Sam desperately tried to let go of his connection to the boy, but neither his hand nor his mind would obey him. Oddly, what he thought of as he struggled to remain conscious under the onslaught was the time Dean had accidentally electrocuted himself. One hundred thousand volts had rushed through his brother's body, short-circuiting his brain and doing serious damage to his heart. Sam had kept him alive with CPR until the paramedics came. They told him the odds of getting Dean's heart started again were slim but they kept working on him all the way to the hospital, and ultimately Dean had come around. He was seriously damaged, but alive. At the time it was all Sam could have hoped for. In this situation he would not be so lucky.

He could feel himself losing ground. The power he was absorbing was too much for his ravaged mind to handle, too unnatural for his human body to accommodate – even a human body strengthened by demonic tampering. If he didn't close the door on it, it would kill him, and when he died, the boy would just take it all right back.

Sam dropped to his knees. His hand finally lost its grip, but despite the loss of a physical connection, his mind remained engaged with the boy's. The child stood before him, cold, emotionless, and continued to act as a conduit between Sam and all the powers of Hell. Sam could hear the wail of the tortured souls and feel their agony. His eyes were blinded by smoke, his lungs burned by hellfire. The screams of the damned rose to a deafening pitch. This was what fueled the power of demon-kind. They thrived on the agony of human souls. This chorus was made up of countless thousands – billions – of souls all gathered together over the millennia for one purpose, and one purpose only – to give Lucifer the power to overthrow Heaven.

Now Sam could clearly see what he'd done by stopping the Apocalypse. If Lucifer had been able to harness the power of Hell's tortured souls, Heaven would have had no chance of defeating him, but Satan could not have done it alone. In the midst of a maelstrom of unspeakable visions bombarding his mind, and unspeakable pain wracking his body, Sam saw it all with perfect clarity. His role had not only been as the key to Lucifer's freedom, his human vessel on Earth, but also to provide the means for accessing the greatest of all weapons. Castiel had been wrong. Lucifer would be in no danger from the boy, because Lucifer had helped to create him.

Ruby's error, the mistake she'd confessed to making, had not been to bear her demon-child in the first place. Her mistake had been in letting him live once she knew Lucifer had been defeated. It had only been a matter of time before the child's true nature came forth, and without Lucifer to harness the energies he collected, there would be no controlling him. He would simply continue to suck up power from any source he could find, very much like a black hole in space. If he were not stopped everything would be destroyed. All existence – in Heaven, Hell, and on Earth, would cease.

I can't. Oh, God! I can't. I'm not strong enough!

Sam swayed on his knees. In front of him the boy took a step forward, his mouth twisting into a sickly smile. Seeing Sam's distress he had now willingly allowed the power to flow from within him, holding the doors open and letting it all surge forth against his enemy. The pain was excruciating, beyond human comprehension. Had Lucifer still been riding him he might have survived; alone he had no hope. In desperation he made one more call, cried out in prayer to the one he knew he could always count on. If they were all doomed anyway, at least he would not die alone.

Dean!

Realizing Sam was trying to get help, the boy launched a renewed physical attack. Pausing just long enough to retrieve the glass shard he'd dropped, he rushed at Sam with a clear intent to slice open his throat. Had Sam been able to utilize just a modicum of the power he was siphoning off from Hell he could have diverted the attack and destroyed his enemy. Sam himself could have become the new God. This power, however, was far beyond the control of any mortal being. He could only kneel there upon the floor, paralyzed, helpless, and wait for the end to come.

Without warning, a new pain suddenly joined the fray. Sam screamed, arching his back as he felt a knife drive itself deep into his spine. Memories of his own death - a dark, rainy night and a similar pain – were followed by a heart-rending surge of grief as he recalled the battle with Lucifer, and Ruby's self-satisfied smirk as she murdered his brother.

Nearly blinded with agony, Sam raised his head. The boy stared back at him through eyes gone wide with shock. A hand was wrapped firmly around one thin arm, holding him up off his feet. He dangled motionless in its grip. Blood dripped from the toes of his sneakers onto the floor. From the center of his chest the tip of a dagger protruded, having gone completely through him, severing his spine and piercing his heart along its way, stopping him cold. As Sam looked on, Evan wrenched Ruby's knife back out, let go of the boy's arm, and watched the body fall into a crumpled heap on the floor.

It had not been his own pain Sam felt, but his son's. The boy was dead.

"Dean…" he croaked. "You…"

No. Not Dean. It's not Dean.

Evan stared down at his hands, both bloody, one still wrapped around the hilt of the knife. His expression was indicative of a soldier having made his first kill, taken his first life in a ruthless introduction to the horrors of war. When he opened his hand the dagger fell from trembling fingers. It clattered upon the floor, coming to rest next to the small body lying at his feet. When he looked up the horrified expression remained, and Sam felt a wave of pity. He was not seeing his brother, the seasoned Hunter, the avenging angel. It was only Evan – confused, disoriented, and frightened out of his wits after murdering what he saw simply as a disturbed child. He could not have understood exactly what he'd done, and Sam was unable to tell him. He hoped Dean had made it clear when he'd urged Evan to take up the knife. There was no doubt in Sam's mind that it had been Dean who initially guided his vessel's hand.

Once again Dean had come through at the last minute, saving the world from its ultimate destruction.

But this time, for Sam, he'd been too late.

The door to Hell slammed shut with one last, devastating surge of power, and all Sam's fuses blew.

Dean hit Evan hard, wincing at the stab of pain the kid felt when Dean surged back up to take over again. With an offhand apology to his beleaguered vessel, Dean hurried to catch his brother before he collapsed. Sam was seizing before he even began to fall, his eyes rolling back, his limbs flailing as his body went into a series of violent convulsions. Blood was pouring from his nose, his mouth, and trickling from both ears. Dean clapped a hand over his forehead both to assess the damage and to hold him still. What he found horrified him: all the patches he had put in place were failing. One massive aneurysm had already burst, and smaller blood vessels were giving way throughout Sam's brain in a frightening chain reaction. By human definition, he was already dead.

"No. No, Sammy. You're not going to Hell, dammit! Do you understand? You're not dying on me!"

Frantically, Dean reached out with everything he had, tapping what little healing resources he could muster to chase down and repair the damage. Just when he thought he had caught up, something else would begin to fail and take what he'd already done down with it. It felt as if he were trying to fill a bucket with a hole in the bottom.

Castiel, help me! Cas!

No one answered his prayer, and Dean realized he had another problem. He had the ability to heal his vessel, every angel did, and Dean suddenly became aware of the fact his efforts to save Sam were putting Evan in jeopardy. The wound in his upper right arm was severe, the glass knife had cut through his flesh and muscle all the way to the bone, and he'd lost a lot of blood. The more energy Dean spent trying to heal his brother the less he had left to keep his son alive.

"Don't," he whispered. "God, I'm begging you. Don't you dare make me have to choose! Please - please don't do this to me!"

Sam's convulsions abruptly stopped. He went still and limp in Dean's arms. Blood from Evan's wound had fallen upon his face and now ran down his pale cheeks like crimson tears, joining the blood already staining his shirt. Dean pulled him closer, seeking any sign of life. He found very little. Though Sam's heart and lungs labored on, his body was already beginning to cool beneath Dean's touch, and his mind was completely gone. It was obvious he would never wake up again.

Dean moved his hand away from Sam's jugular. Having noticed the bloody fingerprints he'd left behind, he stopped and stared at the scarlet liquid dripping between his fingers. This wasn't Sam's blood. It was from Evan's wound – but now the blood running through the boy's veins was no longer his alone. It was like Castiel said – a possessed man shed demon's blood. An angel's vessel shed an angel's blood.

"Demon's blood," he murmured. Slowly he closed his fist and opened it again. "Angel's…blood."

Looking around himself, Dean spotted Ruby's knife lying nearby. Balancing Sam's head against his chest, he reached out with Evan's good arm and snatched the knife up off the floor. He hesitated only a moment before drawing the sharp blade across his palm.

He grimaced, feeling the soul inside him flinch. He'd taken Evan by surprise again.

"Sorry," he murmured. "I'm sorry."

The wound began to bleed immediately. Fresh blood joined what was still running down his arm, pooling in his cupped hand, dark and glistening like wine in a glass. Gently Dean tipped Sam's head back, pouring the contents of his hand past his brother's slack lips and down his throat. The smallest psychic nudge encouraged him to swallow. Dean repeated the process twice more until he was forced to stop, sensing Evan's connection to his body growing more and more tenuous. If this connection were damaged too badly, he could not live when the angel left him.

Dean pulled Sam close to his chest. Closing his eyes he fed every ounce of energy he had into keeping both Evan and Sam alive, making sure their hearts kept beating, monitoring their breathing. He rested his cheek against Sam's head sending as much healing energy as he could spare into the worst of the damage. If there was power in demon blood, there had to be power in that of an angel. It was a wild, risky plan probably not sanctioned by Heaven, but any advantage he could find, Dean would take if it meant keeping his brother out of the Pit.

His urgent whisper held more than a modicum of desperation.

"Come on, Sammy. Come on!"

A brunette waitress sat a beer down on the table in front of him and walked away with a smile. Sam followed her progress as she made her way through the crowd, admiring the roll of her hips before stopping to chide himself for being a lecherous creep. Turning his attention to the bottle of beer instead, he took a long pull of the icy cold brew. It was good beer, top shelf, not the cheap shit he and Dean always bought when they were on the road. He savored its taste with a contented sigh.

"You're kidding me."

Sam looked up. Dean was standing in front of him, a clearly disgruntled look on his face.

"What?"

"This is Marcy's Place – that dive bar in Tuscon you like so much."

"Yeah. So?"

"I dunno, just not what I expected." Dean looked around, and then turned an intense gaze toward Sam. "Listen to me, Sammy. I need you to come with me."

"After I finish my beer."

"No, Sam. Now, I need you to come with me now."

"Why?" Sam took another long drink. "Come on, Dean. I'm tired of driving. Just let me chill for a little bit, okay."

"I can't. Sammy, I'm afraid."

Sam started. Dean actually did look uneasy about something, but afraid or not, admitting it was not his style. Something was wrong. Something was really wrong.

"What is it?"

"I'm losing you."

"What?" With a nervous laugh, Sam put his beer down. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"You're dying, Sam." Dean nodded toward the door to the bar. "If I go through that door alone, I'll lose you." He leaned forward and extended one hand. "So I need you to take my hand and come with me."

Sam looked around the bar, and was startled to see that suddenly he and Dean were the only two patrons left. The bartender made his last call. The waitress was making her way around the room wiping down tables and pushing in chairs. Both of them were giving the brothers irritated looks, clearly wanting them to leave so they could close up shop and go home themselves.

"Sam," Dean said sharply.

"I…" Sam looked past him toward the door. Through the glass he could see nothing but darkness and wind driven rain. Inside the bar it was warm and dry. Maybe there was a room they could rent, stay there, and wait out the storm….

"Sammy, please!"

Sam blinked. Dean was no longer standing at his table, but was now by the door. It had blown open. Wind tugged at the old leather coat as if urging him to step back over the threshold and into the storm, leaving Sam behind. Turning his head in the opposite direction, Sam saw that the bartender and waitress were both gone, and flames were beginning to spread across the wooden floor. Abruptly he rose from his seat and started to follow his brother. Dean let out an urgent shout and waved his hand for Sam to hurry. Now more than convinced of the danger he was in, Sam hastened toward the door.

A wall of flame suddenly shot up from the floor in front of him, forcing him back.

"Dean!"

The fire grew, spreading around him on all sides. Sam could feel the heat intensifying. He could barely hear Dean calling to him over the roar of the flames. Frantic, he turned this way and that, looking for a break in the wall of fire through which he could escape. There was no opening. The only way out would be to go through the flames themselves.

"Wait! Dean, I'm coming!"

Sam sucked in a deep breath, closed his eyes, and rushed through the fire to the other side. A blast of cold air made him open his eyes again. He had crossed safely through the fire, but to his horror he saw Dean turning away from him, already taking one step across the threshold.

"No!"

With one desperate lunge, Sam launched himself across the space separating him from the doorway, reaching out a hand to grab his brother before it was too late. His fingers slipped down Dean's arm. At the last possible moment he clenched his fist, and found himself grasping a tenuous handful of worn leather just as Dean stepped outside and into the darkness beyond.

Sam moaned and stirred in Dean's arms.

"Sammy?" Dean raised his head. "Sam?"

His brother's eyes were still closed, and his pulse was barely detectable. Dean sent out a tentative psychic touch but recoiled immediately from what he found. His gamble had worked, yet at the same time failed to accomplish what was needed. Sam was still badly injured. If he woke it was obvious he would never be the same. Dean had healed him enough to live, but live with no quality of life whatsoever. Severely brain damaged, he'd be crippled, helpless, living out the rest of his days in an institution. If he retained any knowledge of his identity, any cognitive thought at all, he'd be trapped in a useless body. If he never recovered his senses, he'd be nothing more than a mindless piece of meat. Healing him past this point would take an angel of much higher rank than Dean…

Or more blood.

"Dammit, Cas! Where are you? Help me!"

Nothing, Castiel did not respond to his prayers. There would be no Calvary come to his rescue. Dean was on his own, forced to decide between saving his son, or his brother.

Dean, listen to me….

Evan's voice inside his head was gentle, but insistent, demanding to be heard. He was fully conscious and alert inside his possessed body, well aware of Dean's anguished struggle and the risks they both faced.

You don't have to make this choice. I will.

Evan….

I'm not the one who'll go to Hell, and Sam doesn't deserve that. You don't deserve that. Take what you need from me.

I can't.

Don't lie. You mean you won't.

Dean looked down at Sam's haggard face. He'd been put through so much over the past five years – hell, longer than that. It was written in every line on his face, in the dark circles beneath his eyes, and the taut purse of his lips. He looked as if those five years had been more like fifty. Fingering a lock of his brother's hair, Dean ran his thumb over the unusual number of silver strands he found there. Sam wasn't even close to forty, and his hair was going grey.

He never had a chance. He was doomed before he was even born. How can I let this happen? I can't let him die like this. I can't let him go to Hell.

Then don't.

Evan. You don't understand…

I understand more than you think. You were too busy hiding the truth from Sam to hide anything from me. I know who you are. I know who I am. I couldn't save my mother, but I can save Sam, and more than that, I can save you. Dean, I'll go to Heaven when I die. I'll see my Mom again. Isn't that better than doing nothing and letting the only family I have get thrown in the Pit? It sucks I have to die, sure, but you can't argue the logic! Let me go, before it's too late.

Evan, I'm sorry. I never meant for this to happen.

Don't be sorry. I know you never meant for this to happen. Dean sensed a bit of wry humor in his son's "voice" as he concluded: I don't believe in coincidence.

The dagger lying at his side caught Dean's eye once more. With trembling fingers he picked it up, and slowly pressed it to his wrist. A quick flick of the blade would open up a major artery, allowing more blood to flow than what he could get from either the arm wound or the cut he'd made in Evan's palm. Such blood loss would weaken both of them, but most certainly it would kill Evan.

What if he did kill his own vessel? Whether considered murder, or suicide, it was still a sin. What punishment would an angel suffer for committing such a horrible act?

Dean paused as another crazy idea wormed itself into his head.

Evan?

Yeah?

Okay, I'll do it, but on one condition.

What's that?

I want you to have something in return.