Title: Recrudescence

Author: ghost4

Disclaimer: Not mine. I don't feel like being witty.

Author's Notes: Thanks again go out to Mikiya of the infinite patients. I think I have written this chapter about 87 times, and she was there for every one of them, poor thing. *bows to her awesomeness* I'm still not completely happy, but if I don't move on, I won't.

As always: any comments, good, bad or indifferent, are completely welcome.

There are those who think that life has nothing left to chance
A host of holy horrors to direct our aimless dance
A planet of play things. We dance on the strings
Of powers we cannot perceive
'The stars aren't aligned. Or the gods are malign...'
Blame is better to give than receive.
You can choose a ready guide in some celestial voice
If you choose not to decide, you still have made a choice
You can choose from phantom fears and kindness that can kill
I will choose a path that's clear
I will choose freewill

Each of us
A cell of awareness
Imperfect and incomplete
Genetic blends
With uncertain ends
On a fortune hunt that's far too fleet

~Rush – Freewill

As the gate began to shut, Dean felt a strange sense of calm under the adrenaline-fueled buzzing of his nerves. It was right. No matter how bad it hurt, no matter how much he ached to change things, sealing the gate was right.

Sam would have been proud.

Dean could feel the cage door closing that last little crack, and he willed it to hurry the hell up. He could hear the archangels coming, huge and raw and intent. His pulse had hammered in his head as he spoke the words – and watched the gap begin to slide together, reality slowly knitting itself back into a whole. Too slowly. Too damn slowly.

The fissure was tiny, all but gone, and he was speaking the last syllable – when something shot through, knocking him down with the force of its passing. Dean cursed, falling to his hands and knees. Automatically he scrambled for his feet and his gun, finding his balance just as a dull, heavy double thud – not so much in the air as behind it somehow – hit him like the throb of a subwoofer, a sound more felt than heard.

He couldn't help the grin. It was the same sound as a couple of big birds slamming into a piece of plate-glass – hollow and sudden. And he hoped to hell that these birds had broken their damn necks.

But if the two thumps were Lucifer and Michael hitting the wall, then what the hell had escaped the cage?

Dean's stomach tightened as his hand worked around the grip of his pistol as he turned to deal with whatever had come through the door before it finally closed. He approached the huddled mass that had rolled until it rested against a headstone. It took him longer than it should have to recognize the dirty brown of the coat, but in his defense he really wasn't expecting Castiel to come hurtling out of the cage at the last possible moment.

Something in his chest swooped as he realized what that meant.

"Cas?" he called, lowering the gun, feeling the extra adrenaline in his system going sour and converting to anger. He started toward the fallen angel, glaring. "What the hell? Did you just come out..?"

Castiel shifted a little, and as he moved Dean realized he wasn't alone. There was another body there. Another dirty-brown coat…just as familiar; a coat he had never expected to see again. For a second everything stopped – his breathing, his thoughts, his freaking heart – it all just stopped as something in him warred between desperate, soul-killing hope, and rational, protective denial. It couldn't be. It could not be…

"Cas…is that…." Dean heard himself ask, with what air he had no idea. His lungs were empty and cold. His voice shook. And then he knew… he knew from his bones to his heart, he knew who was lying there… and no denial could stand against the pull he felt.

Then the world kicked in again, almost painfully. His heart gave a massive wrench as it started to beat once more.

"Sam…"

He was at Sam's side before he knew he was moving. He dropped to his knees so fast and hard that the impact made his teeth click, but he didn't feel it. His eyes drank in the sight of his brother, flashing over every line, every detail. Automatically he reached out, but his hands hesitated. Sam was crumpled, and looked strangely still. Steam rose from him, like fog off the water on a cold morning. There was something… dangerously blank about his body, the way he was laying – and Dean's courage faltered. He'd seen enough of destiny and fate to know that nobody was guarantied a happy ending. And he couldn't make himself reach out, find out if he was a corpse, or a hallucination. He couldn't make it real…

As Castiel sat up, Dean's anger reignited like a brushfire, fast and scorching. He glared at the angel. "What did you do, Cas? What the hell did you do?"

"What I had to," Castiel replied tonelessly, looking sick and shivering, but up – and he had no hesitation. He reached for Sam instantly. "I owed him too much not to try."

Dean opened his mouth, angry and confused – but the angel was paying no attention to him. Instead he quickly turned Sam's body over, and Dean saw blood…

It was enough. His uncertainty snapped like an over-stretched rubber band – sudden and painfully. It was a reaction that over powered everything else, any fear, any doubt. Sam was bleeding, and bleeding bad.

He couldn't not react to that.

Dean reached out and took hold of Sam's shoulder in time to help Cas roll him to his back.

The flesh under his hand was real, solid and firm, but not stiff with death. It was cold, though. So damned cold he could feel the chill seeping through the layers of cloth. And it was mangled. He was mangled. Dean couldn't see much of Sam's skin, but what was visible looked…chewed. His face and neck and hands all looked like they had been frost-bitten, hastily and ineptly healed, burned, and then gone through it again, until the damage reached the meat and muscle. The blood that covered him was oozing through his clothes along with the cold. But it was wrong somehow – too dark to be fresh, and too red to be old, and too slow for there to be so damned much of it.

Sam's chest hitched, as he gasped in a rough breath. His eyes slitted open, sightlessly – then closed again as a massive shudder rippled through his frame.

Everything in Dean screamed to help him, to care for him, but he couldn't make himself move. His mind went blank. He swallowed, and tried to calm his breathing, tried to think – but Sam here, he was right here, under his hands and solid and really here, not just a vision or a shadow… and he was so hurt. And Dean had no idea where to start, how to help, what to do to help him, couldn't think, couldn't remember what he should do first…

"Holy Mother of God."

Bobby's voice broke the weird paralysis that had been encasing Dean. The world expanded. His lungs unlocked, and Dean felt his training kick back in. He could help Sam. He could do this. Bleeding first, everything else could be treated after.

He leaned over with sure, gentle hands, and began pulling Sam's jacket open to get a look at what was causing the bleeding. He ignored the way the fabric crunched as ice and frost broke in the folds. Just like he ignored Bobby dropping down next to them.

"Is it him?" Bobby demanded. When Dean didn't look up he grabbed his shoulder roughly. "Dean! Is it really him?"

There was so much hope and so much fear in the tone that Dean blinked as the question penetrated. His pulse spiked. Oh god. It was a good question, a necessary question, and one Dean couldn't believe he hadn't asked himself. Biting his lip he turned to the angel kneeling at Sam's head. "Cas? Is it? Is it Sam?" He heard the panic in his own voice and hated it, but this was too much. If this wasn't Sam… if he was this close to his brother and it wasn't Sam and it had gone wrong… and now they had screwed up everything…

Castiel looked up, his eyes hard and his body shaking, but his hands were steady where they were pressed to Sam's temple and shoulder. He looked distracted and weary and if Dean didn't know better, he'd say the angel looked distressed. "It's Sam," he said, and he was so sure that Dean felt his shoulders sag. "Michael and Lucifer did abandon their vessels when trying for the door. They failed to escape in any way. This is only Sam. I swear it."

The wave of warmth that hit him loosened the vice around his heart and Dean was glad that he was already on his knees, he felt so weak with relief. But there was something up. Castiel had never been very close to Sam, and he had shaken his hand like once. Now he was almost clinging to him. "So if this is Sam, what's up with the clutching?"

"It needs to be done."

Dean swallowed. "Okay. You want to explain why?"

The angel frowned a bit. "He cannot survive the damage done, alone. I'm trying to help." Then he looked up, his gaze remorseful. "I tried to bring back Adam, as well. But he was…irretrievable. I am sorry."

"Not your fault," Dean reassured absently, turning back to Sam. "Can you help him?" He ignored the burn in his sinuses as he focused on attempting to peel back the jacket. The zipper was frozen shut.

"I'm trying."

Bobby had shifted, coming up behind Castiel – and he hissed. "You're bleeding."

"I know," Castiel replied, gaze now locked once again on Sam, though his eyes looked distant. "It is unimportant."

"What happened?" Bobby asked.

"Someone tried to grab me as we fled the cage. They failed," Castiel said, but his voice was short, strained. "We must hurry. The angels will be able to return here shortly, if they have a mind to."

"Oh, they'll have a mind to," Dean said, as he finally gave up on the zipper and just cut the jacket off. "Raphael survived, the bastard. They'll be back."

The shirt underneath was dirty brown and rust red – though he remembered it being blue when Sam went into the cage. Something thick and nasty clogged his throat as he realized the shirt was stained with Sam's blood. Completely saturated. Enough so that he couldn't even tell what color it had been. "Shit."

Castiel had gone pale. "Raphael survives? But the gate was opened…?"

It was Bobby who answered. "He offed another archangel. Said his skills would be needed in the coming battle, and stabbed the one called Sel…?"

"Selaphiel," Castiel provided, a wealth of grief weighting his tone. "Oh, my brother. Go in peace." Castiel's eyes closed, his head bowed as his hands curled, loosing contact with Sam…

And Sam's breath caught. His eyes blinked open, sightless and glazed. Dean watched as Sam's body almost… recoiled, trying to push away from something. One hand came up, but whether he was reaching out to them, or trying to push them away, Dean couldn't tell. He began shivering, a low, constant shaking that had to be stressing his injuries.

Instantly, the angel's eyes flashed open. Dean watched as Castiel pushed his own pain aside and took a firmer hold of Sam's head and shoulder again. Sam settled almost instantly, his eyes slipping closed. It was like he had been drugged.

And through the whole thing, Sam had never made a sound.

The silence in the face of such obvious anguish was… eerie.

Dean shared an uneasy look with Bobby. But the older man only shrugged, looking confused and troubled. Dean could tell from Bobby expression that he had his doubts that the body on the ground was Sam, no matter what Castiel said.

Later. He'd worry about it later. But he had to stop the bleeding if he wanted there to be a later to worry about. He pulled at the shirt, tugging the stiff, gory fabric apart. Underneath was a neat hole in Sam's chest – too far left to have hit his heart, but way to close to have missed everything vital.

Dean heard a ragged curse from over his shoulder. Bobby. Bobby had pulled the trigger on Lucifer twice that day. Dean remembered it vividly.

The wound was still raw, after four months. Still open and fresh and wet, with no sign of either clotting or decay. It was like Sam had just been shot. Only the blood should have been surging, pouring from the wound in a torrent, but instead it was pumping sluggishly.

"What the hell?" Dean frowned. "Cas? Are these from that day? When Sam went in?"

"Yes."

Bobby made a sound of pure denial. "Lucifer didn't even notice when I shot him. He should be healed."

"He healed up his other vessel, when I shot him before," Dean agreed. "He should have fixed this."

Castiel didn't bother to glance up, keeping his eyes locked on Sam. "Later. I'll explain everything later. But now we need to leave before Raphael and his followers return, and I need to concentrate if you want Sam to live."

Castiel had never been good at sugar-coating things.

"Okay," Dean said. He let go of Sam long enough to struggle out of his over shirt. "Bobby? Go get the rings, now, before we have company. And bring the car up here. I don't want to carry him more than we have to."

"And hurry," Castiel put in. "We haven't much time."

Bobby didn't ask if the angel was referring to the return of the divine dickheads or to Sam, he just hurried.

Dean folded the soft cotton and pushed it against the wound, leaning into it. Sam shifted again as Dean applied the pressure, trembling silently – but his eyes stayed closed. Dean pushed harder against the oddly sluggish wound, ignoring the layers of dried, frozen blood beginning to melt and come off. He could smell it, metallic and overwhelming. His stomach rolled uneasily.

In the distance he heard the car's engine kick over and catch, and the familiar rumble soothed him. A couple of minutes later the Impala drove up, and Bobby hopped out, helping Dean maneuver Sam into the backseat. It was awkward, with Dean trying to both lift and keep pressure on the wound at the same time, while Castiel wouldn't – couldn't – let go.

Dean ended up passing Sam off to Bobby, who was pulling from the other door. Castiel followed Sam into the back seat. Which left Dean standing outside the car.

Biting his lip, hating it, Dean went to the driver's seat, leaving his brother in the hands of others.

They pealed out of the cemetery moving fast, and gaining speed. As they hit the pavement Dean glanced again in the mirror, meeting Bobby's worried eyes.

"He's not breathing very well."

Dean's teeth clenched. "Cas? Can't you use your mojo on him?"

"I can't heal this." The angel sounded truly apologetic. "The wounds are from the Colt. I can control the damage, but I cannot stop it. Or reverse it. The Colt, the bullets… they are physical in a way I cannot rework…they are unalterable. They are beyond my abilities."

"But that's not why Lucifer didn't heal him," Bobby observed, half questioning. "The Colt didn't even faze him. Obviously it wasn't beyond his abilities."

"Lucifer is very powerful," Castiel agreed, not bothering to look up from Sam. "Much more powerful than me. He could have healed these injuries easily when Sam was first wounded – but he was most likely distracted by Michael's appearances… and by Sam's own internal struggles against him. Once Sam put him in the cage," Castiel's voice was almost haunted. "I had not realized how much it drains you of your power. Once inside, even Lucifer would not have had the power to heal wounds left by the Colt. And once involved in the battle with Michael, I have no doubt he focused on the injuries being caused by his brother. Those could go deep enough to hurt him. He could not waste the power it would take to heal damage that could not affect him."

Dean ran through all that. "But how could Sam end up like this, and Lucifer not be affected? Wouldn't Lucifer have healed him…automatically?"

Castiel seemed almost irritated, shifting his head restlessly as he continued to focus on Sam. "Lucifer was immune to the abilities of the Colt, but bullets are still metal. When you shoot, they kill. Like the knife. And like the knife, the Colt – and the bullets – are bespelled to harm not only flesh, but the entity within. Usually this enchantment is enough to kill the creature, no mater what it is – but Lucifer is stronger than the power of the Colt. It could damage his vessel, but could not injure him as he hid inside. You saw this when you shot him, Dean. The injuries done to his host do not affect him in the slightest. Normally, he would simply heal the damage done to the flesh to keep the body whole longer. But in this case he couldn't. As I have already told you."

"So Sam's been bleeding out for months?" Bobby sounded…devastated.

"Yes." It was blunt, and hard, but it was the truth.

Bobby winced, looking down. Then he nodded, pale but determined. "Okay, since you can't heal him, should we take him to a hospital?"

"No," Castiel's reply was instant, and apprehensive. "They won't let me stay in contact with him. I'm holding his soul together – he faces annihilation if I'm not able to remain with him for now."

"Jesus," Dean said, looking again into the mirror. "His soul will be…?"

"It might come apart." It was said dryly, like he was a fact from a biology textbook; and that scared Dean even more, the lack of exaggeration in the angel's voice. "If it does, he will be lost. Also, it may not be safe."

"He wouldn't be safe? From who?" Dean demanded, taking a corner a little too fast.

"Not him…everyone else."

The car went silent. Bobby shifted restlessly, and Dean licked his lips, eyes flicking between the mirror and the road, trying to see if Bobby was reaching for his gun. "I thought you said it was Sam? That Lucifer lost his lease!"

Castiel looked mildly confused – then he shook his head. "No. No Lucifer. No demons. But, Dean, Sam has been in the true Hell for months, possessed by the Dragon. If you could see the state of his thoughts, of his soul –" Castiel stopped. Swallowed. Continued in a different tone. "I have no idea how Sam will react if – when – he wakes. With the powers he had before going into the cage…"

"Not safe. Got it." Dean was rather proud of how steady he sounded as the thin veneer of control he was faking began to crack. He felt the greasy fingers of fear slide up his spine again, as what the angel was saying sank in. Sam had suffered in Hell – of course he had. Dean had been there, and he knew some of what Sam had seen, had been through – and what Dean had experienced wouldn't compare to what Lucifer would have done to his brother. But the idea that Sam had been so tortured that he might not be himself anymore….

He might still loose his brother after all.

His hands flexed on the steering wheel. He ignored the dampness.

"If we're not going to take him to the hospital, we should decide where we are going to take him," Bobby said, and from the sound of his voice Dean figured he was doing a little ignoring of his own. "This ride isn't helping him, and we can't even try to fix him back here."

"I –" The words caught in his dry mouth before he could say them. Dean cleared his throat and tried again. "I know a place. It should be safe."

It wasn't a place he wanted to go…not ever again. But it was close, and it could be made secure…and no one would ever think of looking for them there. With good reason. He'd made it clear that he would never voluntarily go back.

But what the hell. He'd gone back once for Sam. What was one more time?

xxx