I don't have any good excuses as to why it's taken me so long to update. Doctorate, life, pandemic, Skyrim, illness, all of the above. All I can say is thank you so much for sticking with me this long and I hope you enjoy the final chapter of this story. There will be a sequel, titled "Depending on One Knot for Five Loose Ends" and about 6,300 words of that are written but I honestly have no idea when I'll get it to a postable point.

Also, the line about fighting God was written way before the current season. Not sure how I feel about it now, lol.

Hours had passed and a lazy sun was almost at the horizon. Bobby and Missouri sat in anxious anticipation, waiting for one or both of the Winchesters to wake up. Missouri had lost contact with Dean about an hour and a half in and there'd been no signs of life except for the asynchronous rise and fall of the brothers' chests.

"Should we try to get Dean back?" Bobby asked quietly.

Missouri slowly shook her head, not even looking at the older hunter. "This is Sam's only chance. If this fails, we won't get another opportunity."

Bobby took a moment to digest that but persevered. "I don't want to lose Dean, too."

"You won't," she replied with confidence. "I've seen his soul. It's battered and scarred, but it will withstand Sam's torment. It may not withstand losing Sam."

He huffed with exhausted understanding. "Don't have to tell me that... When Sam died a few years back, I thought Dean would follow him. Idjit did, in a way, with his damn demon deal." He sighed again. "Had I known then what I know now, I woulda done anything to stop him."

Now Missouri turned and caught his gaze. "You can't blame yourself for this, Bobby. I don't even really blame these boys. There are higher powers at work here and y'all got caught in the middle."

"But—"

"But what, Bobby? You can't fight God."

He let out an unenthusiastic chuckle. "You and I can't, maybe, but I wouldn't put it past Sam and Dean to try."

Missouri's lips quirked in an amused smile, silently agreeing that if anyone could upset destiny, it would be these two stubborn brothers who had lived and died for each other.

The stars were shining in bright defiance of a waning moon when something finally happened. Missouri noticed a profound change in the ambient psychic aura and looked at Sam, who began glowing with an increasingly luminous white light. Within moments, Dean let out a ragged scream. Missouri tried to move towards the elder brother but her approach was rebuffed by a shockwave of energy and heat radiating from both of the bodies on the floor. The light was painfully bright now and Missouri and Bobby shielded their eyes. Electricity crackled in the air for a moment before exploding outwards, china and windows shattering around them, followed by several loud booms from outside.

The light was then instantly quenched and the house was plunged into darkness. It was evident by the total lack of illumination surrounding them that the whole neighborhood had lost power.

"Bobby," Missouri managed in a strangled whisper, "the lanterns. They're on the table next to you."

"Oh, right," he replied quietly and fumbled to hand a lantern and box of matches to Missouri. With their hands shaking, it took them both several attempts to light the wicks. As pale, yellow light spread across the room, they could see that Sam's face seemed to be unaffected by the chaos but that Dean was suddenly sporting a number of injuries.

Missouri dropped herself to the floor by Dean's head and inspected him. A rainbow of bruises was growing all over his face and his nose was clearly broken. Blood streamed out of his nostrils and ears like dark paint. His eyelids were red and inflamed, almost sealed shut. His face felt extremely warm but his hands were freezing. His fingertips were bloody and torn to shreds, with early signs of frostbite setting in.

"Missouri?" Bobby's timid voice asked. She didn't need to read his mind to know what he was asking.

She felt for a pulse to confirm her reading. "He's alive. And he'll be okay. He's just a bit beaten up."

As if to confirm her assessment, Dean began yelling.

The first thing Dean was aware of was something touching his face and head. He thought about opening his eyes but the idea was discarded as consciousness made a variety of painful sensations earnestly apparent. His head was pounding and he felt like he'd been stabbed in the ears. He couldn't feel his hands and a hot, angry burn was crawling up his arms. A well of living cold was flooding his gut and stealing his breath. Sharp slashes on his shins screamed discomfort as he tried to get his body to respond. Nothing wanted to move; even peeling his eyes open felt like a monumental task. There was something important he needed to do, something he was supposed to check on, but what, he couldn't remember for the life of him. The coldness was too heavy, too smothering. He opened his mouth to cry out but no sound escaped. He tried again, but the soul-deep chill had reached his throat and soon he was struggling to breathe. He realized as he surrendered to unconsciousness that he hadn't been able to hear his own gasps. In fact, he hadn't been able to hear anything.

Bobby grabbed the sedative with which they had treated Sam prior to the ritual. He was prepared to give Dean a small dose when the man's wailing died down on its own. Missouri dragged Dean to the couch and managed, after several awkward tries and near-drops, to get him up onto the cushions. Bobby was ready with the first aid kit and triaged his wounds. The frostbite was the most critical, followed by stemming the bleeding from his ears and nose. She hurried to the kitchen and filled the same bowl Dean had used earlier on her with warm water. She plunged his hands in then started wiping away the blood from his face.

"Nose looks broken," Bobby commented. "Get some ice and I'll deal with his hands." Missouri obeyed wordlessly and returned with several bags of ice which she arranged around Dean's face. "What do you think happened?" he asked cautiously.

Missouri swallowed anxiously and continued to dab away blood, unwilling to look Bobby in the eye. "I can't say for sure until I take a look at Sam... Dean clearly got in far enough to absorb a fair amount of abuse. I'm pretty certain that energy blast was from Sam's psychic abilities, though if it was from him pushing Dean or Lucifer out or him breaking completely, I don't know yet."

"What d'you mean 'breaking completely'?"

"I told you Sam was at the brink. Either we get him back with this or he'll be gone. I've never heard of a soul breaking, but I wouldn't put it past an archangel who's not getting what he wants. We're dealing with something new here. Even if Sam survives, he won't be the same."

"Can you check him?"

She put one palm on Dean's forehead and the other on his heart, focusing on his energy. "Dean is stable. He just needs to rest. I can assess Sam."

Bobby turned his wheelchair such that he could still take care of Dean but also watch Missouri. As Missouri approached Sam's motionless body, both of them noticed alarming changes to the ritualistic scene before them. Missouri held out her arm with the lantern so they could see. All of the herbs were burnt and the crystals had been reduced to dust. When the light spilled across a broken eggshell, Missouri gasped in disbelief.

"What, what's wrong?"

She quickly checked the other two. "The eggs, they're all broken!"

Bobby's brow furrowed in confusion. "Okay, so... Maybe the blast wave broke 'em, or you stepped on them when taking care of Dean."

"No, not smashed, broken. From the inside. Like something hatched."

"What?!"

She picked up a shell and examined it. The outside was still a pristine sky blue but the inside was dry and charred. "I... I don't know. Usually the eggs are a receptacle for excess power, living cells that can bleed off energy... but in Sam's case... he's actually created life."

Bobby was at a loss for words. "How... how is that possible?" Missouri shrugged helplessly. "Do you know what came out?"

"No idea. But I have no doubt they'll be linked to him."

Bobby rubbed his face with his hands. As if their lives could get any weirder. "Okay, what about Sam?"

Missouri placed the eggshell on the table then returned to Sam's side. The closer she got, the dizzier she felt, like some sort of psychic radiation sickness. She closed her eyes and put a hand on his forehead before instantly pulling back. "He's burning up! Give me an ice pack!" Bobby threw one to her and she placed it on his head. "I'm going to run a cold bath for him." She pushed herself up and hurried out of the room.

Bobby wheeled over to the younger Winchester and held the lantern over his body. He saw cauterized claw marks gashed both shoulders and spread across his clavicle. Next he noticed the anti-angel wards were bright red and oozing as if they had just been freshly applied. The spiraled ward over his heart had streaks of black trailing away, making it almost look like the rays of a stylized sun. His vision started to blur slightly and he shook his head to refocus his eyes. It seemed fine as Missouri bustled into the room.

"If I lift his feet onto your lap, you think we could get him to the bathroom?"

"Yeah," Bobby replied and readied himself to help. Bobby didn't miss how Missouri slowed down as she approached, her body showing characteristic signs of unconscious discomfort. But she kept with it. Despite Sam's stature, he was so thin that Missouri didn't struggle nearly as much as with Dean. Between the two of them, they were easily able to move him to the tub. They slid him in, sweatpants and all, with a sponge under his chin to keep his head above water.

"You watch him, and I'll take care of Dean?" she offered.

"That's fine... But what about Sam? What about his soul?"

Missouri looked at Sam for a moment before returning her gaze to Bobby. "I can't read him right now. I don't know what's happening, but it's just static."

Bobby's heart stuttered. "Is that good or bad?"

Missouri's teeth toyed with her bottom lip. "It's new, that's really all I can say." She left before Bobby could ask any more questions for which she had no satisfactory answers.

Morning saw Dean's wounds tended to the best of their abilities and Sam resting comfortably on a blanket on the floor, though his temperature would still be considered a dangerous fever. Missouri was sweeping up the remains of the ritual when Dean suddenly stirred with a raspy shout.

"Hello? Anyone? I need help!" he called out, voice hoarse beyond recognition.

Missouri got there first but Bobby wasn't far behind. "Dean! Dean, we're here. We're right here." She gently grabbed his arms but this just made him flail harder.

"Dean! Can you hear us? You're out, you're safe. Dean!"

Dean seemed to be trying to grab for something, his hands reaching to explore around him. "Where am I? Sam? Sam!"

Missouri placed a hand on his forehead. Dean. Can you hear me?

Missouri? Oh thank God, Missouri, I... I don't know what happened. One minute he was there in front of me and then there was all this light, and now I can't see or hear anything. And everything hurts!

You're safe Dean, you're with me and Bobby. I don't know about your eyes, but it looks like maybe your eardrums ruptured, which is probably why you can't hear—

Panic surged through Missouri from Dean's consciousness. Does that mean I'm gonna be deaf?! Oh God, oh God, oh God—

No, no, she interrupted forcefully, I don't think so. Just until they heal.

What about my eyes?

Let me check.

She withdrew from his mind and moved her hands to his face. She lifted the cool rags and gently prodded the irritated tissue. His eyelids were still extremely swollen but there was a marked improvement from several hours prior. She carefully pulled his eyelids apart as he fought heavy flinches. His eyes were red and puffy but she couldn't detect any noticeable damage. She pulled her hands away.

They're inflamed but I can't tell if there's any permanent damage. Could you see anything?

Only that it wasn't totally dark. Do you think I'll be blind? Anxiety was pouring out of Dean in sickening waves.

I don't know, Dean, we'll have to wait and... well, see, I guess. A glimmer of amusement sparked through Dean before he became somber again.

What about Sam? Did it work? Is he back?

I can't answer that either, I'm sorry. He's alive, but I can't get any clear readings from him. He let out a huge burst of power about the time you came back... He actually took out the power grid in the whole neighborhood!

Irreverent pride flared in Dean. That's Sam for ya. Never half-assed a thing in his life.

Missouri waited a moment before asking, What happened in there, Dean?

Violent pain flashed through Missouri before Dean got a lid on it. It was just like you said. There was this part of him... It wanted me out, gone. It had given up on Sam, just wanted to use the demon power. When I got to Sam, the real Sam, he was buried in ice. He barely looked alive. Lucifer appeared and did something to him. He shoved his hand into Sam's body and white light was coming out. I tried to get through the ice but I hardly made a dent. Then this bright light and like, a shockwave came out and pushed me back. I tried to get up but more light came out of him and forced me out of his mind. I don't know if he was even aware I was there. I don't know if it worked... I don't think it did, Missouri, what are we gonna do?!

Dean! Calm down. Something happened, we just have to see what. I—

How is he now?

Sleeping. Everything seems fine.

She didn't miss the swell of relief that passed through Dean. She also didn't miss the pain dancing along his nerves. Do you want something for the pain? Something to help you sleep?

She could feel Dean's indecision. His body was screaming for rest, his mind was struggling to understand what had happened, and his heart wanted to be there for Sam. I think Sam will sleep for a while, so it probably wouldn't hurt if you did, too.

But—

If you rest, you'll be better able to take care of Sam when he wakes up.

Her belief that Sam would come back put his anxiety at ease. Okay, okay, you win. But no drawing on my face while I'm out!

I wouldn't dare. Take it easy, Dean. If you need something, raise your hand.

Aye-aye, captain. And Missouri?

Yes, Dean?

Thanks.

Don't mention it.

Sam found himself enclosed in a formless dark void. He crumpled into a heap, his weakened body unable to support him. The peaceful quiet unto which he'd surrendered was instantly interrupted by Lucifer's thunderous, almost desperate voice.

"You can't run and hide from me in this place. Out there, in here, it doesn't matter. You aren't strong enough to face what's happened to you. But I can heal you. Together, we can be whole, bring balance to the world. You can't keep this up forever. It is our destiny to be one, Sam, please..."

Growing cracks of light appeared directly above him and crept down towards an invisible horizon as if he were trapped in a globe. It spread down under him until the fissures joined below him and burst outward to reveal a mesmerizing kaleidoscope of fractal color. Lucifer's grace swarmed and frenzied around Sam, an increasing number of shining tendrils attempting to weave themselves into his threadbare soul.

"Sam, if you don't say 'yes' to me now, you're going to regret it. I didn't want it to come to this, but I'm willing to eviscerate everything and everyone you ever clung to. I'm not above making you the only existing Winchester."

At that threat, Sam's closed eye opened and his soul recoiled from the archangel's imploring touch. Lucifer tried to reinstate his withering grasp but the added power only served to detonate the reactive elements trapped under increasing pressure. Like a nuclear reactor in meltdown, the unstable tapestry of angelic grace and human soul exploded outwards, violently ejecting the corrupt grace twining around the increasingly radiant white strands. Lucifer's true form pulsed out of his vessel's body and he frantically scrabbled at Sam, sinking his talons into the human's shoulders in an attempt to hold on. Bright light flared from the vicious interaction of divergent grace and soul, blast waves unleashed as they sparked together like live wires. Energy poured from Sam's skin, bursting out in every direction. Lucifer gouged his claws in deeper as he screamed in Enochian, but the looming sails of his wings caught hurricane-force currents of power billowing from Sam's soul. It was enough to free Sam from Lucifer's hold and the two separated with all the tranquility of a volcanic eruption.

As the residual gossamers of Lucifer's grace separated from Sam's soul, the remaining filaments of the human's spirit collapsed in on themselves like the remnants of a star that had gone supernova. Sam felt himself pulled down and away, his awareness concentrated into a tiny bubble of existence. Blinding, glittering light pressed in around him but it wasn't entirely uncomfortable.

Then bleeding, black rifts started tearing towards him.

Dean couldn't remember sleeping for as long or as soundly as he just had. He also couldn't remember needing to pee more than he did right now. His body felt distant and nebulous in a way he recognized – sedative and pain killers. He managed to get his arm up.

Within a few seconds, a hand was on his forehead. Hello, dear. What do you need?

Bathroom. Stat.

Want to try opening your eyes?

Dean peeled them open despite the pain. The sharp drop in his attitude told Missouri all she needed to know. Nothing. Just a dim white. Missouri, what if—

Dean, it's been less than a day. Don't panic just yet. I'll guide you to the bathroom and you knock on the door when you're done.

It was awkward to maneuver a grown man through an unfamiliar house and show him the bathroom by touch, but they managed. As Missouri led him back, she informed him that You need to eat, then you can go back to sleep.

How's Sam?

No change.

Do you think that means it didn't work?

Dean could feel the soft whoosh of air from Missouri's sigh as it tickled his face. I don't know. We're in uncharted waters here. I'm gonna sit you down on the couch and make a sandwich for ya. Pastrami work?

I can't remember the last time I had pastrami! Sounds great.

Alright, back in a moment. And don't you start worrying about anything, okay?

Yes, ma'am.

Missouri patted his shoulder as she got up and to his surprise, it did put him a little more at ease. He did his best to not think about Sam, to not think about the fact that he may have failed. It was a lousy attempt, but at least he still had his appetite when Missouri returned and put the plate in his lap.

He picked up the sandwich and leaned forward to take a bite when he felt Missouri's hand on his forehead. Castiel called your cellphone. I hope you don't mind that I picked up. He wanted to know where you were. He should be here shortly.

Great!

The older Winchester was still sitting on the couch, his head in his hands. He was at a loss for what to do. His best hope was Cas.

Said angel appeared a few minutes later with a gruff "Dean" emitted in way of a greeting.

"He can't hear you," Missouri called from the other room, her voice getting louder as she rounded the corner. "Oh, Lord!" she exclaimed, nearly dropping the glass she was carrying. "I—I'm guessing you are Castiel. They told me you were angel, but, I..."

Castiel smiled in that peculiar way of his, like he was doing his best to imitate the human emotion behind the physical movement. "I apologize if my presence is overwhelming, I will try to make my visit short."

"No, please, stay. Don't worry 'bout me, I will be fine, I promise." He noted the awestruck way in which she beheld him, much like Sam when they first met.

Castiel looked skeptical but turned his attentions towards Dean. "What happened to him?"

"He was determined to figure out if Sam's soul is still there, so I joined their minds. I think Dean got close but then there was this explosion of light and since then Dean hasn't been able to see or hear."

"And Sam?"

"Mostly unchanged. I don't think he has much time left."

The angel frowned and looked around for Sam but did not see him.

"He's resting in another room," Missouri answered, an odd tone to her voice that Castiel did not understand. His confusion must have shown on his face because Missouri took a step forward and quietly shared "There's something just not right and he makes us all feel a little... strange."

Castiel nodded as if he understood then assessed Dean. Most of the damage seemed superficial and within his ability to fix, even with his powers reduced as they were. "Can you tell him I will heal him?"

Missouri went to Dean and set the glass in front of him before laying her hand on his forehead. Dean instantly became alert and straightened his back, expectant. Castiel squatted in front of him and laid two fingers where Missouri's hand had just left. The bruising on his face faded and his fingers healed. The redness around Dean's eyes ebbed away and he opened them, the smile on his face evidence enough that he could see again. Dean grabbed Castiel's shoulders affectionately. "Damn is it good to see you! Where the hell have you been?" He sat down and enthusiastically grabbed the sandwich and continued to tear into it. Swallowing his bite, he looked up at Cas. "I can chew and listen at the same time, you know."

The words had barely left his own mouth before he realized that he hadn't actually heard his own voice. Or chewing. And Cas's mouth was moving but he wasn't hearing anything. He dropped the sandwich and felt his ears, as if that would give him any useful information. He looked at Castiel and then Missouri, panic again painting his features. "I can't hear. I can't hear anything."

Cas moved forward and returned his fingers to Dean's forehead but nothing changed. Dean noticed how Castiel's throat shuddered with apprehension. The angel shook his head and Dean didn't need to be a mind reader to understand that Cas couldn't explain what was happening. Dean took a deep breath and reminded himself to be grateful he could at least see now. One step at a time.

"Have you seen Sam yet?" he asked Cas, who again shook his head. They both looked to Missouri. She bobbed her head and gave them a beckoning motion. They followed her to a guest room where Bobby was sitting outside reading a book.

"Dean! Good to see you up. You're looking a helluva lot better," Bobby said before throwing the other two a confused look when Dean didn't respond.

"He still can't hear," Missouri explained.

"I could heal everything else, but not that. There doesn't seem to be anything supernatural blocking my grace, but nothing happens when I try," Castiel elaborated.

Bobby's face furrowed as he considered the implications, but he was quickly distracted by Dean hurrying towards the door. He grabbed the young man's arm before Dean could burst in. Bobby threw a look at Missouri and she came to Dean's other side.

Dean, Sam hasn't woken up or moved since the ritual. He has a fever but we're controlling it. Don't worry, okay?

Gee, that's not exactly reassuring, Missouri.

A whiff of annoyance passed through Dean's mind. Don't sass me, boy. This ain't easy for any of us.

Dean relented at the chastisement. Sorry. Can I see Sam now?

In you go, honey.

Dean opened the door and stepped in, and was immediately aware of why Missouri wanted to warn him. Sam looked dead. He was pale with a sheen of sweat, but that wasn't what was bothering him. He had the distinct sensation that Sam was very much not there and anxiety needled every nerve. "What's wrong with him?"

Missouri shrugged helplessly as Cas approached carefully. He brought his hands close to Sam's chest and sparks of energy lit up the air.

"Probably shouldn't try again, Cas. Who knows where you'll end up this time."

Castiel opened his mouth to respond then thought better of it, instead nodding in agreement and withdrawing his hands.

Dean sat down on the bed and took in the sight of his emaciated little brother. If anything, Sam seemed farther away now, less himself, and it made Dean's heart want to spiral down into a drain and disappear forever. In his attempt to save Sam, had he damned him? He wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer.

Dean stood up and rubbed his hands on his jeans. "Alright, let's get back to Bobby's and see what we can dig up."

His company looked at him with surprise. No, you need to rest first. Castiel may have healed you, but I am not letting you out of this house until I say so!

Knowing better than to argue with Missouri, Dean curtly nodded and responded with an only slightly tongue-in-cheek Yes ma'am!

Writhing darkness swept towards him. Sam tried to scramble away but his useless muscles refused to cooperate beyond dragging him a few feet. He could only watch with terrified apprehension as the 'floor' of his mind dropped out in huge sparkling chunks, the silent vacuum approaching at an accelerating rate. He tried to turn to find something to hold on to, but the void was closing in from all sides, pieces falling away and he knew there was nothing he could do to stop it.

He felt the piece beneath him crumble and disappear. Almost comically he grappled the empty air around him but found no traction. The drop was fast but he never hit the bottom. It was an endless fall and he didn't know if it would ever end. He forced his limbs out in an attempt to halt his descent and was surprised when his hands and feet became mired in a thick, tar-like substance. He slowed until he came to a stop, spread-eagle and now trapped in this formless void. He felt it slide over his arms and legs, settling heavy weight on his torso and creeping towards his face. Pulling on all his extremities at once proved fruitless, so he instead focused on his right hand. The mire was getting closer and heavier, straining his gasping lungs. He yanked and tugged, channeling his dwindling strength into freeing something. But it was too little, too late, the unofficial mantra of my life, he thought bitterly.

The moment he almost pulled his hand free, foreign fingers of tar forced themselves inside his mouth. The substance was rancid and reeked of decaying flesh. As it hit his tongue, violent bolts of pain erupted from his knees and he experienced a memory as though for the first time, when some hunters had taken sledgehammers to his knee caps. He tried swallowing the first drop of tortuous bile but he was rewarded by the introduction to a new memory of personal calamity where his demonic side was forcibly drowned in demon blood. Inadvertently, he took in another drop, and the feel of acid dripping into his eyes forced a scream out of him heaving chest. Memories started pouring in just as the vile sludge began invading his throat and filling his body. Memories he couldn't recall making, things he didn't know had happened to him. So many hands touching his body, pulling, claiming, taking, ripping. Innumerable trophies stolen from his faltering form. So many drugs pumped through his system he could've sworn his brain would melt out his ears. Venom from some supernatural creature that clogged his arteries so slowly he could feel his heart burst from the pressure. Suffering became an art and he was their canvas. Eventually they tired of his screams and pleas for mercy, so they would cut his vocal cords preemptively if they knew pain, and not pleasure, was the day's main goal.

Pleasure. The word was ruined for him and his mind balked at even considering it. He had been... Had Lucifer hidden this from him? Is this what Lucifer meant when he said he wasn't strong enough to survive what had happened to him? Because maybe the fallen angel was right. This was... The torrent of emotions that ravaged him as he experienced all that had happened to him when he'd been trapped in ice by Lucifer... It was enough to make him wish for non-existence all over again. The depravity of it all dimmed the radiance of his soul. Every cell of his body felt contaminated by perverted debauchery. The things he had done, the things he had been forced to do... It was all too much and he felt himself drowning, suffocating, in an endless riptide of lewd feelings and hateful voices.

Traitor, freak, loser, deceiver, monster, beast, unworthy, vermin, failure, abomination, plague, evil – he'd heard it all and more. Some part of him believed every last word spit at him in hate was earned and accurate. He was nothing – no, he was worse than nothing. He was not welcomed in this reality anymore, he was cut off, adrift from any connection to the world, doomed to drown eternally in his internal prison. He had built the bars one by one, though entirely by accident.

The tar reunited above his head and then he was somewhere else, able to move but unable to see. He immediately felt as though he were suffocating. Not in a hand-around-his-throat or a choking-on-food or a drowning way, just a persistent lack of oxygen that was driving rocks into his brain. A chill crept through him like a slow-moving cancer; he was aware of its spread but powerless to stop it. Lightning flashed around him and he could have sworn that thousands of gnarled hands were reaching towards him, ready to hurt him, to tear him apart, to caress him in a nauseating mockery of affection. Thunder roared through him like a breaking tidal wave and he felt the weakened threads of his soul shiver in terror.

Spectral faces with black eyes flickered in the lightning and gathered around him. Ornate bars suddenly emerged from the oblivion around him and moved to envelop him in a prison that was simultaneously endless and claustrophobic. Hissing voices whispered in a language he didn't understand but made him tremble nonetheless. The more he tried to ignore them, the more the words took on physical form, a hundred thousand tiny cuts across his skin as they tore past. Tendrils of raw energy curled around the ancient panels surrounding him, warning against any foolhardy escape attempt.

Ancient. The word stuck in his flailing mind and he didn't know how he understood their age. But he did, and the more he thought about it, he recognized that ancient was an understatement. The prison was made out of time itself, woven and collapsed in on itself to create a separate dimension. Suddenly, all the pieces fell into place. This was Lucifer's cage. This is where the Devil had spent untold millennia, alone and forsaken. And somehow, he was trapped there, too.

Instinctual, animalistic fear seized him before he could think through his situation rationally. His heart rate shot up and the things outside started screeching and clamoring, their clawed hands trying to grab him. He scrabbled — when had he gotten on the ground? — for the relative safety of the center of the cell, away from what he guessed must be demons. He slapped his hands over his ears and closed his eyes, desperate to drown out the deranged howls and burning stares, but it only made him more acutely aware of how trapped he was. He was alive, yes, but this was so much worse than death.

Two weeks had gone by since they'd gotten back from Missouri's. She'd loaded them up with all sorts of baked goods and frozen meals and insisted they keep her updated. Lindsey was disheartened by the lack of change in Sam, but still somehow hopeful. Her optimism amazed Dean but he didn't share it. His frustration was aggravated by his continuing inability to hear anything. They'd figured out a system of yes or no questions and when that didn't suffice, using small dry erase boards to write things out. Dean knew it meant the end of his hunting career, but he wasn't as devasted by that realization as he would have predicted. Though he would never admit it, he knew it was because he didn't want to hunt with anyone besides Sam.

And Sam... Well, Sam was not getting better. He had stopped listening to commands after the ritual, so everything had to be done for him. He was basically in a coma. He and Lindsey developed a routine to help move his muscles to at least slow the loss, but Dean could tell his brother was wasting away, shriveling to almost nothing. It made him desperate in ways that were far too reminiscent of Cold Oak for his comfort.

Another week without any change had gone by. Dean sat staring at Sam's unmoving form on the porch chair. His brother's body was like a marionette doll: he could move and pose Sam however he wanted and it would remain in that arrangement. What little muscle mass Sam had retained from his months in captivity was quickly wasting away. Incoherent dread seized Dean's heart whenever he considered that this may be how Sam spends the rest of his life.

God, maybe Demon-Sam was right... Maybe I shouldn't have brought Sam back to the surface... Dean thought to himself, though he hated himself for it. He hated himself even more for the thought that followed.

"Bobby?"

"Yeah?"

Dean turned his head so he was looking out at the yard instead of directly at Sam or Bobby. "What if we tried giving him demon blood? See if we can get any type of response?"

Bobby closed the book he was reading abruptly. "Dean, I know you want your brother back... I do, too. But have you lost your damn mind?!"

"It would just be an experiment, to see what happens..."

"And if something happened, what would you do?"

Dean shrugged listlessly. "I dunno... I... I can't stand watching him like this. It's even worse than before!" He fought the clench of his throat that threatened to strangle him.

"Is him being a demon really any better?"

Dean flashed a glance at Bobby but couldn't hold his gaze. He sighed dejectedly. "Maybe?"

"Goddammit, Dean! This is the sort of stupid shit that got us in this situation in the first place. You both being unable to live without each other. Don't do that to your brother. He wouldn't want that. Stop thinking about yourself for ten fucking minutes and think this through. You said he had way more power than he had any right to. And you wanna go poke that bear?"

Dean had been ready to fight Bobby's outburst but became more cowed as Bobby continued. "Y-you're right... I just..." He looked over to Sam, completely unchanged from when he had placed his body there twenty minutes ago. "I can't deal with this anymore," Dean whispered and stormed inside, slamming the frail screen door with all his might.

Bobby let his head fall into his hands. "You and me both, son," he murmured to no one.

There must have been a crack, somewhere, because things were crawling on him, things that rejoiced in tearing out little chunks of his flesh and making him bleed. But maybe there could be a way out? By the time he gathered the courage and stamina to move, he was wading hip-deep through the writhing creatures, a million different cruel abominations with too many teeth, mouths, and legs, all swarming to taste him. As he got closer to the source, he could feel a draft... Not of wind, or cold, but of existence itself. He dug through the nightmarish vermin and was left with skeletal hands once he reached his goal: a hairline crack in the corner, dark opalescence seeping out. He brought his bony finger near and was immediately rebuffed. He tried again, sticking his whole hand in forcefully and was thrown across the cage. Again and again, he tried, working his body down to oozing, festering bones. It almost felt like reality was mocking him, forcing him to give his all and get nothing in return, while inconsequential demonic creatures passed through with no hesitation.

Demonic. The word resonated in his head, sounding both like salvation and damnation. If he wanted to escape, he'd have to let the demonic side of him take control. If that was even possible... He didn't have demon blood... But he did have all of these vile creatures...

Shame inundated him and threatened to sweep away any remaining willpower. How could he ever look at himself again if he went through with this? Consuming Hell's living trash in a suicidal attempt for freedom that would require willingly letting his demonic powers rule over him? He staggered back, paralyzed by the decision, his mind warring between dying with dignity or trying with dishonor. He fell to his knees, the squeals of crushed monsters echoing the lament from his soul. He couldn't, he couldn't give in and surrender to it now, after all this. He let himself fall backward and the things poured over him, biting, ripping, and tearing. This is how it would end. He could deal with that. Because he couldn't go along with allowing himself to be a demon.

Could he?

Dean's begging from earlier suddenly blared in his mind. "I miss you, I want you back, no matter how messed up everything is. I'm here now and I will do anything, anything to make this right! Please, Sammy, just come back to me."

The unrepentant need in Dean's voice shattered any hopes Sam had of just surrendering himself to his current fate. Dean wasn't letting go and Sam would be a coward if he did. If Dean really meant it, he'd accept Sam back in whatever state he returned. They'd figure it out later. They always did. And they could this time, as long as Sam did what was needed. He had to. For Dean.

He flexed his withered fingers and took fistfuls of squirming Hell beasts and shoved them into his mouth. The bitter, stinging taste that made him retch and the painful stabs to his tongue and cheeks that almost prevented him from chewing was quickly overcome by that familiar, magnificent rush of power. He shoveled in more and more, the exhilaration all-consuming. The profane energy bounded through his nerves like loose electricity and he practically roared with ecstasy as he felt his eyes go black. He dove headfirst toward the crack in the cage and was gratified to find his hypothesis to be correct: he was out.

But the grasping tar of his memories embraced him and he knew he still had the fight of his lifetime ahead of him. He'd have to make it through all the things he'd been hiding from, himself included, for even a chance of making it out alive. He owed Dean his best effort.

He flung his arms out the best he could and began to swim upwards with all his strength. He tried holding his breath for as long as he could but it was futile, and he knew it. The moment the noxious slime touched his tongue, experiences burst forth like a geyser. So much pain, rage, misery, but dominant above them all was humiliation. There was no aspect of his mind, body, or soul that had remained unsullied. He paused in his ascent, convinced no one would want him after everything he'd been through. Ceasing to exist was far more desirable than chasing some shred of affection from strangers on a street corner—

No! his heart screamed. Dean said he would love you no matter what.

But what if he doesn't? What if he thinks I'm revolting, or pathetic, or useless, or—

Then you deal with it then. But at least find out first. Don't want to disappoint him again, do you?

That fucking did it. Despite months of misery seeping into his veins, he forced himself upward, absolutely hellbent on never disappointing Dean again.

Sam opened his eyes to a completely different world of sensations and he struggled to make sense of them. Nothing was trying to hurt him, nothing seemed to be chasing him, he was... What was the word... comfortable. Once he mustered the courage to open his eyes, he found himself wrapped in blankets in a darkened but familiar room. He tried to fling the heavy fabric from his body, the compressing sensation too upsetting given his recent struggles, until he recognized his surroundings. He was at Bobby's. The realization filled his heart with an alien emotion: joy. Someone still cared about him enough to bring him back here. And Bobby hadn't just thrown him out! He laid curled in the warm haven for a few moments, relishing the feel of a soft bed and clean sheets. He also realized he was clean, a sensation he couldn't remember clearly without haunting associations. He quickly pushed the blankets away and turned on a lamp near the bed. As his eyes adjusted, he saw the IV lines snaking under his sleeve and felt the familiar discomfort of a catheter. He froze in fear. Was he still somehow with, with... them? He couldn't even think their names. Had they come to Bobby's and killed –

No! Sam dismissed the thought. He couldn't bear it. No, Bobby was fine. It was the only thing that made sense.

He pulled the various contraptions out of his flesh and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He focused his limited energy down through his feet and forced his body to standing. His muscles were pathetically weak and he fell back towards the bed. His body wanted to give up but his incessant need to know he was safe drove him upwards again. He grabbed the IV pole and pulled it along as a crutch. As he moved towards the door, he caught sight of a random array of items on top of the dresser. His Taurus, Dad's journal, Dean's cassette tapes. Dean. Could he really be here? There were pictures Sam didn't even know existed, pictures of himself and Dean. Hope surged in him as he imagined Dean and tears threatened his composure.

His eyes drifted up in his attempt to stall the deluge and he saw himself in the mirror, prompting a violent recoil.

Even in the low light, he could see that he looked like a corpse. The faintest of smiles flittered across his dry lips as an odd quote came to mind: 'I am become Death,' Robert Oppenheimer had thought upon witnessing the first detonation of an atomic bomb. Sam felt he had a bigger claim on the verse from the Bhagavad-Gita than the nuclear physicist; Oppenheimer may have led to the deaths of more people, but he had died more than anyone.

He took a few shaky steps forward to study himself more closely. His body looked so frail, his skin almost grayish. Despite the loose-fitting t-shirt and sweatpants, he could feel the taught scars of the warding sigils pulling at him. He couldn't recall the last time he had looked someone in the eye, so he decided to start with himself. The gaze that met his held a terrible surprise. On a deeply-buried instinct, he fled the room in search of his brother.

Dean was trying to focus on a book in front of him but concentration had eluded him for several weeks. Every time he tried to research and scour the world for something that might help Sam, he'd been bombarded by vicious memories or dark imaginings of Sam's suffering. Being locked in silence in his own head made everything that much worse and he yearned for the comforting distraction of rock and roll. Maybe even feeling the rhythm would help? He should put on something with heavy bass...

He lifted his gaze to look for Bobby's stereo and that's when he encountered the most beautiful sight he'd ever seen. Not some gorgeous woman inviting him into her bed, not the endless highway laid out before him snaking through Monument Valley, not the glittering splash of the Milky Way lighting up the night sky. All these things had their proper place in Dean's heart, but nothing would ever top the sight of his little brother standing in the shadowed doorway, eyes moist with a thousand unshed emotions, staring straight at him, actually seeing him.

Dean stood so suddenly he knocked over the small table in front of him. His eyes darted away from Sam to watch his glass fall to the floor. He imagined the sound it would make as it shattered and was surprised to actually hear it. He looked back to Sam, who had not moved a muscle.

Sam seemed to be hanging back and as much as Dean wanted to wrap the kid in a tight bear hug and never let go, he knew he needed to let Sam do this at his own pace. The last thing he wanted to do was scare him back inside his head.

Sam took a step forward and Dean instantly realized why Sam was being so shy. Underneath the sheen of tears, there was something distinctly different about Sam's eyes. Fear inundated his heart when he saw the bright red streaks that pierced the hazel field of Sam's left eye, glowing ever so faintly in the darkness, red that looked far too familiar given recent events, a red that looked like—Dean stepped back, terrified that Lucifer might be standing before him.

His gaze swept the distance between them as he reached behind him and pulled out his gun. He lifted his arm to aim it at his brother as he quietly asked "Sammy?" and was again startled by hearing the actual sound. A sudden feeling of warmth enveloped him along with a pervasive sense of deep affection. It distracted him and he shifted his attention back to Sam.

He didn't miss the small smile that grew on Sam's face as Dean's very soul rejoiced at the expression of one sound, a word he thought he might never hear said again in such a tender, trusting, loving manner that no angel could replicate, a word that now had so much more meaning.

'Dean?'

Reviews are love.

And best of luck to everyone for the finale this Thursday! *hides*