A/N: Alrighty then, here it is, the big - well, moderately-sized - finish. Although there's another chapter to come after this. Again, thanks so much to everyone reading and everyone reviewing. I'm starting to tear up just thinking about it...

Disclaimer: Okay, I disclaim already...

Spoiler: Tiny spoilerette for Devil's Trap, but if you've not seen it, you won't notice it... I love the last 20 minutes of that episode so damn much I just couldn't resist...

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Chapter Twelve

Sam could hear words. Lots of words. But he couldn't make out what they were saying. All blurred together; rolled into a ball; background noise; muzak. A buzz in his head.

Dad. Brother. Hurt him.

Odd words he understood.

Hurt him. Hurt him.

Dad.

Hurt him.

Just the two of you…

It made some kind of sense somehow. All jumbled up in his head, but it made some kind of sense.

He lied to you.

Grown ups lied.

Grown ups lied all the time.

Dad had lied. Had told Sam he loved him. Had told Sam he loved Dean. But he didn't really love Dean. He couldn't really love Dean, because all the time he'd been hurting him. In whose twisted mind could that be love?

And Sam remembered bruises now. Marks on Dean. He didn't know why he'd not remembered them before. But now he did.

Dad had hurt Dean. Dad had hurt Dean instead of hurting Sam.

And he'd lied.

Just like Ian.

Ian had lied too. He wasn't their Uncle. He was a selfish man who wanted a son, and he'd chosen Sam because he was easier. Easier than Dean. Dean hadn't fallen for it. Hadn't believed it.

So Ian had tried to hurt Dean too. Tried to drown him in the pool. Tried to ditch him at the mall. Tried to get rid of him so that he could have Sam all to himself.

Mr Oliver had shown him all of this.

Mr Oliver had shown him everything.

Because Mr Oliver was the one grown up who would never lie to Sam. Mr Oliver was his friend. Mr Oliver wanted to help. Mr Oliver wanted to help Sam get everything he ever wanted.

And he almost had it. He was so close.

He just needed to get rid of Ian – because if he didn't get rid of Ian, Ian would get rid of Dean. And Sam couldn't have that.

Dean was what Sam wanted most, after all.

But then there was Dad.

Dad was here. Mr Oliver had told him. Ian had lured Dad here – was keeping him prisoner – because Ian wanted Sam all to himself. Once he was done pillaging Dad's memories in order to convince Sam he was who he said he was, then Ian was going to kill him. Ian was going to kill Dad.

And Sam was oddly okay with that.

Because Dad also got in the way of what Sam wanted most.

Sam was never going to be ordinary as long as Dad was around. And Dean was never going to be just Sam's as long as Dad was around. Because no matter what Dad had done to Dean, Dean still worshipped the ground Dad walked on.

And Sam didn't want to share.

Sam didn't want to share Dean with Dad.

So Dad had to go too.

Get rid of Ian. Get rid of Dad.

Simple.

Home. Normality. Dean.

Everything Sam ever wanted.

It was so simple, he couldn't fathom why it hadn't occurred to him before.

He saw the padlock come open in front of him. Saw the darkness struggling to escape from within. Saw the stone stairs leading down, down, down.

Felt a push.

Just a little one.

In the small of his back.

Hurt him. Hurt him.

Make him stop forever.

Felt something cold and metallic in his hand.

Hurt him. Hurt him.

Everything you ever wanted.

I'll make it yours.

You just have to prove you want it.

Prove it. Prove it.

This house.

Home.

Family.

Dean.

You just have to prove it.

Sam drew his hand behind his back and began to descend the stairs slowly.

Mr Oliver followed, smiling. "Good boy, Sam."

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"Sam? Sam!" Dean tried to run towards the familiar figure descending the steps, more relieved to see his kid brother in one piece than he could ever put into words. But Ian caught his arm, holding him back. "Hey – "

"Don't," Ian said, eyes darting to the figure behind the little boy on the stairs.

Dean followed his gaze, catching sight of him for the first time, immaculate silver-grey suit and those ever-present dark glasses, like shutters over his soul.

No way that guy will be able to see anything down here with those things on, Dean thought. But then he remembered. No way that guy will ever see anything again. Being dead and all.

"Sam?" Dean repeated the name quietly, looking down at his little brother as the boy descended the final stair.

Sam looked up at him then, a vacant expression on his face, but eyes, thankfully, a long way from white.

Dean allowed himself a little sigh of relief at that, the thought of Sam with those sightless white eyes chilling him to the bone. He couldn't let something like that happen to his baby brother. Not ever.

"Sammy?" Dean took another step towards Sam, shrugging off Ian's restraining hand obstinately. "You okay squirt?"

He couldn't see any visible signs of mistreatment on the kid. But he frowned when he noticed the boy's hand obviously hidden behind his back. "Sam?" he asked cautiously. "Whatcha got there?"

Sam didn't answer, continuing to gaze up at him blankly, a disturbingly blissful look on his face that unaccountably made Dean's flesh crawl.

"What did you do to him?" Dean was surprised to hear Ian demanding of Mr Oliver, himself taking a step closer to the little boy.

Oliver's upper lip curled into a crooked sneer. "You know," he said. "You knew all along. And you could have been a part of it if you weren't so – " he paused, as if for dramatic effect. " – Squeamish."

Dean rolled his eyes at the guy, scowling at him as he stopped two steps back up the staircase, enabling him to tower over his little brother. "I see what you mean by 'drama queen'," he commented to Ian critically.

The sneer intensified on Mr Oliver's face. "It's funny you should open your eyes now," he continued, addressing Ian as if Dean hadn't even spoken. "When they've been closed for so very long."

Ian's face was unreadable. "You lied to me," he said simply.

"You lied to yourself," Oliver returned. "You knew where this would lead."

"You said you wouldn't hurt them!" Ian protested, taking another step forward.

The sneer turned into something else then, a smile so devoid of anything approaching mirth that Dean actually shuddered. "I'm not going to hurt them," Oliver replied coldly. "I'm not going to hurt anyone."

Although there was no real way to tell where Oliver was looking, Dean would have sworn the guy's focus had shifted to Sam.

"Sam?" Oliver said then, confirming Dean's suspicions. "Are you ready to prove it to me now?"

Sam still stood there, staring absently at nothing. "I guess," he said, voice distant and detached.

"No…" Ian gritted his teeth, and Dean got the distinct impression he knew what was coming next.

"Sam…?" Dean said.

When Sam didn't move, Oliver descended the last of the stairs, moving to stand behind Sam, one hand on the boy's shoulder. He bent down slightly, whispering right into the kid's ear. "Remember what he did, Sam. Remember what he did to your brother."

Dean frowned at this, a horrible idea suddenly creeping into the back of his head and lodging there like a squatting spider. "Sammy?" he said carefully, taking another cautious step towards his brother, only an arm's length between them now. "Sammy, what're you hiding?"

Sam seemed to look at him for the first time then, smiling a dazed little smile as he pulled a small silver handgun from behind his back.

Dean's eyes widened. "Sam…"

"I've got to save you, Dean," Sam told him earnestly, still sounding all wrong, like someone had jumbled up his pieces and put him back together in the wrong order. Un-Sam. "It's going to be alright. I'm not going to let him hurt you any more. I'm going to protect you."

Sam raised his arm then, the gun pointing exactly where Dean had known it would: at the unconscious form of their father, still splayed out on the bed, completely oblivious to the imminent danger threatening both himself and his children.

"Sam, no!" Without thinking, Dean instinctively stepped between the gun and their Dad, putting himself only inches from the barrel, hands raised placatingly towards his brother. "Sam, this isn't you!" he said. "It's not right!"

Sam looked up at him, eyes sharp and focussed, but somehow still not there. "He hurt you," he said softly. "I have to stop him. I have to protect you…"

For a second, Dean couldn't work out what Sam was talking about, why he was acting this way. But then he remembered two things Ian had said earlier: Oliver and his kind lied; and Oliver had convinced Ian Dad was beating him.

A cold chill gripped Dean's chest. What if Oliver had convinced Sam of the same thing?

The gun was so steady it was frightening, Sam's aim never wavering for an instant, and Dean couldn't help looking away from his brother's face just long enough to glance down at the weapon, pointed right at his chest, as if Sam somehow believed the bullet would go straight through him without hurting him before continuing on to find their father.

Dean looked back up then, up into Sam's eyes. He wasn't looking at Dean at all now. He was looking at Dad.

And that's when Dean knew.

No, no, no, no…

There was hatred in Sam's eyes. A hatred so deep, so pure, that Dean didn't think he'd ever get over seeing it on his baby brother's face. It didn't belong there. Not on that face.

"Sammy – " Dean began, reaching a slow, trembling hand towards the gun. "Give me the gun, Sammy. You don't want to hurt anyone."

Sam glanced behind him then, at Mr Oliver, nodding as if the guy was speaking to him, although Dean heard no words. "Yes," Sam said. "I know I have to stop him. Stop him hurting Dean."

"Sam, he never – " Dean didn't get to finish the sentence, it taking him maybe half a second to realise that Sam had readjusted his aim around him, the gun now pointing at Dad's head as his finger slowly squeezed the trigger.

Instinct and eight years of training taking hold of him before he even really knew what he was doing, Dean knocked the barrel off-target with a flick of his hand just as Sam pulled on the trigger, the bullet whizzing past the older boy's left ear and ricocheting off the metal bed end with a ping, followed by a thud as it embedded itself in the opposite wall.

Dean took a couple of shallow breaths, visually checking Sammy over for injuries before doing the same for his Dad.

"No!" Sam burst out then, face crumpling and fire in his dark eyes. "Why would you do that?" he demanded. "Why would you do that, Dean?"

"He's our Dad, Sam!" Dean replied, as if it were obvious, making a move towards his brother who raised the gun once more, this time pointing it directly between Dean's eyes. Dean flinched, both inside and out, for the second time looking down the barrel of a gun being pointed at him by his kid brother. "Sammy…"

Ian grabbed Dean's arm then, pulling him as far away from the gun as he could. "Dean, don't," he began, but got no further as Sam, his original target now unprotected, once more raised the gun and aimed it at his father.

"No!" Dean fairly screamed, shrugging himself free of Ian's grip and flinging himself in front of Dad, trying to cover as much of him as possible despite being only half his size.

Sam frowned, the gun twitching slightly. "Get out of the way, Dean," he said calmly, glancing briefly over his shoulder at Mr Oliver before nodding and returning his attention to his brother. "You have to understand," he said. "I have to do this. I have to protect you."

"Sammy," Dean's voice was equally as calm and measured as Sam's, but there was an edge to it that suggested desperation wasn't very far away. "Sammy, what he told you," he said slowly, awkwardly, motioning at Oliver with a nod of his head. "What he told you Dad did. It's not true. Sammy, Dad never hurt me – never! You know that! You know he'd never do that!"

Sam's face crumpled into a confused frown. "Then why did he tell me the same thing?" he demanded, motioning briefly at Ian with a flick of the weapon clutched in his hand. "They can't both be lying!"

"Yes we can," Ian put in, stepping cautiously between Dean and the gun in Sam's firm grip. "He made me believe it," he said, inclining his head in Oliver's direction, much as Dean had done. "And I made you believe it. And for that I'm truly sorry."

Sam looked up at him, the confusion in his eyes completely failing to drown out the hatred smouldering there – hatred for Dad, and now hatred for Ian too. "Why should I believe you?" he demanded. "Grown ups lie all the time!"

"Yes we do," Ian admitted. "But I'm not lying to you about this. Sam, your Dad never hurt your brother. Oliver's playing with your head, trying to make you believe things that aren't true." He began to move his hand very slowly towards the gun, never breaking eye contact with Sam. "He's trying to make you kill your Dad so that he doesn't have to! This is his test! His initiation – to see whether you're worthy…" He made a move as if to take the gun then, Sam making no effort to stop him…

…And then all of sudden, Ian was flying through the air like a discarded beer can, body smashing into the wall opposite and crumpling into a heap on the concrete floor with a sickeningly wet thud.

"Ian!" Dean took a half-step forward, his head telling him to go check on the guy's condition while his heart told him to stay and protect his father.

Oliver turned briefly in Ian's direction, the sneer on his face almost a snarl. "Weak," he said, dismissively. "Not worthy of your attention." He put his hand on Sam's shoulder then, as if he were some kind of prize too valuable to waste on the likes of Ian.

Dean bristled indignantly, gritting his teeth as Sam glanced up at Oliver before his eyes came to rest once more on Ian.

Dean couldn't tell whether he was breathing or not. He certainly wasn't moving. A small pool of blood was gathering beneath his head, and his eyes were squeezed tightly shut. "Ian?" he muttered again, before returning his attention to Sam just as his brother did the same, the two of them just looking at each other for a second.

"You – you need to move now, Dean," Sam said shakily, left hand wrapping itself tightly around his right wrist. "I have to save you…"

"I don't need saving, Sammy!" Dean protested, rolling his eyes at his brother. "How many times have I got to tell you? Dad never laid a hand on me! You know that! I know you do! Sam?" There was a note of pleading in Dean's voice now. "Sam, have I ever lied to you? Huh? Ever?"

Sam seemed to consider that for a second, a frown creasing his brow as the gun lowered a good couple of inches. "No…" he admitted slowly, confusion darkening his face still further. "Dean… I don't…"

"Brothers lie too, Sam," Oliver was at Sam's ear again, whispering quietly. So quietly, Dean could barely hear him. "They lie to protect the ones they love. He's lying to protect you, Sam, when all you want to do is protect him, don't you? You want to protect him, don't you Sam?"

Sam closed his eyes briefly, unable to look at Dean as he muttered his answer. "Yes."

"Sam?" Dean tried again. He had to bring Sam back, he just had to. "Sammy, please don't listen to him," he urged. "He's not trying to help you and he's definitely not interested in helping me! He's using you! Don't you see that? He wants to – to take you over, like he did Ian, only much worse because it won't be temporary. It'll just go on and on until you're all used up like the guy in the suit – old and useless to him. Then he'll ditch you, just like he's trying to ditch him – replace you with a younger, stronger model, and he'll have taken your life away, Sam. Your whole life! Don't you see that? That's why he's got Dad here – so that he can use the things in his head to get to you. To make you believe he wants to help you – help me! He doesn't want to help either of us, Sam. He wants you to kill Dad by making you believe he hurt me. He never hurt me, he loves us way to much to do that to either of us! Now, you have to put the gun down. I mean it, Sam, put it down. Then Dad and me, we can – "

"Haven't you heard it all before Sam?" Oliver interrupted, hand squeezing Sam's shoulder. Sam frowned, fingers shifting uncertainly on the gun while Dean's eyes never wavered from him, watching for any little twitch that might signal which way he was going to go.

"Sam?" Oliver continued. "It's their fault you're so unhappy. Their fault. Always telling you what to do. Always giving you orders. He says it here – " he motioned to Dad's unconscious form. "It comes out here," he finished, pointing at Dean. "The two of them, always plotting together, conspiring against you, telling you what to do and keeping you from the things you want." He bent down, leaning forwards slightly so that he was even closer to Sam's ear. "Dean's clearly your father's favourite, Sam. Even when he's beating him, he's paying him more attention than he's ever paid you."

Sam frowned, his grip on the gun tightening, finger hovering over the trigger as Dean glared daggers at Oliver, who merely flashed him a mirthless smile, too far behind Sam for the younger boy to see it.

"Didn't you ever wonder, Sam?" Oliver continued, his cold grin taunting Dean mercilessly as he baited his brother. "Why him and not you? Maybe your Dad doesn't love Dean – maybe that's why he hurts him. But then again," Mr Oliver's voice lowered, face moving even closer to Sam's. "They say you only hurt the ones you love. Perhaps it's you your father doesn't love. Perhaps he's not interested in you enough to waste his energy beating you. After all, it's your fault he lost his wife…"

Sam's eyes opened wide. "W – what?" he burst out, and for a brief instant Dean recognised his little brother once more. "No it's not! I was a baby…!"

Mr Oliver laughed coldly. "Of course," he said. "How silly of me. Perhaps it was your brother then… Perhaps your mother died to protect him from something. Perhaps your mother died to protect him from your father. After all," he added, eyes locking with Dean's as the grin broadened across his narrow white lips. "You've only got their word for it, Sam. How do you know what really happened to your Mom? On fire on the ceiling? How does that even happen? How do you know that's what happened? You've only got their word for it, haven't you? Maybe they just told you that's how she died… so that you'd follow orders, like a good little soldier? If it wasn't for Dean, if it wasn't for your Dad, you'd still have your Mom, Sam. You'd have your house. You'd have your family, your life, your ordinariness, the life you've always wanted. Your greatest wish. But for them you'd have it all, Sam."

Sam's hand was shaking, tears in his eyes threatening to brim over and flood down his pale cheeks as Oliver's words snaked into his brain, making him feel light-headed and dizzy. His jaw was clenched so tightly Dean thought his face might break.

"Dean?" Sam said softly, quiet desperation infusing the single syllable with so much confused pain that had the younger boy not still been holding a gun aimed at his chest, Dean would have run straight over to him and pulled him into his arms.

Instead, he took a small step towards him, warily keeping himself between the weapon and his father, hands out to his sides as if in surrender. "Sammy," he said just as softly, meeting his little brother's fractured gaze and holding it steady. "Listen to me when I say this: I'd never lie to you. Ever. Especially about Mom." He took another uncertain step towards his brother, hands still raised, eyes barely blinking.

Hurt him. Hurt him.

Sam's hand was shaking violently now, as if the boy was struggling to control his own body.

"You and me against the world Sammy, huh?" Dean continued, one step closer, still resolutely maintaining eye contact, even when he noticed Ian twitch out of the corner of his eye. "C'mon, squirt. How do you expect me to be Lois Lane without Superman, huh? That's like Starsky without Hutch; Luke without Bo; Han without Chewbacca…" He frowned slightly. "Okay, forget that last one," he amended. "But you get what I'm saying, right kiddo? What's the point in Dean without Sammy, huh?"

Dean's hand was hovering over the gun now, and Sam was just staring up at him, the tears in his eyes finally brimming over.

"I don't want you to die," Sam whispered, voice thick and heavy. "I don't want you to die, Dean!"

Dean nodded, lowering his hand towards the gun. "I know you don't, Sammy," he said carefully, feeling the cool metal beneath his fingers. "I know you don't."

And then the gun was in Dean's hand, fingers closing around the barrel tightly as he pulled it easily from his baby brother's slack grip. "And I'm not gonna. Not as long as you're here, right?"

Sam nodded. "Not as long as I'm here."

"Enough!" Oliver burst out suddenly, startling both boys. "Weakness will not be tolerated. You need to learn that, Sam. You need to learn…"

He raise his hand then, a short, sharp flick of the wrist, and Sam felt himself pulled backwards as the light between himself and his brother suddenly shimmered orange, heat coming up from the concrete as a familiar smell assaulted his nostrils.

Fire.

"Dean!"

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There was fire everywhere, or at least, everywhere around Dean, an unnatural ring encircling him completely, flames a foot above his head, licking at his arms, his legs.

Dean drew in a panicked breath, Sam's words echoing pointlessly in his head, the man touched you and you were all burnt up, as he tried to make himself as small as he could, steadying his breathing, closing his eyes tight. But he could still see the orange-yellow flicker, even through closed eyelids, could still feel the heat licking at his skin, could still hear that familiar crackle…

Take your brother outside as fast as you can…

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Sam looked up at Oliver then, an odd look on his face, pitched somewhere between blind terror and obstinate determination. "Please stop," he asked quietly. "Please. You don't have to do this. I'll do whatever you want me to do…"

Oliver didn't even waste a glance on him, flames reflected eerily as they danced in the lenses of his dark glasses. "Too late, Sam," he said. "You didn't prove to me that you wanted it enough…"

"I'll prove it!" Sam burst out desperately. "I'll prove it now! Whatever you want! Just don't – don't – "

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"Dean!"

Dean heard Ian calling his name, loud in his head like an echo, and he wasn't completely sure whether he was hearing with his ears or… some other way.

"Dean, you can hear me, can't you?" Ian continued. "I know you can hear me, but you need to listen now. Just listen to me, Dean. I know you're scared, but you've got to believe me: The flames aren't real – "

"They sure as hell feel real!" Dean found himself retorting, not sure whether Ian would hear the words issuing from his mouth over the roaring crackle of the fire.

"They're only real if you believe they are!" Ian assured him. "Like your Dad's car, remember? What we see isn't always what's right in front of us!"

Dean kept his eyes squeezed shut, the heat from the flames becoming fiercer, scorching his lips and burning his throat. He tried to breathe normally, but it hurt and he found himself gasping, short shallow breaths that hurt even more. "What do I do?" he croaked, his voice thick and scratchy. "I don't know what you want me to do!"

Ian's voice was completely calm. "Dean, you have to trust me," he said.

Dean gulped. "I kinda have some issues with that," he admitted, voice becoming increasingly more gravelly.

"Dean, if you don't," Ian said. "If you don't trust me, don't do as I say, Oliver's going to kill your Dad. Then he's going to kill me. Then he's going to kill you. And then Sam will be lost forever. Do you understand?"

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"What do I do?" Sam asked hoarsely, the smoke from the fire scratching at his throat relentlessly. "I don't know what you want me to do!" He stared wildly, first at the flames encircling his brother, before shifting his gaze to the steely-grey man at his shoulder. "Please," he begged, the tears in his eyes not caused solely by the smoke. "Please don't burn him!"

"That's not the proof I want, Sam," the cold voice said, unhurried, unruffled, as if he had all the time in the world and there wasn't a twelve-year-old boy about to burn to death right in front of him.

Sam gritted his teeth, willing himself to calm down, to not look at the flames, to not feel Dean's terror throbbing in his own chest. "Then what do you want?" he demanded. "Tell me!"

"You need to let your brother go, Sam," Oliver replied simply. "Let him go. Let your father go. Give yourself up to me and I'll – I'll spare them."

Sam gazed up into the inscrutable dark glasses. "You – you'll let them go?" he clarified, sceptical that it could really be that easy.

Oliver nodded, just once. "If you give yourself freely," he said.

Sam bit his lip, unconsciously mimicking one of Dean's nervous habits. He glanced back at the steadily dancing flames… unnaturally steady. Not spreading. Not dying. Just – there. Almost as if they weren't –

"Alright," Sam's attention snapped back to Oliver, his expression one of resignation; resignation to the fate laid out for him.

"You have to want it, Sam," Oliver reminded him. "You have to let me feel it – feel the thing you want most in the world. Let me see it, let me see your deepest, most personal wish, that one thing that will reveal your true self to me, all pretence stripped away. Only then, when I see you as you truly are, will we be joined as one. And only then will I be able to grant you the thing you most desire."

Sam gritted his teeth. "And if I join you willingly," he said. "I'll get my wish?"

Oliver looked down at him, one hand on his shoulder as if he were merely an over-indulgent doting uncle. "Yes," he agreed. "When we join, your desires will become mine and they will be fulfilled."

Sam nodded. "Alright," he said. "If you promise to let my Dad and my brother go. I'm ready."

Oliver's waxy visage stretched into a smile. "Good boy, Sam."

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"I can't," Dean whispered through clenched teeth, fingers tightening convulsively around the gun still clutched in his hand.

"Yes you can, Dean," Ian assured him. "I told you I'd help you didn't I? You have to trust me."

Dean opened his eyes cautiously, the flames still dancing all around him, no bigger, no smaller. Just – there.

Why did it have to be fire? I coulda handled anything else –

"Because he saw what scared you the most," Ian's voice echoed loudly in his head, and Dean's eyes widened as he realised he'd answered a question Dean hadn't even spoken aloud.

"You're in my head again."

"Big empty spaces, kiddo."

Dean laughed nervously at that. "Alright," he said, taking a deep breath and fixing his eyes straight ahead of him. "If you promise this'll help save Dad and Sammy… I'm ready."

"Good boy, Dean."

Deep breath, deep breath…

Protect Sammy…

There's no fire. There's no fire… Dean told himself. And you're already back in Kansas, Dorothy…

And then he stepped into the flames.

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Gotta save Dean, gotta save Dean…

I can do this.

Sam almost closed his eyes as Mr Oliver's expensively-dentured mouth opened smoothly, just as an oily black vapour began to issue from within.

Gotta save Dean, gotta save…

It was coming towards him, snaking through the air as it left the vessel it had called 'home' for so long.

The grey-suited man began to sway then, his chalky-white skin turning a subtle shade of blue just as the black vapour touched Sam's lips…

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"Now Dean!"

Dean opened his eyes, amazed to discover himself completely not burnt up, the flames that had surrounded him gone as if they had never been there in the first place. There weren't even any scorch marks on the concrete floor.

Sammy was standing staring at him vacantly, eyes slightly unfocussed, while the man looming behind him was starting to sway as if he was about to collapse.

Now or never.

Dean raised the gun, aimed, and squeezed the trigger in one quick, fluid motion, just as he had been taught – bang – bang – not the slightest hesitation as two bullets sliced through the air above Sam's head, each piercing a lens of the grey man's dark glasses which splintered with a metallic tinkle, for a fraction of a second revealing two ice-white eyes before the bullets pierced them too, eyeballs exploding into ooze as the long-dead host collapsed in a heap at Sam's feet.

Dean gripped the gun tightly, adjusting his aim to point directly at his baby brother – something he had never done before and hoped to never do again.

"C'mon, Sammy," he whispered, hoping against hope that Ian was right about this.

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Sam opened his eyes.

A familiar-looking boy was pointing a lethally-steady handgun straight at him. Straight between his eyes.

Little boy, what can you do to me now? Soon you'll be dead and your brother will be mine…

"You said you'd let him go!" Sam's voice was strong. Stronger than it should have been by now. "You owe me my greatest wish – or did you lie about that too?"

Your wish is my wish. We are joined. We deny each other nothing. My wish is your wish. You deny me nothing… submit… submit…

"My wish," Sam insisted, hands balled into fists at his sides. "My wish…"

All things will be yours. All things will be ours. All things will be mine

"My wish. What I want…"

Is what I want… My want is your want… Now submit, boy…

"Come on, Sam!" that was Dean's voice. "Come on! Get the sucker! His host's destroyed. He can't go back there. Now get him, squirt! You and me against every evil son of a bitch in the world, right? Come on, Sam, you can do it!"

Sam gritted his teeth, planted his feet firmly on the hard concrete, and opened his completely non-white eyes.

"What I want," he said quietly, jaw set, chin raised, "is my brother." He took a small step forward. "What I want," he continued, voice growing louder, stronger, "is my family. What I want is my life. And what I want most – " he was shouting now, brows drawn together in anger. "What I want most is for you to get the hell out of my head and leave me and my family the hell alone!"

No! NO! You can't do this… You shouldn't be able to do this…

"Right. Now."

"You tell him, Sam!" Dean added.

You think you can better me…? It's not over. It's not over.

Dean almost flinched as the hideous black vapour began to gush from his little brother's mouth, curling into the air in front of him like a cloud of pure malevolence, just hanging there for a second, as if waiting. As if thinking.

"Don't get any ideas," Dean snarled. "You're not welcome in my head, either!"

There was a loud popping sound then, and the black substance seemed to gather in on itself, before suddenly streaking off towards the skylight and disappearing into the obliviously sunny Kansas afternoon beyond.

Gone.

Hopefully for good, Dean thought, immediately re-directing his attention to Sam, who was just standing there, shaking like a leaf, hands gone slack at his sides, shoulders slumped, knees trembling.

"Sammy?"

Dean put a steadying hand on the boy's shoulder, bending slightly to better look into his stunned eyes. "You okay, kiddo?"

Sam just looked up at him for a second, eyes struggling to focus, before muttering, "We get it?"

Dean nodded, grinning. "We got it. You got it."

The last thing Dean expected then was for Sam to throw his arms around his big brother, burying his face in his t-shirt as he broke down into unrestrained sobs of suddenly-released terror.

Dean had to remind himself where he was for a second, momentarily transported back to every schoolyard where he'd squared up to a bully, every hunt that had gotten too intense, every E.R. doctor who had asked too many questions. The foster home. The monsters in the closet. The nightmares. Dad yelling…

"It's okay, Sammy," he said quietly, gently pulling his brother to him and stroking his hair. "We're safe now."

Sam looked up at him then, cheeks tearstained and pinched. "Don't go anywhere," he pleaded.

Dean grinned. "Not planning on it," he replied. Then, as an afterthought, "You either, huh?"

Sam held his gaze, completely serious. "Never," he said. "Not ever. You and me against the world."

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Hopefully not too anti-climactic! The Final Chapter (eek - Chapter 13!) coming soon!