This is one of my favorite chapters by far - it was a bit of a challenge to write (action always is, for me) but so. worth. it. And I hope you guys like it as well!

(Ya know, all two of you...)

THEN

Dean parked the Impala two blocks away from the cemetery and instead of getting out, turned to Sam. "Sammy, listen to me."

Sam watched him, waiting for him to go on, one hand already on the door handle.

"Sam, if this doesn't work out, if she can't get the Mark off me..." Dean began. "I want you to understand that it's not on you, okay? I've told you that I can live with it. Worst comes to worst, I can't live with it and I'll quietly get Cas or someone to gank me, okay? I don't want to hurt you again," he added when Sam opened his mouth to protest. "Or anyone else. Sam, I'm not gonna let myself become a monster again."

Sam grit his teeth, his jaw muscles working. "It'll work, Dean," he said shortly, tone determined.

"But if it doesn't," pressed Dean, intent on making his point before they got out of the car. "If it doesn't, Sam, don't blame yourself."

Sam didn't answer, just kept glaring at Dean, jaw still set in that determined, stubborn manner of his. Dean sighed. "Sam, we're not getting out of this car until I hear from you."

"Dean–"

"Sam. I've been down that road, man. We both have. We both know it leads to nowhere good." Dean paused, then went on, "I'm just sayin', some things you can't cure, all right?"

"This is not one of those things," Sam promised, and scrambled out of the car before Dean could say anything further. Rolling his eyes and sighing in exasperation, Dean followed, locking down the car and making his way to the trunk so they could get their stuff.

The night was clear, not a cloud to be seen, the full moon shining down upon them. Dean found himself feeling a sudden burst of nostalgia, back when all they had to worry about was werewolves and vampires and angry spirits. What wouldn't he give to go back to that time, to erase the last five or so years of his life.

"Let's do this," Sam said, voice low and dangerous, his entire body wound tight like a coiled steel wire just waiting to snap. Dean nodded at him, stowing an angel blade inside his coat and setting off towards the cemetery at a jog, Sam by his side like he always was.

They were early, as evidenced by the glow-in-the-dark numbers on Dean's watch that read a quarter to midnight. Rowena had just said cemetery, hadn't specified a location within it, but Sam had done his research and they headed towards the tomb of Margot French, who according to legend had been a powerful witch who'd been burned at the stake during the Salem witch trials. Rowena's hero, apparently, Dean thought with a snort.

Neither Cas nor Crowley was there yet, so Sam and Dean decided to wait. They stood around in the cool night air, Sam pacing and Dean fidgeting, waiting for Rowena to roll in at midnight with what would no doubt be a very dramatic entrance. Crowley must have gotten his flair for drama from somewhere, even if he thankfully didn't inherit any of her, er, more pleasant qualities.

How bad was someone when they made the King of Hell look like a stand-up citizen, really.

Dean was patting his jacket to make sure, for the thousandth time, that all relevant weapons were on him, when Sam said, voice small and almost inaudible, "I can't lose you again."

He stared, not sure if he'd even heard it or not. "Sam?" he ventured cautiously.

"I can't lose you again," Sam repeated, his sorrow plain on his face and in his voice. "Dean, I... I couldn't save you from Hell. I couldn't save you from Purgatory. I just... I don't want to fail you again."

"Sam, you didn't fail me," Dean replied, voice just as soft, crossing the few feet to where Sam was standing. "I thought we were over this, kiddo." He reached out slightly so that the tips of his fingers were just touching the back of Sam's hand. "Look, whatever happens tonight, I'm proud of you, okay? And I appreciate what you've done for me, I really do. I mean, Jesus, Sam, how do I even begin to tell you?" He smiled, hoping his face could convey what he couldn't articulate.

For a moment or so Sam was completely still, watching Dean with just a hint of tears standing in his eyes. Then he reached out and closed the gap between their hands, intertwining their fingers tightly. He didn't say a word, but he didn't need to. It was all there in the desperate way he clutched at his big brother's hand, the way they were standing side by side, pressed together from shoulder to knee.

The moment was disrupted by a flutter of wings, and they released each other's hands just as Cas appeared, looking even more solemn than usual. "Hello," he greeted.

"Hey, Cas," Sam replied, returning the greeting with a small smile. "Thanks for coming. I know you were busy."

"Yeah, 'ppreciate it," Dean added.

Castiel nodded at both of them. "Where's Crowley?" he asked.

"Should be here any moment," Sam said.

"How do you know we can trust him?" inquired Castiel. "He's the King of Hell, and she's his mother."

"He hates her," Sam assured Cas. "He volunteered to help, you know."

Castiel still looks suspicious. "All the same, be careful," he advised.

"Aw, I'm touched, I really am," came a snarky British voice, and all three of them turned to see Crowley stroll out from behind a headstone. "Glad to see we're all so trusting."

Castiel just glared at Crowley, who sneered back. "What's the matter, Wings? Got a bee in your bonnet?"

"Children, please," sighed Dean in exasperation. "Get your shit together. You two can go at each with swords later for all I give a crap, but let's do it after we've ganked this bitch."

"Is that any way to talk about a lady?" clucked a feminine voice with a Scottish lilt, and Dean couldn't help but roll his eyes. What was it with these two and their dramatic entrances? At least she hadn't broken out a wind and some thunder.

"Rowena," Sam bit out, his entire body tensing up, an angel blade held at the ready.

"Do put that away, lad," she said, wrinkling her nose at him. She looked immaculate as always, dressed in a navy blue gown and red hair styled into a French twist. "We're here to do business, aren't we? Hello, Fergus."

"Mother," he said, spitting the word like it left a bad taste in his mouth. That was some seriously bad blood right there, thought Dean to himself. The name Fergus, which never usually failed to crack him up, didn't even make him want to smile right now, what with the particular way Rowena said it, like he was a bug she wanted to squash.

"You must be Castiel," Rowena said, smiling toothily at the angel, who just glared back in his customary manner. "Right, well," she said when it was clear no reply was forthcoming, "let's get down to it, shall we, boys?" She held out her hand. "Sam, dear, the map and key to your bunker, please."

"You don't get anything until you get the Mark off Dean," Sam reminded her, tone steel-cold.

"I'm not doing a single thing until I know you have the map and key," she countered.

Sam only took a few seconds to consider, before pulling his jacket open to show her the map and key kept safely in his inside pocket. "I've done my part of the deal," he said. "Now do yours."

"Lose the blades first," she said, looking disdainfully at the blades all four were holding. "Really, Fergus, I know you don't like me but I didn't expect you to pull a blade on your own mother."

Crowley didn't bother replying, which Dean knew was unusual for the mouthy demon. He just looked irritated and angry, like he just wanted it all to be over with, and Dean knew how he felt. Whether it worked or not, he just wanted it to be over so he could go home.

"The blades stay," Sam said.

"That puts you at a bit of an unfair advantage, doesn't it?" pointed out Rowena. "I'm outnumbered and unarmed."

Dean snorted. "You're a witch. You don't need weapons or a numbers advantage."

"Against humans, no. Against an angel and a demon?" She clicked her tongue, and then smiled sweetly at the four of them. "Not very comfortable here, dearie."

"Okay," shrugged Dean. "We'll all go home, then. C'mon, Sammy." He ignored Sam's indignant expression. "We'll keep the Book and the bunker."

"Wait!" Rowena called when Dean had taken a few steps.

He turned. "The way I see it, lady," he said, "you need us more than we need you. I can live like this. I got no problems in turnin' my back and never coming back here. It's you who wanted the deal. You've got to play by our terms here."

She looked torn as she considered his words, even though she knew he was right. He knew it too, and he couldn't help the smug smile on his face as they all waited for her answer. Sam looked relieved that Dean wasn't backing out, and also like he was trying to suppress a smile at Rowena's childishly pouty expression.

"Fine," she spat in the end. "But if I see a single blade pointed my way, I will kill you."

"Love to see you try," muttered Dean, but didn't say anything more. He looked up at Sam, who was handing Rowena the Book, and offered his most reassuring smile. "All right," he said, as Rowena began setting up her stuff. "Time to get this party started."

"Dean," Sam started to say, taking a step forward. Outwardly he was calm and composed, but Dean knew that he felt vulnerable and scared inside, worried that it wouldn't work, valiantly trying to hide it. Still, he knew Sam better than anyone else on the planet, knew him in every way that it was possible to know him, and he knew how Sam felt. God knows he'd felt the same way countless times himself.

He smiled wider at Sam. "Remember what I told you," he said, knowing he didn't need to say anything more, ignoring the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, the deja-vu, trying not to think about how he'd said the same words to Sam before he went to Hell.

"Best of luck, Dean," Castiel said, nodding at him, trying to look assuring but just coming off like he was constipated. Still, Dean appreciated the thought.

"I've got to say, sooner that Mark's off your arm, the happier I'll be," Crowley added, which basically translated to "I am actually concerned about you but will rather stab myself in the nuts with an angel blade than say that out loud".

Dean grinned. "Aw, Crowley, I didn't know you cared."

"Bugger off," retorted Crowley, but it lacked his usual gusto.

"All right, I'm done," Rowena called, and Dean looked over to see that she'd set up a Devil's trap – in case he turned into a demon again, his mind helpfully supplied – and a card table inside it that held all manner of herbs and candles and other witchy materials. She was holding the Book of the Damned open somewhere in the middle, minuscule words printed on the page looking like bird footprints.

Despite himself, he swallowed. This was it, then.

There was a feather-light touch on the back of his hand and he looked up to see Sam watching him, steely determination written all over his features. "It'll work," he said one more time, and it sounded like he was trying to assure himself as much as Dean. Not wanting to agree and thus lie, not when they had no idea if it was going to be successful, Dean just nodded at Sam, rolled his sleeve up so that the Mark was exposed, and stepped into the Devil's trap.

Rowena smiled eerily at him before turning her back and messing around with the things on the table. Dean couldn't see what she was doing, but he saw that Sam and Crowley were both watching her intently while Castiel kept an eye on him. Presently she finished mixing whatever it was into her copper bowl, before holding out a small knife in his direction. "I need your blood."

He took it and cut a gash into his palm, holding it over the bowl and watching as his blood dripped down into it. His heart was beating rather fast, and he felt vaguely nauseous. He could almost hear the rush of his own blood in his ears, and thought that if he was this tense, then Sam must be feeling all of this times a hundred, a thousand, a million. He supposed that if he had to watch Sam go through something like this, he'd be terrified too.

The thought of Sam screaming in the panic room popped unbidden into his head, and he closed his eyes, trying to get rid of the image and the faint echo of Sam's screaming that he was sure he could never erase from his memories. Now was not the time to dwell on painful things from his past. What mattered was now, with Sam standing as close as he could get without being inside the Devil's trap, watching with anxiety and hope warring to take over his face. What mattered was Sam knowing that whatever the outcome of today, Dean would never stop being his big brother. Even if – when – he wasn't anymore.

That much he knew for sure. Whatever walked out of this Devil's Trap when all was said or done, it wouldn't harm one single overgrown hair on Sam's head.

He smiled reassuringly at Sam one more time – it'll be all right, kid, no matter what happens – and Sam's mouth twitched slightly upward in response, even though he still looked worried. Dean closed his eyes, steeling himself. Rowena was chanting, and he knew without having to look that Sam, Crowley and Cas were all listening carefully. He heard a spark and felt a sudden burst of heat, and knew she'd lit the big red candles she'd had with her. The heat increased as she stepped closer to him, her chanting drowning out any other sound.

"This will hurt," Rowena told him, sounding absolutely gleeful.

Dean didn't bother gracing that with an answer, instead choosing to brace himself once more for the inevitable pain.

This was it, then.

The last thing he remembered thinking about was a promise he'd made to himself a long time ago. Nothing will hurt Sam as long as I'm there. Not even me.

NOW

"Angry spirit," declares Sam after an hour of sitting hunched over his computer on the small motel room table. "It's an angry spirit."

"Please say it's the usual average Joe kind of angry spirit," Dean replies fervently. No more Wi-Fi ghosts, please.

Sam huffs, amused. "It is," he informs Dean, who looks absolutely delighted. "Let's go get rid of it, and we can leave tomorrow morning."

Dean shrugs. "Sounds good to me."

It's raining a little bit when they set out, and as they walk to the car Dean wonders if Sam will laugh at him for bringing up the opinion that they should invest in an umbrella. Then he thinks, fuck it, Sam needs a few laughs.

"Hey, Sammy, think we should buy an umbrella?"

Sam glances over at him. "You serious?"

They're at the car now, and Dean unlocks it before getting in on the driver's side. Sam follows, reaching into the backseat for a spare towel and beginning to dry himself off.

"Yeah, I'm serious," says Dean. "I mean, we don't want the rain to mess up that pretty hair of yours."

Sam snorts. "Sure. My hair's the only reason you want an umbrella."

Dean glances over as he pulls out of the parking lot. "Well, I'm just concerned, Sammy," he says mock-seriously. "I don't want you to catch a cold or pneumonia or something."

That does the trick, and Sam grins, lips curving up at the corners. "Okay, Dean, let's buy an umbrella," he says, sounding amused. "What color do you think it should be?"

"I didn't think that far," confesses Dean. They're at the cemetery now – it's a really small town and everything is practically next-door to everything else. "What color do you want, Sammy?"

Sam shrugs. "Dunno, any color's fine by me."

"Let's go for something nice and cheery," Dean decides, nudging Sam before shutting off the engine and getting out. "How about blue?" he says as they get their shotguns from the trunk.

"What kinda blue?" questions Sam, going along just as seriously, even though his voice can barely conceal his mirth.

"How 'bout turquoise or something?"

"Sure, why not?"

"Turquoise it is, then."

"Okay, Dean."

Dean looks over to find Sam smiling to himself as he begins to dig up the grave. Good, he thinks. It's not laughter but it's something, and at this point he'll take what he can get.

Except he was right, he was totally right, and Sam is never living it down. The rain totally drenched him down to his last layer of clothing, and now he's red-nosed and sneezing, looking absolutely miserable as he sits slumped in his bed, a blanket wrapped around him and a towel on his head.

"I'm not gonna say I told you so, but." Dean sighs. "I told you so, Sammy."

"No, you didn't, you only said you'd buy an umbrella," Sam argues, voice hoarse. He opens his mouth to say something more, but what comes out instead is a meek little sneeze.

Dean snorts. "Cute," he comments, ignoring Sam's responding glare. He sits down on Sam's bed, facing him, and reaches his arm out to rest his hand on Sam's forehead. "You've got a fever," he informs him.

Sam makes a face, and Dean is reminded of how he was sick from the trials and acting like a total child, blabbing about farting donkeys. Inadvertently he smiles to himself.

"Watcha smiling at?" asks Sam.

"Nothing," Dean replies, but doesn't stop smiling. He hands Sam a glass of bottle and two small pills. "Swallow."

Sam obliges, though he looks indignant at being told what to do as if he were a kid.

"Okay, now lie down," Dean orders, and waits till Sam does as he's told, the towel slipping off his head as he does so. Dean takes it and stands, spreading the towel out over a chair. "Do you want me to sing you to sleep, or we good?" he asks teasingly, though there's a slight note of seriousness to it. If Sam does want him to sing, then by God he'll sing till his throat feels numb.

Sam makes another face at him. "We're good," he mutters, before turning on his side and wrapping the blanket tighter around himself, curling up. Dean rolls his eyes affectionately at his brother, and throws on the motel comforter over him. "Rest up, buddy," he says. "You'll be better in the morning."

"Mm," mumbles Sam, and closes his eyes.

Dean watches the rise and fall of Sam's chest as his breathing becomes slower and deeper the further he falls into what is hopefully going to be a restful slumber. He can't help but go back to when they were kids, and he would take care of Sam just the exact same way he is now, whenever Sam was sick and John wasn't around. Right up to the age of thirteen, Sam had requested Dean sing him to sleep whenever he was unwell, and Dean bitched and moaned to his heart's content but he never did turn Sam down. After that, Sam stopped asking for it, clearly thinking he was too old for it, but Dean did it anyway, and Sam never protested.

Dean still took care of him after he got back from Stanford, but he hadn't sung anymore. Sam was too old for it, too bitter, too... there was no way to put it, no way there was a single word that could encapsulate Sam's grief and anger and determination. There was a line that even Dean didn't dare cross, and he knew when Sam needed his space. So he'd never tried, not even when there were nights he could hear Sam trying to muffle tears into his pillow in the darkness. What could he say, anyway? Sorry your girlfriend died, d'you wanna hug?

Sam mumbles something in his sleep and wriggles a little before settling, curled up under the covers. Dean watches him, wondering where they stand now, when it comes to the singing and stuff. He has no idea how it'll be received if he does it. God knows Sam needs the comfort it'll give him, though, especially after what's happened to them in the past few weeks. Not a day has gone by without Sam in tears over something or the other, or raging enough to make the Hulk look like a puppy. It's mostly been crying, though, Sam's grief winning out over his anger. He's had only one rage episode, and it's the reason Crowley is terrified of him now.

Jesus. These past few weeks have been hell, and Dean's not one to use that comparison lightly, knowing exactly what hell is like. But he does now, because it makes sense, it does compare. How does one even deal with a loss like that? At least with Sam he knows that he can always bring him back, and if he can't do that then he can always see Sam again whenever he dies and goes to Heaven. They've got the small comfort of knowing that they're never going to be separated for too long, not even when they're dead. But Castiel?

Dean feels the familiar feeling of bile rising in his throat at the thought of the angel. In all the years they'd known him, they'd both thought of him as nothing short of invincible. 'Course, Dean knew the angel had his weaknesses, especially when he had been mortal, but he had always bounced back, some way or another.

Now, though? There was nothing to bounce back from. There was nothing, period. Dean couldn't even begin to fathom that concept, that there was a death from which there was no coming back, and nothing to look forward to.

The end. Literally.

Sam's been coping in his own way, which entails being quietly miserable until he can't hold it back any longer. Dean knows that Sam's the type of person who'd never even consider burdening someone else with his issues, but lately he's not had a choice, and God, Dean hates curses so fucking much. Every strong emotion Sam feels is magnified a thousandfold, whether it's anger or joy or sorrow. It's just been sorrow, though, which is why Sam's earlier outburst of laughter was so welcomed. It had felt like an honest-to-God oasis in the desert that was their situation.

So when Sam feels grief, he cries instead of keeping it in. He can't help it, and Dean knows how much Sam hates having no control over his emotions. Neither of them can do anything but wait for the curse to wear off, though, so Dean just keeps an eye on Sam at all times and when he sees a sob session coming on, nips it in the bud with Sam's favorite food and movies and, if Sam needs it, physical comfort. The former two don't work as effectively as Dean would like them to, but the latter is something Sam seeks out actively, and Dean is glad. It's far easier to take care of Sam when he's being vocal about what he needs.

But Dean? Dean can't just cry his sorrow out like Sam does. Not only would it place undue stress on his already ragged brother, it just... wouldn't fix it for Dean. It wouldn't be cathartic or help him come to some kind of closure or whatever shit therapists told their patients. The only way Dean can deal with it is the same way he always does – by keeping it in and letting it fester, using copious amounts of alcohol as a balm for his wounds. He knows it's not going to help in the long run, that it's just a Band-Aid over a gaping wound. He knows, dammit. He just can't do anything else. This is all he has. This is all he knows how to do.

Sam's not moving anymore, settled quietly under his blanket, his chest moving slowly up and down. His face is slack and relaxed, which means he's not dreaming, and Dean is glad. He supposes the sleeping pills he gave Sam help, because Sam hasn't been able to sleep without them ever since he got cursed. It's kind of hard to doze off when all you want to do is cry. They haven't been very effective in warding off nightmares – on any other night Sam would already have woken up with one – but it seems his body is too busy fighting off his illness to bother with anything else, and Dean is relieved.

He checks his watch, considering his options. He's pretty sure if he stays in all night he's going to lose his mind. He can't keep going over the past few weeks, can't keep ripping the scab off his wounds and hoping it would hurt less over time. He doesn't know if this will ever stop hurting, and dammit, he just wants to be numb to all of this. He doesn't want to think any more, he doesn't want to feel any more, he just needs it all to go away.

Abruptly he stands, his decision made. He scribbles down Out for a while, be back soon on a piece of motel stationery and places it on the table between their beds just in case Sam wakes, and leans down to press a small kiss on his forehead. "Rest, kiddo," he whispers fondly, bringing Sam's blanket up to his chin and turning the lamp off.

He ignores the apprehensive feeling in the pit of his stomach as he tiptoes out of the room and to the Impala. Sam's going to be fine for a couple of hours. He's sleeping like a log for the first time in days and Dean knows how exhausted he's been, so it makes sense he'll sleep through the night.

THEN

Dean came to with a groan, a searing pain in his right forearm where the Mark was supposed to be. He was lying on the ground, his face pressed into the cold damp earth. He could hear murmuring coming from above him, and some sharp voices arguing, but he couldn't understand what they were saying. It felt like his ears were ringing.

He tried to raise his head, but it felt like his skull was filled with lead. "Sam," he tried to say, but it just came out as "Saaaa-aaughh–"

Not a second later there was a familiar concerned face inches from his, and a warm hand on his face. "Dean." It was Sam, of course it was Sam, and he was frowning. "Dean, are you all right?"

Dean groaned again. This time he was somewhat successful when he tried to move, managing to get himself up long enough to free his right arm, which was trapped under his body. "Sammy," he got out, tongue feeling heavy and uncooperative inside his mouth. "Sammy, the Mark–"

The hand flew off his face, and not a second later it was on his arm, lifting it for a better view. Callused fingers trailed lightly over the skin just under the crook of his elbow, the touch soft, almost reverent. "Dean," Sam said, and there was awe and relief and gratitude and a thousand more emotions mixed in his voice, feelings that made Dean feel like his heart would beat its way clean out of his chest with anticipation.

"Dean," Sam repeated, and his voice broke on the last syllable.

Dean made an effort to move again, and this time realized his body felt lighter, like whatever had been weighing him down was gone now. He sat up with yet another groan, pressing his left hand to his head even as he looked down at his right, strangely afraid of what he was going to find.

There was nothing. His skin was clean and even, no raised ugly ridge of what had previously felt like hot, rough scar tissue. Sam's fingers were still on Dean's arm, and he took his hand away from his head to touch the space where the Mark had been. It felt warm and soft, whereas the Mark had always burned a few degrees hotter than the rest of his body. He let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding, feeling like his heart had forgotten how to beat, and then he looked up to find Sam watching him, tears of relief streaming freely down his face.

"Guess you were right, Sammy," he said, attempting to smile at his brother. Sam just let out a sob and threw his arms around Dean, holding on tightly like he could never bear to let go again. Dean didn't hesitate to wrap his arms back around his brother, patting him on the back, one hand on the back of his head. Sam was shaking in his arms, and Dean could feel his tears soak through his shirt. He was feeling a bit teary himself but he reigned it in, choosing instead to press his face to the side of Sam's head.

Sam didn't let go until it got too uncomfortable to remain on the ground. He stood and wiped his face with the back of his hand, smiling shakily at Dean as he did so. "Dean," he tried to say again.

Dean stood as well, placing both hands on Sam's shoulders. "You did it, Sammy," he whispered fiercely. "You found a way."

Sam just laughed wetly, and it was the most beautiful sound Dean had ever heard.

They were interrupted by a delicate cough, and Dean turned to see Rowena standing there expectantly, looking a little bit worse for wear. Her hair was out of place and her clothes seemed to be smoking slightly. "I do believe I had a hand in it," she said loftily. "So I would like my part of the deal now."

Immediately Sam's expression changed, his features becoming cold, set in stone. Behind him, Dean could see Crowley and Castiel standing alert, their blades glinting in the moonlight. This was it, this was where everything could potentially go sideways. Still, Dean found it somewhat hard to care – the Mark was off, it was gone and he felt on top of the world, like he could deal with anything now as long as he had Sam and Cas by his sides.

"The keys and the map, please, Sam," Rowena prompted, taking a step closer to him and holding out her hand expectantly. "Now, dear. I'm rather excited and I don't like to be kept waiting."

Sam took a step back, almost walking right into Dean. "You have the Book," he said cautiously. "You don't need any more knowledge, Rowena."

Her face morphed from excited to confused. "Pardon?" she said, her tone deadly quiet. "If I recall correctly, the deal was that I get to keep the Book and the bunker. Are you telling me you are going to go back on it, Sam?"

"He's telling you he doesn't want to hand the world to you, gift-wrapped, for you to do with as you wish," interjected Crowley, nodding at Castiel. Castiel stepped forward and scuffed out a line of the Devil's Trap with his boot, and both him and Crowley stepped inside, effectively trapping Rowena between them and the Winchesters, and making sure they stood between her and the temporary altar she'd set up.

"Fergus, what is this?" snarled Rowena, her face twisting into an angry mask of hatred. "I thought your people valued contracts more than that!"

"My people do," Crowley assured her. "Them, though." He gestured towards Sam and Dean, who were both armed with blades as well. "They don't give a shite. Especially not when it concerns scrabbling, manipulative scum like you." Coming from Crowley that was rich, but no one chose to comment at that moment.

Rowena stared in disbelief at all four of them, before letting out a bloodcurdling scream. The ground began shaking with the force of her fury; Crowley moved forward but she slammed him away into a nearby oak, causing a considerable dent in the bark of the tree. Dean, thinking she was distracted by her son, tried to sink the blade into her but she slammed him into a tombstone, doing the same with Castiel a moment later.

Sam raised his blade, but she turned on him, the white of her eyes gone. Instead her eyes were a bright, angry scarlet, the color of freshly shed blood, and despite himself Sam felt a twinge of fear. Still, he'd faced down worse and come out on top, and so he braced himself, adjusting his grip on his blade and aiming again.

She shrieked again, the sound sending chills down his spine, and flicked her wrist. Sam's blade was torn from his grasp, and he found himself flying through the air and pinned to a tree. It felt like a full-on earthquake now, what with the way the ground was shaking, and Sam could see tombstones crack and crumble under Rowena's ire.

"You think you can fool me?" she shrieked, paying no mind to Sam's struggling. Dean was back on his feet and he tried to shove her to the ground and break her hold on Sam, but she flicked him away without even having to turn, doing the same to Cas and Crowley a second later when they tried. To ensure she wouldn't be disturbed, she pinned them as well.

"I will make you suffer," Rowena promised. There was a crack of thunder and out of nowhere a gale began to flow, undoing her hair and whipping it all about her face. She looked unhinged, deranged, a lunatic, and behind her Sam saw that Crowley had genuine terror on his face. Well, shit.

He turned his attention back to Rowena to hear her screaming in an unknown language – though Sam could hazard a guess at Gaelic – her voice barely audible over the roaring of the wind. It made Sam's eyes sting and water, each gust feeling like a thousand small icy needles stabbing his skin, turning it raw and painful. He wondered if she was trying to freeze them to death or something.

"I will kill you all!" she screamed, switching back to English, "and I will start with your angel, Sam Winchester! I will make you watch as I torture them all, your brother last of all, and you will feel every single thing I do to them! You will watch the life drain out of them, and your pain will be like nothing anyone has ever felt before!"

And the realization came to Sam, in a rush of nausea, that she had just cursed him. And if he wasn't wrong, it was more or less the same curse she'd used on the women, minus the torturing. Figured, didn't it, that just when Dean got rid of his curse, Sam got one. Still, it was nothing compared to the Mark. They'd deal with it when they had to – right now their focus was to get out of here alive, preferably with Rowena dead.

Her ire was so focused on Sam that she didn't notice that somehow Crowley had gotten free – probably cast a spell of his own – and was creeping up behind her, his clothes whipping about in the powerful wind. She didn't notice him until he was almost on her, blade raised. She laughed, a cold, chilling sound. "Oh, Fergus, you coward," she spat. "I know you can't do it. I am your mother after all." She made to do something to do him, Sam couldn't tell what, but before she could do so Crowley had vanished. Sam stared at the space where he'd just been, and made a vow to murder Crowley next time he saw him for daring to leave them alone with his insane mother.

"CAS, NOW!" Dean roared and Sam's head snapped in that direction, watching in growing horror as Castiel came at Rowena, his eyes glowing blue.

"CAS, NO!" he screamed, knowing what would happen before it did. She was too powerful, too angry, and even with his Grace back, she was more than a match for him.

Still, Castiel held his own, fending off her attacks, and Sam saw what he was doing – he was giving Dean enough time to come at Rowena from her blind spot. Sam knew from personal experience that unfocused anger was the worst obstacle when it came to strategy, so while Rowena was still furious and taking it out, they had a chance. Once she had the time to hone that rage and use it against them, they were done for.

Whatever Castiel was doing worked – Rowena's focus turned on him and Sam fell to the ground. Immediately there were hands fisted in his jacket, dragging him up, and he stood to find Dean's face next to his. "Sam!" Dean yelled.

"I'm fine!" Sam yelled back, fighting to be heard over the wind. "Crowley's gone!"

"We'll deal with that fucker later!" Dean vowed. "Let's just finish off this bitch now."

Sam nodded, accepted the blade Dean handed him, and together they charged Rowena. She heard them coming, however, and once again Dean was sailing through the air, cursing at the peak of his lungs. Sam spared a second to make sure he was fine – with the Mark gone Dean was no longer immune to harm – and then turned back to Castiel and Rowena.

She turned to him as well, her arm raised high, and Sam saw with growing horror that her nails had mutated into sharp black talons – and they were aimed for his throat. He dodged, rolling to the side, getting to his feet and moving out of the way before she could attempt to gouge his throat out again. Behind him he could hear Dean yelling, but something Rowena had done was keeping him away – it looked like a force field, the air around it shimmering, smelling strongly of ozone. Dean couldn't get near her, and he was roaring in frustration as he tried uselessly to cut through it with his blade.

Castiel and Sam were both inside the field, though, and therefore could still try to finish Rowena before she finished them. Sam had just raised his blade once more when there was a loud, ripping sound, and the tree Sam had been pinned to earlier completely uprooted in the strong wind and hurtled through the air at breakneck speed...

...headed straight for his brother. "DEAN!" screamed Sam, trusting Cas to keep her occupied while he watched out for his big brother. "DEAN, MOVE!"

Dean dropped the blade and tried to jump out of the way. He was successful for the most part, but did get caught in the stomach by a wayward branch that had come off, completely knocking his breath away from him. He fell on his knees, wheezing, but he was all right, and he was out of harm's way for now at least.

Rowena screamed, and Sam turned just in time to see her charging at him with Castiel's blade, the angel crumpled on the ground. He moved out of her way and in Castiel's direction, yelling "Cas, Cas!"

Her momentum threw her off for a bit, and Sam used the few seconds of relief to grab Castiel and haul him to his feet. The angel was hurt, Sam saw, a cut above his eye oozing copious amounts of blood down his face, his lip split and bleeding as well. "Sam, we've got to stop her tonight, we can't let her get away," Castiel informed him, wiping at his mouth. "There's no telling what the damage she'll do if she's free."

Sam nodded. Rowena was up again, one hand holding the blade, the other clawed, her eyes glinting murder-red, looking truly out of control. She snarled, and then several things happened at once.

Castiel raised his arm and tried to knock her away, but only succeeded in pissing her off further. Beyond the force field, Dean roared in anger, just as Crowley popped back into view, right behind Rowena, and chopped her clawed arm off with his blade in one clean slice.

She screamed in agony, bright red blood spurting out of the stump, her hand lying uselessly on the ground. Sam saw his chance and closed in, but before he could do anything she looked up, still screaming, and threw her blade in his direction, lightning-fast and true, and Sam was sure that he was going to die.

There was a blinding flash of light and for a few seconds every sound faded, before coming back in full-force. Sam was not dead, but Dean was screaming anyway, and instead of anger this time it was raw shock and horror, and it looked like he was going to tear his vocal cords out if he didn't stop soon.

"No, no, no, NO, CASTIEL!"

Sam opened his eyes, mouth falling open in stunned disbelief at the sight before him. He was not dead, because Castiel hadn't let him die. The angel had shielded Sam with his own body, moving in front of him at the speed of light, taking the blade meant for him. The blade that was now sticking out of the center of his chest, the last sparks of his Grace fading away. There was a pair of large black wings seared into the ground where Castiel was lying, eyes still open, wide and unseeing.

Sam wasn't aware when he'd begun screaming – all he knew was that he was seeing red, and it was flooding each and every one of his senses until he couldn't feel anything but raw, powerful fury, an emotion to rival Rowena's. His ears were roaring, not with the wind but with the furious pumping of his own blood, his heartrate so fast that it was a wonder he hadn't hemorrhaged yet due to the rise in blood pressure. Nearby Crowley was staring at Castiel's remains in shock, but Sam paid him no mind, rushing at Rowena one last time with his blade.

He didn't care if he lived or died. He didn't care if Crowley lived or died. He didn't even spare a thought to Dean. All he cared about in that moment was Rowena, about causing her the most pain he could, making her suffer for what she'd just done. Something in the way he was screaming must have thrown her off – she was looking at him with her mouth slightly open, her amputated arm dangling uselessly by her side, staining her torn dress.

She came to her senses a second too late, but Sam was already upon her, stabbing and slicing at every part of her he could reach, her body pinned under his weight. He was only dimly aware of the pain in his throat as he sobbed and screamed at the same time, yelling expletives and words that even he didn't understand, stabbing Rowena over and over again, delighting in her screams of agony.

He felt a hand land on his shoulder and almost ripped it off, but Crowley got his ass out of there before Sam could, rematerializing a safe distance away. Sam didn't even bother looking at him, fueled on by his own anger, Rowena's cries for mercy and her blood spattering all over his face as he cut off her other arm at the elbow, plunged his blade into her abdomen. She was flailing weakly, begging him to stop, to show some mercy, weak cowardly bitch that she was, her ruined arms waving madly, her legs kicking uselessly under Sam. And when the screaming got too annoying he gouged her throat out, before sinking the blade into her left eye.

She twitched once, twice and then no more, her entire body stilling. The ground stopped shaking completely, the wind dropped to nothing above a whisper and the force field flickered out of existence, marking her death, but Sam didn't stop, couldn't make himself. All he could think of was Castiel, all he could see was blood red, all he could hear was the rush in his own ears.

Distantly he heard Dean calling him name, sounding terrified, but paid him no mind until he felt strong arms wrap around him and forcefully drag him away from Rowena's mutilated corpse. He yelled and lashed out, but Dean had his arms pinned to his side and he couldn't move, not without hurting Dean. "Hey, Sam, Sammy, look at me!" Dean was commanding loudly, shaking him. "Look at me, Sam!"

Sam did, breathing heavily, only now realizing that his face was wet not just with blood but also with hot tears, his shirt soaked red. "Sam, drop the blade," Dean demanded, refusing to let go of Sam until he obeyed. "Drop it!"

Literally the same words Sam had said to Dean once upon a time so long ago, and they had the same effect on him that they'd had on his brother. His fingers loosened and the blade slipped from his hand, clattering to the ground where it was immediately picked up by Crowley and thrown far out of his reach. "Bloody hell, Moose," Crowley whispered, his face white as he stared at what had once been his mother.

Dean didn't loosen his grip on Sam even as they both sank to the ground, Sam only barely registering the tear tracks on Dean's face, how red he was from screaming. "Sammy," Dean whispered, the sound coming out hoarse and broken. "Oh God, Sammy," he said, his voice breaking, and then he was clutching Sam to him, hands fisting in Sam's shirt, and Sam completely melted into his brother's arms, face smushed into his shoulder. He felt numb, so numb and tired, so tired...

The last thing he registered before passing out was Dean's panicked shout of "Sammy!"

So now you know what's up with Sam as well, and how it happened. The upcoming chapters are going to focus more on the brothers dealing with it as well as Cas's death. Ups and downs will be had... the usual.

Also. Sorry about Cas. Pooja dared me. (Literally.)

Love,
Remy x