I didn't want to wait long to give you guys some actual story progression, so here ya go! A nice long one too. Remember to review, I'd appreciate it very much.

It will be Castiel's job to monitor everyone, but he doesn't exactly feel qualified.

He's an angel. His power is divine—practically as far as it gets from witchcraft, even the natural-born witchcraft this particular witch claims to wield. He doesn't know how her magic works. He's not sure he could recognize foul play or even something innocently going wrong if it happened right in front of him. And if he did, what could he do about it? Even if he knew how to apply his power, that power is currently in rather short supply as of his resurrection of that young hunter. And Sam knows this.

Or knew it, anyway. He worries for the man's mental state, but it seems, at this point, that making that worry known is only making things worse.

Upon gathering all the ingredients she indicated—aside from their blood, as there are still a lot of unknowns there and they still need to pull out Dean and Cain in any case—Sam goes to retrieve the witch, while Castiel goes to get Dean.

He's awake, having been lying on his cot, but he sits at attention, his eyes wide and desperate, the moment the door unlatches. Castiel looks at him for a time, evaluating him. When he brought him into this cell, he took a moment to clean the blood from his face, but now he's noticing faint streaks that he missed. His red eyes seem to indicate he's been crying recently, though his face appears dry.

He feels far away from it all. He has to distance himself, somehow. It's one of the many very human habits he's adopted in recent years.

"Is it time?" Dean asks hoarsely while Castiel is still standing at the door.

Castiel considers him for several seconds before asking, his voice low and cautious, "Time for what?"

Dean's brows furrow in an expression that says Come on. "Cain is here. To kill me."

It's difficult to analyze the complexities of the emotions in his voice and his face. It's clear that there's some element of hope in there. Castiel shakes his head almost imperceptibly, and his voice is tired when he replies, "No, Dean, we're not going to kill you."

Dean exhales shakily. "I was really, really afraid you were gonna say that."

Silence for a moment as Castiel searches for the words to say.

But Dean speaks again before he can: "'We,' you said? So Sam is still alive? That chick was just messing with me?"

Castiel's missing some pieces, but the answer is obviously yes. He only nods.

"Who is she?" He asks like he doesn't really care. Like he doesn't know why he's asking. He hasn't even stood up yet.

"A reaper. She's here to help. We all are."

Dean closes his eyes, shakes his head. "Well, don't," he says hoarsely, his voice cracking. "To say I'm sick of it doesn't begin to cover it."

"I don't care," says Castiel flatly, clearly startling Dean somewhat. "I've heard you, and I don't care that you don't want help."

Dean lets out what sounds like a choked half-sob, and tries desperately, "You said—you said there was no hope for me. That I was damned, past saving."

"That was before."

"Before what?"

"Before Sam destroyed himself trying to bring you back home. Before I saw the depth of his devotion to you. Before you went farther than most things you've hunted ever even could and he refused—refused—to give up on you. I don't care that you don't want help, because I can't let that be for nothing. And every shred of that love came from you." He starts taking steps forward, and Dean watches him with wide eyes, all energy clearly drained from him. "So now," concludes Castiel as he stops just outside of Dean's immediate reach, "it's time for you to own up to what you've created."

Dean still doesn't move a muscle. His eyes have slipped down and are now trained on the floor across the cell.

Castiel stands in front of him, observing his exhaustion and misery for a long moment, before he says, his voice still hard, "This isn't about you. Not anymore. It's about Sam."

He doesn't say this because he really believes it. He says it because, he deems, it's his best angle to inspire even a mote of cooperation.

A long silence passes. And then, finally, in what seems to be a miracle in and of itself, Dean begins to struggle to his feet.

Sam feels incredibly self-conscious following Rowena's instructions under Death's watchful gaze, and he wonders how their knowledge of witchcraft stacks up against one another.

It's odd to have this solidarity with the witch herself, who is obviously just as nervous as he is with the presence of the black-clad man, if not more.

Cas stands next to her, acting tough, even though Sam knows very well that his energy is all but depleted. And catty-corner from the two of them, standing a few paces in front of Death, not looking at anything in particular every time Sam has glanced his way, is Dean.

His shoulders sag low. He sways slightly, like he'd fall over if you breathed on him. He's in just a T-shirt and jeans, the exposed Mark glowing red on his arm. Every time Sam strays in his direction, he tenses up a bit, but Dean just doesn't seem to be… there. He's an altogether different husk than the one that tried to kill Sam less than an hour ago.

Sam is in the midst of them all, drawing chalk sigils on the cleared floor according to the witch's instruction. The unsavory ingredients she asked for are scattered along some of the lines, and the center includes four large circles, in which he imagines the participants will be sitting.

As the door opens, Sam's eyes flicker over, and Eloise appears from the storage area, her hand gripped tight around the upper arm of Cain. Cain exhales a bit, his gaze sweeping over the setup, and Eloise leads him, gently but firmly, to stand beside Castiel, with her on his other side.

Immediately, though, Eloise goes to approach Death, and as she does, she exhibits something Sam has never seen in her: deference. Even reverence, bowing her head as she draws near. Her back is to Sam but he doesn't even think she's attempting eye contact.

And she clutches in her hands the cloth-wrapped object she was carrying at her side up till now, and presents it to him, like a knight asking a sword to be blessed.

Of course, this situation is practically a polar opposite.

Dean's back is to the scene, thankfully, and he doesn't react, still appearing quite far away, but Cain darkens visibly as he watches, his fists clenching at his sides, and he sharply looks away, closing his eyes.

Death considers Eloise for a long moment, and Sam finds himself unconsciously leaning forward to hear what he'll say. But he doesn't say anything, just taking the bound Blade from her hands without taking his eyes off her.

"Oi," says Rowena, but there's no bite in her voice, because, clearly, she understands. "You're not done just yet."

Sam ducks his head back down and hurriedly finishes the final circle before rising to his feet, a motion that leaves him just slightly dizzy. He's going to crash hard after this, and adrenaline can only get him so far, but he'll just have to deal. Everything pales in comparison to hell anyway.

Rowena surveys his work for a moment before nodding, and says, "Right. Everyone line up."

For a moment no one moves. Sam, for his part, briefly hesitates before glancing at Dean, though not for long enough to really evaluate his state before he looks away again, deciding it doesn't matter what his state is. He takes a few halting steps, and finally, when he sees Dean's feet just below him, he chances to raise his eyes to meet Dean's.

The worst he had been braced for was obvious murderous intent, but what he sees hits him far worse. Dean is broken. His red-rimmed eyes gleam with moisture, but the skin under his eyes sags and his face looks ashen, his lips slightly parted to breathe laboriously, showing a man who's too tired to cry. Faint streaks of dried blood on the side of his face are ugly against his pale skin.

Dean meets his eyes, and Sam is sure he's trying to communicate about a dozen things at once. Most people wouldn't understand.

Sam is pretty certain he hears them all.

I know you.

I remember everything.

I hate myself.

How could you bring me back?

Thank you for killing him.

I'm angry.

I'm hurting.

I'm sorry.

Please let this end.

I love you.

It's a look that cuts Sam deep, but so much of it is just what Dean has spent his whole life trying to hide, but Sam always knew was there anyway. He looks… like himself. Just with the walls torn down by the sheer mass of new trauma weighing against them.

He doesn't touch Dean. Not just yet. He just spends a long time looking into the eyes of his brother.

It's a testament to Dean's continued strength that he continues to look back.

Sam abruptly stops when he begins to feel moisture gathering in his own eyes, and steps in line to his right.

He realizes then that the room had gone rather quiet in respect for the moment, as it is only then that Eloise and Cain come to line themselves up next to them as well. Rowena stands before them, glancing them over for a moment before she says, "Everything is set up. Little more is needed except the blood of you four, which I will mix in the center of the circles you'll be sitting in." She glances at Cas. "Ehm, we'll be needing some knives and a wooden bowl, angel."

"And this spell is called?" asks Cain, and despite his new status as a human being, his tone is one that will brook no nonsense.

Rowena seems ruffled, even if just slightly, as she looks at him. She replies, her voice low and even, but a bit too intentionally so, "The minte comună."

"Moldavian," Cain mutters. "That's heavy duty, complex magic. You certain you're not in over your head, witch?"

Her jaw tightens a bit, her eyes growing sharper as she examines him. "I don't know," she says, her voice dry and hot as embers. "Why don't you look into my mind and see for yourself?"

Sam can't help it; he glances over to Cain. Dean does too.

Cain's mouth snaps shut, and, to his credit, a slight twist of his brow is the only reaction he shows.

"That'll be enough," comes a voice from the other side of the room, and six heads turn to see the leisurely approach of Death, lightly swinging his cane as he walks to them, his long coat trailing heavily behind him. "I have a low threshold for mortal pettiness."

Rowena doesn't take her eyes off him, but she steps back, giving him the floor with no fuss.

He takes center stage, as is his right, fixating at once on Dean. Instinctively, Sam doesn't want to take his eyes off Death, but he glances to Dean through his peripherals, and it's clear that his brother is shaking.

"Dean," says Death, and it's difficult to identify what it is, but there's something in his voice that hasn't been there when he's addressed anyone else present.

Sam is surprised when Dean speaks readily, shaking his head slightly: "I… Cas said… Um. Why-why are you here?"

"Hm," Death hums, raising an eyebrow as his gaze sweeps over the rest of the assembly. "Nobody here has explained it to you, then."

Sam looks down shamefully. He supposes none of them really wanted to see his reaction, much less risk being its target. It was happening with or without his permission, anyway.

For the first time it occurs to him that might be kind of messed up. He wants to say Dean would almost certainly have acquiesced anyway, there's no doubt he still wants the damn thing off his arm with every fiber of his being—except there is. They still can't make assumptions. He tried to strangle Sam twelve hours ago.

But even if he didn't. Even if he didn't want to be rid of it, for his own good and the good of the world, for every life he's ruined or ended because of their allowance, they would strap him down and do it all the same.

But Sam suddenly trembles with shame at the realization that he didn't even try to talk to him.

You're being unfair to yourself, says one of his voices, though he's far past being able to identify which one. While he still has the Mark, best leave him be. You'll give him your whole life either way, after you try this.

Nah, another voice says dismissively. He told you how much pain he'd be in once you did this to him, and you did it and then left him alone in the dark for half a day. It's a wonder he hasn't tried to kill you and then himself in the five minutes he's been free.

No, comes the firm reply. You decided—remember? To love Dean the way he deserves, you have to love yourself first. That means being forgiving. When all's said and done, Dean will understand. He always has.

A fat tear has reached Sam's chin before he knows what's happening, and he wipes it roughly away.

He's completely missed whatever Death said to Dean next, but Dean is asking, his voice breaking with a sob of his own, "Could that actually work?"

"You won't like the answer," Death intones, tilting his head a bit. "Here it is: it depends on you."

In the quiet that follows, Sam dares to reach up and place his hand on Dean's shoulder, but he flinches away so hard that he forcefully collides with Eloise, standing on his other side. Sam quickly snatches his hand back, feeling more tears coming.

"Right," says Death. "As the witch said—everyone in their circles, and Castiel, the knife and bowl."

They go to kneel down, Dean across from Sam and Cain across from Eloise. While Cas is busy for a moment, Cain looks up to Rowena and growls, "Demon or not, I'm more powerful than anything you've ever known, and if you try anything…"

"Believe it or not," the witch interrupts, sounding surprisingly nonconfrontational, "I truly want this to work." She's silent for a moment, perhaps considering whether to continue, but at length she says shortly, gesturing in Dean's direction, "My son was terrified of him," and she lays her hand across her heart, looking again to Cain, "and I, as a woman of intuition and a warm body with survival instincts, am not ashamed to admit that I'm terrified of you. Doing whatever I can to facilitate the end of all this is perhaps the 'right' thing by happenstance, but it's also the smart thing. And," she adds as Cas places two double-bladed daggers in her outstretched hand, "whether or not you can fathom it, I'm one of the most powerful witches you've ever met."

She guides them to lean forward, presenting the undersides of their forearms over the large wooden bowl Cas has just set in their midst. Sam is sobered to see the mark on Cain's arm, a perfect match for the one on Dean. He's not sure whether he's imagining them beginning to glow as they're exposed.

As Rowena begins cutting, Sam keeps his eyes fixed on Dean, whose own eyes are fixed on nothing, as he seems to become increasingly overwhelmed with every second that passes, his lips continually forming the ghosts of words that never make it out, a knot twisting deeper and deeper between his brows, fresh tears constantly rolling down his cheeks, his breathing becoming more and more erratic.

As Rowena tosses something into the bowl and begins to chant in a language Sam might be able to at least identify were he paying any attention, Dean's eyes suddenly snap up to meet Sam's, and he says desperately, pleadingly, "It's calling to me. Even now. It's louder than ever and—I can't. I can't do this."

"Focus on anything else," Sam urges. "If you can't find anything else, come to me. I'm not leaving you. I'm with you to the end, no matter what."

Again Dean seems to struggle to find words, but he is distracted by the same thing that suddenly commands all their attention: the bright light rising from the bowl. As Sam looks, it seems to seep into his very eyes, and suddenly he's seeing through three other pairs at once, all at the same magic twisting upwards in tumbling geometric shapes throwing off sparks.

He feels pulled in four directions at once, and then he is no longer in the bunker.