The sound of Sam screaming knifed through Dean. It yanked him out of a dead sleep, pulled him upright in bed, and had him kicking free of the tangled hotel room comforter before he even knew what was he was doing. Instinct and practice had his gun in his hand out from under his pillow before his feet hit the floor.
"Sammy?"
He scanned the room for Sam, for the source of the sound. Sam's bed, the one beside his, the one farthest from the door, was empty. Beyond it, there was Sam. He was pressed against the far wall, visibly trembling, his eyes screwed shut, face contorted in pain.
OhGodSam, not again.
Dean stashed the gun in the band of his sweat pants behind his back. He grasped Sam's shoulders and felt him flinch and shudder, try to pull away. Sam's eyes flew open and darted around the room, through Dean, unseeing, acknowledging. Dean looked down at his brother, at the awkward way he was holding his right hand, at his quick, shallow gasps of air, and Dean felt hot rage building inside of him.
He was losing his brother. He was losing Sam to an echo of Hell and there was nothing he could do about it.
He tightened his grip on Sam's shoulders and shouted, "Sam! Come on, man. Come back to me." Then he gritted his teeth and smacked Sam hard across the face. Hard enough to snap Sam's head back and bring his hand up to feel the sting he'd left on his cheek. Sam's eyes focused and he blinked twice, squinting.
"De… Dean?"
Dean heaved in relief. "Yeah, man. It's me. What the fuck?"
Then, Sam's expression darkened, clouded with something like horror and he drew farther away from Dean against the wall. "Dean. You can't—you can't be here. He…"
"Sam, it's okay. It's Lucifer, or whatever, something you were seeing, a – a hallucination. Whatever it was, it's not real. You were… dreaming or something. Okay? You okay? It's not real. None of that shit's real. You're here with me now, okay?"
As Dean was talking, he bent to catch his brother's eyes, to make Sam look at him. He almost relaxed a little when Sam's eyes met his and he seemed to be searching Dean's face, looking for the truth of it. And then something behind them drew Sam's attention. He looked past Dean, almost through him, and his eyes widened. "No. No, don't! Please!"
Sam's hands grasped fistfuls of Dean's t-shirt. Dean caught his wrists and kept him from collapsing. "Sam. Whatever it is, it's not real! Sam, look at me!"
Sam wasn't hearing him. He was leaning, clinging to Dean, eyes fixed on some imaginary spot in their room.
"You want me to beg? FINE." Sam was shouting. "This is me fucking begging. Okay? Please!"
"Sam!"
"Leave him alone. I'll do anything."
"Sammy! Goddamn it! Look at me!"
"Yes! Damn it! Anything!" He was shouting, sobbing. He was breaking. "Please. Please don't fucking do this!"
Dean shook with rage and helplessness. He looked from Sam whatever it was Sam was seeing across the room. Fury raged in him at this imaginary force inside Sam's head, with nowhere to direct it. No way to protect Sam, watching Sam self-destruct right before his eyes.
"Sammy—"
"You want me on my knees? You want to hear me say it?" A sound of desperation escaped Sam, like a choked-off cry, and he flung himself down onto his hands and knees, shoulders heaving with emotion. "Okay. You win. You have me! Okay? Just… please. Leave Dean out of this."
Something in Dean snapped in two.
This was the brother he'd taken a bullet for. Killed for. Gone to Hell for. How dare anyone – anyone – reduce his brother to this. Especially Lucifer, the bastard who had taken Sam apart God knew how many times, destroyed his mind, his soul. And yet here was Sam, bargaining with the son of a bitch to leave Dean out of this? No. Sam, no. No fucking way. Never mind that none of it was fucking real. It was real to Sam. It was doing this to Sam. That meant it was going down.
"Sam," he said urgently, leaning close to Sam's bowed head. "Sam, I need you to do something for me. I need you to hear this. You need to hear what I'm saying to you and make this happen inside that head of yours, okay Sammy?"
Dean took a breath, then he straightened, directing his full attention to the empty hotel room. "Lucifer!" he growled. It was a command, a you-better-fucking-listen-to-me tone of voice. Sam caught his breath and lifted his head just an inch, just a fraction, but Dean noticed, and it gave him hope.
"Listen, you sadistic, horn-headed son of a bitch. You go ahead and do whatever the fuck you want with me, but you leave Sammy alone. You fucking touch him again, and I will end you."
"Dean!" Sam hissed behind him. "Stop it! Shut up." The words were barely above a whisper. But Sam was looking directly at him, terrified but seeing him.
This was going to work, it had to work.
Exaggerating the word so that Sam would get it, Dean mouthed Nashville. Then: car wash.
Sam's eyes narrowed in confusion. Dean silently pleaded with Sam to think, think back. Come on, Sam. Remember.
A hint of understanding seemed to dawn in Sam.
You with me? Dean prodded silently, raising his eyebrows in question. Sam ducked his head in a single nod, and slowly, shakily, held up nine fingers.
They'd been on a hunt five or so years ago, deep in an industrial block of downtown Nashville where they'd tracked the spirit to an abandoned car wash, of all things. The spook had caught Dean off guard and come at him with a hose sprayer, dousing him full in the face with concentrated soap and chemicals. Dean stumbled backwards, shouting at the sudden blinding pain and wiping at his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt to try and clear his vision. He couldn't see a thing. He was completely blind, but he still had his grip on the rifle, and Sam – as always – had his back.
"Two o'clock!" Sam had shouted. Without thinking, Dean lifted the barrel of the gun and unloaded a round of salt just ahead of him and to the right. A hollow, high-pitched shriek answered the gunshot, buying Sam the time he needed to finish prying out the loose cement block from the wall and burn the thing's remains.
Dean had stood there, blinking hard and grinding his sleeve into the tears and soap stinging his eyes. He peered blankly around him into areas of light and shadow, until Sam grabbed his arm and said, "Hey! We got it. Let's go! You all right?"
Nine fingers. Nine o'clock. Dean turned directly to his left where he imagined Lucifer was leering at him from inside Sam's head.
Then, in one fluid movement, he snatched the gun from the back of his waistband and fired – one, two, three, four shots into what he prayed was the devil's smug face.
"Ha!" Dean yelled triumphantly, looking back at Sam for confirmation of his aim.
Sam was immediately on his feet beside Dean, staring with bewilderment at the spots of sunlight streaming in from the holes in the thin hotel wall, and then at the place on the floor where Dean hoped the formless body of Lucifer's vessel was lying in a crumpled heap.
"Did I get him?" Dean asked Sam.
Sam blinked and then he exhaled the word, "Yeah." And then Dean caught Sam's arm as all his strength seemed to drain out of him, guiding him to the edge of the bed where he sank almost bonelessly onto the mattress.