A/N Well, I was a little longer getting this up than I anticipated. This one has a lot fewer moving parts than my last story did (Thank all that is holy for that, TPG put me to the test) so I thought that it would be a cinch to finish and edit. I thought wrong, as per typical.
As always, I'll be updating sometime Tuesday, probably fairly late Tuesday, so it might actually be Wednesday but it will be updated. I would love to know what you think so leave a review if you feel so inclined. They make my day!
Thank you from the bottom of my heart to all the readers that have stuck with me over the last few years. I love you and appreciate you more than you will ever know!
Set in Season 11, after The Devil in the Details
Dislcaimer: not mine.
Chapter One
Sam woke with a ragged gasp.
Lurching upright, he looked wildly around the room, panting hard as his heart threatened to pound out of his chest. There was no one in the room, he was alone. Closing his eyes, he pressed the palms of his hands into them until he was seeing stars.
It hadn't been real. Just a nightmare.
"Damnit."
Pulling in a deep breath in an attempt to regulate his breathing, Sam opened his eyes again and then ran both hands back through his sweaty hair, shoving it out of his face.
He needed to calm down, it wasn't that big of a deal. It had just been a dream. That was it, nothing else. He wasn't in the cage with Lucifer. He was out. None of it had been real, just a bad nightmare.
Except, only a few days before it had been real. He had been face-to-face with Lucifer. Hell, he'd even been in a cage with him, and had talked with him, been humiliated and hurt by—
Sam untangled himself from his blankets, standing abruptly with his hands now clasped behind his head. He wasn't going there. He simply wasn't going there. There was no point in bringing up that kind of pain again.
Breathing out slowly, Sam blinked away the tears that were threatening to form.
They had bigger problems to deal with than his inability to cope with having seen Lucifer again. It had been his grand plan, after all, to visit with the devil in the first place. He had fought Dean tooth and nail for it to happen so he wasn't going to complain about the fallout now, nor was he going to put more important things on hold so that he could deal.
They still had no clue how to defeat Amara—which was Sam's fault and his responsibility to fix just as so much else was. It felt like he was never going to get out of the red, never going to be able to atone for everything that he had done.
Was Lucifer right? Was he now too weak to do the right thing? Should he have said yes to him?
Letting out a long sigh, Sam dropped his arms back to his side.
No. They'd had a hard enough time getting Lucifer back into the cage the last time Sam had let him out. This time hadn't exactly been a picnic either between Rowena betraying them and Lucifer's ultimate plan to escape. No. He'd been right about that. It just sucked because that had been Sam's one big play to get rid of the Darkness, and he'd been willing to sacrifice everything for it if he thought that it was their best option.
It hadn't been. It had been a waste of time and now they were back to ground zero.
Taking another deep breath in an effort to calm himself, Sam splashed some water onto his face before running it back through his hair in an attempt to look more put together and like he wasn't fraying at the seams. It wouldn't fool Dean, but Sam was getting good at pretending not to see his brother's long, concerned, looks.
Easing his door open quietly, Sam headed for the kitchen.
He was half-expecting to see Dean there, nursing a cup of coffee that neither of them would acknowledge had whiskey in it but his brother was nowhere in sight.
Sam frowned, looking around. Actually, the whole bunker was unusually quiet. Belatedly, he checked his watch. It had to be early, maybe three or four, which meant that Dean would rightly be asleep just like Sam was supposed to be.
It was only 11:53 pm.
Sam made a face, snorting in self-deprecation.
It wasn't even midnight yet, and Dean was going to be royally pissed when he found Sam awake. It had only been a little over an hour ago that Dean, after hours of anxious hovering, had finally ordered him off to bed with the half-serious threat that if he saw Sam before six the next morning that he was going spike his coffee with sleeping pills.
Apparently not sleeping for more than a couple of hours each night for the last three days was giving his brother cause for concern and violence, but it wasn't like Sam hadn't tried. He had, and he was exhausted, but he couldn't sleep.
The nightmares weren't letting him.
No wonder Dean was starting to have a permanently pinched look on his face. It wasn't as bad as when Cas had knocked down the wall that Death had built. He wasn't actively hallucinating Lucifer, but the flashbacks were increasing and becoming almost as intense as the nightmares.
But then again, Dean had been wearing that look ever since Sam had first broached the subject of him going back to Hell and seeing Lucifer, since he had admitted to the visions. Dean had just stopped trying to hide his worry now that Sam was unable to shake Hell.
Sam should have been able to. He'd tried and there had been a brief moment on the car ride home when he thought he might be able to do just that. He could shove everything down, forget about it, and move on like it hadn't happened.
And then the reality of what he had experienced had hit him like a truck.
It was bad enough that Dean hadn't even had the heart to rub it in Sam's face that he had been right all along. Sam deserved it. He deserved to have Dean give him a big, fat, I-told-you-so. To tell him just how messed up it was that he had thought that God might try and reach out to him.
God had never cared about Sam Winchester, but Lucifer did.
Going to the cupboard, Sam fished out a mostly full bottle of whiskey and unscrewed the cap. Taking a deep swallow, he relished the burn of the alcohol before glancing guiltily towards the entrance, half waiting for his brother to come in with a reprimanding look.
He was surprised—yet relieved—that Dean hadn't ambled in with some thin excuse about why he was awake as well instead of just admitting that he had been listening for Sam to get up again.
Dean worried too much about Sam. He was starting to look about as sleep deprived as Sam felt and there was no reason that he should have to stay up with him as well.
Besides, Sam was handling.
Kind of.
Not really.
Sam took another long swallow, finding comfort in the familiar burn.
Whatever the reason for Dean not waking up, Sam wasn't going to look the gift horse in the mouth. Dean deserved a good night's rest even if Sam couldn't.
Leaning against the counter, he stared blankly at the wall for a moment before taking another swallow.
He had another endless night alone in front of him, and sleeping wasn't going to be an option. However, he knew from experience that doing nothing was only going to make him feel worse. He needed to keep his brain occupied and far away from any thoughts about Lucifer, otherwise he was probably going to break down sobbing and no one wanted that.
Reading, even for personal enjoyment, sounded exhausting and Dean was asleep so that ruled out watching TV. He also didn't think that he had the mental capacity to do research on Amara at the moment, he just…he didn't think he could.
Later, when he felt better and Hell wasn't pressing in quite so intensely, he would, but not right now.
For a moment, Sam was at a loss of what to do and he took another fortifying sip of the whiskey, trying to stave off the panic that was threatening.
He could go for a run, but Dean was worried enough about him going off the deep end without Sam embarking on midnight jogs. There was the shooting range down below, but he couldn't spend all night there. That would just be a waste of bullets.
Abruptly, Sam's shoulders dropped and he blew out a sigh, relaxing. He knew what he could do. He could go through the storage rooms and take inventory.
On and off again ever since they had inherited the bunker—depending on what crisis they were currently facing—Sam had been going through the old storage rooms, cataloging the contents. After that, he had been updating the Men of Letter's notes and adding it all onto an online database that he had created. The bunker was massive, and more than a handful of these storage rooms were filled with weapons and bits of knowledge that could prove to be invaluable. They just didn't know what exactly was down there.
Pushing away from the counter, Sam contemplated the whiskey for a moment before screwing the cap back on. He felt steadier now, with a goal in mind and the liquor taking the edge off, he didn't need it.
He wasn't even thinking about the cage or Lucifer. Of the memories of the devil's fingers ghosting across his skin, his laugh echoing hauntingly in his ear as he—Sam shakily unscrewed the cap and brought it up to his lips again.
The bottle came with him down to storeroom K.
Closing the door quietly behind him so as not to alert Dean—although if his brother hadn't woken up yet, he probably wasn't going to—Sam set up his laptop and the whiskey on the folding table that was there from the last time he had worked on the project.
Pulling a cardboard box off of one of the top shelves, he glanced at the label. 10-W, Lot Five.
Sam had long ago learned that W meant weapons and, setting the box down on the table, crossed over to the ancient filing cabinet to get the rest of the information. Shuffling through the index cards there, he pulled out the correct one and began to read.
There wasn't much there. Just that the weapons had been compiled by one C. M. Hoover, and that most of them had originated from the 1700s.
Setting the card next to the box for future reference, Sam blew the dust off the top before taking the lid off. Pulling out the first item he saw, he stared at it. What it was, he didn't know, but it certainly looked sharp and dangerous.
Turning it over to examine it carefully, he held it up closer to the light. Huh. There was a roughly hewn symbol carved into the—bone? It looked and felt like bone. Absently, he reached into the pocket of his sweatpants for his phone to take a picture both to see if he could find out what the symbol was and to add it to the database.
His phone wasn't there. He had forgotten it in the kitchen—no, he hadn't. He hadn't brought it out of his room, it was probably still on his bedside table.
Silently reprimanding himself for the forgetfulness, Sam shook his head in frustration. He had always prided himself on having a good memory and being organized. It irked him more than it maybe should have that these past few days even simple things like that had felt so much harder. He just felt… distant, for lack of a better word. Distant, and like his brain had switched off.
He shouldn't be forgetting his phone, or having nightmares, or making other such stupid little mistakes. It hadn't even been that big of a deal. He'd just seen and talked with Lucifer. Lucifer had hardly even touched him, not really, not like he could, not like—
Sam picked up the weapon again, biting at his lower lip. He wasn't thinking about the cage. He was thinking about this, whatever it was.
The edges were dull with age and lack of use, but Sam could only imagine that it could still do damage if thrust into something hard enough. Its edges were barbed, and at the very least it would be a bitch to get out again once it went in.
It wasn't something that Sam would want to experience firsthand.
The thought had hardly entered his mind when the vision—memory—of Lucifer yanking a barbed hook backward through his skin and sinew launched itself to the front of his mind. Lucifer had laughed, his arms bloody up to the elbow as he lovingly fished the hook out before slamming it back into him, tearing it through already damaged skin.
"One more time, Sammy, just one more time. We can do it, we can create a new record," he could hear Lucifer chanting and there was nothing that Sam could do to stop him. He was completely powerless against the angel, and he was going to be forced to do whatever Lucifer wanted, no matter what, and—
Sam brought himself back to reality with a strangled inhale and immediately dropped the weapon like it had burned him. It clanged loudly as it hit the ground, but Sam didn't care as he leaned forward, bracing himself against the table and gulping in air.
He was fine. He wasn't in the cage. He was fine.
Reaching for the bottle of whiskey, he took several long, fortifying, gulps before he could even think about picking up the weapon. Without looking at it, he shoved it back into the box before hastily putting the lid on again.
He returned it to the shelf, feeling faintly ill and more than a little off balance. This was supposed to help him block out the memories of the cage and being to Hell, not bring them back.
Sam's eyes were burning with unshed tears, and a lump was threatening to form in his throat. He couldn't even sort through a damn box without Lucifer haunting him, how was he supposed to go through life? How was he going to get through this?
Forcing himself to take a deep breath, Sam paused long enough to press his thumb hard into the old and faded scar on his left hand. He would get through this. He would be fine. He had gotten through this before and it had been so much worse that time. This was nothing in comparison, he was just being pathetic.
He just needed a box that wasn't filled with weapons or anything else that might trigger another flashback.
Sam began to look at the labels on the boxes, passing most by until he came to one that had been shoved into the very back labeled 7-M.
Miscellaneous.
Those boxes always proved to be interesting and a challenge all at the same time. That was exactly what he needed, a challenge that wasn't impossible to solve and that didn't hold the chance of hurting anyone.
The box hadn't been touched in years, and the dust was thick across the top.
Pulling off the lid, Sam set it aside and began to sort through the various objects, carefully laying them out across the table so that he could decide where he wanted to start. There was an old music box that Sam was leery of opening—he could only imagine what that was doing here, and it was probably creepy and not good—a talon, some smaller boxes, several bottles, and a couple of pouches. There was even an old shirt with a burn mark going down the sleeve.
Selecting the talon first, Sam examined it, before reaching for his—
He still didn't have his damn phone.
Wiping a hand down his face in exasperation, Sam threw the talon down and crept back to his room.
It turned out that he needn't have worried about being quiet. Waiting on his phone—which had been turned to silent no doubt courtesy of his brother—was a text message from Dean.
Gone to the bar. Get some sleep, I WILL cause you bodily harm if you're awake when I get back.
Sam rolled his eyes.
No wonder the bunker had felt strangely empty and quiet. It also explained why Dean hadn't gotten on his ass about being up.
"Your liver is going to give out one of these days and let me tell you, that's not a joyride," he muttered as he made his back towards storeroom K, phone in hand. Not that he could judge because he was the one drinking whiskey straight from the bottle, but it felt like something he should say.
Besides, he couldn't begrudge his brother the escape. Dean hadn't exactly had a vacation of a week either, and going back to Hell hadn't been easy for any of them. On top of that, Dean had Sam's sorry ass to be worried about, and then there was his interaction with Amara, and…everything else.
Dean deserved the night out to go drink and hopefully relax.
Sam was just grateful that now when his brother disappeared for a drink, he didn't have to worry about him going off on some murdering spree. The effects of the Mark on Dean would not be forgotten any time soon by either of them and even with the Darkness baring down on them, Sam wouldn't change a damn thing.
Maybe that made him a horrible person who probably did deserve an eternity suffering in Hell, but Sam couldn't find it in himself to regret the decision. He had Dean back, and for the first time in what felt like forever, they were on the same page.
Returning to the storage room, he proceeded to catalog the talon, still trying to figure out just what it was exactly. He had seen something like it before, and he was fairly positive that it was from something that they had hunted at some point. He just didn't know where he had seen it or when. They'd hunted a lot of things over the years, after all.
He didn't think that the Men of Letters knew what it was either because there was nothing on the index card that corresponded with the box that gave any clue as to what it was. It was just labeled as 'item 9, talon', which wasn't overly helpful.
Then again, that was what the miscellaneous box was for.
Sam occupied himself for almost an hour with first researching the talon—it belonged to an Apoy—and then for another half hour trying to figure out if it had any special abilities. There weren't any recorded, but it might be useful as an ingredient for witchcraft at some point. As it was, it would probably make Dean smile and Sam made a mental note to show it to his brother before tagging it and tucking it into a manila envelope.
Carefully labeling it, he set it aside for refiling later and then looked over the cluttered table.
Picking up a velvet pouch, Sam carefully opened it and tapped out a small, ratted, scroll.
For the first time that night, his interest was piqued. Scrolls were almost always interesting and contained fascinating tidbits and information that couldn't be found anywhere else.
Bobby would have loved the bunker.
Sam paused, chewing on his lower lip. He didn't know what had made him think of Bobby right now, but it made his heart ache. He and Dean would never stop missing the older man, but sometimes the now old grief sparked fresh. This wasn't the first time that he wondered what Bobby would have done with the bunker and all the knowledge that was contained therein.
He probably would have defeated all the evil in the world within a week and then gone back home for a beer while cussing Sam and Dean out for being idjits.
Smiling sadly, if fondly, Sam untied the string from around the scroll and unrolled it.
He froze, the faintly positive emotions fleeing. He gaped down at the Enochian scribbled in now faded scarlet ink that detailed a psalm to Michael. The angel who would save humanity and bring peace when he came down.
Michael had been no savior.
Flashes of Michael and Lucifer screaming at each other in Enochian in the cage reared up. The absolute rage with which Lucifer would turn on him after those arguments, and how he would carve Sam up in the cruelest ways he knew how, and use his blood or guts to write crude messages to taunt Michael as the other angel pouted in the corner.
Of Adam being locked away and Sam helpless to do anything for him.
Of torture. Of vile words, of forced lessons in the cruelest possible ways.
Of Lucifer mocking, of him telling him that he'd been the one to send the visions, not God. Of him attacking Dean and Cas while Sam lay paralyzed with fear against the bars of that damn cage, unable to move even to help just like he had been unable to help Adam. Lucifer was going to kill them all. He was going to do worse than kill them, he was going to make Sam watch as he tortured Cas, while he tortured and killed Dean, he might even make Sam do it—
Sam brought his hands up, curling them in his hair as memories collided with what-ifs, stealing his breath away with their intensity. He staggered, his knees unwilling to support his weight under the onslaught, and for a moment Sam had no control over his own body as the fear took hold.
The crashes and bangs of falling objects and the sharp stinging pain in his knees brought him back to reality.
He was on the ground, surrounded by the contents of the box. He must have fallen against the table, upsetting its balance and tipping it in the process. The bottle of whiskey had smashed, and the amber liquid was spreading across the floor, soaking into the knees of his sweatpants.
Sam couldn't get up.
He knew that he should, that he should pick up his phone and laptop before the spilled whiskey could damage it, but he couldn't. He couldn't even breathe correctly. Bending further forward, he rested his face in his trembling hands, trying to control and regulate his gasps as memories continued to threaten.
He was fine. He was fine. It was fine.
It wasn't fine. Lucifer had played him like a fiddle, and it had almost cost not just his life but Dean and Cas's. What if they had been killed because Sam had been too idiotic to see that Lucifer had been playing him all along? What if they had—
No, it was fine. He wasn't going to lose control. If Sam did that, then he was letting Lucifer win. That wasn't acceptable. So, he had seen him again. Talked with him. But that wasn't a big deal. They talked to evil things all the time—they talked to Crowley it felt like on a weekly basis—so he just needed to shove it all down and lock it up.
He was fine.
"Damn. Damnit," he said softly into his shaking hands and was suddenly very glad that Dean had left for the bar. He didn't need to see this.
Pulling in as deep of a breath as he could manage, Sam closed his eyes for another second as he squeezed his hands into tight fists to stop them from trembling.
He was fine. He had to be fine.
Opening his eyes again, he forced himself to move and right the folding table.
His laptop didn't look or feel too wet, and Sam carelessly wiped it off on his thigh before reaching up to put it on the table. He did the same with his phone. Shuffling forward on his knees, he began to gather up the rest of the fallen objects that were now scattered across the floor.
His hands were still shaking.
This was ridiculous. Nothing really bad had even happened this time with Lucifer. Hell, worse things had happened on regular hunts. Not that he was usually quiet as gullible and stupid on normal hunts.
Grabbing a small wax-sealed bottle and the wooden music box that had thankfully remained closed, he shoved them haphazardly onto the table.
How could he have ever thought that those visions were from God? How could he have ever thought that going to see Lucifer would be a solution? Lucifer was always bad news, hadn't he learned that by now? How many times would it take for that lesson to sink through his thick skull?
Shaking his head in disgust, he turned to grab the envelope with the talon in it. It had soaked up some of the whiskey, he was going to have to switch it out.
Just as he was picking it up, Sam caught movement in his peripheral vision and twisted just in time to see the small bottle rolling from the precarious position he had set it in. It was next to the edge, and it was going to fall off the table.
Sam was seconds too slow to catch it even though he lunged forward, hand outstretched. It fell and hit the cement floor hard.
This time it did not survive the fall and shattered into pieces, sending a cloud of powder puffing up straight into Sam's face. Coughing, Sam batted it away as he closed his eyes and turned his head to the side. Whatever had been in the bottle did not smell pleasant and he had to fight his body's natural urge to retch.
It was musty and foul, giving off the stank of decay.
Gagging, Sam kept his head turned to the side as he used the table as leverage to stand and put some distance between himself and the powder. Breathing through his mouth to avoid the smell, he wiped at his face with the sleeve of his shirt and grimaced when it came away with faint streaks of the powder.
Sam looked back down at the broken pieces of the bottle, a creeping unease settling over him.
Most of the powder was already gone, dissolved in the whiskey…and he had no clue what it was.
Great. That was just—great. Exactly what he had needed tonight.
Pulling his shirt up to cover his nose so that he wouldn't breathe any more of it in, Sam crouched down and stared at the mess that he had made.
Anything from crushed bone to a deadly poison could have been in that bottle. And he didn't even know which bottle it had been.
Grimacing, he looked around for the index card, picking it up from where it had fallen under the table. It didn't prove to be of much help. It just stated the number of bottles—six—that was in the box, not what was in them.
Throwing caution to the wind, Sam dropped his shirt—he had already breathed it in, after all, and the thin material would do little good—and began to carefully pick small chunks of the dark glass up from the ground, collecting them in his hand.
He was looking for any sort of label or indication as to what it was, but he didn't find anything until he picked up the cork stopper from where it had rolled underneath one of the shelves.
Pulling it out of the ring of jagged glass and wax that was still intact, Sam turned it over.
There, on the bottom, a minuscule seven had been neatly carved.
"Seven? What the hell does seven mean?"
That wasn't enough to go on and he began to pick the remaining wax off the cork, hoping that there would be something else. For once, he wasn't disappointed for underneath the wax sealing was a set of numbers, 18359, followed by two letters. G. H.
That, Sam could work with.
Carefully depositing the glass shards on the table, Sam stood and hurriedly wiped his hands off on his pants before touching his laptop. He probably should have washed his hands before getting some of the disposable gloves that they had somewhere in the bunker, but they were not here and Sam wanted answers. Besides, it wasn't like anyone else was going to be touching his laptop.
He was also just really hoping that there hadn't been anything horrible in that bottle.
Typing in what he hoped was an identification number or case file into the database, he crossed referenced it with the initials G. H. and then straightened, waiting for it to load.
There was only one result, and it was a reference number for a physical file.
Finding the correct file in another room upstairs, Sam returned to the basement. Flipping it open, he began to scan, looking for keywords.
His brow furrowed into a frown the more that he read and he bent closer, skimming the pages swiftly before he turned to gaze with horror at the broken shards.
"Oh, God," he whispered half in prayer, half in the stunned realization of what he had just done. Bringing his hand up, he ran it distractedly through his hair before remembering that he had touched the powder and jerking his hand away.
He needed a shower. He needed to burn everything, he needed to get clean—he needed to call Dean.
Grabbing his phone, Sam dialed Dean and then tucked it between his shoulder and his ear. As it rang, he continued to read with increasing alarm and realization that he'd royally screwed up.
#
Dean sat silently nursing his beer and staring down at the wooden bar counter without really seeing it. Not even the beautiful and busty bartender could get his attention tonight. Not that she was trying.
How had Dean come to a place in his life when he wasn't trying to woo her and she wasn't trying to get with him? He didn't know, but he added it to the list of things to contemplate never. If he wasn't careful, he was going to start turning into Sam with all the brooding that he was doing.
Rubbing a hand tiredly across his face, Dean took another sip of his rapidly warming beer. He hadn't come here to brood, he had just wanted to forget and maybe give himself some space away from Sam to come to terms with what had happened.
Amara, Lucifer, and Hell all in the same week was a little much, even for him.
At least he hadn't come face-to-face with the being that had tortured him mercilessly for over a century.
And now Sam wasn't sleeping, he wasn't eating much—although he was drinking more than normal, which didn't worry Dean at all—and he was most definitely not fine no matter what he was trying to pretend.
More times than Dean was comfortable with he had caught him rubbing at the old scar on his palm, his eyes haunted and face pale. He didn't even think that Sam knew that he was doing it half the time and that almost made it worse. That wasn't even bringing into account the nightmares that left him shaking and sweating, or even the flashbacks that were coming with increasing frequency.
Sam didn't even want to talk about what had happened and that was a neon red sign if Dean had ever seen one. It was like he was trying to pretend that it just…hadn't happened. If Dean brought up Hell, Rowena, or even Crowley, Sam would change the subject abruptly, a slightly manic look in his eyes.
But Sam had gone to Hell. He had talked with Lucifer again, and Dean had seen the tears on Sam's face when he and Cas had come charging in. He didn't know all that Lucifer had said and done, but it couldn't have been good.
For the first hour or so afterward, Sam had seemed to be somewhat okay. He had even been worried about Cas, but then he had just…stopped, growing distant and silent. It hadn't ended, not even now a couple of days later. It almost seemed like he was in shock, if Dean had to put a word on it.
Not that he blamed Sam, but Dean didn't know how to help him and that was probably the worst of it. He couldn't just slap a band-aid on this. Rationally, he knew that part of the healing process was just giving Sam time and a safe space to come to terms with everything, but still…he had never done well sitting on the sidelines and watching Sam hurt.
Downing the rest of his beer, Dean signaled for another.
It was getting late, and the bar would be closing soon. It was probably time for Dean to return home and try to find a solution to…well, everything but it all seemed slightly overwhelming if he was being honest.
They still didn't know how to defeat Amara, Sam was struggling, and to top everything off, he was starting to get the feeling that Cas was avoiding them. He hadn't heard or seen from the angel despite sending him several texts and even trying to call him. Cas had looked pretty discouraged after his encounter with the Darkness, and Dean was worried about him too.
Dean just wanted everyone to be alright, but both Cas and Sam seemed pretty determined to be anything but that. Not that Dean was one to speak. He hadn't yet told Sam everything about what had happened with Amara, but he was planning on it. He was. It just wasn't the right time right then.
A new beer was slid in front of him and Dean sipped at it, savoring the bitter taste. Part of him had really wanted to go for the hard liquor tonight—beer just didn't cut it anymore—but he didn't want to get black-out drunk either. They had done that the night they'd gotten back from Hell and it hadn't exactly helped. He didn't even want to get too tipsy just in case Sam needed him because then he was going to need all his wits about him.
He just wanted a moment to himself.
Dean's phone began to vibrate in his pocket and he dropped his head, squeezing his eyes shut. It was late, who the hell could be calling him now? If it was another crisis then they were just going to have to go elsewhere because Sam and he couldn't handle it right now. It was someone else's turn to deal with all the crap.
Fishing out his phone, his frown deepened when he saw Sam's name on the screen. Sam had been dead on his feet when he'd managed to bully him to bed, and he'd really been hoping that he'd sleep the night through, or at the very least get a couple of hours.
The bar was too loud to answer and, after slapping a couple of twenties down onto the counter, Dean hurriedly drained the last swallow of beer and then headed outside.
The cool air was refreshing, and Dean breathed it in as he headed for the Impala, trying to mentally change his mindset so that he could talk to Sam. Sam needed encouragement, not further despair.
Leaning against the trunk, he was about to hit redial when a text message from his brother popped up on his screen.
I screwed up. Call me before you come home.
Anger and fear cut through him like a knife and Dean's stomach churned. What the freakin' hell did that mean? How was Sam getting into trouble when he was supposed to be sleeping?
Pinching the bridge of his nose with muted frustration, he called Sam, who picked up before it could ring twice.
"Dean, listen—"
"What did you do?" Dean asked in tired exasperation.
"I screwed up," Sam admitted in an oddly calm voice that was threatening to make Dean's blood pressure skyrocket.
"Yeah, so you said. Gonna need a little bit more than 'screwed up'. Are you talking 'I screwed up and burnt my bagels so the bunkers going to smell funny for a week' or, 'I let the Darkness out' kind of screwed up?" That was a low blow, and Dean winced, clenching the phone tighter. Damn him and his big mouth. "Sam, I'm—"
Sam cut off his apology before he could even make it. "It probably falls more towards the latter." Dean swore loudly, but Sam kept talking over him. "Or, it could be, but I think that the situation will be easy enough to contain. I just need you not to come home for…I dunno. A couple of days at the very least."
Dean was already shaking his head as he fought against a strengthening surge of anger. Sam was hurting, he didn't need Dean to add to it by snapping at him, and he was doing his best to bite his tongue.
Moving around to the front of the car, Dean slid in. "Sam, I'm not doing that. I'm headed back right now, just explain what's going on and we'll figure it out."
"No. No, Dean, listen to me. You cannot come back. Not yet."
"Start explaining what the hell is going on right now, and then we'll decide."
Sam huffed. "Okay, look, so I couldn't sleep—"
Big surprise there, Dean thought sourly.
"—so I was working on the inventory in storeroom K and I was going through one of the miscellaneous boxes. To make a long story short, I broke one of the bottles."
Sam hesitated just for a second before continuing and Dean knew that he wasn't going to like what came next.
"The bottle wasn't labeled, but I found a number on the cork and some initials. So, I did some research and the bottle belonged to an experiment being done in the 1800s by one of the Men of Letters, a George Hickey, who also happened to be a doctor. Now, according to his notes on his project, Hickey was somehow—I mean, I don't really understand it yet, I haven't had the time to figure it all out, but it must have been done through a spell or something—anyway, he was gathering up strains of deadly viruses and diseases to do experiments on. "
Dean's whole body went cold, his stomach squeezing itself into a knot as the beer threatened to make a sudden reappearance.
"Sam," he began in what he thought was a reasonably calm voice, "tell me that you didn't break a bottle that contained a strain of some deadly disease in it."
Sam was silent on the other end.
"Damnit, Sam! You know better than to go screwing around with the stuff in those rooms, that they're dangerous! What are we looking at? Do I need to bring you to a hospital?"
"That's another part of the problem," Sam said meekly. "I have no clue what disease was in that bottle. See, Hickey didn't actually have permission to be doing this experiment, so he kept it under wraps until he confessed to it on his deathbed as he was dying of smallpox. I'm guessing that he picked it up from his experiment, I doubt that he used the proper protection when handling everything."
"Sam—" Dean growled, cutting his brother off before he could delve further into unnecessary details.
"Right. After Hickey died, they filed a report on it, only that report isn't very long. It had Hickey's confession, and that was about it. They said that they destroyed everything, but, clearly, they missed at least this bottle. The only other thing I have to go off of is the number seven, which was written on the bottom of the cork."
Dean ran a hand back through his hair in frustration, staring at the dash of the car. "So you have no clue what you could have possibly infected yourself and the bunker with?" he asked incredulously.
"Pretty much, yeah." Sam was silent for a long moment as Dean sat there, trying to process this new turn of events, before he said, "Dean, I'm sorry, I am, but I don't know what it is and it's not safe for you to come home, not until we know if I'm contagious or if the bunker has been infected."
"No, Sammy. I'm coming home, I'll just take the risk."
Sam wasn't dealing with things right now as was, and if he got sick then it was going to get so much worse. Dean couldn't leave him to go through that alone.
"No," Sam repeated vehemently. "You aren't taking that risk. And who knows? I might not even get sick, that's a possibility as well. I might be fine, so don't panic just yet."
"But what if you do get sick? What if it's, I dunno, the black plague or something." That wasn't a happy thought and that beer wasn't sitting well anymore.
"Exactly. It could be something really, really, bad. And I'm not doing it again, I'm not letting something loose on a world that's not prepared for it. Certain diseases have killed millions in relatively short amounts of time so until we know what we are dealing with, we are stopping it right here, at the bunker."
"Right, I get that, but if you do get sick, you're going to need help. You can't just—"
Sam cut him off again. "It's all an 'if' right now. We don't know anything for sure so how about we cross that bridge when we get to it, okay? For the moment, just lay low for a couple of days, get a motel room and relax. I'll keep you updated."
Dean wasn't comfortable with that. Sam wouldn't take care of himself and there was still the whole Hell thing hanging over their heads. Sam shouldn't have to face that alone. "For the last time, no. I'm coming back, I'll even wear a mask if that will make you feel better, and we will face this like we have everything else—together."
"Dean, no. I'm not risking you. I'll be fine."
"Fine?" Dean scoffed a laugh. "You wanna tell me the truth about how that bottle got broken? Was it because you were drinking or because you were having another Hell flashback? Perhaps it was because you haven't slept or eaten in days and are shaky. Or maybe it was because you went to freakin' Hell last week and don't want to talk about it?"
There was shocked silence on the other end before Sam spat out, "The bottle fell off the table. That was all."
Dean clenched his hands into fists. "Dude, don't do that. Don't lie to me. Look, I'm coming back. I'll be home in twenty."
"Like hell you are," Sam said stubbornly, a snap to his voice now. "I mean, fine, alright, you can come back but I'm locking it down. I've been studying the bunker ever since we started living here, and I can and will keep you out."
Dean slapped the dash. "Don't you damn dare do that, Sam! I will beat your ass if you do."
"I'm serious, Dean. I will have the bunker locked down before you can even get out of town so don't waste the gas to come back here. Just—Look at it like a vacation of sorts. Go get drunk, find someone to go back to the motel with, and enjoy yourself. Don't worry about me."
Dean ground his teeth together as he shook his head. Don't worry about Sam? Crowley had tried to tell him that as well and it turned out that he had had every reason to be worried about his brother.
Like he could go get a drink or have sex while Sam was at home, possibly sick and dying.
Anger was churning just below the surface, and he aimed it at the one person he thought very much deserved it. "Who the hell does something like that? Why did Hickey or whatever his name was mess around with that crap? It's about the dumbest idea that I've ever heard of."
"I don't know, but my guess is that he either was trying to find cures or weaponize the diseases. Knowing the Men of Letters, probably both."
"They were kind of bastards."
They were both silent for a long moment, Dean fighting against the inevitable. Sam wasn't giving him much of a choice, but that didn't mean that he had to agree with it. "I don't like this, Sammy."
"Neither do I, but it's our only choice."
"According to you," Dean said bitterly, not trying to soften his voice. He heaved a sigh, not sure how else to change Sam's mind as he rubbed a hand tiredly over his eyes. "I mean, I get it. I know why you're doing this and I'll do it. I'll go get a motel room and I won't try to break down the door—yet—but the instant that things go south, we are revisiting the topic. And if you start feeling sick, even just a little off, you call me, okay? That's not up for debate, do you understand?"
For a moment there was reluctant silence before Sam responded in the affirmative.
"Okay, then go take a shower. Scrub everywhere."
"Dude, I know. I'm not an idiot," Sam said, sounding irritated and more like himself than he had all week and Dean almost smiled as his brother cut the line.
It faltered in the next instant.
Dean stared at the steering wheel, his brain going rapidly through the what-ifs. None of them were good. They already knew that it might be smallpox, but there were other terrifying possibilities. The plague, polio, cholera…hell, tuberculosis. None of them were good, and that was just what Dean could think of without doing any research.
"Damnit, Sammy," Dean muttered rubbing both hands over his face. He knew that Sam hadn't meant to break that bottle, but still…he should have been more careful. Sam normally was careful. Damn Lucifer.
What was he going to do if Sam got sick? Knowing his brother, Sam would refuse to go to the hospital and risk endangering other people, not until they knew what he had and how contagious it was. It was going to take every trick that Dean knew to even try and convince Sam to let him in to help.
This could be a death sentence.
A lonely, terrible, death sentence and one that Dean would have to bear silent witness to, unable to do anything to help. Sam had already survived one deadly infection that year, what were the chances of him doing it twice?
No. He wasn't going to sit by like that and let it happen again. He'd get Crowley and Rowena involved before he let Sam die alone in the bunker.
The weight of everything that had happened and was happening settled on his shoulders, and he bowed his head. He just wanted Sam to be okay and safe, was that too much to ask?
Firing up the Impala, he sat there for another minute, unsure of where to go next. Sam wouldn't let him in and sitting outside the front door like some teenage kid wasn't going to do much good.
Dean actually would get a motel room. He didn't care that much about having a bed, but it would provide wifi and privacy, both of which he was going to need.
First, though, he had one card that he could play. Picking up his phone again, he hit his second-speed dial and waited as it rang. Voicemail kicked in, and Dean clenched the phone tighter. Cas was avoiding him, and he didn't know why.
Waiting for the beep, he said, "Cas, I need you. Well, Sam needs you. Call me back as soon as you get this."
It had been a long time since Cas had his full powers, but he was still immune to human disease so Sam would more than likely let him in to help. Hell, he could probably stop this whole trainwreck before it got started seeing as he could heal Sam.
They just had to wait for him to get here from wherever he was.
Finding a motel on the edge of town, Dean got a room and then sat at the table with his phone. He had only what was in the Impala with him so he was going to have to make do without his laptop but Dean had done more with less.
Sam had worked long and hard at digitalizing the Men of Letter's database so that they could both access it, and Dean would never stop being both amazed and grateful at his brother's abilities. It had saved them more than once, and Dean was counting on it again.
Now he just needed information.
What was the dude's name? He texted his brother.
The reply came almost immediately and Dean frowned.
Thought you were showering.
Had to clean up and burn what I could
Dean couldn't believe that they were having this conversation and he shook his head even as he typed: Please tell me that you gloved up this time.
Still not an idiot.
At least Sam was still Sam, Dean wasn't so sure about him not being an idiot.
Rolling his eyes and feeling slightly better, Dean typed in the case number and watched as the one file that Sam had mentioned popped up. It meant that he wasn't going to have to wade through endless amounts of useless information, but it also meant that there wasn't a lot of information to be had at all.
It was going to be a long night.
#
Sam expertly tied a bandage around the still bleeding cut on his forearm, the smell of incense strong in the air. The bowl in front of him—the one that they frequently used for spell work—was still smoking as the contents finished burning.
There was no way that Dean was getting through that door now, not until Sam reversed the spell that he had just put on the bunker.
It wasn't that he didn't trust Dean, he did, but he also knew his brother. If Sam was dying or in need of help then Dean would never be able to sit by silently and watch. What Sam had done to deserve that kind of love, especially after all the times he had screwed up, he didn't know but it bolstered him more than Dean would ever realize.
He just wasn't ready to damn the world for a third time. Maybe for Dean, he could do it, but not for himself. He wasn't worthy of such a thing; he never had been.
Cleaning the knife and then the bowl out, he laid them back down on the map table in the war room and set everything up to reverse the spell. If he did get sick, and they found a way to heal him or discovered that the disease wasn't highly contagious, then he wanted everything ready to go to open the bunker back up.
There was no telling what kind of condition he would be in at that point.
Finishing that, he took a step back and ran a hand through his hair, which was still wet from the shower.
There was no time for sleep now—which he was in some strange way grateful for—he needed to do more research on George Hickey. Dean had already texted and asked about him and Sam would let him handle the online research. Dean was good at it, even if he didn't want to admit it, and he would leave no stone unturned.
Sam, meanwhile, was going to dig through the physical records that he had access to at the bunker and see if perhaps the Men of Letters had something else on Hickey. If he was lucky, they might even have stored a box or two of his personal items somewhere, and he might be able to find an answer to what exactly Hickey had been experimenting with.
This wasn't what Sam had in mind for a distraction, but it was doing the job just fine.