Sam clenched the steering wheel of the Camaro, his knuckles turning white as he fought the urge to punch Crowley in his stupid English face.
"So what does that mean, Crowley?" he roared as the engine revved up a gear.
Crowley's tone was equally exasperated.
"I don't know! I told him what Dean was planning and he didn't care – until I mentioned Heaven getting invaded and then he said he would help us. That's all I know! He didn't say how, he didn't say when. He just said" – Crowley imitated Cain's deep, serious voice – "'Dean Winchester will not take Heaven'. It's not like the guy's a big talker or anything. He's a hermit for god's sake!"
"So basically we're back to square one?" Sam retorted.
"Basically, yeah."
Sam growled. It had taken him and Crowley weeks to just find a spell that might help find Cain. Then Crowley had up and left in search of the old demon and Sam hadn't heard anything for days. Now Crowley was back and it turned out the whole thing had been pointless.
They were driving through a lush valley on a winding road flanked by swaths of green field. Clouds hung low between the mountains, lazily obscuring their summits. The day was a typically overcast grey and caught in between heavy showers. The air whipping past the car was wet, as though the rain had run out of places to go and just hovered between the ground and sky. The wipers swished back and forth with a monotonous rhythm, trying to keep Sam's view of the dull grey-black road clear as they sped on.
Crowley broke the irritable silence.
"Look, I know it didn't work out how we planned, but he said he'd help, so he'll help. We just ... didn't get the superpowered bossman we'd hoped for. 'S not the end of the world." He turned to look through the rain-soaked window. "Not yet, anyway. Which," he said suddenly, turning back to Sam, "worries me actually. What's taking him? We should have heard something from the angels by now. Like screams of mortal agony. Can immortal beings experience mortal agony? Immortal agony, then. Have you heard anything from trench-baby?"
Sam rolled his eyes. "Cas hasn't been in touch since he told me about the angel murders."
"Oh yeah, there's that too. Can't say I'm terribly torn up about it myself. Pompous dicks, all of them. Well, maybe not Cassie. He's more a backstabbing, toddler who –"
Something heavy fell from above them and slammed onto the hood of the car. Sam cried out and braked heard, swerving to avoid the thing as it tumbled off to the side. The Camaro skidded to a halt with Sam breathing hard, his knuckles white around the steering wheel.
"What the hell was that!" Crowley demanded.
"No idea," Sam said, looking around, perplexed. He saw the thing in the left wing mirror, lying in the middle of the road, strewn over the faded yellow line marking the centre. "Is that ...?" he murmured, leaning closer to the mirror as though that would make the glass zoom in on the thing.
With a shock of realisation, Sam shoved the door open. "It's a person!"
"So?" he heard Crowley call as he jogged through the misty rain to the fallen man, half-expecting to see a parachute or something.
As he drew closer, another, sharper thrill shot through him. He recognised the prone body.
It was Dean.
Bloody, unconscious and half naked, but unmistakably his brother.
"Crowley!" he shouted back to the car. "It's Dean! Help me!"
He pulled off his jacket and gathered his brother up in the warm material, offering some shelter from the chilly air.
Dean didn't so much as stir. His thick beard was soaked in blood old and new and his face was bruised and bloodied. It was painfully obvious he had been tortured. His chest was a mess of complicated cuts, spiralling and crossing to create an elaborate symbol Sam didn't recognise. It was clear from the jagged edges that the wounds had been re-opened to keep them fresh and bleeding.
"Dean?" he whispered, hugging his unconscious brother to his chest. "Dean? Can you hear me? It's ok, it's Sam. I've got you." He ignored the moisture clouding his vision. "I've got you."
He heard footsteps behind him and Crowley appeared, looking gobsmacked.
"Bloody hell!"
"Help me with him."
Together, Sam and Crowley lifted Dean gingerly to the car and slid him in to the backseat, lying him carefully over the dark red upholstery. He didn't even twitch.
"What the hell happened to him?" Crowley asked, horrified.
"Do I look like I know?" Sam snapped. "Get in the car."
"Wait, the Blade!"
"What blade?"
"The First Blade, numskull! Where is it?"
Sam shrugged, his patience wearing thin.
"It must be back where he fell, hang on." Crowley trotted off.
Sam pulled a spare shirt from the trunk and folded it into a pillow, which he tucked gently under Dean's head.
"Hold on, buddy," he whispered warmly. "You're gonna be okay. Everything's gonna be fine, I promise you."
He sank back into the driver's seat and pulled out his phone. The signal was sketchy, but there were enough bars for a quick Google search.
"Got it!" Crowley cheered, sliding in beside him, holding the hated jawbone up triumphantly.
Sam glanced up at it, then shoved the car into gear and drove off. According to Google maps, they were only thirty minutes away.
He'd make it in fifteen.
"Whoa, whoa, speeding much?"
"We've gotta hurry, before he wakes up."
"What, to hospital? Listen, Moose, he's not gonna need –"
"Not to a hospital."
"Then where?"
"There's an old church a few miles from here."
Comprehension dawned on Crowley's face. "Ah. A church." He glanced sideways at Sam. "You sure you're ready for that?"
Sam gave one curt nod in response. "I need you to get something."
Crowley glanced at him, indignant. "I'm not your PA, y'know."
The demon became serious under Sam's withering gaze.
"Alright, alright," Crowley relented. "I'll meet you at the church in a few."
"Don't forget – O neg."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah." Crowley waved the Winchester's concern away as he blinked out of the car.
Sam drove in silence, glancing at Dean in the rear-view mirror every few minutes. He had no idea what had happened to his brother, but right now he didn't care. He knew blood loss wasn't going to kill him. And this might be his only chance to try the cure.
He wondered about Dean's sudden appearance. Considering how ragged and bloody he looked, Sam guessed he hadn't been fully conscious or alert when he'd teleported. Had he meant to arrive where Sam was? Had he finally decided to let him help, to end his living death of demonhood?
Sam desperately hoped that was the case. But when had his life ever been so lucky? It was more likely Dean would fight and struggle and say anything and everything he could to stop Sam curing him.
He couldn't understand it. When he was hooked on demon blood, he had lied and drank in secret because he believed it was a necessary means to an end. Pulling demons and saving people, he'd thought. But what was Dean's justification? He couldn't possibly think he was doing good. And from the last time Sam had seen him, he didn't even seem to care about that.
That was the main thought keeping Sam up at night.
Dean always cared. Even when he had lost hope and had been hurt too many times by his friends, his family, he had always cared, deep down. The idea of a Dean that didn't care that people were getting hurt made no sense to him.
When anyone else would have given up, Dean never did. He had given Sam and Cas so many second chances. He never lost faith in them, not completely. He cared too much to abandon them.
Sam had vowed not to abandon him now.
He didn't know how this whole demon thing worked. But he was sure that Dean, the real Dean, his Dean, was still in there somewhere, lost in the dark smoke. All he had to do was clear away the blackness and get through to him. Easy.
The church came into view. It was tiny, hardly bigger than the last church he had used for this. It had been abandoned ten years ago, according to Google, which made it perfect. Its neglect showed. The creamy paint was flaking and discoloured and three of the visible stain glass windows had been thoroughly smashed, whether by the elements or vandals, Sam neither knew nor cared. It was holy ground; that was all he needed to know.
He swung off the road and parked in the small gravelly courtyard between the warped wooden door and the black tarmac of the road. The wheels crunched dully as they ground the tiny pebbles into each other.
He wrenched out the key and kicked the door open. Carefully, Sam maneuvered Dean into the jacket he had been wearing and carried him out from the backseat and over the threshold into the church, trying not to be reminded of the last time he had carried his brother's bloody, unmoving body like this.
The interior looked even worse. Many of the old shingles had fallen or decayed so that shafts of dirty grey light shone through the ceiling, illuminating the rotted, mouldy floorboards. Pews that had lined the small hall had been stolen long ago, as had the alter and tabernacle. All that was left to show this had been a place of worship was half a confessional booth and a few faded murals depicting saints and angels in divine light, bringing hope and solace to suffering humans.
Sam scoffed.
He laid Dean gently in a corner ,then returned and locked the First Blade in an empty cursebox, wishing he could just grind the hated thing to dust. He reached for the bag of supplies he'd need and rifled through it. The can of red spray paint was almost empty. He'd been drawing a lot of Traps over the last few months.
Returning to the church and shaking the can vigorously, he began spray painting a Devil's trap in the centre of the church, where the floorboards were slightly less damaged. He found a somewhat stable chair hiding behind the booth and positioned it in the centre of the red star. He heaved Dean into it, and he groaned slightly.
"Hey, hey," Sam muttered, tapping Dean's bristly cheek lightly. "Dean? You with me?"
Dean's brows twitched into a pained frown but his eyes remained closed.
Sam held his hand to his brother's cheek for a moment and sighed. "It's okay, Dean. Not long now, I promise. You're gonna be okay."
He heard a whistle behind him and turned to see Crowley leaning against the doorjamb, flourishing a red and white plastic box. Sam nodded his approval and clicked the demon handcuffs he'd kept with him ever since the day Dean had left around his brother's wrists. Unwilling to risk any disasters, Sam then pulled a length of rope from his bag and secured it tightly around Dean's torso, binding him to the chair.
The paint ran out just as he connected the last curving line of the circle to the last tip of the red star. He tossed the can into a corner and looked up at Crowley. "Watch him," he ordered.
Crowley gave a mock salute and took an exaggerated step closer to Dean, careful to remain outside the painted lines.
Sam snatched up the medical box Crowley had brought and carried it out to the Camaro. Popping the trunk and withdrawing a rosary and a half-empty flask of holy water, Sam opened the box and began to bless the six bags of O-negative blood inside.
When the incantation was finished, Sam braced himself against the trunk for a moment, thinking about what he was about to do. This was it. Dean would be human again in eight short hours. After months of searching, of wondering, he was finally going to get his big brother back.
Unable and unwilling to stifle his smile, Sam drew his phone out of his pocket. It rang twice before going to the familiar, confused voicemail.
"Cas? It's Sam. I found him. I'm giving Dean the cure. It's almost over." He paused a moment, savouring the relief that was only eight hours away. He didn't know if he wanted to laugh or cry. Cas should be here for this. Taking a deep, easy breath, Sam gave the location of the run-down church.
"We need you here for this, buddy. Call me back."
He hung up and rolled his shoulders. Right. Time to save his brother's soul. No big deal.
Withdrawing a syringe from his pocket, Sam poked the needle into the first of the blood bags and drew the dark liquid into the plastic cylinder.