A/N A huge thank you to all those who have favorited/followed/reviewed! Those things keep me going and motivate me to keep writing. :)

Chapter One

"Oh, sorry. Excuse me." Sam carefully righted the two-foaming glasses of beer in his hands before they could spill onto the man that he had just bumped into. The man was staring at him with an odd expression on his face and Sam felt himself flush. "Sorry," he repeated.

It was crowded, the bar overflowing with people looking for a cheap way to spend the night, and Sam weaved his way more carefully through the crushing mass of people. Dean was sitting at a table in the back, staring darkly down at the beer he was cradling.

"Here you go."

Sam slid Dean's new beer carefully over to him. Dean didn't even bother to look at Sam as he drained what was remaining of his beer and shoved the glass over to join the other three, before picking up the new one.

Sam was just starting his second beer, and he threw an anxious look at Dean over the rim of the glass but didn't say anything. He didn't know if he had the right to.

Dean turned the glare on him as he registered what he was drinking. "I thought—I told you to get me some whiskey."

"I know." Sam focused on his drink.

Dean snorted, shaking his head and downing half of the offending beer in one swallow. "No matter, I'll get my own drink next time. Apparently, that is the only way to get things done right." The last part was muttered under his breath, but that was the only attempt he made to hide the comment.

The knife that seemed to be permanently resting in Sam's gut ever since…ever since the rising of Lucifer twisted painfully.

He let the pain burn, and then pushed it away. Dean was his priority right now—he didn't think that he even deserved to worry about such a small thing as his feelings, not when he had just doomed the world—but helping his brother, that was important. That was what he needed to be worried about.

And today had been rough, for both of them, but especially for Dean.

The small hunt that they had found in Texas to get them back to their feet and in sync after their trial separation hadn't exactly ended well. They'd gotten the monster, but they hadn't been in time to save the little girl. Sam hadn't even realized how hard it had hit Dean until they had come to the bar both to forget and also to pad their worryingly threadbare pockets.

Dean's head had not been in the pool game, and he had walked away with less than they had come in with. Sam could hardly remember the last time that had happened to Dean, but it had shaken his brother, only adding to his already sour mood.

"C'mon, man, let's just go back to the motel. You can sleep some of this off, and then we can find another hunt tomorrow," Sam hedged, looking around at the overly crowded room and wrinkling his nose in distaste.

Dean huffed and leaned back in his seat as he lifted the glass to his lips again. "If I wanted to sit around with you and mope, then I would have done that in the first place. I want—" he jabbed his finger pointedly into the wooden table, his glare stubbornly aimed at Sam. "Well, I want a lot of things, but I'm settling for sitting in this crappy bar with crappy liquor. So stop nagging."

Sam raised his hands in silent surrender.

Dean finished the beer, slapping it back down on the table. He got up without another word and headed for the bar, a slight sway in his step the only indication that he was tipsy. Sam watched him go, absently gnawing at his fingernail. Dean seated himself on a barstool and a moment later the bartender handed a shot over, which he knocked back. He lifted the glass, gesturing for another one, and Sam dropped his gaze back to his beer.

What had he done?

It was a question that had been running on repeat through his brain for the last several weeks. Sure, he knew that he wasn't solely to blame for the rising of Lucifer. He and Dean had been manipulated from the beginning, but still…Ruby had been right. In the end, he was the one who had chosen to drink the blood, to kill Lilith, and release Satan onto an unexpecting world.

The fallout of his choices starkly confronted him at every turn.

Dean was still angry with him and did not fully trust him, even though he had pulled Sam back into his life. Dean, who was now being steadily crushed under the pressure of saving the world. Bobby hadn't said anything to him about the rising of Lucifer, treating it like just another problem, but he was working himself to the bone while in a wheelchair in an attempt to find a way to stop the apocalypse. Castiel didn't need to say anything, he couldn't even look Sam in the eyes anymore and that said it all.

The knife twisted in a little harder and a little deeper.

He looked up at Dean, to see him sitting alone and hunched over. He was no doubt waiting for the bartender to come to refill his glass and had nothing but his probably increasingly negative thoughts to entertain him. Sam hesitated a moment, before making up his mind. He may not count for much, but he could still provide enough of a distraction that Dean wouldn't drown under everything.

Sam had only taken a few steps across the room, however, before a man slid into the open seat next to his brother. It was the same man who Sam had almost spilled drinks on, and he felt his face flush. The man looked to be attempting to start up a conversation with Dean, and Sam wavered with indecision before making an awkward turn and retreating to the table.

Dean didn't exactly look happy, but he wasn't smashing the man's face into the bar either, so that was something. Sam was taking his wins where he could these days.

He nursed his beer, glancing repeatedly at the clock until it showed half past eleven. He was exhausted and the crowded bar was leaving him on edge, but Dean didn't seem to be winding down anytime soon. Would it be horrible of him to leave and go back to the motel? Sam waffled on that for another ten minutes before he gave in.

Draining the last of his now warm drink, Sam approached Dean.

"I'm leaving," he announced, tapping Dean on the shoulder. He was still talking with the stranger, but he turned around, swaying as his center of balance was upset. Sam half expected Dean to simply nod, or tell him to get lost, and was surprised when he reached up, grabbing the collar of Sam's shirt and pulling him down close enough that he could smell the alcohol on him.

"Don't let…Don't let no one follow you back. Or know where we're stayin'. Damn angels have eyes and ears everywhere," he slurred, his fist curling almost painfully tight in Sam's shirt. The alcohol had lowered most of his usual defensives, and the paranoia and tiredness there were overwhelming.

Sam nodded, gently extracting himself. As if Dean didn't have enough to be worried about, he had become increasingly paranoid since Zachariah had found him and forced him into the supposed future.

The future where Sam said yes.

"I'll be careful."

The man next to Dean arched an eyebrow, his eyes resting on Sam for longer than necessary, and Sam gave him a small smile. If he hadn't done enough wrong in the universe, he was now offending complete strangers.

That was…that was just great.

Beating a hasty retreat, Sam paid, and then took the Impala. Dean wouldn't be able to drive her anyway.

The motel was cold, dark, and lonely.

Sam sank down to sit on the edge of his bed and bowed his head, letting it rest in his hands.

He could go to bed—he was tired enough, that wasn't the issue—but Lucifer didn't make for great company. The guilt surged up again as Sam silently berated himself. If he had just listened to Dean…it had been so stupid. Why hadn't he been able to see reason? If he had just…

Not for the first time, Sam found himself half wondering what would have happened had he remained dead after Jake stabbed him. But those what-ifs were so long past that they were not even a part of the equation. Hell, even playing what-ifs with the last year and a half was dangerous.

They had happened, and it hurt like hell, but the only way to make it right was to fix the problem—the problem being Lucifer—and move forward. No amount of regret would change the past, but it could change the future. He wasn't going to let Dean down again, no matter what.

Rubbing at his eyes, Sam breathed out slowly. When he felt like he could move again, he gathered up some of the books that Bobby had lent him.

Books had always been something he could count on, even when he could count on little else. When he was really little, Dean had read to him from ratted, second-hand, books, even going as far as to make up the story if pages were missing. It had opened up a whole new world to Sam, a world not filled with a distant and callus father and rancid motel rooms. That new world grew exceptionally when he had learned to read for himself. School books had been a comfort all of their own, providing him with the normality that he had so desperately yearned for and then they were one of the few things that made sense after he had left his family for Stanford. And now…now books provided the only means that Sam had to fix the worst mistake of his life and, as much of a cold comfort as it was, Sam took it.

#

Dean staggered towards the bathroom and caught his shoulder against the doorframe, trying not to throw up. His head was throbbing, and the hangover was a bitch for all that the alcohol had achieved. Groaning softly and pinching the bridge of his nose, he grabbed for the sink and splashed cold water onto his face.

He vaguely remembered coming back to the motel and had even fainter memories of Sam coxing him to bed. Dropping his head, Dean tried to remember if he had said anything to Sam. The unease in his gut intensified, and he could only hope that his tongue hadn't gotten away with him…again.

He was trying damn hard to forgive and forget, but it was harder than he had thought it would be. Sam was sorry—and guilt-ridden, that much was as clear as day—but it was too little and too late to change what had happened.

Dean snorted, drying his face on his t-shirt. It made sense, in a morbid sort of way, that Sam had finished what he had started. The apocalypse rested on his shoulders just as much as it did Sam's…but he hadn't taken the word of a lying demonic bitch over his brother, nor had he become addicted to demon blood of all things.

He hadn't tried to strangle Sam.

So yeah, the apocalypse was depressing, but it wasn't why he couldn't forgive Sam.

That betrayal…that had hurt so damn much and the pain had continued to smart and simmer as Sam refused to even acknowledged Dean's apology. That hadn't been easy for Dean, and what he'd said hadn't made a damned difference…so why try now?

Closing his eyes, Dean heaved a sigh. But Sam was trying so hard to make things right and fix what had broken between them…They could fix this, he had to believe that. Hell, they were already on better terms than they had been right before the whole stupid separation stint.

It was just…yesterday had been hard, dredging up a lot of the things that Dean had thought he had shoved far enough down to never confront.

Drying his hands on a hand towel, he walked back into the main room. Sam was sitting on his bed, pouring over several large and heavy-looking books. He glanced up at Dean, and his eyes were sad as they always were now.

Dean looked away. "'Find anything?" There was a cup of fresh coffee waiting for him on the rickety old table, along with what looked like a doughnut and some painkillers. Dean ignored the pills in favor of the food and coffee.

"No," Sam said in resignation and Dean shrugged, not surprised. It wasn't like Lucifer had been released to roam free in this century or really any century, so why would someone had written down how to defeat him? To Dean, that didn't make any damn sense, but Bobby and Sam seemed to be convinced that if they just read enough, the answer would magically appear.

Dean savored his coffee, trying to shove the hovering despair away. They would find a way to beat Lucifer and stop the apocalypse, he just hoped that it was going to be before people died…or before one of them said yes.

"Do you have a new hunt, then?"

Sam shook his head. "I wasn't looking into that last night, but—"

"Never mind, I got it." Dean reluctantly set the coffee down, stretching to reach the folded newspapers that were resting on the other side of the table. Reading was only going to make his headache worse, but he soldiered through it. Hunting would make him feel better, and would probably make Sam feel better too because Dean wouldn't be such a dick.

The newspaper was, unsurprisingly, boring and Dean dug the heel of his hand into his forehead as he skimmed over headlines, and then obituaries. The first newspaper proved useless, and he reached for the second one, glancing at Sam habitually as he did so.

Sam was sitting hunched over his book, his shoulders tense and deep lines across his forehead. There was none of the excitement or annoying energy that usually accompanied Sam's research sessions, only the same prolonged sadness that now seemed to define Sam. And damnit if Dean wasn't a big brother still, despite his recent efforts to pretend otherwise.

He opened his mouth, didn't know what to say or how to cross the gaping hole between them, and closed it again as he picked up the paper. He paid even less attention to this one than he had the first, and almost missed the headline singing the praises of a local high school's production of William Shakespeare's Hamlet.

"You know," Dean began, clearing his throat to break the silence. "Two towns over did a high school production of a Shakespeare play. I bet that every parent there felt like they had already endured the apocalypse, and would probably welcome Lucifer with open arms now." The dark humor felt flat, but Dean forced a smile anyway.

Sam blinked, looking up at him in surprise as his mind caught up with the conversation and then he snorted. "You've never liked Shakespeare after Mr. West scolded you in front of the whole class for falling asleep while the class was reading Romeo and Juliette."

"Dude, no, that wasn't it. Do you know how many public reprimands I got in classes? That was like, every Tuesday for me. My issue with it was that it was the most boring thing that I have ever had to sit through and then Mr. West tried to make us write our own damn play."

Sam smiled, actually smiled, and Dean felt something settle in his chest. Between moments like this and the fact that Sam was at his back every time he turned around, he had hope for them.

"You know, Shakespeare's not actually that bad—" Sam began to talk louder as Dean groaned theatrically "No, I'm serious. It's just how they teach it that sucks."

"Sam," Dean angled himself in his seat, hands out to try and explain. "The teaching ain't the problem. The words on the page, the old 'oh through yonder window' all those parts, those are the problem. You can't fix what's written on the page."

Sam let the book in front of him fall closed, one finger marking his spot as he warmed to his subject. "Right, but reading it is what the issue is. It was never meant to be read, man. Look, it would be like—it's like asking you to read a script of, I dunno, Die Hard instead of watching it. The explosions and action scenes wouldn't appear near as exciting on paper as they do on screen."

"I still wouldn't be able to understand a freakin' word they said, even if they did get some props."

"But it is so much easier to pick up on context and to remember who is who. And believe it or not, Shakespeare's plays were iconic for reasons other than what English teachers would have you believe. If you gave them a chance, I think that you might actually like some of them."

Dean spluttered, throwing Sam an indignant look. "When have I ever given you the idea that I would enjoy a play—and a Shakespeare one at that?"

Sam arched an eyebrow, his lip quirking upwards in what appeared to be exasperated amusement. "A woman falls in love with a donkey, Dean. You'd enjoy it."

That caught Dean by surprise. "Yeah, well," he huffed, "I couldn't enjoy it if I didn't even know what they were saying. But how did you become such an expert on all things Shakespeare? Next thing I know, you're going to be telling me that you are speaking from experience because not only have you been to a Shakespeare play, but you enjoyed it." Sam paused for a moment too long and Dean's mouth dropped open. "Really, Sam?! You're such a freak."

The words were out of his mouth before he had a chance to stop and think about them, and the look of pained shock on Sam's face made his heart go cold.

Damnit…

Sam looked away, his shoulders going up protectively around his ears as he sank back.

"Sam…" Dean rubbed a hand across his forehead, unsure of how to proceed.

But Sam broke in before he could say anything else. "No, yeah, I mean—" he was floundering for words, his voice rougher than it had been moments before. "Jess and I went, a couple of times. There was this yearly outdoor Shakespeare event and Jess liked to go."

"Sam, I didn't…" Dean tried again but he was now the one fumbling for words and he trailed off, cursing himself silently. Things had been going so well, and for a moment it had just been like old times.

"Don't worry about it." Sam finally looked up, flashing Dean a painfully built smile that didn't reach his eyes. "It's no big deal. Hell, you can't be the only one who thinks it's freakish to enjoy Shakespeare." The silent, or think I'm a freak, remained unspoken.

Dean fell quiet, returning to the newspaper and angrily flipping to the next page while Sam opened his book.

A now tense and heavy silence filled the space between them.

It was another half hour before either of them spoke.

"I think I've got something—" Dean held up the newspaper, a national one this time, and pointed at the obituary of a middle-aged woman.

Sam looked up again, shaking his hair out of his eyes. He shoved his book aside and stood up. "What does it—"

The sound of shattering glass cut Sam's words short and they both jerked around to look at the small window that was set in the wall across the room. The bottom half was shattered, the fist-sized rock that had been tossed through it now rolling across the floor.

Dean dived to the ground as adrenaline began to pump through his veins. Tipping the chair over to use as protection, he reached for his gun…but it wasn't there. It was still under his pillow from where he had left it last night. He looked over wildly to see Sam also on the ground, but something—something wasn't right.

Sam was kneeling awkwardly, half slumped against the bed with his hand cupped over his neck, and still clearly visible to whoever was attacking them. Fear boiled up strong and harsh in Dean's throat as he inched forward, glancing at the broken window.

"Sam, move!" he hissed, waving for his brother to get out of sight. "Get down, get down!"

Sam raised his head with effort. "Sorry," he mumbled, the word slurring almost beyond recognition, and then his eyes were rolling up into his head as he slid the rest of the way to the floor.

A dart was sticking out of his neck.

"Sam!" Dean lurched forward, only to pull back as a second dart flew through the broken window and embedded itself in the flimsy wood of the table, mere inches from his head. He froze, trying to come up with a plan.

Sam was still out in the open and completely vulnerable to something worse than a dart, he needed to stop this before anything worse happened. Dean shifted, moving backward this time and towards the edge of the room. A third dart sailed in, penetrating the cardboard cup of coffee.

Dean continued to move back, away from the window and the shooter's line of sight. Their duffle full of weapons was still resting on the floor by the door where he had dropped it yesterday, if he could just get something, attack back.

A second rock came sailing through, shattering what remained of the window and Dean lunged for the bag. His hand had just wrapped around it when the fourth dart slammed home in his upper arm.

"Damnit," Dean growled under his breath as he yanked the thin metal viciously out and reached for a gun.

He blinked, and the room swam, doing a whole 360. Throwing caution to the wind, Dean staggered upright or at least tried to. His knees refused to support his weight, and he threw out a hand to break his fall. His head felt like it weighed twenty pounds, and he blinked through the swirling mass as he crawled forward, searching blindly for his brother. He found Sam's shirt, and dragged his hand down to Sam's wrist, wrapping his fingers tightly around his brother.

The angels weren't taking his brother, nor were they demons. It would have to be over his dead body.

Twisting over on his side, he blinked desperately trying to keep everything from spinning out of control as he leveled the gun at the door.

That was the last thing he remembered before consciousness fled and darkness overcame him.

#

One moment Dean was drifting in oblivion, the next he was gasping himself awake and jerking upright, looking around.

The motel room turned in a nauseating circle and Dean dropped a hand against the overturned chair as he braced his other hand against his head, trying to rub the pounding headache away.

"SAM?" he yelled, his voice thick.

Sam didn't respond and Dean pried his hand free, looking desperately around. Sam should have been right there; he had been right there. "SAMMY?"

Reaching for the table, he used it to scramble upright and looked around the motel room. Their door was hanging open, throwing bright sunlight across the floor. All looked normal except for the overturned chair and the broken glass that was scattered on the carpet. The darts had been removed—cold coffee had dribbled onto the table and was dried in a sticky puddle—but their duffels and other belongings remained untouched.

"Sammy?"

It was a good thing that no one else was around to hear the way that his voice cracked.

Sam wasn't here, he knew that, but all the same he stumbled over to the bathroom. The door was still closed, and for a brief moment he almost convinced himself that Sam was going to be in there.

It was empty.

Sam was gone.

Dean's stomach forced its way up his throat, and he just made it to the toilet in time to throw up. His headache ratcheted up a notch, and he was trembling when he finally stood. Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he crossed back into the main room.

It was still vacant and Dean stood there, surrounded by sunshine and the faint chirping of birds, and felt terror wash over him.

Sam was gone—taken—and Dean was alone.