Thanks again to everyone who is reading and reviewing: I really appreciate you all sticking with this even though I honestly expected you would all forget it once S6 started airing. I so appreciate your feedback... for everyone who is favoriting/following and not reviewing, well I guess I'll have to assume you're enjoying it! Wow: wouldn't it be something if the hundreds of people who show up in the traffic figures every time a chapter posts left a review... ;-) Thanks to Psychee, psychadelicfur and Clare for your reviews - you didn't login so I can't PM you replies! ;-)

Warnings Foul language, blasphemy up the wazoo and back again, S5 spoilers

It Starts With an Earthquake

Sam gazes blankly at the doorway his brother just exited through, hears him creak away up the hall towards the back of the house, jumps as Bobby slams his hand down on his desk.

"Well, he sure knows how to clear a room."

The old man stands, rubbing hard at his beard, fixes his eyes unwaveringly on Sam's, and his expression is exhaustion, tinged with anxiety, maybe even fear. "Blood," he snarls. "I want one of those angel begone sigils in every fuckin' room within the hour, boy. Because he is seriously pissin' me off with the whole Terminator act."

Sam stares back dumbly, doesn't even really know what he feels, can't give it a name or categorize it, because it's so much more than horror, so much more than hopelessness, so much more than defeat.

And Bobby is pacing now, his jaw moving back and forth like he's chewing the cud, chewing on his thoughts. He spins, fixes Sam with flinty, pissed-off eyes. "Are you absolutely sure he's even in there?" he says. "Because I know your brother snuck out of here intending to say yes, but there's no damn way he'd choose annihilating the planet and everyone on it if there was another way."

Sam's voice is so faint he can barely hear it. "I'm sure he's in there," he whispers. "I know him. It's him. He's there."

The old man splutters. "Well, is this some kind of split personality deal? If it is, who's runnin' the show? Because that there?" he waves a hand at the door. "That wasn't your brother. That was… evil Spock."

Sam throws his hands up, helpless. "I don't know… it's like he's Dean one minute but then he isn't, it's been like that since all of this first started. Like he's some sort of weird hybrid of Michael and Dean, like he's—"

"Mean," the voice croaks over at the doorway and Sam swivels his head round, covers the ground in a few swift steps as Castiel starts to topple over, and he's sniggering inanely as he flops in Sam's arms. "Hybrid," he mutters. "Michael crossed with Dean. Mean."

Sam hauls him upright, grunting as he slings the man's arm over his shoulder. "What the hell are you doing up?" he snaps. "You shouldn't be walking around, you'll start bleeding again…"

Castiel shrugs haphazardly. "My chest hurts. And the noise disturbed me."

"I guess you heard him then," Bobby retorts balefully. "Any thoughts?"

"How could I not?" the angel slurs. "It was quite a performance. My brother excels at… at…" He's still gazing up at Sam and now his eyes widen. "When did that happen?" he says, and his expression is part fearful, part impressed.

"When did what happen?"

Castiel raises a shaking hand, points in the approximate direction of Sam's right ear. "Your extra head," he says, enunciating clearly, slowly, meticulously, the same exaggerated care he used when he showed up drunk after downing the liquor store.

It's enough to raise Sam's suspicions, and he leans down, sniffs. "Have you been drinking while we weren't looking?" he demands, and he scowls over at Bobby. "When did he last have morphine?"

"Before I hit the couch," the old man offers. "Unless you've dosed him since then?"

Castiel is frowning. "Have you been growing a second head while we weren't looking?" He flails an arm at the middle distance. "There was a half-finished bottle of liquor on the desk in there. I was thirsty." He snorts. "I'm only human, after all."

Sam rolls his eyes. "I left a bottle of water under the bed," he barks.

"Under the bed?" Castiel blinks at him, considers. "I can understand why you might expect under the bed to be the first place I'd look for water." Then his eyes cross. "In fact, no I can't."

"Well I—"

Sam is interrupted by clamor from further up the hallway, and Bobby steps over, supports Castiel from the other side. "Sounds like show and tell just began," he says, nodding at Sam. "I've got this. You should be in there, see what this demon has to say. He might let something slip about plan B."

Sam maneuvers out from under Castiel and the angel is goggling up at him. "Plan B from Outer Space," he says suddenly. "I watched that movie with Mean. In Maine." He smiles idiotically. "Mean in Maine," he repeats. "Good times. Agent Eddie Moscone." He makes his voice a low growl. "F…B…I…"

It's so monumentally absurd Sam smiles, sort of, despite the fact it's a reminder of Keith, of drifting rudderless, hitching rides, fetching up in some small town, washing dishes and tending bar, staring at his cellphone and willing it to ring, having his worst nightmare smeared over his lips and tasting its searing heat on his tongue again. "You're stoned, Cas," he says gently. "And it's Plan Nine from Outer Space. It's the worst movie ever made."

Castiel looks puzzled. "But… my brother—" and he stops suddenly, ponders for a second. "Our brother told me it was a classic," he murmurs drowsily up at Sam. "He told me this. And I feel sick."

Bobby shifts him higher on his shoulder. "He lied," the old man says harshly. "Don't forget, you guys are fluent in all languages. And if you puke on my boots, I will drop you in your own vomit."

Brady is pink faced and excited when Sam hovers in the doorway, perspiring slightly, hair still perfect though, and he flashes a dazzling grin. "Sam Winchester, come on down," he sneers. Let's see if you can do any better than your brother…" He cocks his head, eyes gleaming. "Not the special one any more, Sam, huh? Not now Wonder Mike is in town…"

Sam glances over to his brother and Dean is leaning on the wall, arms crossed, casual, calm, watching. Watchful.

Brady tracks Sam's glance, puckers up and blows kisses. "Oh Mickey, you're so pretty," he drawls insolently, "can't you understand… it's guys like you, Mickey…" He shivers deliciously, closes his eyes. "Ooh, what you do, Mickey, do Mickey…" And then he snaps his eyes open, black and bottomless. "I'll take it like a man… Mickey."

Dean doesn't move, doesn't blink, just watches. And suddenly Brady is choking, his head slamming from side to side, and there's a strangled wail, and Sam can smell burning. When Brady stops, abruptly, there's a long trail of spittle dangling from his mouth, and his hair isn't Kennedy perfect any more, and Dean is smiling.

"That is so cool," he murmurs, almost to himself before his eyebrows shoot up. "Did you see that?" he says to Sam, and he's chipper, self-satisfied. "I didn't even have to move, I just thought it. Scanners or what?" He grins manically, and still he lounges, against the wall, relaxed, at ease. "I'm not a fan of eighties one-hit wonders, Brady," he remarks thoughtfully. "So maybe you could do Stairway to Heaven for me? As a special favor for a special guy?"

He pushes upright then, and suddenly he's different, and it makes Sam think of nothing so much as the few times Castiel has flicked the switch and turned it on, the charisma, the power to smite, reminds him of Uriel's sheer arrogance, disdain, scorn for the hairless apes, the vermin.

Dean prowls forward, predatory, his eyes blazing, and it's simultaneously thrilling and terrifying. "I bet I can make you sound just like Robert Plant," he says, and his voice is softly ferocious. "I bet I can make you sound like the folksy intro, the recorders, the drums, the electric piano, the guitar solo and the hard rock final section. All at once. Hell, let's make it the fifteen-minute live version." He curls his lips up in a smile like a great white, so menacing Sam feels his own throat go dry. "I bet I can even make you do it backwards, see if there really are Satanic messages in there. What do you say?"

Brady is staring at him, transfixed, until he gives himself a brief shake, cackles, leans his head across to wipe the drool off on his shoulder. "I don't care if you make it the Pat Boone Christian rock version," he grates out. "I don't care if you make it the craptastic Live Aid version with Phil Collins on drums. It doesn't matter." The black shifts, leaving normal eyes staring out at them both. "Because whatever you do to me won't compare to what he'll do if I spill. And besides…" He smirks. "I like being on the winning side."

Dean raises a skeptical eyebrow. "I'm curious," he offers. "What do you think Lucifer winning means for you? And your kind? Because in case you hadn't noticed, there is a fundamental difference."

"When my Father wins, he'll turn this place into his kingdom," Brady announces confidently, and his eyes are shining with zeal. "It'll be our turn to—"

Dean grunts. "Yeah, fire, brimstone, wailing, the smoke of eternal torment, yada yada," he says amiably, flapping a dismissive hand. "Been there, done that. I'm just wondering why you think he'll keep you guys around? Being as he's the Morning Star, and you're – not." He throws a look Sam's way. "What do you think, Sam?"

Sam is startled but he finds his balance, and he's good with this, bad cop, badder cop, and if nothing else it's a way to get back on some sort of footing with Dean instead of hearing him in his head, I'm going to kill my brother resounding in there like his own death knell even though he knows Dean didn't mean him. "I think that when the Morning Star cleans house, any demons he finds will get the mop," he says steadily.

Brady throws his head back, hollers out laughter. "He created us," he says finally, once he's calm. "Why would he destroy us?" He looks at Sam like he feels sorry for him, like he pities his rank stupidity. "That makes no sense."

Sam shrugs. "Look at what you are," he says simply. "Belly to the ground, corrupt, depraved, filthy, diseased. Bacteria." He stops for a minute, slants his eyes over at his brother, because it suddenly occurs to him that might be how Dean sees him now he's upgraded, because his brother's revulsion when he reached out to him was clear as day. He swallows, keeps going. "Look at what he is. The Lightbringer. He thinks he's better than God. He won't want roaches in his kitchen. And I'm thinking he won't stop at spraying the pantry with Raid."

The demon guffaws again, and then, almost faster than Sam can follow, his brother is there, hands on Brady's thighs, leaning in so they're eye to eye. "I'm tired of bumping gums with you, Brady," he hisses. "You're walking through a minefield in the valley of the shadow of death, my friend. And you don't have a map. So I suggest you tell me what I need to know before I—"

"Smite me?" the demon spits back. "Like I said. Nothing you do to me could possibly… puh-puh…sss…"

And Dean stands straight and tall again, and now Brady is shaking, twitching, jerking, and his eyes are staring, blood vessels bursting and turning the whites scarlet, tears of blood now starting to trickle from the corners, from his nostrils too, and he pulls his lips back from teeth clicking madly and weeping red at the gumline, clenches his jaw, grinds his molars together so hard that a cap snaps off and flicks itself out of his mouth, and the tremors and spasms are making their way down his body now, so intense the chair is jiggling up and down off the floor.

Brady's eyes are glued on Dean and all the while Dean is standing, watching, face contemplative, arms crossed again. "Where is he?" he says calmly, gently even, and maybe there is twisted sympathy glowing in his eyes.

It's sickening, deeply disturbing, and more than anything else it makes Sam think of Alastair, makes him think of what Alastair molded his brother into, makes him think of his own hand reaching out and making the demon dance for him in Wyoming, while he squeezed its confession out of it and its eyes bulged and popped out of their sockets in its dying horror. "Dean," he cuts in sharply. "Dean, for God's sake. No more."

And suddenly it stops, and Brady is staring wildly, red-eyed and blood streaked, sucking in breath, wheezing as he does.

"Pestilence," Dean says, just as reasonably as before. "Where is he?"

The demon hoiks a mouthful of bloody saliva out onto the floor. "You getting angry, Mike?" he stutters. "Am I cracking that cool, calm exterior of yours?"

Dean chuckles, seems genuinely amused. "I'm somewhat irritated by you, Brady," he says. "But I'm not angry, not yet. You'll know when I am, and believe me you won't like me when I'm angry." He reaches down, tips the demon's head up, fingers under his chin. "I can be worse than my brother," he says softly. "Way worse… you have no idea. Have you people forgotten where I learned how to do this? At the feet of the master."

Brady glowers. "Yeah, I heard you were a quick study, that you graduated with flying colors…" He coughs, spits again. "They say there's nothing worse than a convert." He meets Dean's gaze unblinkingly. "I'd say an archangel torturing souls in the Pit fits the bill. Well? What have you got?"

Dean smiles, all the megawatts. "Boy, Brady, I'm starting to like you. You've got guts." He cocks his head. "You ever wondered what they look like? I'm wondering right now, so what say we—"

And Sam finds he doesn't give a shit about Dean's no-fly zone, or maybe it's Michael's, what the hell, because he's reaching out, grabbing his brother and hoisting him back and around. "What the hell has gotten into you?" he yelps.

Dean raises an eyebrow. "Hell had nothing to do with it," he retorts snippishly. "Well. Not all of it, though torture 101 is coming in handy—"

"We don't do this, Dean," he grates out. "Exorcise him, knife him, whatever. But we don't do this. We don't torture—"

And it's Dean's turn to cut in. "You sure about that, Sam?" he challenges. "From what Castiel told me, Alastair might beg to differ." He stares at Sam, hard-eyed. "That nurse too," he adds, and he smiles again, and it's savage.

Sam knows he winces, knows his brother notices it, but he injects a note of defiance into his reply anyway. "What about the host, Dean? I knew him, he could be in there, and maybe—"

The sound of Brady's giggle cuts him off and he twists his head to look.

"Yeah, Brady here, he was a good kid," the demon says cheerfully, even though blood is still oozing from his nose and his eyes.

And Sam glances back to his brother and Dean's stare is opaque now, and he shrugs. "Book him, Danno," he says indifferently. "Let's see if friendly persuasion works." He backs away, leans his butt down on the table, and now he's all silent appraisal again, and Sam thinks he might be even more terrifying.

"Straight arrow," Brady is saying now. "Your best friend. Perfect point of access…"

Thanksgiving.

He must have said it out loud, because the demon's eyes light up.

"Yessir!" He nods sagely. "Remember when I came back from break all messed up, dropped out of pre-med, the drugs, the bitches… that wasn't Brady. That was me." He smiles, insincere. "You spent all that time trying to get me back on the right track… boy, Sammy, you really were a good friend, such a sweet, caring, all-round good guy… man I jerked your chain along the road, and you came to heel like the dumb pup you were."

Sam controls his breathing, in-out, steady as she goes, counts each inhale and exhale, meditates his way to tranquility as Brady drones on, and every word is like a blow, and he can feel Dean's eyes on him, can sense his stare, and it's like his brother is studying him, monitoring him, and he has this feeling that if he looks Dean will be doing an approximation of Castiel's fascinated-curious-absorbed head tilt.

And now Brady is saying something about Jess, I toasted her on the ceiling, and now Sam is losing his carefully wrested control, because she was innocent, in the wrong place at the wrong time because of him. And he can feel his heart beating faster as it curls in protectively around that secret, soft place where he keeps her, feel icy cold start flooding out from his center to his limbs—

"…She thought we were friends too," Brady is taunting, and the words are racing out of him now, almost feverishly. "She let me right in… she was baking cookies. She was so surprised… so hurt, when I started in on her…"

It's not as easy as it once was, Sam muses, as he starts to beckon the filth out of Brady, not as easy without the blood, the fuel injection of Ruby-red, and with Crowley's binding spell in the mix. He can feel himself draining as he tugs, but it's working, and Brady is wincing and groaning.

"Do it if it'll make you feel better," the demon croaks out, and his eyes are shining with glee. "Do it, Sammy, do it, come on! Because you're just like us…" He splutters, spits, swallows, glares, and the smoke is hanging onto him, diseased black talons shredding the host inside as they hook into soft tissue and hold tight to the meat.

And Sam patiently visualizes himself unhooking every claw, one by one, pulling. "I'm going to rip your heart out," he snarls, and it's thrilling, it's like the best sex he ever had, just like it always was, the power to do exactly what he wants to, and he can feel it build in him till he's fit to burst and send it spewing forth.

"Hell, yes!" Brady shrieks joyfully. "We've got the same stuff in our veins… deep down, you know you're just like us, so come on Sam! Get angry…" His voice rises again, into a squeal of rage and agony. "Get really, really angry, you let out all that pent-up rage—"

…All that pent-up rage. I'm gonna need it.

It's in his head, quiet, reasonable, affable. It's Lucifer. And Sam shuts it off, reels, claps his hands to his cheeks, his rage gone, damp-squibbed out of existence like it never was, like a balloon popped, a spigot turned off, an engine dying, the calm after the storm.

"Come on, big guy," Brady chokes out hoarsely, into the quiet. "You can do it, what the fuck are you waiting for?"

Sam stares down at him, swallows dryly. "You're wrong," he chokes out. "I'm not like you."

Brady double-takes, snorts in disbelief. "Oh, come on," he laughs. "You gotta be kidding me, man. You're pulling your punches now? Seriously?"

There's a noise behind Sam, his brother appearing at his shoulder.

"Why so surprised, Brady?" Dean says, and his tone is cold, grim satisfaction. "He isn't like your kind. He never was." He glances at Sam and his eyes are scorching compared to his voice. "Outside. I'll take it from here."

Sam nods stiffly, walks out of the room ramrod straight, closes the door behind him, doubles over outside in the hallway and heaves in oxygen for a full minute, head spinning, before he leans heavily on the wall and slides down onto his butt.

On the other side of the door the noise starts, works up to a crescendo of earsplitting banshee screeches of agony that gradually ascend through the octaves, punctuated by mindless blubbering and brief moments of silence when he can hear a voice speaking quietly, politely. Michael, because Sam can't bring himself to think any part of this is his brother at work.

He's tired, and it's been days since he slept properly. He yawns, and out of the blue, as he presses his hands up to his ears, it crosses his mind that maybe it was a test.

Bobby concentrates on his book, forces his eyes to follow the words, makes his lips move silently as he reads, wishes he'd closed the door, doesn't want to make it glaringly obvious by getting up and doing just that. And he snorts inwardly and thanks God his place is miles from anywhere.

"Enhanced interrogation tactics…" Castiel croaks from the bed. "Can be… effective."

Bobby grunts, looks up. "You feeling any better?" It comes out naturally, without artifice, and after he says the words he finds he does care, is concerned, even though he never really expected it.

The angel frowns. "Yes. I am… thank you." He glances over. "Thank you for taking care of me." His face is pale and drawn with exhaustion and something that might be regret, and he looks smaller somehow.

Bobby shrugs, noncommittal, ponders for a minute as he regards the other man. "I always thought you looked pretty harmless," he says. "Maybe it's the whole accountant disguise, the bed hair, the big baby blues. But you guys in general…" He pauses a beat. "I'm starting to think you ain't really any better than the demon scum we fight."

Castiel blinks slowly at him. "We are soldiers," he offers simply. "This is a war. All is fair in love and war. Torture with a purpose isn't torture, it's… efficiency. So I'm told."

"Uh-huh. And it doesn't trouble you?"

"I didn't say it doesn't trouble me." Castiel swallows, flicks his eyes over to the desk. "Water?"

Bobby leans across, unscrews the bottle. "You need me to prop you up?"

"Please."

He heaves the angel up, stuffs pillows down behind his shoulders, asks because he can't help feeling curious. "Have you ever made someone – something – sound like that?"

Castiel narrows his eyes, and they're steely gray and razor sharp now. He doesn't reply but his look answers the question, and Bobby feels himself shiver because in that flash of a second it's the look of a centuries-old supernatural being, God's warrior, who has probably destroyed more demons than Bobby has the capacity to imagine, and who survived forty years in the Pit while his brothers perished in the flames. And then the brief glimpse of ruthlessness is gone, and Castiel sips water from the bottle, wipes his mouth. "I imagine I sounded like that in Hell," he says suddenly, and then he grins wryly. "In fact, I'm certain I did. Proving that what goes around comes around, don't you think?"

Bobby meets the level gaze for a moment, puts his book down on the floor, rests his elbows on his knees and his chin on his hands, stares back at Castiel some more, because he's been replaying it in his mind, what the other man slurred out earlier. "He's your brother," he says. "Michael. You know him."

Castiel shoots him another look, furtive now, like he knows exactly where Bobby is going with this.

"So you can maybe give us some insight into how he operates," Bobby continues. "Tell me what you meant by performance."

And Castiel smiles tiredly. "You're a wily old bastard, Bobby Singer," he rasps out. "A wily, wily old bastard." He sips water from the bottle again, holds it out, meets Bobby's eyes. "So Dean says," he qualifies faintly.

"I'll bet he does." Bobby takes the bottle, places it on the side table next to the bed. "It's right there," he says. "All you need to do is reach over for it. As opposed to crawling to the liquor cabinet."

"I drink to forget," Castiel murmurs. "Don't we all?"

Bobby snorts. "Performance," he prompts. "There was subtext."

The other man is gazing up at the ceiling, seems to be miles away, but eventually he replies. "My brother," he starts, and he falters, shivers, and his voice goes cold. "My brother has many responsibilities," he says. "He has come back to fight against Satan and evil, and to rescue the souls of the faithful from the power of the devil. He is our champion… he inspires, he motivates, he unites."

Bobby grimaces. "He ain't inspiring me," he snaps. "Or motivating me, or uniting me."

Castiel's expression drifts into thoughtful, mildly absorbed. "Think of my brother as a politician, Bobby," he continues. "A politician with many different cliques, and factions, and sects, and groups to appease, and lead. Think of how he might mollify these opposing forces and distract them from their dissension, and disharmony, and discord… think of how he might influence their thoughts and actions by saying what needs to be—"

"Said," Bobby cuts in softly. "Saying what needs to be said…"

"…and what needs to be heard, to ensure conformity and obedience, even as he may do the exact opposite to achieve his true ends." Castiel smiles again, knowingly. "As I said, it was quite a performance. My brother excels at speechmaking."

Bobby huffs out, leans back in his chair. "So… he was feeding us a line."

Castiel's eyes close, shutting Bobby out, and the conversation down. "Make of it what you will," he murmurs. "I can't confirm or deny that Michael is feeding you a line. You'll have to ask him. All I can tell you is that my brother excels at speechmaking."

And maybe that's why it is that Bobby suddenly feels a spark of affection for the other man, for his sheer deviousness wrapped up in devotion, and allegiance, and faithfulness to someone Bobby loves as his own. "And you excel at loyalty," he remarks.

"I excel at loyalty."

"You're a sneaky sonofabitch."

"Can I assume that was a compliment?"

"You can, son."

Bobby reaches down for his book, starts flicking through the pages, and it's quiet for a few minutes.

"Things will be different now," Castiel says softly.

Although he couldn't swear to it, Bobby thinks the other man's voice is odd, that there might be a note of melancholy, even dread, running through it. "You ain't happy about it," he replies bluntly. "You love him. You knocked him into next week to stop him from saying yes."

"Oh… you're wrong, Bobby," Castiel counters, a low whisper filtered through a half smile. "I feel… joy. To see my brother again, to be with him again, is more than I can…"

"But?"

"It comes at great cost. There are decisions to be made. And it will be difficult for Dean… difficult for you and Sam too. We all love Dean, after all."

And Bobby sure as hell isn't going to argue with that.

Sam gets used to the noise, maybe even dozes through it, and it becomes normal enough for the abrupt silence to jolt him alert again. A few minutes after it all goes quiet again, Dean opens the door, almost trips over Sam.

"Was that some kind of test?" Sam blurts out straightaway, but he doesn't look up, just stares at Dean's boots.

His brother steps around him, lowers himself down onto the floor beside him. "You should get some rest," he says randomly.

"Did I pass?" Sam says bitterly. "Or do you still think I'm putting down the welcome mat for Satan?"

Dean doesn't look at him, and his voice is quiet and steady. "You got a B plus. And it's not as if I don't have damn good reasons for being cautious, Sam. Is it? Given what's at stake here."

And Sam doesn't reply, and maybe he doesn't even really blame his brother because sometimes he lies awake in the dark and his brain stings and throbs with the possibility Lucifer might not give him a choice, because if the right pressure was applied to the right person Sam thinks he might even go down on his knees and beg the devil to take him right the fuck now, even if it meant the end of the world, and maybe, just maybe, he could make it conditional.

He changes the subject.

"Do you think what he said about Jess is true?"

"I don't know," his brother says diplomatically, and he shrugs. "Demons lie."

"Can you do the whole magic finger time travel thing?" Sam finds himself saying suddenly. "Could you take me back? To that night? So I could be there with her?"

After a long moment, Dean sighs. "Yeah, I could do it." His voice is somber. "But I'm not going to."

And Sam knew what the answer would be, but he can't help imagining it even as he tries to blot her big, goofy smile out of his mind. "Maybe I could get her out of there before he… before. Stop him." He presses the heel of his hand up to his eyes, and his grief swells his throat so it hurts to speak. "She baked cookies for me Dean," he whispers. "Maybe for you too, maybe she thought you'd stop by for a while and sleep on the couch, and she'd get to know you… And if I could just go back. Even if it meant walking in and dumping her, telling her I'd met someone else and that she could pack her stuff and get the fuck out before he showed. If that's what it took I'd do it, I'd—"

"Everything is happening like it was supposed to, no matter what we've done to try to make it different," Dean cuts in, and he's utterly composed. "If it didn't happen on that night, it would happen another night. It's just – meant to be, Sam. Because it isn't random, and it isn't chance. It's a plan that's playing itself out perfectly."

"And that means what?" Sam mutters. "That we just bend over for them? That we give in?"

"It isn't like that," his brother says, reasonable again. "And there's no point in running and hiding. It's too late."

"But there's free will, Dean," Sam insists. "Or Michael… whoever you are. There's free will. You do have it, or else you would have left Castiel in the Pit. You can still make your own destiny."

Dean's head swivels to look at him, eyes critical, a moment's hushed assessment that feels like years. "But sometimes thinking we don't make our own destiny can be a comfort," he murmurs then. "Knowing someone else is pulling the strings means we don't have to take responsibility for stupid choices… really stupid choices that let the devil out of Hell to—"

Sam hesitates for half a heartbeat before he cuts his brother off, and he snarls it out, sharp and bitter. "Jesus, Dean. You know how damned sorry I am about it. I chose her, chose a demon over my brother, and yeah, it was the wrong choice. But I'm trying to move on, and I thought you were too, and I thought you were okay with it now."

And Dean tilts his head, gets an odd, searching, perplexed look on his face like he doesn't understand, and he doesn't reply for a minute. "I'm not talking about you, Sam," he says finally. "But now we're on the subject, I'm never going to think that you choosing her was okay. It wasn't, and it isn't, and it never will be. And I know that you're sorry, but I'm not going to lie to you about it just so you can feel better." He sighs out then. "But I will tell you this," he says softly. "You're my brother. My blood, not theirs. Never theirs. And I love you more than you'll ever know. I always will." He smiles, just barely, fondly. "You're a keeper, Sam."

Dean's eyes are suddenly warm and gentle, and it's the expression he wore in New Harmony when he was telling Sam goodbye, the expression he wore in Pontiac when he was smiling at Sam, alive and safe, and Sam thinks he could drown in it, and he'd never come up for air, and he'd die happy. "I'm going to lose you to this," he whispers. "It's happening already."

His brother casts his eyes down and to the side. "We don't know what's going to happen, Sam."

Sam sags against the wall, can feel the heat rise in his cheeks. "But you're still going to burn it all down." He clenches his jaw, purses his lips. "Did Brady tell you?"

Dean nods slowly. "Oh, he told me." He reaches up distractedly, tugs at his top lip with his thumb and forefinger. "And there isn't much time."

"Until you help Lucifer destroy the world?" Sam replies morosely, and he feels a stab of satisfaction as he sees Dean's right leg start jittering there on the floor, so his brother has to press his hand on it to still the tremors.

"You have no idea…" Dean says, so quiet Sam almost can't hear him. "No fuckin' idea what's at stake, what it'll be like if he—" He stops, exhales sharply. "Sometime this week, San Francisco will shake so hard she tumbles into the bay within six minutes of the first tremor," he says then, suddenly brusque. "It could be happening right now. After that, a category ten is going to wipe half of Florida off the map. Spin the globe on Bobby's desk, stop it and point. You'll find a war somewhere on whatever continent you're touching. And Pestilence is about to launch Croatoan in a big way. And those, all of them – they're signs. Portents."

"But that doesn't have to mean—"

"It's going down," Dean says deliberately. "Lucifer knows I'm back – bush telegraph, remember? This can't be stopped without stopping him, whatever that means, and it has to happen before he upgrades." He stops, eyes Sam as if he's waiting for the meaning to sink in before he continues. "I'm going to slay the dragon, Sam. It's the end of the world as we know it. And I feel fine."

Sam dips his face into his palm. "But Dean," he chokes out. "We've fought so hard to put this right."

"Sam—"

Dean's eyes flash, and Sam sees him visibly bite back what he's going to say, sees him self-edit.

"Trust me, Sam," his brother says gently. "And you need to sleep."

And he snaps his head up, and Dean is reaching, pointing, the gentlest touch on his brow, and the world switches off.

TBC

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