Bright spots flickered in Sam's vision, peppering the dark and heavy layer of sleep weighing on his eyelids. His fingers twitched, calling a rush of feeling through his muscles and chasing the numbness away. Slowly and delicately, Sam abandoned the depths of his troubled sleep for the dappled light of a more troubled reality. The lines of his vision wavered as he rose but didn't disappear; however, his stomach churned angrily and forced his entire body into a deformed crouch as he struggled to bring up bile. In all of Sam's hangovers, he'd never experienced a sickness quite like this. The floor remained untarnished and he passed his retching fit with great relief, taking the time to contemplate his surroundings for the first time. The light dimmed periodically with the languid turns of a fan and Sam timed his breaths with each flash of light, feeling the tension drain from his body as he contemplated the all too familiar cast iron walls of Bobby's panic room. He traced his wrist with rough fingers, analysing his skin for bruises, burns or lacerations but he found none. Nor did he detect the smell of sulphur, unless of course sulphur now smelt of cheap whisky and leather. Sam sat on the creaking metal bed, sighed once, and waited for his reality to collapse.

"I don't know, Bobby. How long's it take for a soul to install? He's been out for 16 hours now and I don't trust that winged Gandalf, he could have broken his head just as easy as fixed it. I'd call it revenge."

"For what? Leaving him to die while you high tailed it out of that hotel?" Bobby answered monotonously. It was Dean's 17th theory of the day as to why Sam hadn't woken up yet. Oddly enough, having the traumatic experience of a flayed soul penetrate your body hadn't occurred to him yet. Bobby was fully resigned to keep it that way; Dean had enough to worry about.

"Yeah, that. I don't know why he holds a grudge. Not like he died or anything. Cas has exploded, what, twice for us? You don't see him complaining." Rolling his eyes, Bobby left him to his speculations and chose instead to polish off his second bottle of whisky of the day. It was becoming harder and harder to supress the nagging voice at the back of his grapefruit, imitating that dick angel's drawl in a repetitive drone. If Gabriel had failed to make an appearance, Sam could have killed Bobby and that was an undeniable fact. Consciousness and reason be damned, Sam would have gutted him in an instant if it would have saved his own precious skin. He supposed it was unfair to judge, Sam wasn't exactly in his right mind…but that's the point, he kinda was. Without emotion to hold him back, he was thinking as clearly as he ever could, he wasn't possessed or bewitched; just brutally efficient. And, damn, did that just break his wizened old heart.

"Bobby, are you listening to a single word I'm saying?" Dean accused, jigging slightly on his feet in nervous excitement.

"Yeah, yeah, Gabriel might have internally combusted your brother as payback for his not-death. I'm listening." Dean's eyes fixed his own in a glare of defensive hostility.

"What's with you? You have to care a little about this, I mean, it's Sam?" Bobby sighed and swilled the dregs of whisky around his glass carelessly.

"I do care; you boys are family to me. And, unlike you, I'm choosing to numb that care with liquor instead of accusing every person we've met of attempted murder." Bobby punctuated his declaration by draining the remains of his glass.

"And that helps how?" Dean questioned but his eyes flickered to the glass with faint longing. He'd remained pretty much sober through the entire incident, something that would signal health in most people. Dean wasn't most people.

"It doesn't, it rots my liver and kills my mind. But it's a damn sight better than biting off my own arm in worry. Sam isn't dying down there 'cos some angel had a vendetta. He's suffering down there 'cos two archangels had a vendetta and a long time to prove it. I 'aint expecting no miraculous recovery, and neither should you." As he let his head drop in resignation, Dean's answer was barely coherent.

"I'm not expecting it. I just want him conscious." Bobby pressed a filled whisky glass into Dean's limp hands; he may as well get rid of his emergency stores.

"I know, kid. I know." He squeezed Dean's shoulder with as much reassurance as he could muster.

"Bobby, you're alive?!"

Sam winced at how weak his voice sounded as he tentatively entered the room. Dean rose immediately to greet him, his face a little haggard but otherwise undamaged, all trace of what Lucifer did, what he did, wiped clean. Sam's knuckles burned slightly at the memory, feeling the crunch of bone and splitting of skin beneath his hands whilst begging them, willing them to just stop…

"Sam?" Dean's voice pulled him back into the kitchen; strong and cautious at the same time, not the comforting rasp Sam last heard before…before he…

"Sam!" Bobby spoke louder and firmer, yanking him fully into the present. He eyed Sam with wariness but that was understandable. After all, Sam could recall the feel of his neck snapping as if his own hands had done it. The jolt of power through his arm as Bobby had dropped motionless to the floor, yards away from Sam but still dead because of him.

"How…are you…?" His voice wavered slightly as he searched for words. How could you find enough words in the world to string together an apology for killing the closest thing he had to a father?

"Alive?" Bobby finished for him. Sam only nodded in answer. "I had angelic help. Our boy Cas is alive and kickin', despite being scattered all over my favourite shirt."

Every molecule of being dissembled under his rage as he tore apart their friend, delighting in the power he felt writhing under his skin even as he cried out in anguish for what that power had done. As Sam had clawed through his own consciousness, screaming to get out as Lucifer cackled and relished in the extermination of the pitiful insects who dared to meddle in divine plans, he had seen Dean. Dean had faced the destruction of his best friend, blasted into oblivion by an indestructible being using his brother as a meatsuit, and yet he stayed. His face revealed not anguish, not despair, but resignation. At that point he had resigned himself to die at the hands of his own brother. And Sam had resigned himself to fight that bastard inside his head even if he had to rip apart every fibre of his being.

Strong hands gripped his shoulders, snapping Sam out of his daze as Dean's worried eyes gazed into his own.

"How are you feeling?" Was the simple question from Dean's lips. Sam considered it for a long moment, refusing to let the past pull him back into its alluring misery.

"I'm fine. Just a little tired. What the hell happened?" He looked from Dean to Bobby slowly.

"Well you… jumped into that box. And you've been there for a year and a half." Dean spoke slowly, assessing Sam's face with worried eyes. Sam kept his face passive, letting Dean's words wash over him.

"So...how am I out? Was it Cas?" Shifting nervously, Dean avoided his gaze.

"Not exactly." A bad feeling pooled in Sam's stomach, he knew that look.

"Dean? What did you do?"

"Right, me and Death…" Dean began. Whatever Sam had been thinking, this was so much worse.

"Death? The horseman!? Please say this isn't a deal!"

"No, of course not. I learned my lesson. Look, I had leverage." Sam let out the breath he was holding and counted to ten silently as he considered Dean's words. He wanted to believe that his rescue was clean cut, but experience was an ever present stain on their tattered history.

"Anything else I should know?" Addressing Bobby more than Dean, Sam pressed for any weakness in Dean's carefully constructed armour.

"Nope, beer?" Sam chuckled slightly and his eyes steadily filled with tears of genuine relief. Before he could protest, he pulled Dean into a hug and relaxed into the first friendly contact he'd felt for…well a long time.

"Why the hell are you lyin' to him? Again?" Bobby berated him in hushed tones, casting glances periodically towards the sitting room. Dean mentally prepared himself for a shitstorm of some kind because he knew he fucked up and he wasn't even going to deny it.

"As far as I'm concerned, we're good here! Gabriel's gone, he's God knows where, and Sam doesn't need to know that an archangel pulled his soul out of the cage to stop his mindless corpse from killing everyone we know because they piss him off. He doesn't remember being soulless so why risk jogging his memory?" Dean argued back, flinching at a small rustle from Sam's general direction. Bobby sighed in resignation and Dean flooded with relief, Bobby wouldn't risk harming Sam further for the sake of truth.

"A relationship built on lies lasts about as long as they do, boy." He warned softly.

"Yeah, Bobby. I know."

The sun drowned in a sea of marmalade after a long and weary afternoon. Sam dozed slightly on the much-welcomed leather upholstery of the Impala, nuzzling into the comforting smell as rose-tinted sleep pulled him into its languid lull. The vibrations of an engine cracked and twisted into a blood-curdling screech, bubbling through Sam's blood as the warmth of home melted and drained away until only Lucifer's blood-soaked face occupied his vision. Sam thrashed and screamed and pleaded but his hold was everywhere at once and yet nowhere at all. Dragging white hot claws down through muscle and sinew, reforming Sam's body into nothing but pain and suffering for all eternity, Lucifer held him down with no effort at all. There was no physical presence that Sam could shake off, nothing for him to fight against, only the burn of doomed immortality ripping him apart until he could scream no longer.

"Woah! Woah! Sam, please calm down!" Something held his arms, pinning him in place. He couldn't move, and the pain just kept on rushing everywhere. There was nowhere he could go, nothing he could do. Sam cried and thrashed until at last the impossible happened: the force disappeared. His arms were free, the pain was gone, and Sam was lying on tear and sweat-soaked cotton with his hair matted all over his face.

"Dean?" He asked, softly at first, and then more panicked. His heart thumped rapidly in his throat, choking his words as he searched for Dean in what seemed like a bog standard motel room. Then, all of a sudden, Dean was there in his vision.

"Sam? Talk to me, you okay? It was a nightmare, alright. You're here, you're with me." Sam nodded wordlessly, his pulse slowing to a steady beat as he processed his immediate surroundings. There was no danger anymore, the cage was behind him. Small, shaky breaths escaping him with every step, he headed quietly to the bathroom. Fingers fraught with nervous trembling fumbled with the cold taps, struggling to turn them. Pulling a cold flannel across his face, Sam breathed carefully and waited for the room to stop spinning.

Two towns over, Sam perused the newspaper carefully for hunter bait. Their third hunt couldn't be far away and Sam was practically itching to throw himself into yet another bloody monster hunt. Nightmarish to most, decapitating a vampire or two was practically a Winchester health spa.

"I have to say, I've never seen a Wendigo hunt in daylight like that." Dean observed. Sam simply hummed in agreement and continued reading. "And that werewolf pack on a half-moon? There's definitely something odd 'bout that."

"Yeah, definitely." Sam agreed, closing down conversation swiftly before Dean could ask how he was. Their last monster hunts had crossed the borders and fully entered the town of 'freakin' weird' but, according to Bobby, that was commonplace for hunters all across the map. Chop enough monster necks and they had to find the source of all this; Sam had died pulling the world from the brink of annihilation already and, frankly, he deserved a break.

"I'm thinking of getting Cas's face tattooed across my back as a 'fuck you' to heaven, thoughts?" Sam hummed half-heartedly, not paying attention to Dean's further attempts to pull him into conversation. "Dammit, Sam, talk to me. You're not fooling me with your strong and silent crap. I though Freddy Krueger was in your melon this morning, man. Scared the shit out of me." Sam met his brother's gaze with resignation.

"Fine, what do you want me to say? That I feel like crap? That I see Lucifer and Michael again every time I sleep? Because it's true and there's nothing you can do about it. This is on me." Even though Dean already knew the truth, Sam could still see the pain in his eyes at the admission. It was no wonder that they lied so much. Dealing with one set of pain was possible. Dealing with two? That was a whole other level.

"No, I don't want to push you into talking about hell. When I…when I got back, you respected that I didn't wanna talk. But that was mine, yours is only gonna get worse." He knew this, of course. He stayed up into the dead of night, dreading the hour that his fatigued body would pull him into the cage, into their waiting hands. Every night could be the night that the hours get longer and the pain gets sharper, returning his torment to full recollection. And every night could be the one that breaks him.

"I know. But I'm managing it. What I want to know is what happened to you? I thought you were going back to Lisa?" Dean's jaw clenched as he fixed his eyes resolutely on the road.

"I did." He stated simply. Sam had often wondered after Dean, whenever Michael decided that torturing Sam was less fun than arguing with his brother about who their father loved more. From the jealously in his voice, Sam had always known it was Lucifer. As he'd lain there, he'd always taken the momentary peace to cast his mind upwards, where he'd wished with every inch of his heart that Dean was having barbeques and talking about the state of the lawn with boring suburban dads, doing anything except wallow in grief. But the stone in Dean's eyes chilled Sam to the bone.

"Then why are you hunting? Why did you bring me back, you could have seriously damaged something down there!"

"It didn't end well." Deciding not to push further, Sam attempted another line of enquiry.

"What about Cas, did you see him?" He could almost hear the slamming of Dean's mental gates as he tensed at the question. Well, it was unfair to expect Sam to bare his feelings and not give a little in return.

"No, he went back to cloud nine to play the harp and do whatever else those guys do." The blatant deflection deepened Sam's fear. Dean had replaced his family and friends with grief and liquor, a possibility Sam had pushed to the recesses of his mind because no matter how much pain and suffering the angel's carved into his broken soul, it was nothing compared to the worry that his brother was miserable.

"So you cut him out? Just like that?" Irritation crept into his voice as he probed for the trigger that would snap Dean out of his stone countenance.

"I gave up hunting, just like you asked."

"Giving up hunting doesn't mean giving up one of the best friends you've ever had. He could have helped, Dean. Who else aside from him and Bobby could have really understood what you were going through?" Sam was overstepping his mark and he knew it but nothing could curb the raw hurt boiling through his mind as the only sanctuary he's known for god knows how long unravelled before him.

"I did what you asked, it was torture for me and probably more for them but I promised. I really tried, Sam, but I was a mess and I drank and cried and there was nothing I could do about it. So I left and I did the only thing that could restore some sanity to my world. Cas has a civil war on his hands and monsters are scaring the hell out of hunters everywhere but I'd take this over pretending to fit into some perfect life, anyday." Deflating like a punctured zeppelin, Sam let his fears go. Dean had a point, forcing a grieving and paranoid hunter on a family was never going to work. Then, another section of Dean's confession caught his attention.

"Wait, Cas is fighting a civil war?"

The shrill, demanding wail of a phone died with a sudden jolt as Bobby seized the receiver.

"Yeah?" He answered gruffly, gazing longingly at the empty glass he set down on the dresser.

"We've got a problem." Dean's surly cadence greeted him through the harsh resonance of the phone. Bobby sighed deeply and settled into his armchair.

"More monsters acting weird?" He questioned, noticing the lack of urgency in Dean's tone.

"Yeah, we had a couple of werewolves on a half moon and a wendigo hunting in a city, in broad daylight. But that's not it. It's Sam." This call was later than Bobby expected, he'd thought that Sam must have either recovered miraculously or concealed everything the Winchester way. Maybe he's hoped for the former, but the latter was more likely. Balancing the phone on his shoulder, he made his way to his emergency stores.

"What's he doing?"

"He stays up all night trying to research any case he can find. And when he finally falls asleep…" Dean's voice trailed off just as Bobby reached the fridge.

"Listen, kid. Sam's going to have nightmares. Remember your trip to hell? That weren't no advert for peaceful sleep." He unscrewed the cap of the first amber bottle he saw.

"Yeah, I know. It's just…so much different when you're seeing it yourself."

"You don't have to remind me." Bobby brought the glass to his lips and nearly choked as a sickly sweet liquid filled his mouth. "Ack!"

"Bobby, are you alright?" He spat the disgusting fluid into the sink and considered the bottle.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Turns out some idiot musta sold me syrup instead of scotch. It was probably Rufus."

"That's rough, man. I'll call if there's anything else." Chasing the residue of sugar around his mouth with his tongue, Bobby grumbled his agreement before setting the phone back on the receiver. He took another bottle from the fridge and sniffed tentatively at the contents before pouring it all down the sink.

"Is this some kind of sick joke?" He groaned aloud as the kitchen filled with the artificial scent of golden syrup, assaulting his nostrils in a sickly war of the senses. A sour inspection of every bottle he possessed confirmed his suspicions. "I'm gonna kill me a dick angel." He promised himself darkly. Eyeing the discarded phone, Bobby considered calling Dean but, really, no use crying over spilled syrup. He flicked on the ageing record playing absent mindedly, flopping into the nearest chair he could find.

Come on shake your body baby do the conga

I know you can't control yourself any longer

A cacophony of maracas and cheerful piano exploded into his study as Bobby found himself pulled upright by a force beyond any reason.

"What the hell?!" He exclaimed, for too incredulous to even be remotely annoyed. His foot tapped a tentative rhythm on the hardwood floor and Bobby speared it with a glare. "Oh no you don't." He warned it. It was too late, the rhythm was inside him, filling his body with ugly convulsions taking the shape of jarring dancing. He scrambled for the phone but knocked it to the floor with a flourish. Spinning gracefully, Bobby muttered curses and exorcisms and just anything that would stop him from doing the goddamn samba.

Everybody gather 'round now
Let your body feel the heat
Don't you worry if you can't dance
Let the music move your feet

His body shook and moved with the irritating rhythm, taking him far away from the phone or record player as he shimmied around the small study, knocking over several precariously piled books.

"Balls!"

Dean watched the rain bombard the loose window. Each drop exploded against the glass, running down his reflection in rivulets of tears. The wind loosed the window pane a fraction more and a freezing spray of water attacked his face.

"God dammit." He muttered to himself and moved away from the window. He jumped in shock as an ear splitting screech from the bathroom broke the repetitious thrumming of the rain. Almost knocking himself out by barging into the door, sprinting into the bathroom with a scream of "Sam!". Standing in the bathroom, staring paralysed into the clouded mirror, was Sam. And he was completely bald. A shocked noise forced its way out of Dean's throat until he was on all floors, choking with laughter. He calmed himself down and struggled to force a passive expression on his face. Then one look at Sam's distraught expression set him off again, snorting uncontrollably.

"WHAT THE HELL?!" Sam shrieked, turning back to the mirror and caressing the shiny surface of his head in utter despair. With a muffled thump, Dean's head hit the floor and he laughed himself hoarse. After a long while, he finally climbed to his feet, tears running like the rain down his face.

"Did you, erm, use the wrong product on your hair?" Sam fixed him with a look of dismay.

"No, I just woke up and…what did you do?!" Dean gathered a look of pure innocence over his perplexed features.

"What, no! I couldn't do that, it's far too perfect. How much credit do you give me?" As Sam stepped closer, the light shifted to shine perfectly off his exposed head, creating a shining halo over his form. Dean couldn't help himself and melted into laughter once more.

"YOU ARE NOT HELPING!"

Hours later, Dean stood in a bright gas station, trying to catch the eye of the very shapely blonde girl behind the counter. She bit her lip as she concentrated on the crossword in front of her, occasionally tracing a letter or two with a pencil she kept tucked behind her ear. He inconspicuously smoothed his hair back and approached the counter.

"Hey sweetie, what can I getcha?" She asked in a high, thrilling voice.

Dean employed his most charming grin and gave it a shot.

"Gas from pump 3…and your phone number please sweetheart?" She giggled loudly, a sweet and melodic laugh, and moved to the cash register.

"That would be lovely but I think your boyfriend would disapprove." Dean chuckled good-naturedly and attempted to explain.

"I don't think he would, that's just my brother." She glanced at the impala briefly, before smiling widely at him.

"He has a nice hat. It's a shame you're single, you know my brother just broke up with his boyfriend if you're looking for someone?" Dean politely declined and paid for their gas before leaving in befuddlement.

Sam grumbled and checked his reflection in the wing mirror, as if expecting his hair to miraculously reappear.

"I swear to god, if there's another damned trickster out there gunning for us then I'm going to ram a stake up his ass." Dean voiced his third threat of the drive, his knuckles white on the steering wheel as they headed to Sioux Falls.

"If that's what he's into." Sam mumbled. Traumatised as he was by the loss of his beloved hair, the fact that at least 5 girls had tried to set Dean up with one of their male friends was honestly hilarious. Serves him right for hitting on every girl they came across, in Sam's opinion. "I don't see why you're so bothered, honestly. So what if a couple of girls think you're gay?"

"That's my point! I've been let off easy, when do tricksters ever let us off easy?" Panic coloured Dean's tone as he increased their speed ever so slightly.

"It might not be a trickster?" Dean glanced at him briefly in disbelief.

"Of course it's a trickster, who else would make you bald for a prank?" Sam touched the fluffy hat Dean had picked up for two bucks from some gas station.

"Who indeed?" He murmured, more to himself than Dean, as they sped on under the quiet blanket of darkness.

As they approached Bobby's house, the muffled tune of Rick Astley blared from within, causing him and Dean to exchange worried glances.

"I think Bobby may have opened a hell gate in his living room." Dean observed with faint perplexity.

"I sincerely hope so." Sam agreed, drawing closer to the excruciating sound of an 80s one hit wonder. As they entered, Bobby danced into view. Yes, danced. Moving with more grace and energy than Sam had ever seen before, Bobby greeted them with a twirl and vigorous jazz hands. Instantly, both Dean and Sam creased with laughter.

"Stop cackling and help me ya idjits, I've been trying to call for hours now but I can't stop this!" Without breaking his laughter, Dean pulled Sam's hat off. Bobby started but was unable to react further, given that he had just begun to Macarena.

"We have a trickster to summon-" Dean began gravely but the flutter of wings interrupted his speech. A distinctly not-dead Gabriel leant against the counter, nodding his head happily to the music and grinning around a lollipop. Sam stared, rooted to the floor in dumbfounded shock.

"Gabriel?! What the fuck?!"