Thank you so much Jenjoremy for working your beta magic on this for me.

Sorry for keeping you all waiting so long.

Chapter Twelve

Dean was sitting in the library of the bunker, slugging back a beer and turning pages of the book in front of him too quickly to take in any meaning from what the printed words said. It didn't really matter; after all, it wasn't the first time he'd read that particular book. In the days since they'd been back from Washington, both he and Sam had been dedicating themselves to finding a solution for Lucifer's connection to him. Though neither of them said it, it was unlikely they were going to find anything in lore, because the connection between Sam and Lucifer was unique as was the situation between them. The best they could hope for was some information on building psychic strength. Though how much more psychic strength could Sam possibly still have to build given his past 'training' with demons?

He shoved the book away and it skidded off the table and hit the ground with a clapping sound that echoed around the large room.

Whenever he let himself think about it, really think about what had happened to Sam on the vampire hunt, he got scared. They'd thought they had a weapon, a way to keep Sam safe in his own mind until they could come up with a permanent solution, but they didn't; Sam couldn't always keep him out.

He heard the creak of tumblers falling into place as someone opened the bunker door and he quickly got out of his chair and retrieved the book from the floor. He didn't want Sam seeing evidence of his frustration.

"Sammy?" he called.

"No." There were clunking footsteps as Castiel came down the staircase and then lighter tread on the polished wooden floor.

Pleased to see his friend again, Dean sat down and gestured Castiel into a chair. He took a draw on his beer and asked, "How'd it go with your angel buddy?"

Castiel shook his head. "He survived." The way he said it made Dean think it had been a touch and go thing. "I have helped him go into hiding."

"Not as a priest, I'm guessing?"

"Not as anything. He's on the run just as the other angels are now." Castiel looked sad for a moment, then he shook his head and patted the cover of one of the books on the table. "Have you been able to make any progress with Sam's problem?"

"No," Dean said dourly. "And it's worse than we thought."

"How?" Castiel asked, his brow furrowed and eyes concerned.

Dean gave him a brief rundown of the hunt and how Sam had been trapped at the exact wrong moment, leaving Dean to face off with four vampires.

"He couldn't cast him out?"

Dean shook his head. "He said Lucifer had him round the throat and somehow that stopped him being able to get free of it. And it hurt him, Cas. It was like when the visions used to hit, but it lasted longer. He couldn't even talk."

"This is troubling," Castiel said dourly. "Very troubling. Where is Sam?" He looked around the room as if expecting to see Sam peering at him from behind a bookcase.

"Gone on a run into town for some supplies. I think he just needed to get away from the research for a while. I mean, I'm running on scared pretty much full time now, so it's got to be kicking his ass."

"It probably is," Castiel agreed dispassionately.

Dean got to his feet and walked over to the sideboard to exchange his beer for a whiskey. He drank the first down in a single gulp and then poured another, adding a second glass when he heard the door opening again and Sam's voice calling, "Hey!" He sounded okay. Like the trip out of the bunker had done him good.

"Hey," he said, walking back to the table. He set the glasses down and turned to greet Sam as he came up the steps from the war room.

"Sam!" Castiel's voice was strained and Dean's attention snapped to him. He looked horrified.

"Whoa! What's with the face?" Dean demanded. His heart was pounding because it was Sam Castiel was looking at like that, and it could mean nothing good.

Castiel didn't answer. He was on his feet, plucking the grocery bag out of Sam's hands and placing it roughly on the floor. He crowded into Sam's space, making him pull back. "Cas?" Sam said doubtfully. "What's going on?"

"What have you done to yourself?" Castiel asked accusingly.

Sam stepped backward, but Castiel grabbed his shoulders and held him in place. "Stay still!" he commanded.

Sam looked almost scared and Dean felt the same. Whatever was making Castiel act like this, it wasn't something small. He was really freaked. Castiel raised a hand slowly and brought it to Sam's temple. "Be still," he said softly as he gently laid his hand on Sam and closed his eyes. Dean saw the white light pour out of Castiel's palm and Sam's grimace, and he was rushing toward him with a hand outstretched to Sam, but as quickly as it had started, it was over. Castiel was moving back and Sam was staring at him wide-eyed. "What…?" he asked breathlessly

"…the hell was that?" Dean finished for him.

"Do you feel better?" Castiel asked Sam solicitously.

Sam nodded, looking a little surprised. "Yeah, yeah I do."

Dean bristled. "You feel better? Why didn't you say you were hurting?"

Sam dragged his eyes from Castiel to Dean. "Because I didn't really know," he said quietly.

"You didn't know you were in pain?" Dean asked watching Sam suspiciously.

"No," Sam said defensively. "It was like Hell."

Dean understood. There was a point in Hell at which you stopped appreciating the agony of what they were doing to you. It was just there. Instead, you would feel other things like the drip of blood trailing down you and the cold against the ragged edges of your skin. It wasn't that it stopped hurting; it just became a state of being rather than something fresh.

What the hell had Castiel just cured?

Sam sidestepped Castiel and moved to sit down at the table. He picked up a glass of whiskey in each hand, downed one and started to sip the other. Dean retrieved the decanter from the sideboard and brought it to the table. He had a feeling they were going to need it.

"So, what was that?" Dean asked intensely.

"Cerebral hemorrhages," Castiel replied seriously. "Many of them."

Dean's mouth dropped open and he turned to Sam who looked a little pale, though not as surprised as Dean would have expected. "He's bleeding into his brain?"

"He was," Castiel corrected. "They were mostly small."

"Like that makes a difference," Dean said bitterly.

"Actually, it does. If they were much bigger, they would—"

"Okay, we got it thanks, Cas," Dean said loudly, cutting him off before he could say something that would engrave itself into Dean's mind and whisper to him in the darkness of night. They all knew what he was saying anyway. Sam knew; that was clear by the way he quickly moved his clenched and shaking hands from the tabletop to his lap. Much bigger and Sam would be dead already.

Dean felt sick. "But you fixed things, right?" he asked.

"Yes, but there is a bigger question we need to ask ourselves," Castiel said. "Why is he bleeding at all?"

Sam and Dean exchanged a look laden with meaning. They both knew the answer but neither of them wanted to be the one to voice it. Sam turned away and looked across the room, distancing himself from the conversation, maybe, or perhaps just unwilling to look either of them in the eye when it was said.

"Lucifer," Dean said, seeing Sam's shoulders stiffen at the mention of the name. "It's got to be."

Castiel nodded. "That is my guess, too. Somehow the effort of what you are doing is damaging you. I am sorry, Sam. I had no idea this would happen when I told you to cast him out."

For all the reaction that Sam gave, Castiel might not have spoken at all. He stared determinedly at the opposite wall, his jaw clenched and eyes hard.

"Sam," Dean said tentatively.

Sam lurched to his feet, sending his chair skidding back with a scraping sound, and made for the stairs with long strides.

"Wait," Dean said, standing and making to follow him. "We need to talk about his."

Sam turned back at the top of the stairs, his eyes blazing but his voice defeated. "Why? We all know what happens next. Excuse me if I don't stay to talk it over."

"You're not dying," Dean said angrily.

"No," Sam said. "It'll be worse."

He stamped down the steps and Dean listened to his crossing the large war room, scaling the stairs, and then the creak as the bunker door opened and slammed closed.

"Dammit!" Dean shouted, kicking the leg of a chair.

"He won't die!" Castiel said determinedly.

"No," Dean said, his tone hard and strained. "He's right. What'll happen to him will be worse."

Castiel looked confused. "What could be worse?"

Dean turned away without answering. Castiel could work it out on his own.

Sam drew great gasps of the clean air, too fast, too deep, but he was incapable of stopping them. He needed the air to ground himself in the moment and reality.

This was wrong, unfair, cruel even. He had done a lot in his life to deserve punishment, but this was a terrible fate. He didn't think he could bear it again. It terrified him. And Dean… he was going to suffer it all with him. He would see Sam struggle and decline, and he would feel every moment of it as surely as if it was happening to him, because that was what they did—they were a unit.

And Sam was scared.

Lucifer was going to drag him down into madness and death, and there was nothing he could do without speeding along the process, and Dean would never forgive him for that. If Sam was alone, if he only had to think of himself, he would swallow a bullet. He would take control of the situation and spare himself the pain. But that would be unforgivable to Dean; he would never recover. Sam had to fight it to the end, fight the need to give in, as much as he was able to for Dean and for Castiel. Dean needed Sam to keep going as long as he could, too. But how was he supposed to fight when he couldn't…

"Cast me out?" Lucifer said smugly.

Sam was back in the cage. The stink of sulfur was in the cold air and the far distant screams and howls echoed. The devil was leaning against the bars, smiling widely, his eyes glinting with malicious happiness.

Sam felt the urge to shove him away at once, to cast him out and free his mind.

"No, no, Sammy," Lucifer said, waggling a finger at him. "Can't do that anymore. Not unless you want to die, and you can't do that without hurting big brother and the heavenly side-kick. Because you do know how this ends, right? I can see you do."

"Screw you," Sam spat.

"Later," Lucifer said idly. "I want to talk big picture a while. You see, I have you over the metaphorical barrel now, don't I? You're going to lose either way this ends – you lose your mind or you die. Most likely one followed by the other. I win. But here's the thing, Sammy. I can help you. Come back to me, give me consent, and I will leave you free when I have done what must be done."

"When you've destroyed the world you mean," Sam said.

Lucifer rolled his eyes. "Please, that is so 2010. I have other, smaller plans now. I want to be free to smell the roses awhile, enjoy the sunlight on my face, maybe say hello to a few old friends, and kill Crowley. Can you blame me for a single one of those wishes?" When Sam didn't answer, he went on. "Of course you can't. You understand, Sam. You were in the cage. It's the little things you miss."

"I will never say yes," Sam said.

"Really? What are your other options? Keep casting me out with Castiel at your side like an angelic life support for when you blow a gasket? Let me stay, slowly picking away at your mind until you're a drooling mess or worse?"

"My options are to fight you," Sam said.

"How do you plan to fight when you can't cast me out?"

"There are other ways," Sam said defiantly. "Maybe we do know how this ends, but I'm not giving in to you that easily. Besides, you're forgetting something." He smiled smugly.

"Oh, really, what's that?"

Sam forced confidence into his tone that he didn't entirely feel. "My brother."

"You think Dean can save you?" Lucifer asked, his eyes dancing with mirth.

Sam smiled grimly. "He always has before."

"Perhaps you're right. Hmm, I suppose we should enjoy ourselves while we can then." From the sleeve of his shirt, a long, silver blade descended into his hand. With a leer he stepped forward and raised the tip to Sam's chest. "Shall we begin?"

So… A little torture. A little cerebral bleeding. Good times. What did you think?

Until next time…

Clowns or Midgets xxx