Sam couldn't remember the last time he had stepped inside a church for something other than a job.

It was a bright Sunday morning and the sun was high in the pure blue sky, the air fresh and clean. It was the sort of day that makes you feel glad to be alive and Sam revelled in it, breathing in the scent of pine and grass, his tortured lungs rattling as he did so, a reminder of how short and how precious life had become to him.

The local doctor's prognosis had been grim. Six months at the most, he had confirmed, maybe longer if he would consider chemotherapy, but even then he would be lucky to see another summer.

Sam had accepted it now. He was in his own home, sharing time and laughter with Dean and he was happier than he had ever been. In some ways it was bitterly ironic. The fact that this thing; this thing inside of Sam was the only thing that had stopped them hunting. Sam wished that they had quit sooner, maybe travelled for pleasure. They could have seen the Grand Canyon, spent time on the beach, maybe even met someone, had a family beyond each other. Now it was too late and Sam was human enough to feel regret.

"Here we go," Dean smiled at him as he helped him into the hard, stone pew. The church was old, traditional and a strange choice. Sam frowned a little and shuffled on the seat, his ass cold. Dean put an arm around his shoulder, steadying him and he felt his brother tremble, felt the shudder go through him as he pulled Sam closer.

"I'm ok," Sam tried for a smile but it came out more as a grimace. He felt frustrated, sick. He couldn't keep food down much and he knew he was losing more weight, getting weaker every day, reliant now on Dean for almost everything.

"Yeah – you look great," Dean's tone was quiet, sarcastic but love echoed through every word, "and you need a haircut."

"I was trying for a pony tail," Sam laughed, weakly and Dean snorted. Several of the small congregation looked over and Sam saw one or two disapproving looks. He smiled to himself. Why did everyone think they were gay? It had been a long standing joke with them and now it helped to lighten the tone, to set his thoughts on something more positive. He snuggled in closer to his brother, his head resting on Dean's broad shoulder. Dean shifted and tightened his grip, his arm firm around Sam's waist.

The priest entered and everyone fell silent. He said grace and bowed his head, the whole congregation falling to its knees. Dean helped Sam down and stayed close to him, feeling the floor cold and hard beneath the heavy denim he wore, his nose twitching at the scent of incense and flowers.

He prayed then, harder and with more sincerity than he had ever prayed before. Beside him Sam shook with weakness and Dean willed him to stay, willed him to get better, willed him not to leave again. He felt such guilt then, guilt that he had forced Sam back into this life, guilt that he had given his soul for Sam and forced his brother to spend a year in misery and torment. He prayed God would forgive him for everything he had done, that God might look upon them with some mercy, that God would grant them a miracle.

"Stand," the priest said, suddenly and the congregation rose and stood. Sam staggered to his feet and swayed a little, Dean's hand on his back instantly. Sam felt strange, odd and he took a deep breath, lungs rattling.

"Sammy?" Dean's voice was harsh with concern and the congregation turned as one to look at him. One put a finger to her lips and Dean gave her a glare, his mouth opening to speak.

"Sam Winchester," it was the priest's voice, loud and firm, "come forward and accept God's grace."

Dean swallowed hard, biting his tongue. The woman who had shushed him had the good sense to look ashamed and Dean lifted his head, staring at her with some defiance.

Beside him Sam swayed again and he hauled him up and against him, pulling him forward.

"Come on Sammy," Dean guided his brother towards the priest, his eyes on the old man's face, his lips still moving in desperate prayer.

"You set this up," Sam sounded weak, almost a little angry, "you promised me Dean, you promised Bobby – no more deals."

"With devils and demons Sam," Dean whispered, gently, "this is a little different."

"Is it? You remember Le Grange right?" Sam staggered at his side, legs weak, head fuzzy, "remember how well that went?"

"Sammy…" they had reached the alter and the priest put out his arms. Sam went down, his knees hitting the stone floor, his head resting on the alter cloth.

The priest looked at Dean, his expression serene. He bent forward and laid his hands on Sam's bent head, his mouth moving, the sound so faint that Dean could barely hear, only realising, after a moment, that the priest was speaking in Latin.

The congregation fell to their knees and began to echo the chant. Dean felt the hairs on his neck prickle and he remembered Nebraska, remembered how cold he had felt then, and remembered how wrong it all had seemed.

He swallowed his eyes on the priest and his baby brother. Had he done the right thing here? Had he bought Sam to the right place or was this just another trick? Was this another supernatural entity having fun with them?

Sam felt weird, his body trembled, his lungs burnt and the hand on his head seemed to be scorching through his hair. He couldn't lift his head, couldn't breath and he wanted to run, fear and terror tearing through his veins like fire, lights dancing wildly behind his eyes.

Then he heard it, the voice, soft, gentle and hauntingly familiar, a voice he hadn't heard since Salvation, a voice he thought he would never hear again.

"It's alright," his father said, deep and commanding, the voice from his youth, the voice that always made him sit up and follow orders, "everything is going to be all alright Sammy."

And Sam believed.

TBC