Chapter 3

He'd just stabbed his brother.

So what if Dean had killed Ruby, killed his only chance at getting some payback, he'd just stabbed his brother…

All he can think is 'holy shit' and 'this is so bad', his mind skittering in aimless panic as he searches for the Impala. Under the panic is the anger but he barely notices it; he's used to being angry. He even knows that his temper is worse after a session with Ruby—who's dead, freaking dead—but he figures that's part of the whole guilt thing. Guilt… Jesus effing Christ! His mind slams to a halt. Dean could die because of him… again.

This is so bad.

In his panic, he can hardly see and all the cars look black, and all the trucks are too big and in the way, blocking his view. What did Dean say: four rows over and two cars up? There aren't four rows and while he's standing here, tearing his hair out, Dean is bleeding.

'Chill the fuck down, Winchester.' It's Brady's voice, from first year finals, when Sam was panicking about having lost some textbook or other. "That's what libraries are for." His friend's dryly sarcastic common sense had worked and Sam had calmed down enough to remember where he'd left the book.

It works here, too. He finds the Impala two rows over and four cars up, just as Dean had said. His hand trembles only lightly as he opens the door and starts her up. For some reason the familiar rumble of the Chevy's engine soothes Sam even more, so that he can finally begin to think logically. He has to take Dean to a hospital, no question about that. He remembers where the closest one is for which they have insurance, fake insurance but whatever, so that's not a problem. It's a problem that his brother's been stabbed—he stabbed Dean—so the staff might have to call the cops, which means they need a cover story.

He pulls the Impala as close to his brother as he can. He gets out on autopilot and spreads a blanket on the back seat to soak up at least some of the blood. Dean will kill him if the seats get stained. If he survives.

Holy shit! Holy motherfucking shit…

It's fairly dim in the walkway between the motel and the bar, but Sam can see that Dean is really, really pale. Blood loss, his mind supplies, plus signs of shock. Well, duh.

"I'm here, Dean," he says out loud and Dean's lashes flutter. "I've gotcha."

His hands are shaking as he reaches out for his brother but they steady as he lifts. They're firm as he guides his brother's steps. No matter what his mind is doing, his body has been here before—helping an injured family member into the back seat. Poltergeists, demons, and rawheads: lots of monsters have all had a go at killing one or other of the Winchesters.

This time he's the monster.

Shitshitshit. Shit.

He peels off his button-up, crumbles it into a wad, and makes sure Dean presses it to the wound. "Keep pressure on that."

Dean's eyelids barely open. "I know the drill." Sam pats his legs and Dean obediently pulls them into the back seat so that Sam can close the door. Sam's panting and his vision is going weird. Demon blood or panic, he wonders. Then decides he doesn't frigging care. He just needs to calm down and get Dean to the hospital. He can freak out later.

"In for three, hold, out for three," Dean's voice is soft from the back seat. The rhythm is the one they'd learned as kids to control their bodies' adrenaline-fuelled responses. It's humiliating to realize he needs the reminder.

"Okay, I'm good," he nods and turns the key. "I'm good. You're okay back there?" He pulls out carefully, trying not to jar his brother.

"Just peachy," Dean answers. He gives a coughing laugh. "And people think I'm the one with anger issues."

"That's not funny, Dean," Sam scowls even as his grip tightens on the wheel.

"A lot of it is the demon blood," Dean continues as if he didn't hear him. Who knows, maybe he didn't. "Demons aren't pacifists, after all."

Sam's brain catches on to what Dean just said. "What do you mean 'the demon blood'?" Sam's sure he's never told Dean about that. Not about Yellow Eyes in his nursery the night Mom died, and certainly not about Ruby.

"Lucifer's True Vessel if you drink enough of it. Even then y'need gallons a day to hold'm and you'll still break down over time. Poor Nick," Dean adds softly.

"What do you mean 'true vessel'?" Sam's starting to panic again, this time from confusion. "What the hell, Dean?"

"'And it's written that the firs' demon shall be the las' seal'." Now Dean sounds almost like he's narrating a dream and it makes a shiver crawl down Sam's spine. "Once Lucy's out he'll need a meat suit, jus' like any other angel, an' you're their number one choice. You got Azazel's blood an' survived the grudge match in Cold Oak. All they gotta do is getcha to say yes… and trick you inta drinking demon's blood like coffee." He laughs as if nothing is funny.

Sam palms are getting sweaty, because Dean's seriously channeling. Or maybe he'd learned this stuff in Hell. Maybe this is what Sam wouldn't let Dean talk about because Sam was being selfish and didn't want to know, didn't want to be derailed from his quest. Sam was a bastard, a selfish bastard.

And a hypocrite, because he was always going at Dean, trying to get him to talk through shit, but when Dean wanted to talk, Sam had run.

He looks in the mirror and Dean's eyes have closed. Not good. "What do you mean 'the first demon is the last seal'?" he asks in a panic. He needs Dean to stay awake and alive.

"Your geek's failin', Sam," Dean chuckles, soft and pain-filled. "Lilith was the firs' demon ever. When you killed her, it opened the door t' his cage. Served up on a platter like a nice juicy steak. Ruby never tol' you that, did she?"

"She didn't know." His defense is perfunctory, automatic.

Dean gives another pain-filled laugh but this one is sharper, uglier. "Trust me, Sammy, she knew. She had plans to be your Queen-B once you were Lucy and not, y'know, you. But it's not gonna happen now. I saved you, Sammy."

By the end his voice is nothing but a mumble, but Sam still hears him and he can't stop the flare of rage that ignites in him. What is he, seven? That he needs his big brother to rescue him? No, he's twenty-five fucking years old and able to take care of himself… and thoughts like that really aren't helping. He accelerates away from the stop sign with smooth precision.

Time to change the subject.

"When we get to the hospital, we need to have a cover story." He looks in the rear view; Dean's eyes are closed. "Are you listening?" When they flutter open Sam continues. "We, actually you, saw a scuffle. A guy attacking a girl. You went up to play hero, got yourself stabbed. Guy took off. Got that? We were coming out of the bar, right? That makes sense, right? You'll be able to remember it?"

"Nadda total idiot, Sam," Dean mumbles.

"Some parts are missing?" It's their ritual put-down, left over from when they were both too young to shave. Saying it is a knee-jerk reaction and Sam winces at how juvenile he sounds, but Dean laughs, a genuine laugh like Sam hasn't heard from his brother since he got out of the Pit. Suddenly he's just happy that Dean is back, but it's such a switch from the rage he'd been feeling moments before that he feels like he's on a roller coaster with his stomach hanging out in his mouth and all the blood being forced from his legs. It feels both wonderful and sickening because Dean is passed out in the back seat of the Impala with a knife sticking out of him and he just might die and Sam did that.

They get to the hospital and Sam remembers to take the knife out before wheeling his brother into the Emergency Room. They can't afford to lose the weapon to some police evidence room, plus Ruby's fictional attacker was supposed to have taken off with it. No matter the logic, Sam's stomach still lurches at the soft, slurpy, sucking noises it makes when he pulls it out of his brother.

Who he stabbed.

He puts the regrets aside to focus on what he needs to get done: he needs to get Dean admitted and treated, that's number one. That's as easy as walking in the door carrying his blood-soaked body and letting him drip on the floor. Sam follows as they wheel Dean away—practically running him down the corridor actually—and he wonders if he should phone Bobby but decides not to. What the hell would he say?

He's been in waiting rooms like this one before, too—another familiar environment, but one that he never enjoys. He needs coffee… or maybe water would be better. His skin itches—too much emotion, too little time—and he scrubs his hands over his face and down his arms. Then he realizes that someone's going to peg him for a junkie if he keeps that up. He glances around furtively but nobody's watching. The staff is all busy elsewhere and no one else is waiting for a critically injured family member to get out of surgery. He's alone…

He should probably call Bobby… Clean the car, something… Other than stand here… feeling helpless

His feet don't move.

The morning of day two in ICU is spent much the same way as the whole of day one: Dean sleeps.

He sleeps the sleep of the heavily drugged and enjoys the obliviousness of it. However, mid-afternoon he dreams of a road, two-lane asphalt, with Dylan singing low on the stereo and the sky's whirling above them. Sam's about fourteen and sitting in the passenger seat smiling. Then they're in a garden and Sam's fondling the roses and he's never going to age again. Then it's not roses Dean's looking at but a fishing rod and it's not Sam beside him but someone else.

"The one who started it is the only one who can finish it."

"Dean." The voice is a gravelly monotone familiar from the future but not yet. "Dean Winchester."

"Cas."

"Castiel. Yes." The angel is staring at him, he can tell. It's penetrating and long-lasting but it doesn't make Dean uncomfortable the way it did before. In an odd way, he's become used to the angel's quirks. Plus one for Dead Dean's memories.

"Something about you has changed. It's almost like… an echo." Castiel reaches out a hand as if to touch Dean's forehead.

Dean shifts away, "Personal space, Cas."

The fingers stop and Castiel looks at them as if they'd acted on their own. "My apologies."

"No problem."

The angel stares at him a moment longer before settling back into the chair. The equipment beeps softly above his head and there is the quiet murmur of activity outside the room. Bright light seeps in from the corridor so Dean knows that it's day-time. The silence is not quite companionable but Dean just waits.

"What did you do?"

"You wanted me to stop Sam from doing the thing with Ruby. Now it's stopped."

"You killed her." There is no judgment in the angel's voice, no disapproval, no approbation, just the calm statement.

"Technically, she was already dead." Castiel isn't the only one who can do bland-voiced pronouncements. "Bet they aren't too happy with me upstairs," he murmurs. He can't help but feel rather proud at the thought.

"There is a great deal of activity and discussion amongst the garrison about your actions," Castiel confirms mildly.

Dean snorts, "I bet. Kinda messed up the big plan. Ruby can't drag Sam to the altar now that she's dead." A pause, puzzled silence. He doesn't bother opening his eyes because he knows there'd be no real expression on the angel's face. It's too soon. Right now, Castiel is still a hammer. "Do you ever wonder if you're being lied to?"

"Who would lie to me?" Castiel asks.

"Besides humans and demons?" Dean replies with a slow smile. "Anybody who doesn't want you to know the whole truth." Again the long pause. Dean takes the time to wonder where his brother is and whether he'll sneak him in some real food when he comes back. Probably not.

"What… truth are you speaking of?"

That's a good question.

Dean knows lots of truths now; truths that were, truths that are, and truths that might never be again. "If the angels didn't want the Apocalypse to happen, why did they wait so long to get me out of Hell? Why wait until after I… after I broke the first seal?" He takes a breath. "Why didn't they stop me going in the first place?"

"That's not the way Heaven works," Castiel starts, but Dean isn't listening, not really. He's working a few ideas through his somewhat druggy brain.

"If the first seal never gets broken there's no chance of any of the rest going, right? So why not step in way earlier—before Cold Oak say, and then it never becomes a problem."

"We are not allowed to interfere," Cas' voice is still uninflected, still certain of his realities.

"You interfered by sending me back to meet the parents. And you suggested I should be able to interfere when all I did…" Dean's voice trails off in realization at how far back the conspiracy to fuck with their lives goes. "Who told you to send me back?"

"I don't understand."

Now Dean's eyes are open and he's staring at the nerdy-looking angel with his bed-head and his trench coat, familiar-not familiar. "Simple enough question, Cas. Somebody told you to send me back. Who was it?" Dean's voice is rough with anger. Mother-fucking angels!

Castiel frowns slightly, just the tiniest twitch of the eyebrows. "My superior."

"Zachariah," Dean says unthinkingly.

Cas' frown deepens. "How did you—"

Dean ignores the interruption. He's onto something and he wants to get it out. Maybe it'll push Cas onto their side a little earlier this time. "They didn't want me to go back to stop my Mom from making that deal," he explains. "They needed me to go back so that she'd catch Azazel's attention, so that he'd do exactly what he did, and that would set up me and Sam to be the vessels."

"You can't know this." There's a hint of stress in the angel's voice now.

"Pretty damn sure." Dean feels half angry, half sad. "Can't have a cage match if the stars never train for the fight. Throw in a little Ruby and her a la carte buffet to convince Sam that demon blood's just like Wheaties, and you've got me for Michael and Sam for Lucifer and the End Days for us all. Revelation in all its whacked-out glory. Isn't that the plan?"

Castiel looks away, the lines between his brows are a little deeper and Dean recognizes that look. It's Cas thinking about it, examining the new ideas, weighing them. This is the Cas that Dean will get to know…or would've gotten to know…will still get to know? It's odd the trust that he can feel waiting for them, just out of reach. Then the angel looks back at him and the frown is gone, the questions are erased from his eyes, and Dean knows that this Cas isn't ready to break out of his box.

"Even if you can't understand it, have faith, the plan is just."

Dean laughs but it turns into a cough. He waves a hand but the angel doesn't understand. "Drink," Dean instructs.

Castiel looks but can only find a cup with ice chips in it. He frowns at it but Dean waves him over so he digs out a couple pieces and gives them to the injured hunter. "Why did you laugh?"

Dean half sucks, half crunches on the ice. "Because Zachariah doesn't want to stop the seals from being broken; he wants the Apocalypse to happen. 'Ali versus Foreman but on a larger scale'," he quotes from something that hasn't been said yet.

The frown is back. "That makes no sense."

"Except that it kinda does," Dean snorts and hands back the cup. "The only way you angels can go home," he explains. "Return permanently to Heaven, is if Lucifer is destroyed so there'll be no more demons and nothing tempting us poor, weak humans into sin, right?" Cas barely nods but Dean knows he understands. "Other option, if all the humans are dead or damned, there's also no reason for the angels to be stuck here. So either way, the Apocalypse is a win for the angels."

"It is… plausible," Castiel admits, the words rough and slow as if he had to dig them out with a crowbar. "I—"

Footsteps, surprisingly soft for the owner's size, interrupt whatever the angel was going to say.

"Who are you?"

"Hey, Sam. This is Cas." Dean waves at them. "I told you about him. Don't suppose you brought me a cheeseburger?"

Sam ignores the comment and stands there, dumbfounded, before babbling, "Oh my God. Uh, I didn't mean to… Sorry." He stops, takes a breath while Castiel stands and stares at him. "It's an honor, really. I-I've heard a lot about you." He holds out his hand. The angel looks at it as if unsure.

"It's okay, Cas. You can shake it," Dean says, eyes closed. "He's invited you into his personal space."

The angel's face doesn't change much but there is a hint of relief in his eyes, as if he's glad to have it explained. They shake hands. "I've heard much about you, Sam Winchester. The boy with the demon blood."

"Great way to kill the mood, Cas," Dean murmurs because he can feel Sam's shocked horror from here.

"It's not funny, Dean."

Dean opens his eyes a slit. "It is a little."

Cas is ignoring them. He's staring at Sam as if to see inside him. "Demon blood in sufficient quantity could alter your body's physical properties. Enough that it could contain an angel of Lucifer's power."

"What are you talking about?" Sam's eyes shift over to Dean.

Dean looks away so it's Castiel who answers him. "We were discussing a theory of your brother's." Cas stares at Sam.

Dean watches his brother jiggle uncomfortably under the angel's scrutiny before taking pity on him. "So you agree with me, that that was the plan?" he asks.

Cas' gaze turns back to Dean. "I am uncertain. But you have given me much to think about." The sound of fluttering wings fills the room and Castiel is gone.

"Think away, little dude, as long as you reach the right conclusion," Dean mutters and closes his eyes. It's easier to avoid Sam's gaze with his eyes closed.

"And what is the right conclusion?" Sam asks.

"That his frat brothers are dicks." He doesn't have to see Sam to know his brother is making his bitch face at him.

Hell, if Sam had tried to pass off a comment like that as an answer, Dean would be making a bitch face too. But he can't just come out and say, 'you and me are supposed to house angels, and not just any angels but the two top guys: Michael and Lucifer.' Even though he knows it's true, it sounds too much like those people who get their past lives 'read' and claim to have been Julius Caesar or Marie Antoinette instead of Clyde from the docks or Mary from the laundry down the street. Pretentious as hell.

There's another way out of this conversation though.

"I didn't tell you about Mom, did I?"

"I can't believe it. Mom was a hunter?" Sam feels like he should say more, but his mind is blank as he tries to comprehend where Dean went and what he learned.

"Yeah," Dean takes another drink of juice—it's not coffee but at least it's not more ice chips. "I always figured that, if anybody in our past would've been doing this, it would've been Dad, y'know?"

"Gender stereotyping again?" Sam teases, but his voice is soft and there's no malice in it.

"Bite me." Dean's eyes are closed once again but Sam can tell he's not falling asleep. Maybe the lights in the room are too bright even though they're just standard fluorescent. It's quiet here in the ICU. The only sounds are from the machinery as it beeps its reassuring rhythms. They're going to be moving Dean into a normal ward, soon. Apparently he's healing 'miraculously fast'. When the doctor had said that, Dean asked if he could have some pie as a reward. The doctor hadn't laughed.

"And you're saying that the reason for all of it—our parents, grandparents, our whole family murdered—was so Yellow Eyes could get in my nursery and bleed in my mouth?"

"Yup," Dean confirms.

"So that, if I didn't self-destruct like Max or Andy's brother, I would accept my fate as 'The Chosen' and open the Hell Gate…" Sam pauses. "Why the gate? What was the purpose of that?"

"Aside from letting out an army of demons that Lilith and Yellow Eyes could use to break the Seals?"

Sam dips his head, blushing because, yeah, that's a good reason. He flicks a glance at his brother but Dean's still got his eyes closed. "A demon like Lilith can't just slip through a crack in the wall," Dean says. "Too old, too big, too much… mojo. All the protections and wards around Hell are meant to keep things like her down there."

"So a Hell's Gate."

Dean murmurs confirmation.

It's reasonable, but there are so many gaps and inconsistencies that Sam is having a hard time just accepting it. "What if I hadn't turned my back on Jake? I wouldn't have died; you wouldn't have made… your deal. I wouldn't have opened the Gate and everything would have been for nothing."

Dean rolls his head to look at him, "You sure?" Sam bristles at the implication but Dean continues, unconcerned. "I mean, Azazel would have done anything—anything—to make it happen. What if he'd offered you Dad back? Or Jess? What if he'd threatened me or Bobby? Or Ellen and Jo?" Dean's voice hitches over the last two names but Sam doesn't get a chance to wonder about it before Dean's moving on. "Everyone breaks, Sam. Everyone…"

This is it, Sam thinks. Dean's going to talk to him about what he went through in Hell and why he's so changed. He's still not ready but, fuck it, he'll never be ready to hear how badly his big brother was hurt. Except when Dean starts to talk, it's not about Hell.

"You were right," Dean says on a sigh, "when you said the deal was selfish. It was. I just… You'd walked away before, went to the coast started a new life and did pretty good at it—"

"Until Jess."

"Yeah, until that."

Then Sam gets it. "You assumed that I'd do it again. That I'd just—what?—forget about you down in the Pit?" He glared at his brother, the easy anger rising to the surface, a familiar weight.

"I don't think I ever got that far, actually. You were dead and I was alone. That's all I was thinking; I was alone and I'd failed. I can't be sorry that you're alive. I can't… but I am sorry that I put you through that—the countdown, everything."

"You're apologizing?" Sam can't believe it. This… this isn't his brother, except that it is. "What happened to you? You never apologize."

Dean says nothing, so Sam leans forward. "You said that you had a right to know about what I did while you were in Hell, well… I have a right to know what happened to you in Hell because, I swear, man, half the time I'm not sure you're my brother any more. I don't care if you thumbnail it, Dean. Give me something."

Dean blinks, staring at the ceiling. If he's crying, Sam can't tell. He can never tell when Dean's crying because, while Sam gets all snotty and gross, Dean's tears fall quietly—barely acknowledged. "Time's different down there."

Sam swallows and braces himself.

"Up here it was four months, but down there…" Dean pauses, gathers himself. "It was more like forty years."

"Oh my God." Sam leans forward even closer, but not in demand—not anymore. Now he's trying to give Dean some support, trying to let his brother know that he's here, he's listening. Dean shifts uncomfortably under the scrutiny. He won't look at Sam but Sam's okay with that. That's the Dean he knows.

One final breath and Dean begins again, "For thirty years, they sliced and carved and tore at me in ways that you… until there was nothing left. And then, suddenly, I'd be whole again. Like magic."

Sam watches as Dean's fingers start plucking at the blanket covering his stomach.

Oh crap, Sam realizes, Dean's not done. There's more. And now he's practically crying too because he always did cry at silly things, let alone stuff like this. He cried during Bambi, for God's sake, and that was just a cartoon deer! He braces himself but he says nothing, does nothing, just listens and remembers to breathe.

"It would start all over again, over and over. Alastair, you haven't met him, but he was in charge and he'd come over at the end of every day—every one—and he would make me an offer. He would take me off the rack if I would put souls on. If I would do the torturing."

Sam swallows back bile. This was so much worse than he'd imagined. "Thirty years?"

Dean nods and the tears are visible now, glinting on his cheek. "I couldn't do it anymore. I couldn't. I said yes. And I… I started… I did what he asked. I lost count of how many souls I ripped apart."

"Dean…" God he wants to touch him, wants to pull Dean in close and, and comfort him, heal him, but Sam knows it's not that easy. He tries again. "Dean, you held out for thirty years. That's longer than anyone would have."

His brother rubs a hand over his face, trying to make it casual. "Maybe. I dunno." A surreptitious sniff. "They would have kept at it, no matter what. They needed me to break, to give in. The things I did, Sam…"

"It doesn't make you evil, Dean," Sam feels the need to say it; to put it out there on the table. "It doesn't make you a bad person. You… you were tortured."

But Dean isn't really listening to him. "I broke the first Seal."

"What?" Sam sits back.

"'And it is written that the first seal shall be broken when a righteous man sheds blood in hell. As he breaks, so shall it break.' Alistair told me that. This—" he waves a finger at the world, "all of this, is my fault because I wasn't strong enough. Not strong enough to let you go, not strong enough to stay human."

"Jesus." Sam says in prayer. He's never seen his brother like this: so vulnerable. Not even when Dad died. "You said it though, Dean. Everybody breaks and… and if they wanted it—needed it—so bad… they would never have stopped. Nobody should expect you not to give in at some point."

"Yeah, I know, I know, I do. It's just—" Another quick face wipe. "I think the angels let it happen. I think they just left me down there until they were certain I'd broken the first seal."