"I should go in and talk to him." Sam says it with such resolve, and yet he doesn't budge an inch.
"Give him some space," says Castiel quietly.
Sam looks at him, eyes wide and unbearably desperate.
"I know," he murmurs. "I know. I'm sorry. Leave him be."
"We have both of them," says Eloise quietly. "We have the Blade… It's time."
It's time. The words echo in Castiel's fraught mind.
Time to summon Death.
Similarly to Sam following his recent spoken resolution, Eloise simply continues to stand quite still, and so do Sam and Castiel. Presently, Castiel realizes that he's the most logical choice for the job of setting up the summoning ritual, seeing as he's done so very recently, but before he gets to it, a thought occurs to him suddenly, and he looks up, saying, "Wait, uh, Eloise… Could you possibly run, ah, a small errand first?"
Her normal stoicism is replaced by incredulousness as she looks on him, blinking a few times as she examines his expression. "What could possibly need to be done right this moment?"
Sam stands somewhat awkwardly, staying well out of the way, practically pressed up against the door to Dean's cell as he watches Cast draw his circles and spill his wax, and Eloise arrange the tray of sweets Cas bade her fetch. He keeps thinking they must be missing something; there must be something more to this. His encounters with Death have been minimal but every time he thinks of the horseman he sees his pale face wreathed in the painful light of his own soul being pressed back into his chest, and a truly unearthly shiver runs like a parade of ice shards down his back.
Under most circumstances, his prevailing emotion would be terror of disappointing or angering him, but not today. Today, his preoccupation is with Dean.
His own voice, from years ago—ages ago—echoes dimly in his mind.
You ever feel like he's… going through the same motions, but he's not the same Dean?
Another voice—and not one of his own—a soft, grizzled, deeply familiar voice—replies: How could he be?
He misses Bobby.
Of course, there are so many people he misses, good people he'll never see again, leastways till he dies and stays that way—but none more than Dean.
And the Dean he wants might simply not exist anymore.
He wants to wallow in the overwhelming darkness that accompanies this thought, but he can't, because it's unproductive, and it's irresponsible. He and Bobby had that discussion back when Sam was neck-deep in hallucinated hellfire every damn day—far from the same Sam Dean had first dragged back into the hunting life—but Dean never shook his finger at Sam and said You're not my brother now. He never said I want the Sam who wasn't six kinds of crazy.
He doesn't get to choose which brother he gets. Dean never did.
No, Dean isn't the same. Not by a long shot.
And how could he be?
Now's no time to get lost in grief or self-pity. Now's the time to recognize that the rest of their lives is going to be a treacherous staircase that they'll never summit. Bringing Dean back to humanity was one huge step up. But there are countless more little steps, and Sam just needs to focus on being happy to still be climbing.
He'll never let his brother hurt himself. Never.
And he should probably put in some effort to keep himself as whole as possible too.
He blinks, and suddenly realizes Cas is standing in front of him, and has just said something. "What?" he mutters vaguely.
Cas doesn't glance back at Eloise; he just patiently repeats, "Are you ready?"
Sam nods. He's not, but if claiming he is will move things along, then he will.
Cas returns to the circle he's created, and begins to chant, pouring a flask of blood slowly into a bowl in the center. Sam doesn't really register any of it with any detail. He's focusing too much to focus. He glances down blearily at his watch. 4:23 AM.
The floor beneath them rumbles, and Sam immediately wonders if Dean will notice, or think anything of it, or know immediately what it means. But his attention immediately and fully snaps to the man who is suddenly standing in the midst of them.
That face…
Don't… scratch… the wall.
He clutches desperately at his chest, fresh agony blossoming through it, and tries to catch his breath. He is glad that nobody in the room looks at him; Cas and Eloise are fixed upon the newcomer, and the newcomer does not seem to be granting any of them the courtesy of attention.
"Um, hello again," says Cas, clearly nervous, and, apparently on an unplanned impulse, he strides towards the tray of sweets that Eloise placed on one of the shelving units a few paces away, picking it up carefully and bringing it to the black-clad man. "We didn't want… um, these are for you." He glances towards Eloise, seeking help.
She hesitates, but she supplies, "A… A little taste of Scandinavia. Rosettes, munkki, and klenät."
"Enjoy," Cas says quickly, anxiously.
At last, the man speaks, his voice a rumble in his throat: "They look quite authentic." His eyes immediately slide over to Eloise. She is standing with her back a little straighter than usual, and though it's hard as ever to read her, she has eyes only for him.
Sam is still breathing a little unevenly, and is struck with a desperate wish not to have to participate in this scene. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out, and his heart thuds when Death looks over in his direction, but he's not looking at Sam; he's looking at the door behind him.
Death doesn't shift his gaze as he takes one of the pastries from the tray. "It's done, then?" he asks, before taking a small bite.
Sam exhales, his breath threading carefully through pursed lips, before at last gathering himself enough to say, "Yes. Dean's alive."
"Of course he's alive," says Death, a hint of derision in the words. "The Mark would never actually let him go; all that pain is just the snarl of a cornered animal. If he dies, it's on the Mark's terms."
Sam considers this. On the surface, it sounds like a good thing… but it feels like a long time since "a good thing" came without some kind of horrific caveat.
"So what do we do next?" asks Cas quietly.
Death places the half-eaten pastry back on the tray and turns, finally taking a single step to place himself in a position to face all three of them, and says candidly, "They both must deny the Mark."
The statement is perfectly simple—again, on the surface. Sam presses his fist into his chest, because it feels like his heart has just stopped.
"If you give it no power," Death goes on to explain, "it has none. Initially, this is not so—when its bearer is first killed and transformed, he is powerless against its influence. It calls all the shots. Now, given time, and quite a lot of it, mind you, he may gradually build up a resistance to it, as Cain has. And if he is human? Well, unlike a demon, a human has free will and an intrinsic understanding of right and wrong—even if that human is cursed with the Mark of Cain." He nods, appearing far away—and yet still more startlingly present and aware than any human could be if he tried. "Assert your complete refusal to be enslaved to its whims, and its power over you will wane—tremendously enough to make the Blade, the source and recipient of its power, vulnerable."
"Okay," says Sam uncertainly. "And how exactly do they do that?"
For the first time, Death meets his eyes, and Sam shrinks back a touch. "Not lightly. Their assertions must occur in tandem with one another, and they must be made with the truest conviction. When they do, I will know, and the Blade will be no more."
Sam's eyes slide away as he considers this, and he feels his expression begin to twist. "How the hell are we supposed to sync them up like that?" he whispers fiercely, and he's thinking aloud, but he snaps his attention back to Death, hoping he doesn't mistake the question for impudence.
Death doesn't seem to take offense. "Indeed," he murmurs, and Sam's not certain whether he's detecting sarcasm. "Quite the puzzle. One might almost need magic to solve it."
"The witch," says Cas, eyes widening.
Death fixes his gaze on him, but otherwise doesn't seem to react.
"How did you know…" Sam begins to ask faintly, and Death turns to look at him, and for whatever reason, Sam switches gears, so abruptly he startles himself, but he barrels ahead to the end of the question nonetheless: "Why are you giving us clues? Why are you helping us? Why are you so… invested in what happens to Dean?"
For a moment the air in the room feels very heavy, and the shadows very dark. None of them moves a hair; Cas is still dumbly holding that tray. Death does not take his eyes off Sam, and Sam stands firm, waiting somewhat defiantly, but feeling more and more with each passing second that he is, quite literally, about to die on this hill, and wondering if it's really going to be worth it to get an answer. His knees have begun to shake by the time that answer comes.
"It does worry me," Death murmurs, and the breaking of the silence with his voice does nothing to lift the heaviness crushing them all, "how little you understand the scale of what you're involved in. Now, I can't see the future, but that doesn't usually stop me from knowing what's going to happen. I've been watching humanity for so long it would be exaggeratedly self-effacing—or shall we simply say 'untrue'—to call you anything less than predictable to me. If the Mark is left on Dean, it is only a matter of time before his eyes become a certain color once again, and then it is only a matter of time before he has his hands back on that wretched Blade. He'd eventually come to the same realization that Cain did—that the best way to feed that Blade is through utilizing the powers of hell. I understand the throne has recently been vacated, so it would hardly be a difficult thing. If the Mark and Blade are not silenced, a new world may be looming, a planetary meat grinder for souls run by the blood your brother spills. That is an eventuality that I would avoid."
The matter of the throne being vacant—the question of what happened to Crowley—barely flits across Sam's mind, immediately being consumed by the horrors of what Death describes.
It is still nothing new, but hearing him put it into words… acknowledge its gravity… somehow it brings a new weight to it, and Sam was already on the verge of buckling.
"Go then," says Death softly. "Talk to your witch. Do not keep me waiting long."
Cas seizes the opportunity to thrust the tray onto the nearest shelf, and he and Eloise move like a well-oiled machine towards one of the cells. Sam trips a bit as he follows them, but dignity is the very least of his concerns.
"Well," the redhead drawls, seeming unimpressed, but it has to be a front, even if it's a damn good one, "that's quite the predicament you've got there, dears."
The cell door has stood open behind them throughout the explanation, and Sam feels very vulnerable, but it seems a bad idea to try to shut out Death, given the circumstances. Anyway, right now she is decidedly outnumbered, and most definitely not going anywhere.
Cas, who delivered the bulk of the information, asks brusquely, "Any ideas?"
Her eyes flicker to the open door behind them. "Where is Cain now?"
"Next cell over. Willingly." Cas shakes his head, and it's a warning. "You do not want him getting loose while he's still a demon."
"This would make some of the things he said make quite a bit more sense," the witch—whose name Sam can't quite remember—muses.
"Stay on task," Cas commands sharply. "Death himself is waiting in the next room. What can you do to make this happen?"
The witch considers him, appearing contemplative, for a long moment. Sam really can't tell anything by her appearance in terms of her aptitude, and wonders if they actually have a reason to think she'll be helpful, or if Cain just sort of plucked her off the street and she's simply the best they've got—Cas didn't really mention any details about her, just said that Cain brought along a witch.
He's past even being bothered by the prospect of enlisting a witch's help. Anything, anything at all that will improve their odds of getting through to Dean.
At last, she says thoughtfully, "I could induce a sort of… collective consciousness. It would magnify everything said. Words have great power in a state like that. I say 'apple,' you think of every apple you've ever seen or eaten. I say 'Remember that time we went apple picking in October of 1813?' and you're picturing the entire foray in vivid detail. And I say 'Mankind is fundamentally evil' and you intimately understand every reason I believe it's true, through the lens of your own history. It makes you both very powerful, and very vulnerable. And sometimes, once those doors have been opened to certain people, they can't quite shut fully again."
"You're saying if we go into this spell, we might not come back out," says Sam questioningly.
Her eyes flicker over to him. "To an extent, yes. Some handle it better than others."
"How many can be involved?" asks Cas.
The witch blows out a thoughtful breath and says presently, "The fewer, the better. Too many distractions can do more harm than good. But if you want Cain and Dean to be on the same page, I'd recommend one referee for each of them."
Sam looks over to meet Eloise's eyes, and she nods back at him before turning to the witch and asking flatly, "What is needed?"
"Some space. Chalk, candles, the usual. Yarrow, lots of it. The teeth of a quickhatch. The feet of a crow. And of course the blood of everyone to be involved."
"Give me ten minutes," says Eloise swiftly, and at once she is gone.
The witch blinks. "Ooh, she's a bit hasty, isn't she?"
"How much space is 'some'?" Sam demands.
She quirks an eyebrow. "Far more than these generous accommodations, dearie."
Sam turns. "Cas, could you go get the chalk and candles? We're moving this operation upstairs."
"Sam—"
"Dean is human," he urges, something inside of him burning, because he is wild with anticipation and sick of Cas questioning everything he says like he can't think straight, "and if Cain doesn't want us to contain him, we can't no matter what. We're doing this in the open." He pauses. "Might as well start laying down what warding might slow him down though."
Blessedly, after just a few more seconds, Cas nods, and starts down the hall.
"What was your name?" Sam asks the witch, though he doesn't know why—he really doesn't care.
"Rowena," she says primly. "Do try to remember this time. And you are?"
"We'll come get you when we have everything together, Rowena," he says, distastefully, as he steps back to close the door.
"Wait," she says, her tone having lost a bit of its sarcastic bite, and he pauses. "What you said earlier… about Death himself waiting in the next room?"
"Yeah?" he asks, mild annoyance tinging his voice, not because such a query is unreasonable, but because he is absolutely out of patience.
"So there's… Death… Okay. Er… and the lass who just disappeared?"
"One of his reapers."
She seems to sag a bit with relief, and he wonders what worse alternative she'd had in mind. But all the same, she murmurs, "We're all in over our heads, aren't we, then?"
"Without question," Sam confirms, and pushes the door shut, leaving her in darkness once again.