A/N: And here's Cas. :)

3. But He Found Hell Instead

Dean is sitting in the woods outside the bunker when Charlie finds him. He leans his head against a tree, feeling the coarse bark rub against his back, watching her approach, and swiping quickly at the dampness on his cheeks. He doesn't need anyone else to see how broken he feels right now. Besides, he's not spoken to her in a while. Not since John had called him to Wyoming a few days ago.

Some research and wheedling of other hunters revealed that even Hell—that goddamned camp—is in Wyoming. Had Dean known, he'd never have returned to the bunker.

Charlie had watched him quietly while they'd burned John's body, and Dean had just stood there in the front, hands in his pockets, thinking of four years ago, when they'd lost Sam. But now, according to his dad, Sam's alive and in one of those demon camps? Even better, a camp they've never even heard of?

How is there a whole camp that no one knows of?

Hell. He can still hear his father's rasping, dying voice pronouncing that terrifying word. Hell. How many times had Dean, in a heated argument with Sam, just said, "go to hell" or something similar? How many times had he wished for Sam to just leave him alone for a while? His dad to leave him alone for a while?

And so, here he is, left alone, not for a while but for a whole eternity, by his family. Like Charlie.

Charlie doesn't talk as she pats at the ground beside Dean and sits there, leaning herself against the tree. Dean casts a glance at her and then looks ahead, at the setting sun. He's packed his stuff and is in the mood to leave the bunker right the fuck now, but Bobby's asked him to stay the night, rest, and then go. Bobby even said he'd accompany Dean, but Dean's brushed him off. He isn't going to let anyone but himself die over this rescue mission, if it even really is one.

Because, is Sammy really even alive?

"You know," Charlie says suddenly, pulling Dean out of his thoughts, "when I first met you at training, I thought you were a jerk."

Dean smiles a little, doesn't look at her. She pushes closer, nudges his shoulder once, and clears her throat. "Anyway," she says, "I got us something."

He turns, finally, and she's smiling as she produces a bottle of vodka from her jacket pocket. "Kevin and Jo are getting us some more," she tells him happily.

Dean chuckles. "You're twenty-one, and you couldn't smuggle a couple of drinks?"

"Hey!" She crosses her arms, glaring at him. "I wanted to talk without getting drunk. Give me some credit!"

He shakes his head. "Can we not?"

"Talk?" Charlie raises an eyebrow. "We're already talking, dumbass."

"You know what I mean."

She goes quiet for a moment, and sighs. "I know what you mean."

"Then—"

"Dean," she says, "fuck, man, it's not your fault."

"I never said it was." Dean feels his lips quirk up in a smile. "You're losing your touch, kiddo."

She shakes her head, and passes him the bottle. "Drink. Like Bobby says, medicine to the soul."

"I hate vodka."

"I know you're a whiskey kind of guy, but—"

"I'm okay, Charlie," he tells her. "I really am."

"Why do you think I'm here for a pity party?" she asks him. "I'm here to talk. About the shit that needs to happen."

"Like?"

"Like you not beating yourself up if you can't find Sam."

Save Sam, or kill him. John's words echo in Dean's ears, and he ducks his head from Charlie's gaze, drawing his fingers over the dried, crunchy leaves on the ground. He doesn't know what the fuck that was supposed to mean, and why John would even expect him to kill his little brother if he actually found him after four fucking years, but there you go.

Cynical, dead-people shit.

Dean wants to yell at his dad right now. He wants to rage and scream, and tell him that this is fucked up, and that you don't ask your kid to kill your other kid, who everyone thinks has been dead for four years now. They had a memorial for Sam. They fucking mourned him. Every goddamn thing kept reminding Dean of how his brother wasn't around anymore. Dean went through hell—oh God, devastating shit thinking of his dead brother, and all his dad does is die on him, four years later after laying this crap on his shoulders?

'Save your little brother, who you were protecting for eighteen fucking years of your life, or kill him.' You don't just fucking say that as your last words while you die.

"Hey," Charlie speaks up suddenly, breaking Dean out of his reverie. "You listening?"

No.

"Yeah," he lies.

"The other thing I want to say is," she pauses, and he turns as she takes a deep breath, startling him when tears start to fill up her eyes. She licks her lip. "Come back alive, okay?"

His mouth falls open slightly. He can hear the hidden words in what she said, what he knows is mostly true for her because they're like brother and sister, and even though she can't, she can never replace Sammy, she is something else to Dean. Someone else who is so very important; he doesn't know how he forgets sometimes.

You are all I have.

Dean shakes his head at her and opens an arm, throwing it around her shoulders and pulling her in so that she's resting her head in the crook of his neck.

"I'll be back," he tells her, while she nods vigorously, letting out a small sniffle as she drags a sleeve underneath her eyes. "I'll bring Sammy along, too."

She loosens up a little, and turns her face so she can look him in the eye. "You sure about this?"

"Dad never said or did anything without reason, kiddo. He knew I'd go looking for Sammy, and he wouldn't say this just to waste my time. I'm sure he knew what was going on. Or at least, a part of it."

"If you say so."

She detaches herself from Dean, shutting her eyes briefly as she grinds the back of her head against the tree trunk. A twig snaps somewhere behind them, and Dean leans around the tree to see Jo and Kevin making their way to them, Jo carrying a six-pack, and Kevin a fifth of whiskey, that he lifts up in his hand and waves at Dean, smiling widely.

"Hey!" Dean calls out to them, watching as their shoes crunch on dry leaves, breaking them, heart growing lighter as they approach. They both come over and sit down in front of Charlie and Dean, placing their stuff in the space between them. Jo reaches for the inside pocket on her jacket and produces a bag of chips.

Dean grabs a beer and pops the cap with his ring, placing his lips thirstily to the rim to drink. "So," he says, clearing his throat after he takes a swig, "you guys throwin' me a treat for my possible last day on this earth?"

"Don't flatter yourself," Jo replies, voice drawling as she rakes back strands of blonde hair from her face.

"Aw, you're not going to miss me?" Dean asks her.

"You think too much of yourself."

Dean grins, one side of his mouth curving up, as he leans close to Jo. "Really?" he asks her, voice going down to a low murmur.

She winks at him. "Still got all that self-respect, Dean," she pauses, then sighs, and leans forward to kiss him on the cheek. "Come back, okay?"

Dean nods, unable to promise anything. He swallows and changes the subject. "So you're just not into me, or—?"

"You're my friend," she replies, eyes going soft. "Let's keep it like that?"

He holds her gaze for a whole moment, and then nods. She gives him a relieved smile and leans back, while she accepts a beer from Kevin, the last of the orange rays of the sun catching in her hair, and then sparkling out from her beer as she holds her own bottle to her lips. They drink, the four of them, and it's a lazy evening. No one asks them why they reek of a distillery when they get back to the bunker, and when Dean goes to sleep, he doesn't dream for the first time in many nights.

The next morning, Bobby is waiting outside in the war room while Dean gathers his duffel and his car keys, and he joins Dean when he walks to the garage. Dean unlocks his Impala and then looks back at his surrogate father, finding himself at a loss for what to say, when Bobby moves a step forward, and pulls him into a hug.

Dean is startled for a moment, but then he brings his arms around Bobby and holds on. He knows what's bound to happen to him in the near future, and he knows Bobby knows, too. Everybody knows about it. However, Dean's ready to do anything for his little brother, including cutting his own life short trying to find Sam. Because, really, that's all Dean had come to the bunker with—his family—and now that they're gone, he doesn't know what else to do. And if he somehow succeeds in bringing even one part of that family back, it'll make all the difference in the world.

Bobby lets go, eyes serious but expression gentle. "You listen to me, boy," he says in a low growl, "you'd better get back here with that damn idjit brother of yers. You die on me and I'll find yer ass an' shoot ya up with buck shots when I get topside myself."

It's supposed to be funny; something to lighten the mood and encourage them both, but it's not. Dean can feel his throat tightening at Bobby's words, but he nods. "Yes, sir."

"Good."

Dean waves at Bobby and gets into the Impala, looking around for, what could be, the last time. He feels a sense of finality about it all; about this place and his friends and Bobby, and he hopes to goddamn hell that Sam's still alive.

Hell; that's funny. Because Sam's supposedly in Hell.

Dean just drives on faster than he ever has.

~o~

It takes about eleven hours for Dean to reach Wyoming again, and that includes the break he has to take to eat. He drives his car towards Hulett, his heart beating fast as he approaches it. The city is filled with demons, Hulett being Azazel's home, and there are no ghettos in the whole of Wyoming, because even the ones that were there were wiped out years ago. Dean doesn't know how he's going to fool all these fuckers and get to Hell, and he hopes his weak plan will at least be a little useful right now. At the moment, it's all he's got.

There is no one to check him or his car when he enters, and Dean thinks for a minute, just for a minute, that maybe he'll get away with this. The city is pretty much deserted, full of bars and brothels, and the air reeks of rotting flesh and blood. Dean swallows in a breath and spots a bar. It's small and seedy and looks like it's the perfect hiding place. So he stops outside, shoves a gun into his waistband, recites a small prayer to any fucking entity that might be listening, and enters the bar.

The strong smell of cigarette smoke assaults Dean's nostrils the moment he enters and he chokes a cough into his sleeve, looking around, watching a few demons play pool. There are some others seated at the tables, and the demon closest to him flashes him a black-eyed smile. She's occupying the body of a pretty, young, white woman with wavy dark hair, and a round face. Her smile is a little sarcastic, as though she's amused at Dean's presence there, and Dean feels a chill tumble down his spine as he smiles back unsurely and rushes to grab a drink.

He's fingering his shot glass, watching the honey-coloured whiskey in it, when he feels someone pull up a seat beside his. Dean turns to see the same demon who'd smiled at him as he'd entered. She signals for a drink, too, and extends a hand towards Dean. "Meg."

He swallows, feeling her soft, cold hand in his. "D-Dean."

"I've not seen you around much," she says. "You new?"

"Kinda."

"Who're you from?"

Dean swallows. "Who 'm—?"

"Crowley? Abaddon? Alastair? Lilith?"

"Oh." Dean chuckles, licking his lips, trying to look as nervous as possible for a newbie demon in Azazel's city, though he doesn't need to put too much acting into it. "Crowley." He pauses. "Uh… listen… is it—where's Hell?"

She raises an eyebrow at him. "Crowley sent you?" she asks, lowering her voice.

"Is it-is—?"

"Keep your voice down," she hisses. "What did Crowley say?"

"He, um…" Dean excavates his brain for an explanation. "He… there's a job, I think. He didn't say."

She purses her lips, fingering at a lock of hair. "And you said you're new."

"Yeah. I… yeah."

Meg casts a quick glance at the bartender, drains her drink in one go, and starts getting off. "You come with me," she tells him quietly.

Dean abandons his whiskey and rushes after her, ignoring the bartender's demand for payment. She leads him out the door and he keeps walking beside her, shoving his hands into his pockets, trying to keep his heart from beating too fast, or himself from hyperventilating. He can't freaking believe she bought that. Now what?

They're turning a corner, going down a lane leading down to a big house, when Meg gets a good, long look at Dean. "So what's with the meat suit?" she asks him, slightly out-of-breath from their brisk steps. "Where did you wing this one?"

Dean bites the inside of his cheek, and smiles as triumphantly as he can. "He was at a ghetto we took down. Young buck scored a lot with the ladies. I reckoned, why not?"

She hums appreciatively at his answer. "Good choice," she tells him. "We'll exchange once we're done talking to my dad. And," her lip quirks up in a half-smile as she turns to him, eyes black again, "you know, we've got someone like you at the camp, too. You'll like him. He has your jawline, and your crappy taste in plaid. And then, like you, he's a total idiot too."

Dean's mouth is agape before he can realize it. Her dad? Camp? And… what was she…?

A fist connects with his jaw before he can think or respond and he's thrown back, head colliding against a brick wall hard and fast. His knees buckle, black spots entering his vision, and he just barely makes out Meg as she comes to stand over him, hands on her hips, and a wide smile on her face.

"Deano, Deano," she says, in a singsong voice. "You didn't honestly think that the crap you just tried to pull would get you to your brother, did you? Oh, and yes, what you're thinking is true. Azazel is my dad."

Her words echo in Dean's ear, just as he loses himself to the beckoning, comfortable blackness.

~o~

When he comes to, Dean's entire body is pounding mercilessly. It's like déjà vu, the feeling, and he can remember so clearly, something similar happening all those years go, when Sam had been gone.

When Sam had been taken.

His eyes are heavy, and Dean really wants to open them, but he can't. His mouth tastes like ass; he's been drugged, he thinks, and when he tries to move his hands, he realizes that he's been handcuffed, and is actually bound to a chair. And everything; fucking everything hurts.

The whole thing with Meg comes back to him like a bad, bad movie.

Fuck, he thinks. What the hell was he thinking, trying to make a fool of a demon like that? And Azazel's daughter? When the fuck did Azazel even have kids?

He tries to struggle against the handcuffs, opening his eyes against everything that's dumbing him down, and the first thing that hits his already fragile vision is a bright, bright light.

"Oh, he's with us," says a voice that Dean doesn't recognize, and he blinks, trying to adjust to the stupid fucking light, but it dims himself. A pair of yellow eyes is peering back at Dean, and as his vision gets less blurry, he notices that they belong to a douche-y face that makes Dean cringe. He knows who this is, even though he's never actually seen the face for himself. The stories about this asshole and his eyes are everywhere.

"Dean Winchester," Azazel tells him in a slow, rumbling voice, simmering with sarcasm and triumph. "Man of the hour."

Dean wants to retort, but his mouth still won't move.

Azazel stands up, puts his hands behind his back. "Funny thing is," he says, "we demons actually have faces. Faces that aren't these meat suits. You humans can't make them out, but we can." He grins. "You should have done your research, Sport, because you were dead the moment my daughter saw you at the bar." He waits, as though he's listening for an answer, and shrugs.

"Anyway. I know what you're here for."

Dean's tongue really does unstick from the roof of his mouth this time. "H-How?"

"Your brother is back at the camp," Azazel tells him. "You know about that one now, don't you? Hell?" He doesn't wait for an answer. "It's true, yes, and it really does exist. I have huge plans for your brother, Dean. And if Mommy hadn't interrupted me that night, you wouldn't have even known—"

Anger pulsates up Dean's veins. "You son of a bitch—"

"—I know you're here for Sam," Azazel tells him, interrupting Dean. "And I'll take you there."

Dean's eyes widen. "Why?"

"To show you what a mistake your Mommy made that night." Azazel's eyes flash deeper, yellower if possible, and the smile that he's wearing makes Dean's skin crawl. What is this asshole talking about? Why is he saying all this? What's Sam been up to? Is he okay?.

"Your brother is more than okay, Champ, even though Mommy should really have just let me take him. But then again, we do kill all hunters without exception, so maybe she did a good thing, too. I wouldn't know."

The relish, the caress in Azazel's voice is so real, so palpable, that Dean wants to gag. He tries to stop the thoughts racing in his head; about Sam, about the possibilities, and watches as Azazel turns to the others in the room. He beckons to two demons behind him, and they come forward to start undoing Dean's handcuffs, and the ropes that are binding his legs to the chair.

"Let me show you," Azazel tells Dean as he slowly stands up, heart going faster in his chest than it ever has.

It's in that moment, when he sees the smugness in Azazel's fucking jaundice-yellow eyes, that Dean understands why his dad had told him what he said about Sam. Sam might not be Sam. Sam was… one of these people now.

Dean will never kill Sam, though. Not even if Hell freezes over. And if that means he's about to die, then so be it.

~o~

The stink of sulphur is pungent and assaulting to Dean's nostrils as he follows Azazel, flanked by the demon's equally-stinky minions as they walk inside a dark, dank tunnel. They drove down from Azazel's place, a ten-minute drive with a blindfold over Dean's eyes, and he counted thirteen minutes. He also kept track of the precise number of turns they'd taken, and how much they had walked once out of the tunnel. When they took the blindfold off, they were already in the tunnel.

Dean's stomach is churning, the burger he'd had for lunch at a ghetto on the way sloshing threateningly as he thinks of what Azazel just said about Sam. Will he even be able to recognise Sam? Will Sam recognise him, or is he so far gone—so trained in evil—that he won't even know who Dean is?

He hesitates. Why is he even thinking of Sam as evil? It's possible… it's entirely possible… that…

He swallows. He can't think of what else could be possible.

The demon behind him nudges him when he slows down and he huffs a tired sigh as he continues walking. Distantly, Dean can hear people roaring and cheering, and he wonders where they're heading. In front of him, Azazel starts to talk.

"I built my camp in and around Devils Tower. You know what that is?"

Dean's heard of it. He knows it's very close to Hulett, and he looks around. Holy crap, is that where he is? He looks up at Azazel and narrows his eyes. "You're a peacocking son of a bitch."

"Oh, you really think so?" Azazel asks him in a menacing voice.

Dean tries to snort, tries to sound brave. "Hell? Devils Tower? I know you're an asshole, but the names make it douchier."

He gets a chuckle in return. "We'll see," Azazel tells him, "we'll see whether all that snark and the rough exterior stays with you once we're topside, Dean-o. We're very close to your brother now."

The cheering is getting louder by the second, and Dean's breath catches in his throat. "What?"

"You can hear the applause, can't you?" Azazel asks him, turning around and smirking. "Who do you think it's for?"

The tunnel starts to end, light flooding in from the opening, and Dean listens to the chant of the crowd as they near it.

Se-ven, se-ven, se-ven!

What the fuck?

"We have a tradition here," Azazel tells him. "When the slaves misbehave or disobey, we throw them to our special children."

Se-ven, se-ven, se-ven!

"And, guess who Seven is, Sport."

There is a burst of applause just when they come out of the tunnel, straight into an arena, and Dean finds himself on the bottom-most row, staring at the wide field in front of him. On one side, there's an old man, scared and shaking, and on the other—on the other side is the reason why the crowd is applauding, banging and stamping their feet on the stalls, cheering, hooting catcalling, and Dean sees him. Dean sees his brother.

Se-ven, se-ven, se-ven!

Sammy.

~o~

Dean is seated before his knees can buckle, staring at the new entry at the far corner, mouth agape. He can feel Azazel's eyes on him, triumphant and smug, and Dean wants to clock him, and take Sammy and run, but this is, this is—

Dean can't even describe it. Sam's not Sam. He's about half a foot taller than when Dean last saw him, hair overgrown and shaggy, flopping against his movements as he growls, snapping his teeth and whipping his face about. He is well-built, in a dirty t-shirt and jeans, eyes full of malice, and Dean can see the iron collars around Sam's neck and ankles, dragging chains behind him as he fixes his eyes only and only on the poor slave, face spelling murder.

Goosebumps run up Dean's arms as his stomach turns. This is—this is not supposed to be Sam. Sam's supposed to be a smartass and a shy kid at the same time, not willing to hurt a hair on anyone's head, but dangerous all the same. He's silent, manipulative and lethal, as opposed to Dean's open anger, hate and killer instincts, and Dean had always thought that all their enemies should fear Sam more, but not like this. Not like this.

"Surprised?" Azazel asks him. "I was, too. Once we started training him, he was absolutely fatal. One of our best."

"Shut up," Dean growls, voice coming low from his throat. "I will bust him outta here and kill you, you asshole."

Azazel turns around to look at him, yellow eyes meeting with Dean's and laced with amusement. "Are you actually threatening me, Dean? In my own camp? When your brother is under my control?"

"I fucking am," Dean spits back at him. "I'll take him away from here. I know what you've done to him. You'll have both of us to deal with. Me, and my fatal brother."

Azazel snorts. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves, Dean-o. I could kill both of you right here, right now, and you know it."

"Then you'd better," Dean replies. "Because, if we bust out—and we will—you're dead."

Azazel seems to think about that for a moment. His forehead creases as he takes a breath, and then turns again to Dean. "You know what? You're lucky. I'll take that challenge and make you a deal."

"What deal?" Dean asks him, feeling his eyes narrow as the hairs on his neck stand, an unholy instinct of self-preservation taking over. He knows that he's stupid; that he's doing the fucking stupidest thing. He looks back at Sam, who's being undone from each shackle by a trench-coated guard, the crowd's incessant roars a dull throb to his ears now.

"I'll let you sleep in Sam's uh… quarters tonight," Azazel tells Dean. The trench-coated dude then takes the shackles away and presses a hand to Sam's shoulder, who just flashes him a menacing face.

Who is this asshole groping his brother? Dean wonders, and, making a mental note to kill him, nods at Azazel. "That's it?"

"No, there's another part, if you're not too busy staring at Castiel," Azazel tells him sarcastically.

Castiel. Dean edits previously made mental note. Kill Castiel.

Azazel clears his throat. "If you get baby brother to recognise you in twenty-four hours, you're free. Both of you. If not…"

"You kill us," Dean finishes for Azazel, eyes never leaving Castiel, who's trying to talk to Sam now.

"Exactly. So what do you say?"

"Deal," Dean tells him, and to another roar from the crowd, Azazel signals for the showdown to begin. Dean watches Sam's face stretch into a mad leer as he looks at the slave, and then at Castiel, whose back is retreating to where Sam seemed to have come from. He swears to himself that he's going to get Sammy out of here. Even if he has to die doing it.

Save Sam, or kill him.

Dean definitely knows what his dad meant now.

~o~

Se-ven, se-even, se-ven!

Dean's hands are shaking as they rest on his knees. He watches Sam throw his head back, shaking away his fringe and his fists clench and unclench, tendons standing stark at the back of his palm as he starts to walk towards the old slave.

Dean wants to call out to his brother, tell him not to do this, but he's terrified. Something's numbed him all over, and Sam keeps advancing on the old man, not sparing a glance at the audience, because Dean knows that if Sammy sees him, just once, maybe… maybe…

The slave is throwing up his hands in defence, watching Sam come at him. Sam stops when he's close enough, towering over the other man (Jesus, how tall is this kid?). The crowd lets out a fresh wave of cheers as Sam scrutinises him and then leers a wide, menacing grin. His eyes narrow, expression darkening, and the dimples that accentuated his innocence as a child stand there, emerging with his smile, but for the first time, they make him look dangerous.

Dean realises, belatedly, that his body has erupted in goosebumps.

Se-ven, se-ven, se-ven!

In one quick motion, Sam pushes the man, huge palms shoving at a thin chest. The man stumbles, and Sam pushes him again before moving forward to catch his wrist. He ignores the struggling while the man tries to escape, ignores the weak punches and scratches in his direction as he twists his arm and turns him around. He pulls him back, and Dean watches in horror as Sam's hand goes to cup the man's jaw.

"NO!" He's up on his feet, hand reaching out to Sam, his voice unheard in the roaring and hooting, and Dean sees it. Sees Sam twist the man's neck and break it like he's snapping a toothpick. Watches him push the now-dead man to the ground and bare his teeth at the crowd, to more roaring and cheering.

Dean's head spins. Sam. Sammy. No. Oh, God. What have they done to him?

Castiel comes in while the crowd gets up, still cheering out their amusement and enjoyment, and Dean slumps back onto his seat, feeling Azazel's eyes on him. He doesn't look back at the demon, though. He only watches as Castiel touches Sam's shoulder, only to be snapped and growled at. Castiel remains nonchalant while he slips the manacles and chains back on Sam, and gestures for them to leave.

"Send him to Nick in the evening," says a vague voice beside Dean, and he snaps out of it, watching Sam's retreating back vanish into where he came from, and he turns to Azazel. "You son of a bitch," he snarls. "What have you done to my brother?"

Azazel tilts his head and folds his arms across his chest. "I just made him see his potential, Dean," he replies. "Now, are you ready to start working on that deal I made you? Ready to spend a day with that monster of a baby brother?"

"Fuck you. Sam's not a monster," Dean snaps at him. "And take me there, you bastard. Because I'd love to watch you fail."

Azazel narrows his eyes. "Oh, we'll see about that, won't we, Dean? We'll see about that." He stands up, as do the other demons, and with his heart thumping against his chest, Dean follows Azazel again. This time, truly to his little brother.

~o~

They cross the arena and find the door that Sam had come in from, and the demons lead Dean up to an elevator. He feels claustrophobic, knowing that he's inside a rock, and Dean folds his arms across his chest, dreading the conditions that Sam's been living in all these years. When they finally stop it's at the sixth floor, and Dean braces himself while the doors open.

The landing is quiet. Dean swallows a gasp when he gets out, for all around him are cages. Cages lining the walls, like prison cells, only, they're actually cages, like they're holding animals of some sort. Each cage is numbered, the occupants either sleeping or sitting on one side, and Dean looks at the cage numbered seven, where Sam's being freed from his chains. Cage number eight is empty, while six has another young man, sitting in a corner with his face buried in his knees.

Castiel crouches before Sam, his trench coat fanning over the stone floor while he connects Sam to the manacles pegged to the wall. A small window sits on the wall behind the cage, throwing in a golden stream of light, which colours Sam's hair honey-brown. Up close, Sam's sweaty and injured, cuts and bruises; old and new covering almost every inch of his skin. Dean watches his brother, looks at the wide eyes, and wonders how Sam had killed someone just minutes ago, because right now, he just seems so meek and vulnerable.

Castiel collects the chains and stands up, bowing his head slightly when he sees Azazel, blue eyes flashing once to meet Dean's gaze. Dean feels a jolt in his body, as though Castiel is searching his soul and he looks away, the hairs at the back of his neck rising. Once Castiel is out of the cage, Azazel gives Dean a nudge. "This is the moment that I start timing our deal," he says. "Twenty-four hours."

Dean glares at him, and then looks at his brother's cage. "Got it," he says. "Now let me in."

Azazel's douchey smile is back. "This might be your worst mistake yet, Dean-o," he says in a singsong voice.

Dean snorts at him. "Or yours. We'll see."

"That we will."

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