"Son of a Bitch," Dean shrugged off his work gloves, set his wrench on the floor and took a long drink of his beer. Usually whenever Dean was feeling out of it, working on his Chevy impala, his baby, could snap him out of it, but today it just wasn't working. Dean just couldn't stop thinking about where Sam was, and with Lisa and Ben at her sisters, there was nothing to distract him. "UHH," he slammed his fist into to the worktable in anger. This was really screwed up. How did it get to this? He loved Lisa, and sure, Ben was great, everything you'd want in a kid. But, for the longest time, Sam had been his only family, he wasn't sure he wanted that to change. Not like this, not with Sam in hell.
His mind drifted back to the look on Sam's face, "it's ok Dean, I've got him, its ok." It had hurt when Sam had punched him, hurt like hell. After all, he'd taught the kid to throw a punch, and if he'd worried about Sam being soft, he needn't worry any longer. Damn, that kid could pack a wallop, Dean rubbed his jaw ruefully. Cas had fixed him up, but he could still remember the feeling, the pain.
"I'm right here Sammy," Dean had tried to let his brother know he was still there, he still loved him and wouldn't leave him there, trapped in his own body. He remembered when Meg had possessed Sam. The kid had been terrified to sleep for the longest time, afraid something was going to take him for a joyride again. He felt horrible Sam had to go through it again, this time worse, Lucifer himself. God, the kid could never catch a break.
He remembered how hard he had worked to keep Sam's childhood innocence alive. Ha, Dean laughed to himself, man he'd failed in that category. Sam had been him, tossed around by more supernatural creatures than anyone he know. Hell, the kid had been "chosen" at six months to lead the demon army. A boy who didn't have an inch of evil in him, Dean still found it hard to believe. What did Sam do to deserve this? Any of this? A boy who would do anything if his big brother said so, and cried when he lost his library book in junior high. This was a boy who deserved a life, who deserved a family, and a dog and to have a future. IT'S NOT FAIR! SAMMY DIDN'T DESERVE ANY OF THIS!
He sighed and dug into the trunk of the impala. Working on the car wasn't getting him anywhere, so he might as well do some cleaning. Cleaning out the arsenal wasn't fun, but it had to be done. He had no use for it anymore, he promised Sam, no more hunting. Dean once again cursed as for saving him, and while he knew it wasn't Cas's fault, he was just helping, but Dean didn't want to be saved. Not even a little. Not unless Sam could be saved right along with him. Yet he had promised, and damn if he'd make a promise to Sam and not keep it. Especially not a promise this important. But with the arsenal, he planned to put it away, he could never destroy it or throw it out. Promises aside, this had been his and Sam's life for years, he wasn't about to toss it out like garbage. It was almost cleared out, just a couple old books he'd found in Sam's duffle, and some old charms.
Sifting through the pile, all falling apart and stuffed with notes and papers, Dean almost laughed. His geeky brother, he always loved research and school, of course his books would be read to pieces. Scooping up the heaping pile, Dean juggled them over to a group of boxes he was planning on putting in storage. As he made his way over, he tripped on the very wrench he had set down moments before. "Damn it," he grumbled as books toppled out of his hands. He dropped to his knees and started scooping up the various books. As he gathered the papers that spilled out of the worn bindings, he felt a lump grow in his throat as he stared at the familiar scrawl of Sam. Dean cleared his throat as he felt that prickly feeling build up behind his eyes, no chick-flick moments, Dean. That's what he always told Sammy, no crying, don't let them see you squirm. He rose quickly, dumping the books messily into the boxes, not caring how they fell, just needing to get them tucked away. The Dean Winchester way of dealing with emotion, he thought wryly, shove everything on the backburner.
Striding toward the impala again, Dean glanced around the garage and noticed a book he had missed hiding under the rear of the car. He bent and quickly scooped the book up, meaning to quickly toss it with the rest of the books, but as he grabbed it, a paper fluttered out. Sighing, Dean snatched the paper in midair and barely glanced at the writing. "What the hell?" He stopped and started reading, the words FORBIDDEN and HELL popping out at him. "What..tth," for the first time Dean read the title of the little black book he held. "FORBIDDEN HELL SPELLS."