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Title Change! Team Free Will: Reunion

Thanks for reviews. Second-to-last update.

FRIDAY EARLY MORNING

Dean sighs: he knows how tear gas works. This will be unpleasant, he thinks, and looks at Sam. "Eyes and mouth closed till we're clear. And no breathing."

Sam blinks an affirmative when he really just wants to yell and break things. He is so pissed at Dean for coming... but he is also beyond grateful, and resolves to crush his brother in a bear hug if he ever gets off this shitty stretcher.

Lucifer is leaning against the desk and glaring at Dean like he stole his favourite toy, and Sam supposes he did. During the brother's conversation on the phone, Lucifer must have realized that he can't yet suppress Sam's memories when Dean is around. So as some sick retribution, he had a 'Dean' spend the next hour berating Sam and ripping through his innards with a swiss-army knife.

Sam snaps back to the present when bullets ping against the metal doors in response to Dean shoving a tear gas canister through a partial opening. He quickly slams the doors shut again and pulls the lamp rod out of the handles with a little smirk. There is audible swearing and tripping in the hallway as the canister spews it's noxious fumes and deputies get the hell out of there.

After a moment of waiting, Dean turns back to Sam offering an apologetic grin before he flicks off his flashlight and throws the doors open. Sam and his stretcher are dragged feet first out of the room as Dean runs blindly down the now smoke-filled hall.

Doing what he's told by keeping his eyes and mouth closed as they peel through the pitch-black building, Sam can't help but wonder how his brother can be running this fast without breathing or seeing where he's going. The answer is: not very well.

"Clear!" Dean hacks out after way too long, and Sam opens his eyes and inhales deeply as they come to a stop. He can barely make out his brother leaning against a wall, panting heavily, and coughing.

Sam lifts his head and pulls at his restraints in distress, when he notices the drugs aren't holding him back anymore. Dean can't keep going like this... "Let me up! I can help."

A flashlight beam approaches from around the corner just ahead of them, and Dean is still too doubled-over to notice. Sam growls in frustration and uses his limited reach to grasp for the shotgun on his chest. He takes it in his right hand just as the source of light rounds the corner, and he manages to blast the approaching asshole off his feet.

Dean jumps upright at the noise and watches the guy drop, turning back to Sam in surprise. Wheezing, he wordlessly puts the second shotgun in Sam's other hand and starts fumbling with the straps on the stretcher as he gets them moving again.

They take one last corner as Sam's left arm is freed, and he sees a parking lot illuminated by a dim street light through glass doors at the end of the hall. A weight seems to lift off his chest. We're almost out! He seriously doubted this escape would actually work.

But the feeling is too good to last as Dean suddenly trips and goes flying. He hits the ground rolling and his head slams against unforgiving plexiglass panes.

A trip-wire is pulled taut across the hallway and the front end of Sam's stretcher collapses over it, propping him up to watch as four kevlar-wearing SWAT guys in night-vision goggles file out of a room. They jump Dean who is too dazed from hitting the glass to react.

Sam shouts out and raises the shotgun in his free arm in an attempt to distract them as long as possible. He fires - praying he doesn't hit his brother - and takes an agonizingly long time to pump the gun single-handedly before firing again.

As the attackers recoil from the shotgun blasts, Dean collects himself enough to pull a couple of tasers out of his coat pocket, and jab them into the thighs of two guys. They let out strangled cries and drop just as Dean gets back to his feet with a snarl. Another guy drops from a crushing punch to his throat.

Dean is just about to demolish the last member, when something cold presses against Sam's neck and the now-empty shotgun is ripped from his grip by someone behind him.

"Hold it right there, Dean. Or your brother is getting his head blown off." It's that fucking sheriff again.

Sam's anger burns. Now wishing he had real bullets, he reaches for the gun in his restrained hand and almost has it aimed over his shoulder before a sharp hit to the temple stuns him and the shotgun is knocked to the floor. Briar quickly pins his wrist to the stretcher.

Dean stands frozen with a murderous expression in a flashlight beam. He's pointing his .45 mm at Briar while choking the last vertical SWAT member against the wall with his other hand. Sam gets his first real look at his brother since the whole ordeal began and instantly notices the blood saturating his grey shirt.

He got hit... Sam's eyes glaze over with tears as they make eye contact. More armed SWAT officers pour through the backdoor and surround them, and somewhere Lucifer is cheering excitedly, but Sam pays no attention: he only has eyes for his brother.

"Drop the gun, the officer, and get on your knees!" a new voice echoes. "Now, Winchester. It's over."

Sam's heart beats frantically as Henrickson's words from all those years ago return with a vengeance, 'Isolation... in a sound-proof windowless cell so small that - between you and me - probably unconstitutional... You two will never see each other again.'

Dean seems to shrink. His shoulders slump and the steel in his gaze vanishes. He glances at the gun in his grip, then back at Sam, seeming at war with himself.

Knowing exactly what he's thinking, Sam chokes out, "Dean, do it! It's alright... we've done enough... I'll see you soon, remember?" Remember Heaven? He can't hold back the tears anymore and they stream down his face.

Dean's back stiffens, and he appears decided. "No, Sam. This isn't how it ends. We still got work to do." He drops the gun, releases the SWAT guy, and sinks to his knees.

Sam howls in response and wrenches at the straps keeping him from his brother. "No! Dean you can't do this! You can't leave me alone with Him! Please, shoot me. Fucking shoot me!" He rocks the stretcher, knocking it over, and reaches for the fallen shotgun. Somebody just kill me, he thinks desperately, but no such luck as several hands simply grab Sam's free arm, restrain it again, and correct the stretcher.

The SWAT guys rush Dean and tackle him from behind, slamming his already-battered head against the floor as they cuff his hands behind his back. But Dean doesn't make a sound. He just looks back up at Sam with that Goddamned apologetic smile of his.

The Devil is whistling merrily, there are people talking, but the rest of the world ceases to exist as Sam strains to hear Dean.

"I thought I made this clear years ago: I can't kill you, Sammy. Stop asking me to."

FRIDAY LATE MORNING

Briar collapses into bed, completely drained. That was the most emotionally jarring night possible. Period. While waiting for sleep to take him, he tries to wrap his head around everything.

Sara is back home safe, and the monsters terrorizing the country have finally been caught... for good. Briar sees no way they could possibly get away this time. After the older brother went down, they were immediately loaded into separate SWAT vans and sent off to the maximum security prison in Lee County.

But Briar is having trouble feeling happy about it: he can't get the Winchesters' reactions to being separated out of his head. Sam was completely hysterical and struggling so much they had to sedate him again to prevent him from tearing out his stitches, and Dean remained stoic for a little while, but seemed to snap when he got to his own van. Apparently, he wasn't done fighting yet and kicked the shit out of two of the SWAT members trying to load him before somebody had the brains to use a taser. Those brothers are the very definition of codependent. Briar frowns at the memories.

Then there's the fact that nobody, not a single one of his deputies was killed or even badly injured. What is that about? Not that Briar's complaining, but the Winchester had shotguns... and they were loaded with salt... What the fuck? They almost made it out using nonlethal force only, and Briar doesn't know why. If these guys are really as heinous as they've been made out to be, then why didn't they kill anyone? They seemed so desperate to get away, why would they half-ass it?

The sheriff snorts and tries to lay his worries to rest. They're religious fanatics who torture and murder in ways that range from satanic sacrifice, to mutilations resembling bear attacks; their actions aren't going to make sense. They probably thought we were monsters and salt would kill us... Briar smiles at the thought and relaxes into his pillow, allowing himself to feel satisfied that Charles and every other victim can finally get justice.

Maybe I should have gone with death-by-cop after all, Dean mourns in the back of the SWAT van. He's exhausted and trying to sleep, but can't: he has a killer headache from having his head bashed in twice, and he's rather painfully hogtied on the metal floor surrounded by six pissed-off SWAT guys. The graze on his side is held open and stings from his arms being pulled so tightly behind him, and it's still bleeding sluggishly.

We'd be in Heaven right now... relaxing in the Roadhouse and chugging beer with Ash, and Ellen... Jo... Pamela... Bobby... We could find Mom and Dad - Dean's throat closes - I wouldn't be headed for an electric chair after months in isolation, and Sam wouldn't be locked inside his head until Lucifer drains the life out of him. He squeezes his eyes shut, pissed at himself. Why didn't I pull the damned trigger?

But Dean already knows why: he couldn't shoot Sam when he thought he was infected with the Croatoan virus, and he couldn't shoot Sam when he was holding a knife over Jo, threatening to kill her. Both times he begged Dean to kill him, and both times Dean refused. And what happened? Sam didn't actually have the virus, and it was a fucking demon threatening Jo.

So how could Dean kill his much-too-frequently-suicidal little brother this time? No matter how hopeless a situation seems, there is always the chance for it to get better. And although death would be a sweet release for them both at this point, they still have work to do. The world needs saving again, and Dean isn't ready to give up on it just yet.

After successfully stepping back from the proverbial cliff, Dean starts brainstorming ways to get the hell out of... Where? "Hey, Hondo Harrelson, where are we going?" he asks, hoping he doesn't get kicked for talking.

"Iowa State Penitentiary in Lee County," a deep voice answers mechanically.

"Uhuh... That a super max or no?"

"Super max," the voice answers. Dean can almost hear the stiff's smirk as he elaborates, "I suggest you pray to your dark overlord, or whatever you satanists do, 'cuz you're not getting away again."

Awesome, he thinks dryly. Then gets an idea. Pray... Well if you insist..."Angels!" he yells at the van's roof. The SWAT guys startle and point guns at him nervously. "Michael's vessel calling!"

No answer. Maybe I shouldn't have led with the vessel thing, - Dean scowls - Or maybe I need to be more specific... But he doesn't know any living angel's names. Unless...

"Cas..." Dean lowers his voice as some of his less-than-friendly guards start looking creeped out. "This is getting ridiculous. Me and Sam are heading for the Iowa State Penitentiary, so zap us out... I'm beg-" he's interrupted by a kick to his torn side.

"That's enough... fucking lunatic."

Emmanuel startles and drops his watering can as the voice bounces through his mind again. Dean... Sam... Iowa State Penitentiary. I can work with that.

Forgetting the roses, Emmanuel runs into the house to find his wife. "Daphne! Dean called back, he's in Iowa," he calls.

Sweet Daphne steps out of the living room. "So, you're going now," she replies sadly. They've already discussed it: she doesn't need to ask.

"Yes. I want to know who I am..." He touches her shoulder gently.

She smiles, walks to her purse, and reaches for her wallet. She pulls out a wad of cash. "Iowa's two states over. You'll have to take the bus... I think I see now... God only wanted me to help you find your way back to yourself. This is goodbye." A tear runs down her cheek.

Emmanuel frowns. "No, it's not. I'm your husband. I'm not just going to forget that."

But she shakes her head. "You're special... Cas," - she trips over the new name - "Whoever that is, is too important for a girl like me. Now let me drive you to the bus station."

Wiping away her tears, Emmanuel cups her face. "Thank you."

SATURDAY AFTERNOON

The Cage looks however Lucifer wants it to look. Right now, it is a white cell containing a too-small cot, toilet, sink, and a perforated glass window into another room where a desk sits. But Sam doesn't care at all about his surroundings. He's just crouching in the corner and staring at the door, waiting for Lucifer to bring on the torture.

This particular scenario has been on constant repeat for years now. Sam gets locked in a small space until some monster comes in and tears him to pieces. That's when Dearest Satan comes along and lays a hand on some mutilated chunk of his body, magically putting Sam back together once again, creating a new cage, and the cycle begins anew. But this time is different, and he's a lot more worried about the change in routine than he is of impending death.

This time, Sam does not feel as though he was magically put back together. He's sweaty and shaky and exhausted, like he actually needs to sleep. He scoffs at the thought: there is no sleeping in the Cage, his body is never alive long enough to require it. Not that Lucifer would ever allow an escape like unconsciousness anyway.

Sam's also sore. He only ever experiences agony from being eviscerated, or eaten, or frozen, or set on fire, or drowned in acid. But now, he's just... sore. There are bandages all over him, but the soreness is coming from his left calf, which has started bleeding through grey sweatpants... on it's own... without any foreign object being shoved through it... What is that about?

There are also the faded words, 'Not in Hell,' written on his forearm beside the wrappings on his wrist. He actually chortled a little when he first saw that. Really, Lucifer? That's not even a decent attempt at getting my hopes up.

The other difference - that has him freaking out the most - is how long he's been in here. Normally, Lucifer doesn't leave him alone for more than a few minutes, and he's been alone in this cell for hours... The separation is eating at him. So when Lucifer finally makes his appearance on the other side of the window, Sam is honestly relieved. But he won't dare show it.

This time, the Devil dresses like a doctor. He places a clipboard on the desk as he takes a seat. "Good afternoon, Sam. I'm Dr. Collard, and I'll be taking your case."

Sam just glares at him briefly before returning his gaze to the door. Any second now...

"Could you maybe lie on the bed please? It looks like you're damaging your leg crouching like that," Lucifer continues kindly.

Is that why it's bleeding? Sam narrows his eyes and doesn't move: he won't be able to defend himself if he's lying down. Not that he ever manages to last longer than a few seconds against Lucifer's pets anyway.

'Dr. Collard' doesn't sound phased. "Alright, you can stay there if you want. I've been told you haven't slept in several days. Can you tell me why?"

Sam blinks in confusion and turns to look at him. He's letting me disobey? "I haven't slept in 174 years... You know why."

Lucifer raises his eyebrows. "Umm... actually I don't. Care to remind me?"

"Not really," Sam barks. He just wants this weird interrogation over with so things can get back to normal.

Satan merely smiles and decides to change the subject, "I'm surprised you haven't been asking for your brother, you two seem quite attached."

"Adam? You haven't let me see him or Michael in decades."

Now Lucifer looks really confused. "I meant Dean..."

Sam flinches violently. His guard was down and the name hits him like a physical blow. Lucifer loves to pull out the 'Dean' card when he's least expecting it.

Over the years, Sam managed to build himself a nearly indestructible wall around the memory of his brother. Sometimes, he hides himself behind it and fantasizes about the happy life of Dean with Lisa, and Ben, and a safe roof over his head, and home-cooked meals, and football games, and new friends that don't get murdered, and nobody leaves him...

But these fantasies cause Sam a profound grief as well as a shelter. They always come back to the memory of how he left Dean all alone in that cemetery with Bobby's broken body, and his angel blown to smithereens.

Sam scowls furiously at Lucifer and his voice cracks as he says, "De... is fine. I'm not going to talk about him." He knows he's deluding himself. There will be no peace or happy ending for his brother, and the fact that they will never see each other again tears holes through Sam far worse than anything the Devil can do. He and his brother are literal soul-mates, after all.

After a deep breath and a lot of effort, Sam locks thoughts of Dean back behind the wall.

Lucifer tilts his head oddly, and starts scratching notes down on the clipboard. "Do you want to talk about Adam or Michael?"

But Sam's had enough: this is just too far out of his comfort zone. "Cut the shit and start the mutilating already!" he growls and tenses. He knows physical torture. He can trust it, and he's been waiting long enough.

"Do you expect me to hurt you?" Lucifer asks, startled.

"Obviously," Sam rolls his eyes.

"I'm not here to hurt you. I'm here to help."

Sam is starting to feel real anger now. "What the fuck is this? You back to trying to convince me to like you? To like you for fixing me up just to kill me over and over?"

"Who do you think I am?" Lucifer asks, still awfully calm.

Sam sighs exasperatedly. "Lucifer! Satan, the Devil, which do you prefer?"

Lucifer pauses for a minute to take some notes, then asks, "Do you like pain, Sam?"

Eyes widening at the question, Sam quickly tries to backtrack. Am I making it obvious? "No!" he replies, perhaps a little too quickly. "It's just... anything beats having to talk to you like this..."

"I'm not the Devil. And I'm not going to intentionally cause you pain. Nobody here will, I promise."

No... NO... Sam presses his back against the wall. He's been found out, and Lucifer has never broken a promise... No more pain? Sam can't breath. After almost two centuries of being tossed into torture scenario after torture scenario, only two things have ever remained constant: Lucifer's presence, and pain. They are what keep him anchored in an ever-changing reality, and now Lucifer is going to stop the torture?

Sam desperately tries to repair the damage. "I'm... I... thank you," he stutters out, trying and failing to hide his horror.

But the damage is done. Lucifer stands up, saying, "That's enough for today. I'll come talk with you again tomorrow. Orderlies will be in shortly with some dinner and replace that bandage on your leg." And then he's gone.

Sam collapses onto the floor and curls in on himself. What did I just do!? Lucifer is leaving him for a whole day and nothing is going to hurt him... It's too much too fast.

Tearing through his shirt and the bandages on his shoulder, Sam finds a stitched bullet wound beneath his collar bone. Without pausing to think about where the hell it came from, he digs his finger in and yanks out the stitches. He starts to relax as blood gushes everywhere and he keeps digging, soaking up the agony like a dry sponge to water.

Sam has ripped the wound wide enough to fit his entire hand inside by the time his cell bursts open and orderlies rush him. He feels relieved at first, thinking they are the monsters he's been waiting for, but then he notices they're carrying a syringe and a first aid kit instead of knives and hot pokers.

Sam cowers in disbelief and tries to kick them away. "No! I'm not done! Get off... Get the fuck OFF!"

It doesn't take long for a brief shot of adrenaline to fade away and he is easily flattened against the now blood-soaked floor. Why am I so weak? His last vestige of strength fades as a needle finds his neck, and he can't help but lie limply as the orderlies - who are by far the worst monsters - work to fix his shoulder and take away his pain.

SATURDAY NIGHT

Dean had started pacing hours ago, and it's really more like spinning in circles since his cell is so small. Two steps one way, find the wall, turn around, two steps back, find the other wall, turn around, repeat...

At least 24 hours alone in this completely silent and pitch-black room has begun to wear on him. The only time he gets light is when hands push crappy sandwiches on paper plates through a flap and he's temporarily blinded by a dimly-lit hallway. Besides the flap and a tiny blocked window, the door has no handle, no lock, no nothing.

Dean remained optimistic about escape for the first few hours. He combed the cell with his hands feeling for any weakness or potential weapons, but there is nothing. He called for help and faked a seizure in the hopes of being taken to an infirmary - or at the very least to get the door open - but nobody came. He knows he's being watched via cameras, so either they knew he was faking, or they just don't care... Neither conclusion is good, so now he paces.

Doing nothing and sitting still are not things that Dean does well: he's lived life almost entirely on the road, taking on job after job. Even in Hell he always had a job: first taking torture, and eventually providing torture... And in Hell there were bright fires to see by, demons to taunt... he knew Sam was safe(ish)... and he didn't bother thinking of escape: he had been bracing himself for a year on the concept of eternal damnation.

But this.... He can't handle this tiny fucking box. Sam is dying in slow motion somewhere, and Dean needs to get out.

To be locked up and hated by people they've given more than their lives to save is maddening enough, but he can't handle this complete nothing. Suppressed memories creep to the surface with no distractions; hellfire blankets his vision and screams fill his ears as he dwells on what Sam could be going through now. He can imagine, but can't possibly know what 180 years in the Cage felt like.

Feels like, Dean thinks angrily as he paces. Lucifer keeps pulling Sam into the Cage, and spitting him back out by screwing with his mind... How long has he been without sleep now? Six, seven days? He has no sense of time in this cell. How much longer does Sam have?

"Fuck!" he shouts and starts punching at the door, just to hear something other than cries of his past victims. He keeps ten years of torturing souls locked in his head, and their voices are deafening in all this silence... And he can't hide from the thoughts of Sam being tortured just like them...

After what he assumes is several minutes of repeatedly punching the metal door - and gaining a few broken knuckles - Dean jumps back as the door's barred window slides open. His eyes take forever to adjust to the dim-yet-blinding light, but when they do, his heart almost stops beating.

"Cas...?" Dean breathes at the blue eyes peering in at him. The screams retreat as relief washes over him, but is quickly replaced with disbelief. "You... you died..." Please, tell me I'm not just hallucinating...

"You're Dean?" the angel replies softly, almost disappointedly.

"Yeah, Cas what the hell are you still doing out there, get in here! And what took so long?" Dean starts out happily, but now he's just freaking out.

Cas frowns. "I heard your voice in my head... calling me. Do you know who... what... I am?"

Eyes widening in shock, Dean takes a second to process this. He doesn't know he's an angel... He doesn't know me? I wouldn't hallucinate this...

Cas betrayed them, went on a killing rampage, sought forgiveness, and was supposedly killed by monsters that he set free from Purgatory. Now he has amnesia? Fuck... if I say the wrong thing he could snap... disappear... Dean stalls for time while he struggles to come up with something. "Uhh... How did you get down here?"

"I'm not sure." Cas shrugs and looks down the hallway. "A guard said I couldn't come to see you, but I had to. Nobody tried to stop me. It's like they couldn't even see me... Now, can you tell me why?"

Dean chooses his words carefully, "Yeah, I've known you for years... and if you get me and my brother out of here, I'll tell you all about yourself."

But the angel shakes his head, looking angry. "Don't try to manipulate me. I asked the guard about you. The things you've done... I don't even know what I was expecting to find here." He starts to walk away.

"CAS!" Dean runs to the bars, getting as close as possible. "I know you can look into people and see things. I'm begging you... Do I look like the murderer they say I am?"

Cas hesitates, but then their eyes meet and Dean's heart leaps at the familiar feeling of being x-rayed. "Yes... you do. You are a monster. And I do think we've met before, but I no longer want to know who I was. I'm not Cas. My name is Emmanuel, and I have a wife to go home to." With that, he keeps walking.

He may as well have punched Dean in the gut. He saw... FUCK! "Cas! Castiel! No... please you don't understand... I'm not that... not anymore!"

But Cas doesn't stop or turn around, and he's quickly out of sight.

A guard comes down the hall. "Hey, shut the hell up! How did this thing open?" The small window is abruptly shut, and Dean is plunged back into darkness.

He stands there for a moment, stunned. And then he pounds his bloodied fists against the door again. All plans to hide the truth go out the window, and his throat feels as though it's being ripped apart as he screams, "No, Cas... you DO NOT get to leave me here! You can't leave us here, you have to fix Sam! I'm going to pray at you until you come back, you feathery son of a bitch! You need to clean up your mess!"