A/N: Okay, so before, when I said there were two chapters left? I lied. Had to split this chapter up, but the next chapter SHOULD be up sometime next week. So two more chapters AFTER this one, including an epilogue. As always, sorry for the wait.

THEN: Bobby and Sam have cooked up some kind of plan to possibly return Dean's soul. Dean only knows that Sam thinks of it as a chud, a fictional ritual from a Stephen King book. Sam has discovered that Dean is linked to him somehow and drugs him again to keep from finding anything else out. They arrive at Bobby's house in South Dakota, where the last act will fall.

NOW:

"But it's no use going back to yesterday, because I was a different person then."

-Alice in Wonderland

I.

While Bobby finished securing Dean inside the house, Sam stood in the middle of the yard, staring at the deep blue sky and trying not to think about anything.

It wasn't working.

He told himself that he just needed a minute, a minute to get away from the smell of blood and smoke-filled rooms, away from the brother that was not his brother anymore, away, anywhere, for just a moment of peace. He felt like he hadn't seen the sky in so long. He closed his eyes and imagined it enveloping him.

"It didn't work," Sam had told Bobby hours ago, when Dean had passed out in the back of the car. Sam had paced on the side of the highway, trying to push back the sudden shot of panic coming from within him. "The spell, it didn't work, or it did but not really, not the way we thought it would, not the way we needed it to. He can still pick up thoughts, Bobby, I mean, God. He still has abilities. He can still read minds."

Bobby had to slow Sam down—if there was anything Bobby was good at, it was slowing people the hell down, making sense of whatever mess they had caused—and got the full story. He made Sam go over each and every detail, every time he had felt Dean brush his mind or respond to something that Sam had only thought.

Jesus, Sam, it's not like you were the funniest motherfucker before that. Dean's thought in response to Sam's own, only Sam had assumed it was simply Dean-In-His-Head and not his brother in the backseat. Because it was impossible, right? Dean couldn't read minds anymore. If Dean couldn't read minds, then he couldn't hear what Sam was thinking, and therefore couldn't be responding to what Sam was thinking in his own head. That made sense. That was good. Sam was just imagining it all. He had to be, really, because Dean couldn't read minds.

Except, apparently, somehow he still could.

"You're telling me you heard the boy's voice in your head?" Bobby had asked incredulously. "That you were holding mental conversations with your brother and you didn't find it a mite odd?"

Sam had shrugged helplessly. "It's not, really," he had said. "It's just—he's always—he's always been in my head, Bobby." The admission had been both embarrassing and not, and Sam had been glad he didn't have to look Bobby in the eyes when he said it. "I just thought it was my . .. imagination, or something. I didn't think it was Dean, you know, I didn't . . .I didn't think . . ."

"Okay, Sam, okay," Bobby had said over the phone. He had slipped into that Uncle Bobby voice, trying to talk Sam down from whatever emotional ledge he had found himself on. Sam had found himself on a lot of emotional ledges, over the last month. "It's all right, Sam. Just take a breath."

Sam had. He took a few of them, watching his unconscious brother.

"You okay, son?"

Sam nodded, and then remembered Bobby couldn't see him. "Yeah," he said, rubbing a shaky hand over his face. "Yeah. Sorry, it's just . . ."

"I know, Sam. I know. We just have to keep our heads, figure out what this means. You're saying your . . . abilities, or what-have-you, they split? He took telepathy and you took telekinesis?"

Sam started to say yes, then stopped. He thought about that for a minute. "No," he said. "No, that's not it at all. Because I could hear him, too. I picked up his thoughts as much as he picked up mine. And . . ." it's more than that. "It's bigger than that," he told Bobby.

"What do you mean?"

Sam tried to explain. "It's not just knowing what he's thinking," he told Bobby. "It's different . . . it's more like . . . feeling Dean, like . . . being in the same skin. It's like being able to feel your own shadow." Weird was what it was, but Sam hadn't paid attention at first, all concentration on saving Dean and pulling off the plan. He hadn't realized how much things had changed.

But now, standing next to the car, watching his brother drool against the back window, Sam could almost feel the cold pane of glass against his forehead, the rope bound around his body over and over again. He couldn't tell what Dean was thinking, because Dean wasn't thinking much of anything right now, but he did feel connected somehow, tethered to his brother, like they occupied the same space at the same time.

It wasn't the same with Bobby. Even when they'd been at the motel, Sam didn't feel connected to him in this same way. He could pick up a current of emotion, maybe, a thought or two if he was trying, but Sam didn't feel Bobby the way he felt Dean. This was something different. This was something just between the two of them.

Magic ain't like tossing a yo-yo, Missouri had said when Sam had asked her about the spell. It doesn't always swing back and forth the way you think it will.

"Missouri told me that magic has a way of creeping into your being," Sam told Bobby. "She said that sometimes it becomes entangled with who you are, not just what you can do. I think, somehow, that the spell bound me and Dean together. That we're . . . fused . . . together in some way."

Bobby had been quiet for a long time. "Well, hell," he finally said. "Does your brother know what we've got planned?"

Sam shook his head. "I don't know," he said. "I don't think so, not all of it, anyway." He thought back over the last few hundred miles, the thoughts he had picked from Dean, the questions Dean had asked. "Some of it," Sam finally said. "But not everything."

"Well, that's something, I guess," Bobby had said dryly. "Does he know too much? Do we change plans?"

Sam had laughed dryly. "I don't think we have a lot of other options at this point, Bobby," he had said. "We've got our play. We'll have to take the chance."

Reckless, Dean-In-His-Head said now, as Sam stood outside of Bobby's home in South Dakota. This is a fucking risky move, man. You don't get a second chance if it goes to hell.

"I know it," Sam said quietly to himself. "Trust me, Dean. I know it."

"Sam!" It was Bobby, from inside the house, calling out to him, dragging him back to the present. Not a place Sam wanted to be, at the moment, but sometimes, you just didn't get the choice.

"I'm coming!" Sam yelled back, but he didn't, not for a few minutes. Inside he could hear Dean from inside, speculating on Sam's current whereabouts. Probably watching the sun rise, Dean thought. Maybe reading some Robert Frost poetry.

Sam smirked at that. As a matter of fact, he did know some Robert Frost poetry. I shall be telling this with a sigh, he thought. Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference.

"It has to make a difference," he told himself. "It's going to work. It has to." Bobby wasn't going to like it . . . but there just was no other way.

Sam might have watched the sun rise, just to spite Dean, but the dawn had already come. Too bad, he thought. Would have liked to have seen it. Could be my last one.

The thought didn't bother him, like it might have once. Sam was getting tired. This life, this job, it didn't mean much without family. Nobody got into hunting for shits and giggles.

Sam needed to save Dean . . . but if it didn't work, at least it would all be over. One way or another, it would all be over. And if he died so that Dean could live . . . well, that would be okay too.

He was getting Dean's soul back. That was the only thing that mattered.

. . . that has made all the difference . . .

Sam turned around abruptly and walked inside.

II.

Dean was getting pretty damn tired of being tied down to a chair. And he wanted a godamned fucking cigarette.

Sam came in through the front door, looking appropriately angsty and broody and Sam-like. He glanced over at Bobby. "We got what we need?" he asked.

"No," Bobby said flatly. "At least, not enough of it. Got to go out and get supplies. You okay, staying with him?"

"Course he'll be okay," Dean said, grinning. "Sam n' me, we're like peas n' carrots again."

Both Sam and Bobby ignored him. Rude. "I'll be fine," Sam said shortly. He shifted uneasily as he spoke, not meeting Bobby's eyes.

Dean leaned forward a little. This might be interesting.

Bobby stepped towards Sam. "Hey," he said. "You're not planning on doing nothing stupid while I'm gone, right?" Sam hesitated a fraction too long, and Bobby frowned as he stepped closer. "Sam," he said. "This plan, it—"

Bobby cut himself off, his eyes tracking towards Dean. "It's a last resort," he said to Sam. "You understand that, right?"

Sam nodded, still looking at the ground. "I know it," he said.

"Sam—"

"I know it, Bobby," Sam said. He looked up a little wearily. "I know it," he repeated, softer this time. "I'm not going to do anything stupid. I swear."

Dean tried to figure out what stupid thing Sam might consider doing, but as usual, Sam's thoughts were spinning in an all-too-familiar loop. Save Dean-chud-Dean-chud. It gave him no real clues. Sam ran a hand through his hair. "I'm okay," he told Bobby. "It's just—"

"He's afraid of losing me," Dean interrupted cheerfully. "He feels like we're running out of time. Which, honestly, I don't get. Does my soul come with an expiration date or something?"

They continued to ignore him. Dean was feeling a little unloved. Bobby put a hand on Sam's shoulder. "I'll be back soon," he said. Take care."

He turned towards the door. Dean called after him. "What, you're not going to say goodbye to me? Maybe give me a hug? Tell me how much you love me?"

Bobby turned to look at him impassively. Dean grinned at him.

"Come on," Dean said, winking. "I know we're like your surrogate kids, or whatever. You probably spent more time raising us than our dad did—and was that such a loss? John was a lousy father. You thought that, right, every time he went away? How many times did you hope that he'd die on a job? How many times did you think about adopting us? The sons you never had, the family you always wanted. How many times did you wish we would call you Dad?" Dean laughed harshly, enjoying the not-quite stoic expression in Bobby's eyes. "You're fucking pathetic, old man. You're still envious of a ghost."

Bobby looked at him steadily for a minute. "I was a mite jealous of your Daddy," he finally said. "Didn't think he appreciated what he had—thought he was too reckless to be a father, sometimes. But I know the man tried, was a good friend to me at times. And he loved you boys, you know. I doubt he told you enough, but he did."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Jesus," he said. "Does it look like I'm petitioning for a fucking hug?"

"Sometimes," Bobby said, "I think that's what you've spent most of your life doing."

Dean's eyes went flat at that. He glared at Bobby sullenly.

"Take care," Bobby said to him. "Don't gotta be my son to be my boy."

Bobby walked out the door. Sam shut it behind him and stared at the floor. Dean listened to the sounds of Bobby starting to truck up. As soon as it did, Sam left the room, returning quickly with a small bag in his hands. Dean watched Sam open it up.

His brother laid out everything he needed for a summoning spell.

Dean laughed. He couldn't help it. "Dude," he said. "You are such a little liar. Didn't I just hear you swear to Bobby that you wouldn't do anything stupid?"

Sam raised an eyebrow without looking up. "Are you complaining?" he asked.

"Hell, no," Dean said. "Just—dude, not your brightest move ever. But hey, you want to chat it up with the Demon, go ahead, be my guest." He watched Sam set up his spell, unable to believe his own good fortune. Never underestimate a brother's suicidal need to save his own psychopathic sibling.

"You really think this chud thing's gonna work?" Dean asked. "I mean, you actually have confidence in this crackpot little plan of yours? Cause, dude, even if the Demon agrees to whatever ritual or game you've got running, you really think you have any chance of winning?"

Sam lit a candle. "Yeah, Dean," he said. "I do."

"Why, Sam? Why? Cause you've got love on your side?"

Sam smiled without humor. "Yeah, Dean. Cause of that." Sam closed his eyes and began to speak, murmuring in Latin. Dean couldn't hear the words, but he didn't need to. He'd spoken them himself, like his father before him.

The fucked up family business. One way or another, Dean thought. It'll be over tonight.

Sam finished the ritual, and right on cue, the front door burst open, splintering inwards.

The Demon stepped inside, a grin on his face, eyes orange and bright in the shadow of the cabin.

"Oh, boys," the Demon called, smiling. "Guess who's home?"

III.

The Demon stepped over what was left of the door and stopped in the middle of the room. "Sam," he said, smiling, "always good to see you. Dean, you look a little tied up there, son."

"Hardy fucking har," Dean snapped. "Could you get me the fuck out of here now?"

"Actually," Sam interrupted before Yellow Eyes could say anything. "He can't." Which wasn't, strictly speaking, true, but that was one of the many things that Sam was trying not to think about—he was slowly becoming the master of creating great, elaborate plans and then not thinking about them as he executed each step. Which was a little like telling yourself to ignore the pain when you had planted your foot straight into a bear trap, but still, he thought he was doing a pretty good job, not thinking about the real plan, not thinking about how Bobby wa—

Sam broke off the thought without completing it and didn't meet Dean's suddenly intense gaze. Instead, he lifted his eyes upward, to the ceiling above the Demon's head. The Demon looked up too. There was a large devil's trap painted there. It took up half the room, because Sam had no idea where the Demon was going to stop walking.

The Demon started to laugh. "Sam," he said, "didn't we already have this discussion? Do you really think that something like that will do any good against something like me?"

The Demon made a waving motion with one hand, throwing all of Sam's supplies into the nearby wall. It was supposed to throw Sam into the nearby wall, too, but he'd been ready for that. He pushed back hard with his mind, keeping his balance even as his books and candles flew behind him. "Do you really think something like that will work on someone like me?" Sam countered, keeping at the ready but relaxing his stance.

The Demon raised his eyebrows. "Ah," he said. "I see that we've switched powers yet again." He glanced over at Dean, who looked a little sullen tied up in the chair. "Little Sammy one-upped you again, eh, Dean?"

Dean rolled his eyes at that. "Dude," he said. "Everyone's got their off days. Bust out of that damn thing, already, and I'll rectify the situation.

Rectify, Sam thought. Nice word, Dean. Three syllables, even.

Fuck off, Dean thought back without a backwards glance. "Seriously, dude," he said to Yellow Eyes. "Will you hurry it up? We could be killing people here."

The Demon turned to look back at Sam. "You know," the Demon said. "The boy does have a point. It's hard to see the point in setting a trap that you know I can break out of."

"That's because the point isn't to trap you," Sam said. He took a breath and stepped forward. Here we go. This is it. "All I want to do is talk."

Talk about WHAT, Dean thought, exasperated. Football scores? How to pick up chicks?

Sam smirked without wanting to—there was something irritating about the fact that his soulless brother could still amuse him—and refocused his attention on the Demon, who demanded a certain concentration. "The only reason I put up the Devil's Trap is so you'd have to stand there for a minute. It's a lot easier to talk to you when you're not trying to rip my heart out through my chest."

The Demon smiled at that, understanding. "Like father, like son," he said quietly. He chuckled then, low in his throat. "You want to make a deal," he said.

"Actually," Sam said blandly. "No. I don't. I'd rather make a bet. And my brother's soul and mine are what's on the table."

The Demon's jaw just dropped. Literally, it dropped. And while it was both immature and ridiculous to feel smug about such a thing . . . there was such an immense satisfaction to be had, about surprising someone who always seemed to have the upper hand. Particularly when that someone was the thing that killed your parents. And your girlfriend.

Sam smiled smugly and took advantage of the moment to lay out the details of his quote-unquote plan.

The ritual that Sam thought of as chud was actually an ancient Hindu ceremony—it only bared a slight resemblance to King's story, but it was how Sam thought of it regardless. The ceremony itself wasn't particularly complicated—words, bloodletting, all standard fare. It was what happened after that made the thing so dangerous.

What happened after was a mixture of telepathy and astral projection—the involved parties left their bodies in the room, supposedly surrounded by some aura that protected them from outside forces. Their astral forms entered some other kind of plane, and this was where they did battle, a silent war of wills. The spell didn't come with a lot of details on what this battle would be like, but the Dean-In-His-Head had referred to it as a whacked out Vulcan mind meld. Dean-In-His-Head thought it was a bad idea. Sam called Dean-In-His-Head a closet trekkie.

Fuck you, Dean-In-His-Head said. Doesn't mean that I'm wrong. This IS a bad idea, Sam.

And yeah, Sam knew it. Putting his will against a Demon's in some mysterious, astral plane—Sam knew it was a doomed plan. Even with his abilities, he'd be screwed.

If he won, he'd save Dean's soul. And Dean's soul needed to be saved. On the other hand, if he lost . . .

Well, this was supposed to be his destiny anyway.

Right, Dean? he asked the Dean-In-His-Head, not the Dean who could now invade his head. I was supposed to go dark side in the first place. If I lose, I'm just ending up where I was meant to be.

That's STUPID, Sam, Dean-In-His-Head said. You're gonna make what I did for nothing.

Not if I win, Sam thought. Not if I'm lucky. Not if this works.

The Demon listened as Sam laid out his bet—silently, without interrupting for jokes or witty comments. Dean, tied to his chair, listened silently too—and Sam could feel him frowning, trying to puzzle out what was wrong with it—because something's gotta be wrong with it. Sam's all kinds of stupid, but not THIS kind of stupid—and Sam focused on save Dean, save Dean, and tried to avoid thoughts of Bobb—save Dean.

The Demon tilted his head. "It's an interesting gamble," he said, speculatively watching Sam as his tongue darted out between his lips. "But it seems a little unnecessary—for me, at any rate. Why would I go to all this trouble when I can kill you where you stand and take your brother's soul for free?"

"Oh," Sam said, smiling. "I don't think it's Dean's soul you really want, not anymore, anyway, now that he's not special. And besides, you're assuming that it'd be so easy, to kill me like you've killed my family." Sam flexed his hands and watched chairs fly across the room. "It could always be the other way around."

The Demon raised an eyebrow. "You've gotten cocky in your old age, Samuel," he said, and then hesitated, just for a moment, that tongue darting in and out of his mouth like a snake. (I hate snakes, Dean-In-His-Head non-sequitured, Indiana Jones style). Suddenly, Yellow Eyes laughed. "Why not?" he said. "I like you're style. Besides, this could be . . . amusing."

Amusing, Sam thought. That's one way to put it. He nodded at the Demon and got his supplies from the other side of the room, mainly some more candles and a bucket of goat's blood. He used the goat's blood to paint a circle which roughly paralleled the Devil's Trap on the ceiling.

"Oh, now, that's just gross," Dean complained. He craned his neck for a better look at the Demon. "Dude, why are you even bothering with this? I mean, this is such a James Bond villain thing to do. Why don't you just kill him and be done with it?" Because you gotta know something's not right, Dean thought. Something's not right, something's off, something's . . . what is it, what is it—what's this card they haven't played . . .

Sam tried his best to ignore Dean's thoughts even as the Demon blew Dean off. "You worry too much," the Demon said to Sam's brother. "Don't worry, Deano, everything's gonna be fine. If there's anything left when I'm finished with your brother, I'll let you be the one to kill him, Dean."

There was gratitude in that—Sam could feel Dean's longing—and it sickened him, made the cut in Sam's side feel deeper. He stepped into the circle with a knife in his hand, sliced the palm long and deep, letting the blood fall to the floor. The Demon, with a small grin, offered his own hand unasked, and Sam cut his palm as well. The blood mixed together on the ground.

Sam grabbed the Demon's bloody hand and, with closed eyes, began to chant.

He could no longer see the world around him, but he could feel it shift, as if making way for something else. Sam, still chanting, opened his eyes to see the room blurring—colors fading in and out and the walls melting as if they were candle wax. There was a roaring, rushing sound, as if the tide was coming up to meet him, and then nothing at all—a vacuum of sound, blessedly silent. He could feel nothing but the Demon's hand in his own, something warm, solid, in a world where nothing else was—

slipping slipping down rabbit holes—

And Dean somewhere, Sam could still feel Dean, like a part of his own body that had been misplaced on the other side of the room. Dean, thinking, The truck, the truck—I only heard it start up—I only heard it start up, not pull away . . . Bobby's still . . . and then Dean's voice, breaking through the barrier of no-sound. "Fuck! You stupid motherfucker, wait!"

But even if the Demon heard him, Sam knew he couldn't wait. There was no going back anymore. They were locked together. This was it.

All Sam had to worry about now was that Bobby could do what he said he could do. As long as Bobby could save Dean, this was worth it. This was all worth it.

As for Sam, he knew he was going to lose. But he'd fight, and that had to count for something.

Dean would have his soul back. That was all Sam had cared about for weeks. As long as Dean was alive, Sam could deal with being dead.

Little brother has to save your butt for a change, Sam thought with a bit of a smirk. You're not the only one who can be self-sacrificing, Dean. I don't regret this. Not at all.

Sam felt himself being pulled out of his own body, not gently but forcefully, being tugged out of his very skin. He lost feeling of the Demon's hand in his own. He lost feeling of everything.

Sam's last conscious thought was, Take care of yourself, Dean. Take care of yourself—

—and then he was gone.

IV.

Dean watched the Demon join hands with Sam, knowing something was wrong but not able to figure out what. Your brother and Bobby are the magicians in all this, and they've got a card they haven't played yet. But Sam was blocking him, had been blocking him all day, and Dean could not figure out what their scam was. The ritual was real enough and Bobby was gone and—

Wait.

Was Bobby gone? He'd seen him leave, yeah, and he'd heard him cross the yard, heard him start the truck—but then Sam had gotten out his summoning tools, and Dean had been distracted. He'd been so absorbed and surprised by what his brother was doing, that he hadn't paid attention to Bobby anymore.

Because Bobby was gone, right? He'd heard the truck start. But had he heard it pull away? Had he heard Bobby go anywhere?

Dean tried to remember. He couldn't. He couldn't remember the truck pulling away.

Fuck. Fuck. Bobby was still here.

Dean knew it. He didn't know where Bobby was at the moment, hiding out, waiting for the Demon to be out of the picture, but he knew Bobby was around somewhere, waiting in the yard. It doesn't mean anything, Dean tried to remind himself. Bobby doesn't have power over shit. He can't disturb the ritual, I know that, and he sure as hell can't give me back my soul.

But did Dean know that? What if Bobby had found a way to give him back his soul? It seemed impossible, but Dean had been around long enough to know that pretty much anything you didn't want to happen was possible. If Bobby had found some way, and Sam had made sure the Demon was out of the equation, made sure he couldn't stop them—

"Fuck!" Dean swore. He struggled with his ropes, to absolutely no avail, glared at Yellow Eyes, who was now surrounded by this glowing, pulsating light. "You stupid motherfucker, wait!"

Bobby stepped through the front door, what was left of the front door. There was a book in his hands and a small, grim smile on his face. "Hello again, Dean," he said, kicking pieces of the door aside. He stepped inside the house fully and opened the book in his hands.

Dean made a sound remarkably close to a hiss. "You can't do anything," he said, wishing like hell he felt more confident about that. He squirmed against his restraints again, but the ropes weren't budging. He was on his own with this—The Demon hadn't even twitched at the sound of Dean's voice.

Bobby followed Dean's gaze over to Yellow Eyes. "He can't help you," Bobby said, which, dude, yeah, kind of obvious. Looking at the Demon and Sam, you could clearly tell there was no one home. They were staring at one another, frozen, faces completely slack as if they were catatonic. The air around them was glowing and shimmering—magic spells had a funny way of looking like acid trips, sometimes.

Dean looked at Bobby. "He'll be back," Dean said. "Little Sammy doesn't have a chance in Hell."

Bobby raised an eyebrow. "Sam's not the one I'd be worryin about, at the moment," he drawled. He lifted the book a little in the air. "You know what this is?"

"Julia Child recipes?"

Bobby smirked. "It's a spell for bringing back your soul."

Dean felt the fear stab within him, tried to keep it from showing on his face. "You're bluffing," he said quickly. "You can't give me back my soul."

"Funny thing about that. Sam didn't think I could, either, didn't think there was a spell to take back something that had been freely offered. But there's a difference, you know, in offering your soul for material gain and offering your soul to save somebody, to protect someone you love. This spell only works for someone who has sacrificed something. And that, boy, is exactly what you did."

Bobby shook his head. "Told you it was funny," he said. "I've had this spell the whole time, since before you went and did the dumbest thing you've ever done. If Sam had just called me at the beginning of this mess, I could have told him there was a way to fix you, make you you again."

Dean felt himself breathe faster. He told himself to calm down. Maybe if he could distract Bobby long enough, he could work something out with these ropes. "So, if Sam had called you, you could've, what? Just restored my soul whenever the hell you felt like it?"

"Well, we'd have had to track you down anyway. The spell don't work if the subject ain't there. But yeah, could have done this days ago, when I first found your brother in California. Problem was, Sam was pretty sure the Demon wasn't just going to let us take back your soul. Even without your powers, we figured we could count on a little demonic intervention."

"So you put on a show," Dean said through gritted teeth. Did one of those ropes feel just a little looser? Maybe, he thought. Maybe. "Made me think that this whole Chud plan was the real deal, not just a diversion. Well, aren't you clever. Big ole gold star for you."

Bobby ignored that. He opened his mouth to read from the book.

"Wait!" Dean said desperately. C'mon, man, just need a little more time. "What the hell you doing this for, Bobby? Did you ever think maybe I don't want my soul back? Come on, man, think about it. You saw how I lived my life. You saw all the shit that I'd been through, all the crap I knew was comin. You think I want to go back to that? You think I want to go back to being that guy? Follows orders, blind obedience, more like a damn dog than a real person. Giving up a part of my soul, man, it was the best thing that's ever happened. It was a fuckin relief. I'm done with being that Dean Winchester you know. I'd rather be dead than go back to that."

Bobby looked at him evenly. "Then you can kill yourself," he said flatly. "After I bring you back."

Bobby lowered his head and started to read. Dean recognized the language as Latin. He couldn't translate all the words, but he knew some of the big ones. What's been sacrificed . . . given back . . . release . . . give back . . . make whole . . . release . ..

"Bobby, I'm going to kill you! I'm going to shove that fucking pig hat down your godamned throat!"

Bobby didn't even pause. Return . . . sacrificed shard . . . shard of soul . . . return . . . release . . .

Dean looked frantically at the Yellow-Eyed Demon, but he was still stuck in whatever realm he was in. His mouth was hanging halfway open, and as Dean watched, a small ball of light issued from his lips. The Demon seemed to jerk a little, but that slack expression on his face never changed. The light passed through the shimmering glow that surrounded him and made its way over to Dean.

Dean tried to edge away from it, but yeah, still tied to a damn chair. The ropes around his arms were looser than before, but not loose enough, not nearly loose enough. He struggled with them anyway, trying to think of anything he can do. C'mon, Dean think. THINK, godammit.

But there was nothing. Dean was out of moves.

Shun the darkness . . . back to the light . . . sacrificed. . . return . . . release . . . release . . .

"Don't you do this to me, you fucker!" Dean screamed in helpless rage. The light was barely an inch away from his face now, drawing closer, closer still. "Stop it, man, just stop it! I hate you! I hate you!"

Release this soul . . . release this soul . . . release this soul . . .

"No!" Dean screamed. "No!"

Release this soul . . . release this soul . . . release this soul . . .

"Bobby! Bobby, STOP!"

The light flew into his open mouth and Dean gagged.

Then, he screamed.

He screamed for a long time.

TBC

A/N: Poetry by Robert Frost, "The Road Not Taken".