A/N: Well, it wasn't too long of a wait this time. Phew. Hopefully you all enjoy this chapter, it is a little shorter than usual, but I wanted to give you guys something. There's only a couple of chapters after this (I think), so we're winding up towards the end. This chapter title is taken from Bon Jovi.

Stairway to Heaven

Chapter Eleven: Livin' on Prayer

"Did you decide where you boys are heading yet?"

Dean shrugged noncommittally. "Here and there." He cleared his throat. "Sam found a few potential hunts."

Bobby harrumphed, fixing his ball cap and crossing his arms, entire body radiating his displeasure. "Don't you think you should hold off?"

"Sam's pretty much better."

"Physically," Bobby grunted. "And what about you?"

"I'm fine," he snapped, tossing the last duffel into the back before slamming the door a little harder than necessary. "SAM!!!"

A second later, the screen door opened, and Sam appeared, laptop bag in one hand and leather encased sword in the other. "I can't find my toothbrush."

"Well what did you do with it?" Dean's frustration was evident.

"I wiped my ass with it, what do you think I did with it Dean?!"

"Get in the car, Sam. I'll buy you a new one."

"I don't want a new one," he whined, pushing past Bobby towards the Impala. "Bye Bobby."

"Bye, Sam."

"Bye, Bobby."

"You boys take care."

"Will do," Dean climbed in, firmly shutting the door. Giving Bobby one last wave, he backed carefully out of the yard, chest loosening at the thought of the open road.

Glancing over, he couldn't keep the contented grin off his face. Sam was wingless, and right where he belonged, riding shotgun. The sun was out, the road was clear, and they didn't have anywhere pressing to be…Dean's phone beeped irritatingly.

Sam reached for the offending object, flipped it open, and sighed.

"Who is it?"

"It's Dad. He's got a job for us."

Dean's grin disappeared. "Where?"

Sam was already reaching for the map. "I won't know until I look it up, Dean. I'm not Rain-man."

"Coulda fooled me…"

Minus the scathing look directed at his brother, Sam decided it would be best to ignore Dean. "These coordinates are for the middle of nowhere."

"Then you're reading the map wrong."

"I'm not an idiot, Dean, I know how to read a map."

"Didn't say you were an idiot, just that you don't know how to read a map."

"I've been reading the map since I was seven, Dean!"

Reading it wrong, most likely.

"I heard that, Jerk."

Bitch.

"Dean!"

Dean signaled and pulled over to the side of the road, snatching the map and the phone from his younger brother's hands. "See, you're reading it…these are for the middle of nowhere."

"Ahh!" Sam threw his arms up in the arm and then jumped out of the car. "You're, you're…"

"Yeah, yeah," Dean muttered, waving his hand vaguely in Sam's direction while scrolling through his contacts to find his Dad. "Come on, pick up…"

"He's not going to pick up, Dean."

Dean listened as the phone rang repeatedly; he was just about to hang up when his father's breathless voice answered.

"Dean…"

"Dad…is something wrong?"

"Did you get the coordinates?"

Sam was ducking down to stare into the car, and his eyes were boring holes through Dean's head.

"Yeah, about those…"

"I'm gonna meet you there, Dean. Heard that it's a real funky town."

"A funky town, huh?"

"Look, kid, I've got to go." The call cut suddenly, and Dean turned to meet Sam's wide eyes.

"Funky town?"

"Yeah, looks like Dad's in…Sam?"

Sam's face had paled considerably, and his fingers had tightened their grip on the hood of the car. "Vision," he ground out, knees giving way as he fell forward, head leaning against the edge of the seat while the rest of his body hung out of the car.

"Sam!"

SAM…Dean threw his mind out, trying to connect to his brother, understand…

And it was dark.

"Sam!" That was their dad. "Sam!"

"Dad…" Sam's voice was dry, like he'd been sleeping for a long time and just woken up. "Dad…Dean?"

"Sam, where's Dean?"

"DEAN!"

And then there was a sword, and a face framed in fire…

Dean leaned forward, pressing his head against the steering wheel, shaking fingers holding tight to the dash. Turning his head slowly to the right, Dean caught sight of Sam, pale and still, the only sign of possible life the blood that was slowly trickling from his nose down to the seat…

"Hey, no bleeding on the leather," Dean muttered, leaning over and shaking Sam's shoulder. "I'll have to make you walk…"

"Uhh…l'v me 'lon, De…I slpin…"

"Get up, you great big lug," Dean mumbled, pushing harder. Sam's body slithered out the door and landed on the ground with a muffled thump. "Shit…Sam…"

His own body protesting, Dean leaned over to peer at his brother, who was laying curled on the ground with his eyes screwed shut, apparently mumbling obscenities. Dean's head hurt, and he didn't really feel up to dealing with any of this right now. But if his head hurt, and he'd only been piggybacking Sam…then Sam must be in agony.

"Come on, Sam, gotta get you up."

"M'good here," Sam moaned, holding his arms protectively over his head. And that's when Dean noticed. No wings.

"Hey, look, Sam. No wings."

"Don't care…not movin'," he replied.

Dean said something unintelligible about "lazy little brothers," and then slipped from the car, grabbed both of Sam's arms, and pulled hard.

His hands slipped and the hunter tumbled backwards, landing in the Impala. "A little help would be nice, Sam."

"With what?" he asked, lifting his head slightly, eyes mere slits against the offending sunlight.

"Getting you back in the car," Dean was suddenly regretting leaving Bobby's.

"Ohhhh…" Sam drawled, as if he just realized that he was laying on the ground. "M'okay."

Resisting the urge to beat his head off the nearest blunt object, Dean instead took a deep breath, held it, and counted to ten slowly in Latin. "I need to get you in the car, kiddo, so that we can go save Dad."

Sam shot up like he'd just be struck by a bolt of lightning. "Dean…Dad, and the fire, and swords, and…"

"Woah, slow down, already way ahead of you…" Dean stood again, and this time when he bent down, Sam took his hand, making it much easier to get Sam's feet underneath him and plop him into the car.

Sam leaned back into the seat, closed his eyes, and griped tightly at the bar on the door. Dean jumped in the driver's side and reached back, fishing out Dad's jacket and tossing it haphazardly over his younger brother. "Get some sleep, Sam. Gonna need you 100% when we go after Dad."

He didn't say what either of them were thinking. Not that they had to voice anything anymore.

They both knew they were walking into a trap.

And it didn't look like any of them were going to make it out alive.

*~~*

John Winchester had never been much of a praying man.

Mary had always prayed enough for the both of them, and after all the horrors of war, he had found it hard to pray to a God that allowed all that pain and inhumanity to run rampant in the world. And after Mary died…

There was no reason to pray.

Dean had taken after him. Never once had he seen his son kneel down before the Lord, not after his mother was no longer there to kneel beside him.

Sam had broken his heart. His sweet son, who had taken after his sweet wife, would be reviled by heaven because of something that had happened to him when he was just a baby in the cradle. And yet Sam had prayed. Every night, Sam had knelt beside the bed he shared with his brother and prayed. Prayed for his brother. For his father. For his mother, for Bobby, for Caleb, Jim, and Joshua. For the people they were helping, for the bullies in his classroom. But never once had Sam prayed for himself.

When he got older, Sam had stopped praying out loud, but he hadn't stopped praying. Occasionally, John would catch his son keeling by the bed, holding one of the old motel bibles close, silent tears making their way down his face. And still John didn't pray.

He prayed now.

He prayed that his sons wouldn't come for him, that he had pushed them far enough away that they wouldn't try to save him.

He prayed harder than he ever had in his life. Not for himself, but for the only things that he had left in this world.

He had heard Father Jim once pray for understanding, and if not to have understanding, then to have peace.

John didn't want to understand, he didn't want peace. He wanted his sons safe. He wanted them to live. He wanted Sam to be able to settle down and have kids, and Dean to own his own mechanic shop. He wanted them to grow old and ornery. He wanted God to forgive them for something that they couldn't control, it was no fault of theirs that they were what they were.

That blame fell on him. Him and Mary.

So he glared at the being before him, and prayed.

And when praying wasn't just enough, he talked.

"They won't come."

"Of course they will come, John Winchester."

The body it inhabited was tall, and well built. Blue eyes, scraggly blonde hair, jeans, a t-shirt. Just a normal college kid. With a sword strapped to his back. And some sort of strange, otherworldly glow about him. Yeah.

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because it is in their nature to help others, as it is in ours. They will have no choice but to come."

John wanted to scream his frustration. Here he was, chained to some wall in a cabin in the middle of nowhere. He had no way to help his sons, no way to call for help. He could just sit here and witness. And pray.

"If they're so good, then why do you want to destroy them?"

The creature, Michael as he insisted on being called, just raised an eyebrow. "Because my Father wills it be so."

"But why them," John said desperately. Please God, take me, take me instead, please God not them…

"Not them," said a different voice, as a large African-American man stepped from the shadows. "Just one."

Sam…

"Uriel," Michael snapped. "There is no need to give false hope."

And John prayed.

*~~*

"Sam, are you sure that you're up to this?"

"I'm fine, Dean."

Minus the fact that a good wind could knock you over.

"Maybe we should call Bobby. Or Jim. Or Caleb. Or…"

"Dean," Sam bit off. "I'm fine." He paused. "And it isn't windy out."

"Luckily for you."

Sam glared, and then dug deeper in the trunk, before finally settling on the sword. Dean raised an eyebrow at him, and Sam shrugged, securing it to his back in the sheath that had appeared not long after the sword. Dean reached for an additional shotgun, handgun already secured and knives carefully hidden.

Closing the trunk, Dean turned towards his brother, trying to keep concern from playing across his features. They both knew this was a trap. That they weren't likely to make it out alive. And Dean knew that there were things that you were supposed to say in these situations.

But they'd never said them before. Not that they'd been in a situation quite like this before.

Besides, Dean didn't know how to say them now.

"Sam."

Sam's lips quirked. "Dean."

"Bitch."

"Jerk."

Enough said.

Sighing, Dean looked regretfully at the Impala, she'd gotten covered in muddy snow on the way up the dirt road, and since they couldn't make it any further, they were left to make it the rest of the way on foot. Which meant his baby would be left out here. Dad trumped car. Most days.

"Come on, Sam. Let's go fry some supernatural butt."

Sam just rolled his eyes and followed behind Dean, ignoring the steadily growing pain behind his eyes. If Dean knew, he probably would have called the whole thing off, because if Sam wasn't 100%, then the shit was likely to hit the fan with a greater velocity then it was already going to. Not that it really mattered, because the end result was the same. Crap everywhere. No fun to clean up.

"Sam are you listening to me?"

"Uh-huh."

"Then what was I saying…"

"Umm…"

Sam was saved from having to answer as blinding, white hot pain ripped through his skull, the image of fire burning through his vision, and then there was nothing.

A/N: Uh-oh. I think the boys are in trouble…Let me know what you think! Much love.