Thank you Gredelina1 for beta'ing and SandraEngstrom2 for helping me hammer out the details.

Chapter Seven

Dean shrugged off his jacket and laid it on the ground for Sam to lie on. "Set him down here," he said.

Castiel eased Sam down on to the jacket and Dean pillowed Sam's head on his knees. Castiel took off his own coat and draped it over Sam who was shaking slightly in the cool air. The jacket he had been wearing when Dean had left him, before Hell, was gone, and the shirt he wore was in tatters. Dean unbuttoned it and slid it away from his chest. Without the fabric concealing them, the wounds looked worse than they had before. They were seeping blood, and some looked deep.

"Cas," Dean said quietly, "can you do anything?"

"I can try," Castiel said. He laid a hand on Sam's forehead and closed his eyes. Dean could see the strain in his face as the light spilled from his palm. He looked away, not wanting to think on what that strain could mean for his friend or brother, and fixed his eyes on the wounds—the still very much present wounds.

Castiel's hand dropped to his side again and he breathed in heavily.

"Is that it?" Dean asked.

"I've managed to stop the bleeding," Castiel said.

"And that's all you can do?"

"For now, yes."

"What the hell, Cas?" Dean said stridently.

"These are not ordinary injuries," he said patiently. "Sam's hell is not like the Hell you experienced. You were tortured by a demon with demonic means. Lucifer had no weapon in that cage but his grace. He manifested that in the form of a blade for Sam, much like I manifest mine in my angel sword."

"You're telling me these come from Lucifer's grace?" He waved a hand at Sam's wounded chest.

"Yes," Castiel said simply.

"Will you ever be able to heal them?" Dean asked in a strained tone.

"I think so," Castiel said. "In time."

Dean looked down at Sam's impassive face and he grimaced. He was messed up, seriously messed up.

"We should move him," Castiel said.

Dean nodded. He didn't like to see Sam on the ground outside Crowley's place. He wanted him somewhere safe, somewhere comfortable, somewhere warm.

"Anything?" Dean asked, his tone harsh with worry.

"No," Castiel said beside him. "He's still unconscious."

Dean glanced into the rearview mirror anyway. It wasn't that he thought Castiel would lie to him about something as important as this, it was that he could believe no one when it came down to Sam's wellbeing. Also, it reassured him slightly to be able to look back and see Sam, unconscious, battered and bloody, but there. The blood would be washed away and Castiel could heal the wounds given enough time. The only thing out of their control was Sam's unconsciousness.

"Can you wake him up?" Dean asked. "Can't you, I don't know, mojo him awake?"

"No."

Dean glared at him for a moment and then checked the rear-view once again. There was no change. "Why not?" he asked slowly.

"Because I believe it would damage Sam irreparably to have another angel manipulating him after all he has been through. This isn't sleep, Dean, or even ordinary unconsciousness. His mind has closed down."

Sick fear curdled in Dean's gut. "His soul?" he asked tremulously.

"I don't know the state of his soul. I cannot know that without touching it."

"You're not doing that!" Dean said quickly.

"I didn't say I would. I am trying to explain. Sam is in shock. I believe his mind has shut down to protect him. I do not believe his soul is the cause of his unresponsiveness."

"You can't be sure though."

"No, but he spoke. He knew you. And he whimpered."

Dean remembered. He hated how such a pathetic sound had escaped his brother. His fear of the archangel was enough to bring him that low.

"He is not beyond our reach," Castiel said. "He is still there. He just needs to feel safe."

So they needed to get him somewhere Sam would associate with safety. The Impala wasn't it. Despite it having the sounds and smells of home to Sam, they were driving, and Sam wouldn't be able to tell whether it was driving to safety or fleeing danger. The bunker would be best, but that was a full day's drive away, and Dean wasn't dragging him that far curled on the backseat. He couldn't wait that long either. He needed to talk to Sam, to reassure him he was out and it was okay before they made that journey.

"A motel," Dean decided.

"He'll feel safe in a motel?" Castiel said in a musing tone. "Yes, I think you're right."

And then Dean could take care of his injuries. He wanted them covered and cleaned up. That was something he could do that would make him feel useful. It would help Sam, too. That was what he wanted more than anything, a way to help Sam, because Dean knew deep down this wasn't something that was going to be fixed by a few bandages and reassuring words. It couldn't be, because Sam had been to Hell.

Dean drove past two motels before finding one that looked halfway decent. He didn't want Sam getting infection in his wounds from dirty sheets, nor did he want him waking up in a place that rented rooms by the hour. He deserved better.

He pulled the car to a stop in the lot and told Castiel to stay with Sam while he checked them in. It felt wrong to leave Sam, even for a minute. Dean cast him a quick glance before hurrying into the motel office.

The clerk was reading a magazine, and he looked up only reluctantly when Dean tapped the counter. "Can I help you?" he asked, making the question sound almost like an insult.

"I need a double," Dean said quickly.

"Hot date?"

Dean slapped his credit card down. "Now!"

The clerk rolled his eyes and checked something on the ancient computer before running Dean's card and handing him a room key. "Room twelve," he said. "On the end of the block."

Dean didn't bother thanking him. He strode from the office and back to the car.

Castiel was leaning over the front seat, speaking to Sam, even though Sam seemed just as out of it as he had been when Dean left them a few minutes ago. Dean couldn't hear what he was saying, and Castiel trailed off when Dean opened the door by Sam's head and asked hopefully, "Any change?"

"None," Castiel replied solemnly.

Swallowing down his disappointment, Dean looped his hands under Sam's shoulders and began to ease him out of the car. Castiel came around to help, and between them, they got Sam into Castiel's hold again. Dean hurried ahead and unlocked the door to their room.

It was better than he hoped inside. The bedding looked clean and the carpet was missing the suspicious stains they were used to in their motel rooms.

Dean hurried to the bed and pulled back the blankets. Castiel laid Sam down gently and stepped back.

"Green duffel in the trunk," Dean said. "It's got the first aid supplies."

He tossed Castiel the keys and he caught them and left the room. He was only gone a moment, long enough for Dean to open his mouth a few times with intentions of talking to Sam, but finding nothing to say. Castiel came back into the room and handed Dean the duffel. He set it down on the bed and pulled the ties that held it closed. There was a comprehensive kit in there, but Dean knew at once that there wasn't nearly enough gauze and tape for all of Sam's wounds.

"You good for a drive, Cas?" he asked.

Castiel frowned. "Where am I going?"

"We need supplies." He pulled his phone from his pocket and opened up a search engine. A few taps later he had the address of a drug store a few blocks away. He handed the phone to Castiel along with his wallet, "I need bandages, tape and gauze pads."

Castiel nodded. "I will be back as soon as I can."

"Thanks, Cas," Dean said, turning his attention to Sam again.

The door clicked open, closed, and Dean sighed. "Okay, Sammy, just you and me again."

He took a pair of scissors from the bag and cut along the back of Sam's shirt. He eased away the fabric from the wounds and hissed between his teeth. Sam's back was more wrecked than his chest had been.

"It's not so bad," he said bracingly, speaking to himself and Sam, though he wasn't entirely sure the latter could hear him.

He set out the things he would need on the bedside table and grimaced as he picked up the hydrogen peroxide. For once he was grateful Sam was still out, because this would hurt like a bastard. Gritting his teeth, as though he was the one that was going to feel the burn, he poured it over Sam's back. The wounds hissed and bubbled.

He almost expected Sam to wake, but he didn't flinch or groan. There was no noticeable reaction. Dean patted his shoulder, one of the few places that were without a wound. "Sorry, Sammy."

He used some of the gauze to wipe away the excess fluid and the dried blood that the hydrogen peroxide liquified.

The actions of cleaning the wounds, laying the gauze over them and taping it in place were familiar. Doing it for Sam was familiar. Doing it to him when he didn't flinch was not. Even unconscious, as he had been a few times before, Sam flinched away from the pain. He didn't react at all now. It worried Dean.

As he worked, he talked. He apologized each time he touched a wound. He reassured Sam, telling him it was almost over and that he would be okay. He only stopped talking when the door clicked open again and Castiel entered, a sack in his arms.

"I got as much as I was able," he said, "it should be… Dean!"

"What" Dean asked.

"He's awake."

Dean raced around the bed. Sam's open eyes were bloodshot and wet, and fixed on his hands which were clasped in front of him, clenching and unclenching. It took a moment for Dean to recognize the once familiar action. Sam was pressing down on his scar.

"No!" he said harshly. Not again. "Sam, listen to me! You're back You're out."

Sam's eyes drifted up to Dean and he frowned. "Out?"

"Out," Dean said emphatically. "I swear. Look." Hating what he was doing, loathing it, Dean laid a hand on one of the gashes on Sam's chest. He pressed down, not hard enough to damage, but hard enough to hurt.

"You feel that?" he asked.

The tear that slipped from Sam's eye was answer enough.

"Different, right?"

"Yes." He sounded blissfully relieved.

Dean nodded. "You're out. It's real. I'm real. Cas is real." He leaned back so Sam could see Castiel stood behind him.

"Hello, Sam," Castiel said, a smile in his voice.

"Hey, Cas."

Sam pushed himself up on the bed, wincing slightly. Dean was amazed he wasn't crying in pain. Dean wanted to as he saw the skin around the wounds stretch and pull. Sam looked down at his chest and grimaced. "Bastard."

"Agreed," Dean said. "Cas is going to fix them up as soon as he can, okay?"

"Okay," Sam said. He drew a breath and locked eyes with Dean again. "How did you do it?"

There was no doubting what he meant. What other question could be forefront in Sam's mind in that moment.

"Amara," Dean said.

Sam closed his eyes and sighed. "Dammit, Dean."

"No," Dean said brutally. "You don't get to be pissed about this. I went to her because I had no choice. You were in Hell, and I couldn't leave you there."

"But…"

"Don't pretend, Sam. Don't pretend you would have done anything different if our roles were reversed. I got you out. Lucifer is still in there and you're out. It was worth it, understand?"

Sam nodded and drew a breath. "Thank you, Dean."

Dean laid a hand on his uninjured shoulder and squeezed. "Welcome. Now, let's get you cleaned up so you can get some sleep. Unconsciousness does not equal nap."

"Yeah," Sam said wearily. "Sleep sounds good."

Dean held out a hand and Castiel handed him the sack of dressings, then came around to sit on the edge of the bed beside Sam.

"Are you okay, Sam?" he asked.

"Yeah," Sam said quickly. "I'm fine."

Dean knew he was lying. He couldn't possibly be fine after what he'd been through, but he would be. Dean had him back and he would deal with whatever came next, be it Sam or Amara, because that was what he did. Dean dealt.

So... Sam's awake now and things are good... right? Maybe. Possibly. Actually, really not. Thanks for sticking with me and the story.

Until next time...

Clowns or Midgets xxx