A/N: Wow, this got more attention than I thought it would! Well *spreads hands* enjoy, I guess?
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Chapter 2
"Aww, Sammy, that's sweet. Look at you clinging to big brother. You know he thinks you're nuts, right?" Sam shot Lucifer a vicious look and said nothing, but didn't loosen the death grip he had on the sleeve of Dean's jacket, either. Dean didn't mind. Dean was the one that had Sam sit on the chair next to him in the first place. The Devil smirked at him and made a show of looking around the room, but especially at where Ellen and Bobby were still looking at the map. "Tick-tock, Sam. You don't leave soon and that Gate's gonna get blown wide open. Might not even get closed, and then you'll have really done it."
He was right. Lucifer was very, very right. Sam tore his eyes away from the amulet resting against Dean's sternum and blinked hard, disoriented and trying to make himself focus. Remember. It had been so long ago now, and he had been confused, fresh from his very first death, but he knew there was a very strict deadline here. Jake had practically flown to Wyoming with the fire Azazel had lit under him.
Though he was trying hard not to think about it too much, Sam knew exactly when he was. It was hard not to, the way it had been branded into his memory; then, some of the worst days of his life. The fact that he was here at all, in his years-younger body (his non-demon-blood-addicted body) meant he'd already managed to break the 'you can't change the past' tenant, so he figured, why not? Save Dean from Hell. Save the world from a whole lot of suffering. Keep the Apocalypse off the table.
(If he could.)
(He had to try.)
Just by getting out of the Cage, coming back when he had, had saved Dean from selling his soul. The next step was keeping the Hell Gate closed.
The idea was made easier by Lucifer's unspoken agreement. The Fallen Archangel didn't like demons, either. Sam couldn't quite get a lock on Lucifer's angle in all this –the Gate was one of the starting points to the Cage opening, after all– but the Devil pretty much seemed to let Sam do what he wanted with no interference. He looked amused, though. He hadn't actually stopped looking amused since Sam woke up.
"Sam." He blinked and looked away from Lucifer –the angel was staring dubiously into a pot on the stove– to Bobby (Bobby—he still remembered the feeling of Grace wrapped around his head and twist—), who looked like he wanted to say something but was biting his tongue. It was like the softer cousin of the look Sam could hazily recall Bobby giving John before that last fight. But it might've had more to do with the 'I'm one wrong look from shooting you full of holes' vibe Dean was leaking everywhere. "How'd you find out about all this?"
Oh, right, Dean didn't know, so Bobby couldn't know, either. But there was more to that… Sam hadn't told him about the Battle Royale, the other psychics. Azazel's supposed plan. When he looked, Dean was watching him, and his brother didn't know. About Mary (mom, no, but she gave him to Lucifer before he was even born) or her deal with Yellow-Eyes, or the demon blood. Or angels and True Vessels (but Dean hadn't really known about that before, either, because he'd never said Yes to Michael).
Sam wasn't even aware that he'd stopped breathing until Lucifer had snuck an ice-cold hand up under the front of his shirt and shocked him into gasping a deep hit of air into his lungs. The Devil was draped over his shoulder, breathing air that smelled like snow and blood and ozone and ash over the side of his face, looming like a threat and a promise. Sam wanted to crawl into his skin, just like in the Cage, and shivered when Lucifer curled his fingers and drew stinging lines across his stomach. "Go ahead, Sam, you can do it. Tell big brother all about Azazel's naughty game and the winner's prize. You could even tell him how my servant chose you, or what he did to you all."
Sam couldn't quite get his eyes to focus, the feeling of Grace in him like bottled lightning, but he still found Dean; Bobby asked, but Dean deserved to know. Lucifer shifted, stubble dragging roughly across Sam's cheek, and Sam's back bowed slightly under the increased pressure. "Azazel told me. He collected us all, and told us only one would walk away. One winner. He said he wanted a general to lead his army." His already blurry vision distorted further, but Sam wasn't particularly worried, because Dean was here, and this Dean didn't have a reason to think that Sam was a monster, yet. Lucifer chuckled in his ear and moved far enough away that Sam could just barely see his face out of the corner of his eye, cold fingers tapping out 'Dead or Alive' across his throat. Sam swallowed, eyes hot.
"I don't want to go alone, Dean."
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"Christ, boy, I don't think you're ready to go anywhere, alone or not!" Not even Ellen's sudden intrusion –he'd thought she was still busy poking around Bobby's bookcases for more info on 'Azazel'– could make Dean look away from his baby brother, who was lost in his own little world again.
He really, really didn't want to admit it, but Sam was starting to scare him.
Not that he had any doubts, no; this was Sammy. Dean could feel it, just like he felt it when Sam had died (a screaming cold black pit yawning open behind his heart), but Sammy was wrong somehow. It had a lot to do with whatever his little brother was seeing that the rest of them weren't.
Too bad that he believed Sam too much to give that problem the attention it deserved. It wouldn't matter much if Sammy wasn't all there if the world got taken over by a demon army, would it? Especially not if they were all led by the dick that'd killed him in the first place.
"C'mon, Sammy." He reached out for his brother, mind made up, and was glad that Sam cooperated in standing with only a tug on his elbow. Dean wasn't sure what he'd do if Sam fought him. "You two comin'?" He didn't look at the two other hunters he was talking to, too focused on trying to figure out the expression on Sam's face, why he kept tilting his head to one side like that.
"Dean, Sam's not in any shape to go—"
He cut Bobby off without even looking, towing Sam in the direction of the bathroom –kid hadn't said anything about needing it, but, well– and doing a damn good job of keeping his voice lighter than it wanted to be. "All hands on deck, Bobby. I don't know about you, but I don't think it's a great idea to leave Sam here alone. They already got him once, and look how that turned out."
He looked at them over his shoulder just before he shut the door behind him, at Ellen's bleached-white lips and the way Bobby'd tugged the brim of his hat low. They weren't arguing, at least. "I'm leaving when Sammy's done." 'Be ready if you're coming.'
Sam still looked completely out of it, but he twitched and gave a full body shiver by the time Dean got him in front of the toilet. It was enough of a clue that he backed off as much as he could in the cramped bathroom and let his brother take care of his business by himself, ready to lunge if it looked like he was gonna fall. He was fine, though, if you ignored the twitches and the way his eyes kept tracking things that weren't there. They were surprisingly clear when he met Dean's in the mirror above the sink.
"Ready to go?" Sam blinked and turned around, wiping his wet hands on his jeans and only briefly looking at the whole lotta nothing at his shoulder.
"Wyoming?" He was quiet, not hopeful but almost. Dean suddenly had a horrible thought about what Sam had said earlier, about going alone. A nasty suspicion that Sam would've snuck off by himself if they'd taken too long to decide.
Dean was a good brother, though, so he didn't say anything about it to his obviously traumatized, newly resurrected little brother. If his voice came out hoarse and raw from holding it inside, he ignored it, and Sam wasn't all there enough to notice.
"Yeah, Sam. We're gonna get the fucker that killed you and keep those demons in Hell."
The smile that Sam gave him in return was small and not…
(not his own)
"Thanks, Dean."
Dean swallowed around the lump in his throat. "No problem, Sammy."
Like keeping the Gate shut, getting that Jake guy back, was a favor.
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Seeing the Impala again was…
"Home sweet home," Lucifer said from the backseat as Sam sank as deeply as he could into the front, the smell of aged leather, sweat, and blood almost taking him into a stupor. Dean was still outside, talking to Bobby and Ellen, his back a stiff line like he was making a point. There was something strange about that, but then Lucifer's hand was on the back of his neck, thumb pressing his vertebra, and Sam couldn't help rolling his neck, feeling it crack. "Gonna keep letting big brother play the big, strong protector for you, Sammy? Azazel's going to cut him down like nothing. I can't imagine he's very happy about missing out on another Righteous Man's soul."
"I'll kill him before he can," Sam muttered, because he would, and didn't move when the Archangel started pushing cold fingers through his hair, complaining that it was too short.
"How, thought? Yeah, there's the Colt…if you can get it. Or, you could be smart and—" he snapped –Sam sawfelt the sensation of Grace reaching and—(Castiel a spray of fine blood and barely-there Grace). "You've got the juice for it."
(can I/I can)
"No." Working hard to swallow down bile, Sam shook his head instead of repeating that singled syllable until his tore his throat bloody.
"No?" The hand tightened in his hair, sharp brief pain, before it relaxed again. "I didn't think you remembered 'no' anymore, Sam. I'm happy you kept that rebellious streak, but I gotta ask. Why no?"
Sam peeked at the Archangel out of the corner of his eye, still half expecting light and incomprehensible form, and got an expectantly raised eyebrow from Nick's patient face. He watched the leather of the seat back dip under Lucifer's fingers, hands settling on either side of Sam's head, the smell of sub-arctic ashes blocking out the scent of home as Lucifer leaned in close.
"Dean wouldn't want me to." There was more to that, there had to be, but the cold was making him shiver too hard to think.
"I dunno Sam," Lucifer said, dubious. "I don't think big brother would mind too much. It's not like he knows where you got 'em from this time."
This time. No, Dean didn't know about the demon blood. This time. This time, anything he had didn't come from the blood; it came from Lucifer. Dean probably wouldn't like that any better, and Sam said so.
Lucifer was back to running his fingers through Sam's hair when he replied with an amused huff of breath. "Dean doesn't believe in angels yet, does he Sammy? You say you get your powers from Satan, and what'll big brother think? You're nuts."
Lucifer was right. Lucifer was always right.
"I don't want to." Sam said quietly, instead of 'no', but…
"You can't lie to me, Sam," Replied the Devil, the fingers in his hair suddenly a fist, his throat bared when Lucifer pulled. Cold breath over his pulse when the Archangel hissed, "Say what you mean."
Sam swallowed with difficulty, throat clicking. "I won't…unless I need to." Lucifer gentled his grip but Sam stayed just where he was, watching his face. It had been easier to understand the angel while they were still in the Cage.
"You will." Lucifer looked surprised when, in retaliation, Sam contorted enough to twist and bite down on his wrist. Not quite enough to completely break skin –the briefest taste of bitter poison and superheated copper– but enough to make him hiss and then laugh as he tore the limb from Sam's teeth, just close enough that if he—
"Who ya talkin' to, Sammy?" Dean asked from just outside the door, and Sam hadn't even noticed him coming. His hands were pushed deep into the pockets of their dad's old leather jacket, almost casual if Sam hadn't known every one of his brother's tells. Dean may as well have been speaking it, because Sam could hear him saying: "What's wrong? Oh God just tell me what's wrong—what can I do?"
And then there was Lucifer, firm hands on either side of his throat, gentle but steadily increasing pressure until sparks were popping in the darkness creeping over his eyes.
"Not yet, Sammy," the Devil whispered, burning his ear with the subzero wisp of his breath. "You can tell Dean all about being Satan's bunk-buddy later. I think you need a nap."
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Sam didn't answer, his eyes glazing over and slowly falling shut, and Dean didn't think he'd imagined the brief flash of sheer panic across his brother's face just before. It made him want to punch something. Sadly, there was only Sam, which was unacceptable, or the Impala, and she didn't deserve it.
Bobby and Ellen were waiting on him, piled into one of Bobby's fixer-uppers across the yard, and Dean knew what it felt like when someone was staring at him; he's damn sure that they're watching. Wondering. He almost wished he didn't need the two other hunters for this clusterfuck.
It'd been Ellen that saw Sam moving around through the Impala's windows, twisting in the front seat like he was trying to crawl into the upholstery, and then freezing. His brother, suddenly, eerily still. And then his lips moving. Stopping, tilting his head. Listening. Shaking his head, lips moving over and over, 'no'.
"Dean…How was it you said Sam came back?" Ellen asked slowly, when she damn well knew Dean hadn't said a single thing to her about it. His mouth was dry, though, watching Sam talking to something that wasn't there. Watch him duck his head the same way he had when he was really little and Dean would ruffle that ridiculous mop of hair.
"A bright light, made my eyes feel like they were gonna melt." Dean rasped through a throat that kept trying to close, not really thinking until it was already out. Ellen was a hunter, and not someone he'd known for most of his life like Bobby. It felt like fighting a magnetic pull, but he managed to drag his eyes off his brother long enough to glare at her. "Don't you say anything about Sam, Ellen, I heard enough from Bobby already. It's him."
"I ain't sayin' he's not," she said, tired, and just for a minute Dean wondered how long it'd been since she'd slept. The Roadhouse had burned something like two days ago, and she couldn't have had much time to rest on the run. "Just…You don't know how he's even alive, Dean. What coulda brought him back. Maybe somethin' came back with him. It wouldn't be the first time I saw a spirit stick to someone, and your brother bein' psychic?" Ellen reached out, hand on his elbow and gentle pressure to face her that he ignored to keep his eyes on Sam. She sighed. "I'm just sayin' that he doesn't seem…all there, Dean. You have to consider he might not—"
"Might not nothin'." Dean shook her off. "Don't you dare say that shit where Sammy can hear you." And then he went to his brother.
The drive to the Devil's Gate was long, and quiet. Dean didn't want to take the risk of waking Sam, so the radio stayed off, and the only sounds besides the roar of the engine came from his brother, a low rumbling that never quite made it out as words. Bobby led the way with Ellen navigating from shotgun, and it was something he was distantly grateful for because Dean spent almost as much time watching Sam as he did the road.
Sam slept, and Dean worried; unformed thoughts and feelings of slow, creeping dread. The same sort of sick unease he felt after Dad told him that if he couldn't save Sam…
(Save his from what? This? But he'd already died and hadn't stayed that way, and anyway, Dean couldn't.)
The Impala jolted over thick iron tracks, a little too hard because there was no way they were going to slow down and get caught by the demons that must've been lurking around, and Sam's breath hitched for the first time in hours, since he'd gone out so suddenly. When Dean snuck a look, glazed hazel eyes were watching him back, an almost golden shine in the light of a bloody orange sunset.
"Sam?" His voice came out rough from so many hours of silence, almost drowned out by the growl of the engine. Sam pushed himself out of the corner made by the seat and door, confused but not as vacant as he had been, looking around the car, at Dean, the scraggly wilderness outside the window.
"Dean, where?" He wasn't as weak or quiet this time, either. The only thing that kept Dean from going completely weak from sheer relief was the sentence fragment; that was usually a sign Sammy was getting sick, but now..?
"We just passed the tracks, Sammy. We'll be there soon." Out of the corner of his eye he saw his brother's mouth open, the familiar wrinkle between his eyes, and the jarringly strange way he tilted his head as he closed his mouth without having said a word. That's what made him turn his head to really look at his brother—the road was straight, anyway. "What is it, Sam?"
Sam's eyes settled on the empty back seat for a torturously long minute –Dean fought down a shiver through sheer bullheaded stubborn– before he wet his lips and actually looked at him. The sun hadn't quite set yet; the shine of it in his brother's eyes was still there, a weird pale gold that made the lingering blankness of Sam's face seem…inhuman. "Can you put on some music?" Sam kept staring, like he'd forgotten the rules about eye-contact since he passed out, and Dean had to look away this time.
"Requests?" There was that head tilt again; he saw it from the corner of his eye, just like when Sam looked at the back seat again.
"Stairway to Heaven." Dean relaxed into the cradle of the seat at the sound of a smile in his little brother's voice. Sam even handed him the right cassette…though he didn't think he had forgotten to rewind the tape last time. The first notes came out of the speakers low and distorted. Sam might've been humming along under his breath.
"Sam?" Dean swore he could feel a physical weight touch the side of his face; Sam made a noise, only slightly louder than the engine. "Sammy, how did you come back?" The song finished and one of Sam's long fingers ejected the tape before his brother spoke again.
Dean almost instantly regretted asking.
"I heard you screaming for me, Dean," Dean bit down on his cheek hard enough to taste blood, fighting down another cold chill at how distant Sam sounded. "I couldn't leave you in Hell alone."
It wasn't the answer he'd asked for, –how?– but the why was enough to lock him up completely. By the time he could manage to look at Sam again his brother's eyes had gone vacant and mostly closed, his body twisted halfway around to the back.
That was something else he was going to have to force out of Sam, now that it looked like these comatose episodes were going to be Sam's new 'normal' (hopefully only temporarily, but who was he kidding? Winchester Luck.). Sure, his little brother had been sensitive to shit like ghosts since his ESP crap had started up; hell, that thing with Mom at their old house had proved it well enough. If Sam had somehow picked up a…ghostly tagalong from his trip through the veil, Dean needed to know who it was so he could burn that fucker's bones. No spectral parasite was allowed to leech off his brother.
He must've been more distracted that he thought, because Dean didn't even notice that Bobby had stopped –that he had as well– until the passenger door slammed shut and he was staring at Sam's back as he wove through a field of crumbling headstones. Dean scrambled out of the car, barely remembering to check that he had a gun tucked into his jeans as he took off after Sam. The string of sour curses on his tail implied that at least Bobby'd decided to follow. Hopefully Ellen had the sense to ammo up before she came after them.
For a heart-stopping minute, Dean completely lost sight of his compromised little brother in the gloom, and it took every bit of pride he had –and a little more– to keep from screaming right there in front of Bobby. All he could think of was Sam, collapsed, a bleeding hole in his back, and that same fucker that did it last time was supposed to be here. He ran, almost tripping over the crumbling remains of an old cross, and had to clamp down hard to keep from lunging at Sam and checking him over. The need to make sure that Sam wasn't hurt –hadn't been hurt the minute Dean wasn't watching him– was overwhelming. Like how it had been after Sam had been kidnapped by those fucked-up hillbillies, times a million.
But Sam was fine. And that was what stopped Dean dead in his tracks, a violent shudder shaking him. Sam was sitting in the cold dirt, his back flush against the door of a crypt (and he'd bet anything that it was the fucking Devil's Gate), head tipped back and mouth moving slowly. A couple steps closer and Dean could hear him, and then he couldn't make himself go any farther. He was still frozen in place when Bobby came up next to him.
"Is he singing?" Bobby asked dubiously, and then more alarmingly. "What language is that?"
Dean swallowed thickly and somehow managed not to step backwards when alien hazel eyes almost seemed to glare at him before they went back to peaceably staring up at nothing, voice not faltering once.
"I dunno, Bobby, but Sam can't hold a note to save his life." The noise coming from his brother's throat was low and smooth and like something from a freaking choir.
That wasn't Sam.
