Disclaimer: Not mine.

Chapter IX: Be That Word Our Sign of Parting

Dean ran up to his room, only stopping long enough to see that Sam wasn't there before grabbing the weapons duffel and hurtling down to the crypt.

His first horrified thought was that the crypt was empty. Where the hell was he supposed to look now? He hadn't even bothered to check what Sam had been reading, he'd been so certain that Sam would be in the crypt.

Then he heard a voice, a familiar female voice that was coming from everywhere and nowhere.

"He abandoned you. He abandoned you to die. I told you he would."

Marguerite was here. Dean couldn't see her, but he could hear her. She was here, and that meant Sam had to be nearby, because she didn't start the crazy-talk unless she saw him.

Dean waved his flashlight back and forth. The beam lit up headstones, carved angels and Latin inscriptions.

"Sam?" he yelled. He thought he heard something in answer, a muffled shout that might have been Sam saying his name. "Sammy!"

He shone the light all around, but he couldn't see Sam anywhere.

He kicked at the ground angrily. The toe of his boot caught at something. Dean directed his flashlight down and saw the burned-into-stone footprints he and Sam had found earlier.

Without thinking about it too much, he followed them backwards with the light, to where they ended at the marble slab where Sam should have been –

Where there was a long white marble casket now.

Heart in his throat, Dean ran the short distance and laid his hand on the smooth, pale surface. "Sam?"

There was another muffled noise.

"Crap," Dean hissed. Then he raised his voice. "Hold on, Sammy. I'm here now. I'm going to get you out. You just need to hold on for me."

Sam barely heard the shout through the marble that encased him, and although it was muffled he knew it was Dean. He could sense it the way he could always sense his brother's presence, and, like always, it soothed him. He was stuck with no way out, lying on top of the bones of a woman who'd suffocated to death in her own tomb, and it was getting harder to breathe with every passing second, but Dean was there.

"Too late," Marguerite's voice whispered in his ear. "Too late. He waited too long. He wanted to be too late to help you. You were never good enough."

"Please stop," Sam said, a lot calmer now that he knew Dean was just inches away. "Dean's here. I know what happened to you, and I'm sorry. But Dean's not like that. He's here."

Marguerite didn't stop. All of a sudden it was colder, it was freezing, and the inside of the coffin was lit by an unearthly white glow. There were eyes looking into his, huge, sad eyes.

Marguerite was floating in the air above him.

Sam yelped and backed away. That made the bones crack sickeningly and he jerked up, hitting his head on the marble again. He fell back, going lightheaded from the pain and lack of oxygen.

He heard Dean's voice again, and he tried to respond, but all he could manage was a strangled moan and a gasp for air.

"Insane," Marguerite crooned. "Insane, Sam. Why would he want you?"

The only thing keeping Dean from actually going insane was the knowledge that Sammy was trapped and counting on him. Sammy was trapped in a marble box that seemed to be airtight – and wasn't that a comforting thought, Sam's air might be running out while Dean stood here like an idiot – and Dean had to keep it together and get him out before he suffocated.

Just like Marguerite said.

Dean shuddered, wishing he'd thought to grab the non-weapons equipment duffel from their room. He could have used one of the shovels as a lever to try to get the damn thing open.

He pawed through the weapons until he found a machete. It wasn't perfect, but it would have to do.

He wedged the blade into the barely-perceptible gap on the top of the coffin, where the lid met the rim. He took a moment to position it and then pushed the handle down with all his strength.

The blade scraped out of position, making him drop the machete, and the lid hadn't budged a millimetre.

"Crap," Dean hissed, repositioning it for a second attempt.

Sam was keeping his breaths as shallow as he could to conserve the little oxygen he had left. He could hear thuds and scrapes that meant Dean was trying to get him out. All he had to do was hold on until Dean did.

"Too late," Marguerite sang. He had his eyes shut so he wouldn't have to see her floating just above him, but he couldn't shut out her voice. "Dying. Sam. Dying." A feather-light touch ghosted over his face, making him shiver. "Silly boy. I warned you. You cannot trust them. Never trust them. Never trust anyone." She laughed. "Why would he want the burden of an insane brother?"

"Please stop," Sam whispered. He knew it was a lie, deep down in his soul he knew Dean would never think of him as a burden. But Marguerite's insistence was wearing down his defences.

"Silly boy," Marguerite repeated, patting his cheek.

Suddenly, Sam was spiralling down into darkness.

"Silly boy," Lucifer croons, his hand ice-cold on Sam's burning face. "You gave up everything for your brother and he's never going to forgive you. Did you think it was absolution?"

"It would never have been enough," Marguerite told him. "You tried, but it would –"

" – never be good enough for him, Sammy. He never wanted you. And now you're mine."

The Cage is closing in. Physically it's as big or as small as Lucifer wants it to be, the walls made of steel or cement or fire or iron bars depending on the fallen Angel's whim.

Right now Lucifer's turned the walls into black granite polished to an unholy sheen. They're closing in. They're going to crush him. Sam's going to –

"Die," Marguerite whispered. "It is best not to fight it. Die. Give up. How long will you fight?"

Dean flung the machete aside, not even caring that he threw it hard enough to put a serious chip in the blade. Freaking – useless – thing.

Sam was dying inches away, counting on Dean, and Dean was stuck with a bag of useless weapons and no way to save him. Dean was going to have to stand here and he wouldn't even know when his brother died.

No. That wasn't true. He would know. He'd feel Sam go out of the world, just as he'd done at Cold Oak, just as he'd done at Stull Cemetery. He'd feel Sam die, feel his own soul shrivel and fade right along with him, and then…

Dean put his hand on the casket that was trying to become Sam's tomb, letting himself sink to his knees. He pressed his forehead to the cool marble, wondering if Sam knew he was still there. Had Sam's little-brother faith withstood Marguerite's whispering? Did Sam still believe Dean would never abandon him?

Dean's fists clenched.

He was going to get Sam out of that damnable marble, and he was going to do it while Sam was still alive.

Dean reached into the duffel, thrusting aside knives and axes and going for the guns at the bottom. This was going to be risky, and he'd almost certainly wind up hurting Sam, but alive with a little collateral damage was better than dead.

"Sammy!" he yelled, hoping like hell Sam could hear him. "Shut your eyes and turn to your right."

Sam heard Dean yell something. He couldn't tell what, but it was comforting to know his big brother was there.

Then there was a loud bang somewhere near his feet.

Instinctively, Sam scrunched his eyes shut, pulled his legs up as far as the limited space would let him, and turned onto his side, away from the noise.

There was another bang, louder.

Sam's ears were still ringing when there was a third bang and a dangerous cracking sound.

As soon as he'd fired the third bullet, Dean knew there was going to be trouble. He'd been aiming for the bottom corner where the lid met the rim. The first two bullets blew out large chunks of marble but didn't go all the way through.

When the third one hit, he heard a vicious crack. The pressure had been enough to break the lid along the place where it had been cracked earlier.

Before Dean could do anything, before he could even shout a warning to Sam, the lid crumbled further, chips flying off. A couple of shards hit Dean, not hard enough for serious injury but hard enough to hurt. He ignored them, though, because right then the rest of the marble groaned and fell. Inside the coffin.

Dean heard a choked-off yell from Sam.

"No!" He dropped the gun, not even looking to see where it landed. Then he was pulling marble up and flinging it away with strength he hadn't even known he had.

Sam lay there, scrunched awkwardly, and there were splotches of red that Dean knew he should be worrying about. Right then, though, Sam opened his eyes and smiled up at Dean, and all Dean could feel was sweeping, glorious relief.

"You're bleeding," Sam murmured.

"I know. It's OK."

It took a while to get Sam out, because he was hurt more badly than he'd seemed at first. He'd taken a bad blow to the head – bad enough to make him squint and list against Dean when Dean sat him up – and Dean's searching fingers found a couple of cracked ribs and some deep cuts from the broken edges of marble.

Dean didn't try to move him right away. They stayed there for a couple of minutes, because Sam didn't seem able to do more than gulp in air and Dean, who didn't really feel like talking (he'd almost lost Sam, what the hell was there to talk about?), was content to support him while he did.

Neither of them was really surprised when Marguerite appeared.

"You came."

"Please stop," Sam said wearily, pushing himself even closer to Dean. Dean tightened the arm he had around Sam's shoulders, grounding him. "I'm sorry Robert was such a jerk, I really am. But you have to stop this. I promise you we'll deal with him."

Sam ended on a soft, pained sound, and Dean bent to soothe him. When he looked up again, Marguerite was watching them hungrily.

"What?" Dean asked.

"You came."

"He's my brother. Of course I came."

"You care for him," Marguerite said slowly.

Not being a girl, Dean didn't answer that question. He didn't see why he needed to. Would he be putting up with Sam snuggling, actually snuggling into him like a small animal, if he didn't care for the kid?

"Forgive me," Marguerite said. "I did not know. He told me… Robert told me it was a mistake. He wanted to prove it."

"I understand," Sam said, which was good, because Dean understood freaking nothing. "But… But, Marguerite, we have to stop him."

"I know."

"Don't interfere."

"He lied to me." Marguerite looked away and then back at them, her eyes blazing with something fierce and ugly. "Kill him."

Sam flinched, pushing himself so close that Dean could feel his brother's chest quivering with each ragged breath. He squeezed Sam's shoulder, which seemed relatively uninjured. Screw the ghost and screw this freaking place. Sam needed medical attention.

"Kill me?" another voice demanded incredulously.

Dean looked up, already knowing what he'd see. Sure enough, Underhill was standing in the doorway, glaring at Sam.

"Kill me?" he said again, gliding into the room, malevolent gaze not shifting from Dean's brother. "You would turn my own sister against me?"

"If I turned against you, it was no more than you deserved!" Marguerite snapped, not even looking at the new arrival. "You left me to die!"

"Marguerite –"

"You put me living in my tomb!"

"I did," Underhill said, finally turning away from Sam to look at her. "I did, and for that I am sorry. You cannot know how much it grieved me – how much it grieves me still! That you, you who were young and sweet and should have lived on in joy, died because of my negligence –"

"Liar!"

"But you had your vengeance, Marguerite," Underhill said, and he actually sounded a little sad now. "You drove me to my death. Was that not enough?"

"I did not kill you. That was Heaven's retribution for your crimes." Marguerite waved a hand towards Sam and Dean. "He came. Do you see? He came! You killed me a thousand times before I died!"

"Dean," Sam rasped. "I think we should get out of here."

"I think you're right." Dean bent to pick up the weapons duffel and put a shotgun loaded with rock salt in Sam's hand. "I'll do the navigating. You just focus on not falling over and you shoot anything that moves. Other than me."

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