. Right after breakfast, in fact. I assume you want to assist?"

"Yeah." Sam drained his coffee, wiping at his mouth and moving to stand up. "Absolutely."

Green took Sam to Dean's room, after they'd dumped his dishes and Green had detoured to his office to grab his bible. They were joined by two nuns and another priest, who'd brought a large box of what looked like exorcism supplies. Crucifixes, holy water. Sam stood automatically right next to Dean, the room crowded enough he actually had to. He wasn't strapped down anymore, was sitting on the foot of his bed. And, Sam saw, the crucifix was right side up again.

There were the marks on his wrists and ankles, more visible now in the daylight. Dry scrapes, deep impressions. They made Sam's jaw clench, protective anger clashing with reason in his chest.

"Good morning, Mr. Kemper," Green greeted. His eyes, fixed on Dean, were careful. "How are you doing?"

"Well, it's not the Marriott, but I think I'll live," Dean replied.

"Do you understand what we'll be doing today?" Green asked. When Dean nodded, he gestured to the nuns, and the other priest. "Allow me to introduce both of you to Sisters Mary Ruth and Benedict, and Father Presley. Father Presley came to us recently, just like your Father Unterweger. This is his first exorcism."

"Oh, so he's got a music name," Dean muttered to Sam in something lower than a whisper, "but we've gotta - "

Dropping a hand onto his shoulder, Sam squeezed until he shut up, smiling at Father Presley and giving him a nod. "Nice to meet you."

"You, too." Presley nodded back. He was about Sam's age, with dark, curly hair and gray eyes. "Excited to be working with you."

"We should begin," Green announced. "Father Unterweger, I'm going to need you to move away from Mr. Kemper. Sisters, if you would please?"

Reluctantly, Sam did as he was told, joining the two priests a good distance from the bed as the nuns moved forward to strap Dean back in. He laid down, let them do it. Sam would have felt worse about it if it hadn't been for the look on his face. Almost excited.

"Father Presley, could you start us off with a prayer?" Green turned to Presley. "The Prayer to Saint Michael, I believe."

The nuns withdrew from the bed, taking up positions near everybody else. Presley cleared his throat. Sam looked at Dean, who caught his eye and smirked just a little. Sam would have to ask him later to be sure, but he felt fairly confident neither of them had ever seen anything but the weakest of demons do anything but flinch at this particular rite.

"St. Michael the Arch - "

"In the original Latin, please," Green interrupted. "If you know it." There was patience in his voice, but also a tightness that suggested it was rapidly waning.

"Oh, uh. In Latin." Presley was quiet for a long moment, before starting over. "P-princeps gloriosissime caelestis militia…"

Green and the nuns bowed their heads, Sam realizing a second later he should do the same. Presley only stumbled through a couple lines before stuttering and stopping at a familiar scraping noise. Sam looked up to see, as expected, the crucifix once again hanging upside down.

"Continue, Father Presley," Green said, quiet but firm.

"Yeah, Collin." Dean raised his head from the pillow, grinning. His eyes were black. "Keep going. Don't stop on my account."

"Father Presley," Green urged tensely, "continue."

"I-it knows my name," Presley said shakily, eyes wide.

"Veni in auxilium hominum." Green didn't ask again, just picked up where Presley had broken off, voice practically booming off the walls of the small room. "Quos Deus ad imaginem similitudinis suae fec - "

Dean rolled his head slowly on his neck, accompanied by a whole lot of unnecessary cracking noises. One nun, Sam thought Sister Benedict, sucked in a breath. Looking at Green, upping the volume to be heard over him, he commented, "Would've thought you'd know better by now. With the way I spanked you last night."

He winked. Sam was pretty sure it was for his benefit.

Green completely ignored Dean. He bent, snatched a crucifix out of the box on the floor, and powered through the rest of the prayer. Sam had to admit that his Latin pronunciation was spot-on. Dean had started humming loudly. When Green wrapped up, he stepped forward, crucifix held out in front of him like it was a shield and he was a knight, approaching a dragon as it poured flames down on him.

"In the name of our Lord, Jesus Christ," Green ordered, "I command you to leave this man in peace, Dantalion."

Dean didn't even visibly flinch. In fact, he smiled. In a voice Sam had never heard from him before, raspy and almost reptilian, he hissed out, "Fuck you, priest."

"In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy - "

Dean arched on the bed, spine curving violently, ribcage jutting towards the ceiling through his scrubs as his body strained. His wrists and legs were pulled tight against the straps, fingers and toes clenched white-knuckle tight, every muscle and tendon Sam could see bunched and trembling like knots under the skin.

"Holy water," Green ordered tensely. Benedict plucked a small plastic bottle from the box, and Green tore the cap free with his teeth. He squeezed, a thin stream criss-crossing Dean's body, pinning his scrubs to his stomach and thighs in a series of wet stripes. Dean jerked and contorted, steam rolling off his skin, and Sam swallowed. "I command you to leave, in the name of Christ!"

"Your god's got no power here," Dean sneered. "I mock Him and His angels."

"By the power of Christ, Dantalion, you will leave this body."

"Gallus in inferno mater sugit, Padre."

Sam winced, bringing a hand to his face and pinching the bridge of his nose. The nun right next to him, Mary Ruth, apparently misinterpreted the gesture.

"Have faith, Father," she whispered. "I've seen Father Green deliver so many souls from perdition. The Lord is strong through him."

Air suddenly blasted off Dean in a fierce wave, laced with only the barest hint of sulfur. Green's jacket flapped and he had to raise a forearm to his eyes, taking a step back. Sam squinted, turning his face away from the wind.

"Father Presley!" Green shouted. "Step forward, I need your help."

Arms crossed in front of his face, Presley took a step forward. As soon as he did, the wind stopped, and he was flung off his feet and into the door, rattling it loudly in its hinges. The air left his lungs in a dry slap and he fell, stunned, to the ground. Sam automatically took a knee, reaching for him to check if he was okay, then looked up at a crunching noise. A symbol was beginning to etch itself into the drop ceiling right above the bed. He couldn't tell what it was yet. Benedict cried out in horror.

Dean's feet slid free of the straps around his ankles, and he flipped to plant them on the wall. Squarely over the crucifix. He pulled his hands free, and then he was crouching on the wall over the bed like an insect, snarling black-eyed at Father Green.

The room darkened suddenly, like thunderheads were boiling across the sun. There was just enough light left to see the blood drain completely from Green's face.

"L-Lord, I entreat thee - " Green's voice cracked.

Yeah, okay. Sam felt his mouth thin out.

Presley was wheezing, but conscious, so Sam left him, reached for the box, and grabbed another bottle of holy water. He twisted the cap off, stepped forward past Green, and squirted just over Dean's shoulder. Or tried to, at least. He wound up catching him full in the face when Dean suddenly moved.

The etching immediately stopped, fiber dust littering the bed. Looked like Dean had gotten about halfway through a pentagram. Dean blinked, eyelashes wet, steam rising off his face, and looked at Sam. He seemed surprised, almost offended.

Sam raised his eyebrows, shrugged minutely in a "what-do-you-want-me-to-do" kind of way.

Dean rolled his eyes, which Sam doubted anybody else picked up on with them still a glossy, liquid black, then fell bonelessly back down onto the bed, hitting hard back-first. He looked unconscious, eyes closed and head resting at an awkward angle. The holy water, no longer steaming, soaked steadily into the pillow.

Green was breathing hard, air whipping raggedly in and out of him. Sam glanced behind himself, saw both nuns carefully helping Presley, looking better, to his feet. Stepping forward, Sam put a hand on Dean's chest, like he was checking to make sure he was okay. He halfway was.

Dean cracked an eye, green again, glaring up at him. Sam glared back until he rolled it and closed it again.

"Sam." No "Father Unterweger" from Green anymore. "Please step away from him. He'll probably sleep for the rest of the day after that, but we should secure him again. Just in case."

Neither Mary Ruth nor Benedict looked excited about that fact. Probably because they'd be the ones strapping him in. Sam grabbed one of Dean's hands, cinching a strap loosely around his wrist and taking the opportunity to squeeze apologetically. He got a begrudging squeeze back.

"Sam." Green's voice was authoritative. "Father Unterweger. The Sisters can handle that."

Sam finally did step back as Mary Ruth and Benedict came forward. He glanced at Presley, supporting himself with a hand on the wall. Green helped him straighten before Sam could ask if he was okay, murmuring something to him Sam only barely caught.

"...hours to recover, but then I'd like to see you in my office."

"Yes, Father," Presley murmured, eyes aimed at the floor. "I'm sorry."

Green didn't respond to that, letting go of Presley and turning to Sam. "Father Unterweger. It doesn't appear we're needed here any longer, and I imagine you could do with a bit of fresh air every bit as much as I could. Care to join me?"

Sam let Green usher him out of the building. He didn't seem to have any particular destination in mind, just meandering slowly across the campus. The weather wasn't as nice as it had been yesterday, temperature and sunlight a little more fitting for the season. Maybe that was why some of the trees were dropping their blossoms, a few flowerbeds looking a little lackluster.

"Have you ever experienced anything like that before with Mr. Kemper?" Green asked. His voice was strained. From all the yelling, Sam imagined.

"Unfortunately." Sam sighed.

"And you've been dealing with it entirely on your own?" Green stopped walking and looked at him full-on. When Sam nodded, he shook his head in slow wonder. "Sam, you are...an incredible young man. To bear such a burden for so long."

He reached for Sam's hand, taking it in both of his own. They were warm, dry, soft. Sam didn't see any choice but to let it happen.

"As frightening as it's been, everything's all right now," Green said kindly. "I want to make sure you know we're going to take care of both of you."

Sam cleared his throat, trying to cover up his discomfort. "Thank you."

"If there's anything you need," Green told him, serious, "you can come straight to me. In fact, I insist on it."

"Thanks. That...really means a lot." Sam paused. "Actually, y'know what, there is something." Green finally let go of him, spread his hands welcomingly. "D'you keep records of your patients? Their symptoms, the...rites applied, any names the demons might have given."

"We certainly do." Green nodded. "In the administrative building. Near my office, in fact. But wouldn't you prefer to rest, after what you just went through?"

"Research," Sam said honestly, glad Dean wasn't around to berate him, "is how I rest."

Green shook his head, but led him off in the direction of the admin building anyway. "Follow me, then."

The records room was shockingly well-kept. Large, neat and orderly, undoubtedly intended for this purpose all the way back when this place had still been a school in the making. Filing cabinets and bookcases stood in rows along the walls, an empty desk sitting in the center, and from what Sam could see from the doorway, everything was carefully labeled. But he guessed he shouldn't be all that surprised about Catholics keeping a meticulous history. Even excommunicated zealots.

He was so lost in putting together a plan of attack, as he stood there and surveyed the room, that he jumped when Green put a hand on his shoulder. Eyeing him with obvious concern, Green clearly hadn't missed it.

"I very much hope you're not going to burn yourself out, Sam," he murmured. "Remember the Lord can't do much with a broken soldier."

"I'll keep that in mind." Sam hoped his smile didn't look as tight and awkward as it felt. "Thanks."

Green nodded, patting his shoulder a few times, then turned away. "Let me know if you need any help. I'm sure we can find you an assistant."

He left. As soon as there was a door between the two of them, Sam let out the enormous breath he hadn't even realized he'd been holding, rolling his shoulders in an effort to shake some of the tension loose.

The first thing he did was grab his laptop from his room. He spent a long and useless minute trying to decide between that and a notebook, before finally coming to the realization that only one of them was password-protected. He hoped it wouldn't come down to a situation where that was an issue, but like Dean had said. This was a bad place.

Digging into the records really just cemented that.

Sam wasn't a psychiatrist, even if there had been a time when he'd entertained the idea of studying Criminal Psychology at college. Before that dream had died in a welter of blood and wendigo claws. But he thought he could still recognize the signs of schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, OCD, and tell them apart from actual possessions, even when their descriptions happened to be shot through with religion. The files were packed with those.

It got bleaker. Homosexuality was listed as a symptom, masturbation. Smoking weed. Other things that Sam almost unconsciously categorized himself as totally normal teenage behavior, like talking back or having sex or staying out late.

And then there were the signs that couldn't be attributed to anything but the presence of a demon. Smell of sulfur, speaking in languages the patient didn't know, dropping temperatures and pyrokinesis. Sam was about to write them off (not only had he spent a good two hours last night testing all these kids himself, but there was exactly one demon left on Earth and he owned a house with it), but stopped himself.

The way they'd all reacted to Dean during the exorcism. They'd been scared, definitely, like they understood the danger, and they might have been caught off-guard by the power on display, but as Sam played it back in his head over and over again, there hadn't been any of the shock he would have expected. Like they'd all seen black eyes and levitation before.

If anybody here was somehow faking those kinds of symptoms, it would almost definitely be Green. But he'd taken a real-Mccoy demon for granted same as the others.

It was unsettling. Sam didn't have time to look too hard into it, though. He found himself quickly sidetracked by the gaping hole he almost immediately found in the records.

He headed for Green's office, catching sight of Presley on his way out. He looked upset, but was walking too fast for Sam to call out to him. Bernard, acting as receptionist outside, showed Sam into Green's office without even checking first.

Green looked up from his computer when Sam came in. He looked initially displeased, but broke into a smile when he saw who it was. "Sam. Please, have a seat. I wasn't expecting to see you again so soon; what can I do for you?"

"I've just got a quick question about the records." Sam lowered himself slowly into one of the chairs in front of the desk. Yesterday, it had immediately reminded him of the chairs in almost every school library he'd ever been in. "Are there - sorry, are there more somewhere?"

"No, we keep them all in one place," Green said slowly. "We've considered digitizing them, but there's already so much work to do."

"Right." Sam coughed. "It just seems like they're incomplete."

"Well, we pride ourselves on our recordkeeping, Sam." Green's voice was pleasant. "Our hope is that the work we're doing here can help everyone, someday. If you're having trouble finding something, I'm sure I can help you."

"I've been through almost everything," Sam stated. Green's eyebrows moved. Not quite a frown, but definitely a reaction. "The issue I'm talking about here's that the only past patients I've been able to find any information on are the ones who left."

"What do you mean?" Green was puzzled.

"Well…" Sam took a deep breath. "There have been. Fatalities, right?"

He hadn't been aware he didn't have Green's full attention before, but apparently, he hadn't. Because it was very obvious that now he did. Exhaling forcefully through his nose, Green steepled his hands on his desk, studying Sam.

"Right?" Sam pressed.

"Sam." Green shook his head. "You've been tending to a man possessed by what appears to be an extremely powerful demon for several years now. Are you going to tell me you don't understand the toll demonic habitation takes on the human body? Not every case is going to be successful. It depends on the...health of the victim, their strength, the type of demons within them and what they do to them…"

"No, I-I know. I just wanna know why the files are missing."

"When death is the unfortunate outcome of someone's stay with us," Green began, "we dispose of their records. It just seems wrong to keep them around, not to mention morbid. It reminds us of our personal failure."

"Well, but isn't memento mori a pretty central tenet of - ?" The look Green had started to give him stopped Sam in his tracks. "Right. No, I-I get it."

"We hope death freed their soul and allowed it to return to the Lord," Green said, voice a little clipped now. "And we pray for them. But the fact remains it's a loss of life, the most precious gift He gives any of us."

"Doesn't that seem a little...I don't know, dishonest to you?" Sam ventured carefully. "Couldn't we learn from people who don't survive the whole exorcism process? Figure out what not to do?"

"I do have to praise you for your eternal optimism, Sam." Green leaned back in his chair. "I can tell you're the sort of man who looks for the use in everything. 'To the one who knocks, the door will be opened.'" He looked out the window. "But forgive me for pointing out how young you are, and how little experience you actually have. There was nothing in any of those records that would have helped anyone."

There was silence. The wind had started to blow outside, whining off the eaves. Green was still looking through the window, apparently lost in thought, and it felt like a physical labor for Sam to open his mouth and tentatively ask, "So you didn't save - ?"

"We burn them," Green interrupted. "The files of all the deceased, burnt. Purified through fire, if it helps you to think of it that way, but let me assure you: very, very, very gone." He turned back towards his computer, an obvious dismissal. "The only records we have are in the records room which, as I have already told you, you are more than welcome to."

"Okay." Sam stood. "Thanks. Sorry to bother you."

"Hmm."

He got what he could from the files that were actually available, then left the admin building a couple hours later. The wind had really picked up, an obvious stormfront blowing into town, the entire eastern horizon a dark bank of flickering clouds. Given the way the plants were drooping, rain might be a good thing.

Sam tried to ignore the uneasy thing prowling around the edges of his mind, that kept whispering about how lightning storms were hallmarks of demonic activity.

The storm had landed by the time Sam ran into Presley, after dinner and on his way back from taking a shower.

"H-hey." Sam felt a little awkward. He was in a T-shirt and sweats, hair damp; Presley was still in full clerical dress. "You okay? He, uh. He threw you pretty hard."

"Yeah, I'm fine," Presley assured, reaching one hand almost unconsciously over his shoulder. "Just a couple bruises. Probably looked a lot worse than it felt, really just spooked me." One corner of his mouth quirked. "The worst part was the lecture Father Green gave me, after."

"He chewed you out?" Sam felt his face settle automatically into a concerned frown.

"Oh, yeah. He wasn't happy with me for freezing up like I did." Presley's eyes darted up and down Sam, once. "Said I ought to try and be more like you."

Sam winced. "Sorry."

"Don't be. It's okay. I'm kind of glad you're here, actually." Presley made to walk past him, glancing back as he did so. "He's leaving me alone, for once."

Sam watched him go, still frowning, feeling like there was something there he really needed to dig into but not quite knowing how. He reluctantly let it go for the moment, making it back to his room.

It was almost all wind outside, each gust holding a core of spitting rain that rang against windows and walls with a sound like bullets hitting tin cans. Sam could see his window, small as it was, shuddering in its frame as he flicked on the light. He turned to close the door, and there was Dean right behind it, clinging spider-like to the wall.

They stared at each other for a minute, Dean craning his neck up and Sam looking down at him, before Sam shook his head and spread his hands. "What the hell're you doing?"

"Finishing my routine," Dean replied. "Since you didn't let me earlier."

"Right, earlier." Sam nodded, then dryly asked, "You have fun with that?"

Dean grinned, springing off the wall with surprising grace. "Oh, you got no idea. I was gonna make my head spin around, but I tried a while back and I can't actually do it without things getting real gross, real fast." He stood with his hands on his hips, regarding Sam expectantly. "So...what'd you think?"

"I'm guessing we're not going for a subtle possession." Sam stepped forward to check Dean's wrists. Dean let him. "Did you really have to throw Presley into the door?"

"I cushioned him," Dean defended himself. "It was fine. You like me using his name? Heard one of the nuns say it outside the door." He watched Sam running his fingers over the scrapes the straps had left behind, faint and red and mostly chapped skin but very, very obvious. "They don't hurt. I just can't clean things up too much or they're gonna start getting suspicious."

"Okay." Sam slowly let go of Dean's hands.

"What hurt was that holy water you shot into my face." Dean gave him an exaggeratedly wounded expression.

"I wasn't actually trying to hit you." Sam headed for the bed. "But now I'm thinking I'm gonna get a squirt bottle when we get back home. Give you a spritz or two of holy water when you're acting up. Like a cat."

Dean scoffed. Sam flopped down onto the thin, basic mattress with a groan. The bed was definitely not designed for high-speed impacts from things his size, given the noise the frame made, but it held, and he didn't care.

"I'd ask how the rest of your day went, but I can hear your shoulders creaking from here." Dean joined him on the bed.

"Yeah, went through the records," Sam mumbled. "They're...god, there's some dark stuff in there. And Green says they burned the records of everybody who's died, which I'm not sure I buy, but I don't know where they are, so…"

Sam hadn't fallen in a position that could be described as anything but "haphazard," and Dean pulled him partway into his lap, hands underneath him to massage at his neck. He didn't realize how tense he was until Dean went to work, fingers practiced and familiar, knowing exactly where Sam carried his knots of worry and how to ease them away. When he first touched him, Sam had to whimper, muscles crawling with the pain of release. And this was after a hot shower.

Dean's thumb pulsed regularly against the scar on his neck, a steady rhythm of touch. It was a routine every bit as practiced as the neck rub.

After a little while, when he was a bit looser and the headache he hadn't even known he had was slowly letting go of his skull, Sam opened his eyes and looked up at Dean. Raising a hand, he brushed it gently along his face, cupped and held when Dean leaned into it with unfocused eyes.

"How're you doing?" Sam asked him softly.

"Fine." There was an almost sleepy rumble to Dean's voice. "These jokers don't have any idea what they're doing. Couldn't exorcise water from a boot if the instructions were on the heel." When he didn't say anything else, Sam's eyes fell closed. Then Dean added, "Some of the Latin stung a bit."

"Sorry." Sam exhaled slowly, settling more fully into Dean's hands. "Hey...I ever told you why Latin works against demons?"

"Usually, I'd say 'yes,'" Dean replied, "even though you haven't. But you seem like you've had a rough day." Full lips ghosted across Sam's forehead. "Go ahead and pop the ol' coke-bottle nerd glasses on for a while. My treat."

"How generous." Sam snorted. "But. I mean, it's kinda weird if you think about it, isn't it? Demons are as old as humanity, nearly, and Latin really hasn't been around that long. Now...this isn't confirmed fact or anything, it's just something a demon I had in my cell once told me, but - "

"Oh, Sammy," Dean proclaimed. Sam opened an eye, saw him clutching at his heart and shaking his head. "I thought what we had was special. You opened your cell up to any old demon before me?"

"Latin only really started holding power after the conversion of Constantine. God was impressed enough with Rome's, y'know, worship and devotion He gave them the gift of being able to defend themselves against Hell. Same reason Hebrew and Aramaic and all the others work."

"Yeah, that scans," Dean said after a little while, grunting in understanding. "Never met God or anything, but the guy does kinda come off as a dick." Sam opened his eyes, looking up at him. "Well, what d'you think of Him?"

It was casual, Dean's voice. But Sam knew him well enough by now to pick out something dangerous buried just under the surface. Like wading into warm, shallow water with the telltale coils of a water moccasin buried blurry in the nearby mud. A twisted thousand years of pain and grief and loss, and not just his own.

This was not the kind of conversation either of them wanted to have right now, even if they felt exactly the same way.

"Seriously, Dean?" Sam raised his head, looking over Dean's shoulder at the crucifix hanging on the wall above his bed. Identical to the one in Dean's room. "He's literally watching us right now."

"Oh, that bothers you, huh?" The crucifix zipped off the wall, into Dean's hand. "Sure you don't get off on it? We both know you're a little pervert."

"Dean." Sam started to laugh.

"He's been watching every time we've done it." Dean put the crucifix right in Sam's face. "What part d'you think pisses Him off more? The outta-wedlock thing, the gay thing, or the demon thing? Or, ooh, I know: your burnt-out Jesus thing."

"Dude." Sam pulled the crucifix out of Dean's hand, set it on his nightstand. "Stop playing with that, you're gonna burn yourself."

"Pretty sure that's what God wants to say to you about me." Dean leaned in, and Sam was only too glad to kiss him. "Maybe He gets off on it, too. Watching."

"Dandelion."

"Hey, you've been through the bible. A few different versions, too. Tell me He ain't some kinda deviant."

There were a few soft, gentle minutes where they just kissed. Less to build up to something and more because there'd been so much distance between them today. Sam needed to paint Dean's mouth back into his memory, needed to firmly anchor that connection again, and from the way Dean was holding him, he needed something similar.

Eventually, of course, Dean pulled back, with a reluctance Sam could all but taste.

"I gotta go," he said quietly. "They're running pretty regular patrols back at the...whatever, demon storage. Even last night, couple nuns came through after Father Creep left."

"Yeah." Sam nosed into Dean's hair, needing to breathe him in for just a second longer. "Won't be good if they see you're gone."

Dean gave Sam one last hug, then left. After touching base with everyone (Vaughn, Bobby, Ellen), Sam climbed slowly into his small, empty bed, not expecting to get all that much more sleep than he had last night. Especially not with the storm outside.

He laid awake, listening to it. At home, the sound of the wind and the rain, screaming at the sturdy walls and corners of the house, was comforting, could lull him into a deeper sleep than usual. He knew when he got up in the morning, the world would be fresh and bright and new, the earth dark and the leaves of the trees vibrant in the dawn sunlight, and he could walk outside in cool, crisp air with Dean and come very, very close to believing that maybe God did love them all. Just a little.

A storm like this, though, had him believing the opposite. Laying isolated in the dark, aware Dean was probably strapped to his bed in a building dark with ivy and blood, and that this place had churned out about a dozen dead kids...Sam couldn't imagine that this kind of rain was good for anything.