Thank you so much Jenjoremy for beta'ing. Thank you also Gredelina1 for all your help. Thank you all for supporting the story.

Chapter Thirteen

"I don't know, Sammy," Dean said. "You still look like Hell."

Sam huffed an impatient breath and looked at Charlie instead. "What do you think, Doctor Bradbury?"

She smiled at him, a slight quirk of the lips that told him she was just as unsure about this as Dean. "Maybe a couple more days," she said.

Sam groaned. It had been over a week, and, while admittedly he hadn't cared much during the first days of being back as he'd been in and out of fevered unconsciousness and what he did remember was painful and frightening, he had been awake and resting in this room for five days now and he wanted out. When he was in there, it was still too easy to remember what had happened to him, both before and after Crowley had found him. At first Sam had thought Lucifer had been with him the way he had when the wall was broken, but when his fever broke, Lucifer disappeared again. He could still picture him though: standing in the corners talking the way he had, peering over Dean's shoulder as he pressed cool cloths to his forehead, standing at the end of the tub as they immersed him in what felt shards of broken glass in water. He needed to see something other than the same four walls and breathe something other than the stale air of sickness in the room.

He understood their hesitance though. They were afraid for him. He remembered parts of his fever, and he knew how scared they'd been. Not one time had he come back to lucidity and found himself alone. There had always been at least one of them there, usually Dean and another, cooling him, talking to him, feeding him sips of water and washing his sweat soaked body. Words had penetrated the fog and they were always reassurances and pleas to hold out, fight a little harder, to stay. He had. He had made it through the worst of it, he was sure. Whatever had caused the fever to take hold had been beaten. There was just the rest of the whatever it was to heal now. He didn't know what the trials had done to him. It felt like they had scorched his organs and branded his bones from the pain of it. Whatever it was, he needed time to recover, he knew, and he wasn't planning on rushing that. He just thought he could rest outside of his room.

He locked eyes with Charlie and employed the look he used when wishing to get evidence from a reluctant witness. "Please, Charlie. I just want to be somewhere that isn't this room for a while. I'm not planning on doing anything more strenuous than picking up a book. I'll keep resting. Just let me stretch my legs a little."

"Dammit," Dean said quietly in response to Charlie's softening expression.

"Okay," she said. "I get that. But you sit where we put you and stay there. Understood?"

Sam nodded. "No problem." He pushed up from the arms of the chair he was sitting on, hating the way his hands trembled with the effort. When he was upright, Dean got an arm under him and Sam straightened, feeling the satisfaction of standing at his fullest.

"You okay?" Dean asked.

"Yeah," Sam said. "Let's go."

They made slow progress through the bunker and into the library, and Sam's legs were aching by the end of the short journey. He tried to make for the long table in the center of the room, but with a huff of a laugh, Dean led him to the wing chair by one of the bookcases.

Sam sank gratefully into it and tucked his hands down at his sides so Dean wouldn't see how they were shaking from weariness.

"You need a blanket?" Dean asked.

Sam raised an unimpressed eyebrow.

"So that's a no," Dean muttered. "Anything else?"

"Some coffee?" Sam asked hopefully.

Dean glanced at Charlie and she nodded. "Sure. I think Cas is working the machine right now. He's really proud of himself for learning how to do it." She smiled fondly. "I'll go get you some."

Sam smiled his gratitude and looked around the large room, taking it in with relief. He hadn't thought he would see it again, and when he'd been in the Cage—or his mind's version of it—he'd begun to doubt sometimes it existed at the archangels' constant insistence it had been a creation of their own.

"Anything else you need?" Dean asked.

"No," Sam said with a heavy exhale. "Well, maybe…" There was something else he needed, but he wasn't sure it was the right time for it. Things had been hard on Dean lately, and he didn't want to make it worse, but at the same time he needed some answers. He didn't know much of what had happened to him after he'd been possessed by the witch, but Crowley had said there was an angel in him. How the angel had gotten consent, or even access to the bunker, he didn't know, but he knew it was a story he should hear. He guessed Dean would be dragging his own load of guilt for it though—the angel getting in on his watch.

"What?" Dean asked.

He looked so willing to help that Sam felt like an asshole for making his smile fade as he asked, "What happened to me, Dean?"

Dean leaned back as if to distance himself from the question, and then, after a beat of silence in which Sam almost retracted the question, he nodded once and pulled a chair around from the table to sit facing Sam. "It's a long story, Sammy," he said.

Sam felt a curl of foreboding in his gut. Dean felt more than guilt about this, he could tell. He felt it was more important now than ever to hear the story though. He stayed silent and waited for Dean to go on.

"You remember when I stopped you finishing the last trial?"

"Yeah," Sam said slowly. It wasn't like he could forget the desperation, exhaustion and absolute defeat of those last few minutes of the third trial. He remembered the way the blood had felt, hot and wet on his palm as he clenched his fist to make it flow, ready to take the final step to cure Crowley. And then Dean's arrival. "You finish this trial, you're dead, Sam." The way it had felt so right; of course he was dead. It made perfect sense for this to be the ultimate sacrifice. And in that moment he hadn't even cared. He was done. Caring had come later.

Bobby walking beside him in a forest, "I want to fight. I do. But I just feel like..."

"Like you got nothing to swing at?"

He flinched.

"Sam?" Dean was in his face, his hand on Sam's forehead and his eyes concerned.

"I'm fine," Sam said, his voice sounding echoey in his ears.

What was that? A hallucination? A fever dream? A memory?

"Are you hurting?" Dean asked.

"I'm not," Sam said, then amended, "No more than before. I just saw something."

"Saw what?"

"Bobby."

Dean pulled back and frowned at him. "Here? Like, in this room?"

"No, it was more like a memory of something, but I don't remember it ever happening before. Maybe just a dream."

"Maybe we should get you back to bed."

"No," Sam said. "I need to hear this."

Dean nodded slowly. "Okay. Well, you remember the church. After the angels started falling, you got real sick real fast. I took you to a hospital. Things got worse and they…" Dean was pale and his hand trembled slightly as he wiped it over his face. "They told me you were dying."

Death seated in a high-backed wing chair, his expression solemn. "I consider it to be quite the honor to be collecting the likes of Sam Winchester."

This time Sam managed to conceal his reaction.

Not a dream, he was sure now, a memory. He remembered how it had felt to sit in that cabin with the Horseman and discuss it all so civilly. He remembered what he said next.

"Can you promise that this time it will be final? That if I'm dead, I stay dead. Nobody can reverse it, nobody can deal it away... and nobody else can get hurt because of me."

He had been sure in that moment that it was right to go. Bobby had been right, not Dean. He had to let go of fighting at last, no more loopholes. What he was doing was leaving a legacy. Dean couldn't accept that because he loved him, but that didn't make it wrong.

"I prayed," Dean said. "I sent out an all angels' broadcast and someone answered. He said he was called Ezekiel, but he was lying. We don't know who he was really. He was going to heal you, but you were both too weak, so… I made a judgment call. He said he could heal you from within, so I said yes."

But that wouldn't have been enough. The angel wouldn't have needed Dean's permission; he would have needed Sam's. And he had gotten it, Sam knew, remembering once again, the impassioned speech and the telling words. "You got to let me in, man."… "Is that a yes?"

He swallowed hard and pushed his shaking and now fisted hands a little deeper into the sides of the chair. Dean had tricked him. He had used their bond and love to make Sam open himself to another angel. How could he? After what Lucifer had done to him, both when he had possessed him and after, how could he have let another angel take Sam's will?

"You tricked me into letting the angel in," he said in a dull tone.

Dean stared at him, a plea for understanding in his eyes. "You remember?"

"Bits of it," Sam said. "The parts that matter."

"Sam, I…" Dean trailed off as the sound of Charlie's chatter and Castiel's deep replies came to them. A moment later they were in the library, a tray of cups and saucers in Charlie's hands and an old fashioned coffee pot in Castiel's.

"Found all this in a cupboard," Charlie said cheerfully. "Thought we could pretend not to be heathens for an afternoon. What do you think?"

Sam forced a smile. "I think that's a great idea, but I think I should get back to bed again."

Charlie set the tray down on the table and hurried over to him. She felt his brow and frowned. "You're kinda warm. Are you in a lot of pain?"

"No," Sam said quickly, not wanting to worry her unduly. "I just need to lay down a little while. Cas, you mind helping me?"

"Of course," Castiel said as he came to Sam's side.

"I can help you," Dean offered.

"No," Sam said without heat. "You've done enough."

Castiel helped Sam to his feet and, with Sam's arm slung around Castiel's shoulders, they made their slow way to the bedrooms.

The pot of coffee Charlie and Castiel had prepared went untouched. Dean had no stomach for it, and Charlie and Castiel seemed to sense that he needed space, so they excused themselves, saying they were going to explore the bunker some more.

Dean stayed in the library, staring at the chair his brother had vacated and wondering how he could have handled the situation differently, in a way that wouldn't have ended with him sitting alone and his sick brother back in the bed he had been so eager to escape.

He couldn't think of any other way to handle it though, as he had barely needed to say a thing. Sam already seemed to know it all. Where Bobby had come into it, Dean didn't know, but the fact was he knew Dean had tricked him into letting the angel in and that was what had snowballed into this nightmare. But it had saved Sam's life. It wasn't his time. There was still so much for him to offer the world. He couldn't go down like that, still too young. Dean had done what needed to be done; he had done what Sam had needed him to do.

His self-assurances only lasted so long when he thought of where Sam had ended up—the Cage—because of him doing what he had. He couldn't have known the angel was going to pull that stunt, but maybe if he hadn't been such a dick to him, it wouldn't have happened. That was what he had said anyway.

An hour passed and he was staring longingly at the crystal decanter that held the alcoholic answer to his problems when he heard someone approaching. It obviously wasn't Sam, so he didn't look around.

"Planning another drinking party?" Charlie asked.

"No," Dean said truculently.

Charlie threw herself into the chair that had been Sam's and curled her one foot under her. "Then what are you doing?"

Dean ignored his question and asked one of his own. "How's Sam doing?"

"He's okay. Tired and in pain, but his temperature is down, actually almost normal, so I'm calling it a win. It'd be a lot easier to take care of him if we knew exactly what was going on inside, though, and if I was, you know, an actual doctor."

"You're doing a great job," Dean said. "You and Cas have been awesome with him."

"And you've been chopped liver, I suppose."

"If only," Dean said.

Charlie sighed harshly and pushed back her hair. "Okay, Winchester, I am going to say this once only and I want you to listen." She leaned forward and punched his arm. He could tell it was her hardest, but having spent a lifetime being kicked around by monsters and demons, it wasn't exactly right up there in the pain stakes. "Suck it up. You are the best ever brother! You did what you had to do to save Sam. You know how few people could have done that? I know it ended badly, but I for one am a million times happier with Sam in the world than I would be without. You, Sam and Castiel, you're pretty much it for me when it comes to family. I love you guys, and I don't want to lose any of you. I was so scared when Sam was lost, and now that he's back, I am just soaking up the good times. You should do the same."

"He's so angry at me," Dean said, cursing the hoarse quality to his voice.

She quirked a brow. "He say that did he?"

"He didn't need to. I can tell."

She rolled her eyes. "You may be soul mates, but you're not mind readers. How about you give Sam a chance to tell you how he feels?"

"Like he's going to give me a chance to do that," Dean scoffed.

"Oh, didn't I mention? He asked if you were free to talk."

Dean got quickly to his feet. "You didn't tell me because…?"

"I thought you needed a little pep talk first. Besides, I've been practicing it and it would be a shame to let it go to waste. Yeah, Cas is sitting with him now, but he wanted to see you."

"Thanks, Charlie," Dean said, striding from the room.

"Go get 'em tiger," she called after him.

Dean hurried through the halls to the bedrooms area of the bunker and then paused outside the door to Sam's room for a moment to take a breath and prepare himself. He heard movement inside and Sam's tired voice say, "Thanks, Cas," just before the angel appeared.

Castiel smiled slightly at Dean and patted his arm in what Dean guessed was Castiel's awkward attempt at a show of solidarity.

Dean took a moment and then knocked on the door frame. "Can I come in?" Neither of them had needed permission before. If they wanted time alone, they shut the door. Having it open was an invitation.

"Sure," Sam said.

He was sitting up in bed, propped against pillows. He looked pale and tired, but he smiled slightly at Dean, making him think maybe it wasn't all lost.

Dean made for the chair beside the bed and pulled it around so he was facing Sam.

"I'm sorry," they both said at the same time and then laughed softly.

"You have nothing to apologize for," Dean started, but Sam interrupted.

"Let me go first. I need to say it."

Dean nodded and sat back in his seat.

"I shouldn't have walked out on you earlier. I should have stayed to talk it out then. It wasn't fair to leave you to sit on it for hours."

"It's okay," Dean said.

"The thing is, I needed to think," Sam said. "It was a lot to take in, is all."

"Yeah, I'll bet," Dean said soberly.

Sam smiled. "I guess what I want to say is that I get it. I understand why you made the choices you did. I'm not saying I like it; I hate that there was another angel in me, and what it did to me. But if I was in your position… Well, I can't say I wouldn't have done the exact same thing to save you."

Dean blew out a gusty breath and his frozen muscles relaxed. It was better than he could have hoped for.

"I didn't want to die," Sam said. "When I was there, with Death, I thought it was the only real option for me. I remember after though, when I was possessed and feeling better, and I was happy with my life. I had you, I had my friends, and life was good. That's something I wouldn't have had a chance to feel had I gone with him when he wanted me to. So, thank you."

"But what about how it ended?" Dean asked.

Sam bit his lip. "I don't know how it happened, what that angel did, but I ended up in a real bad place when he took over…"

"The Cage," Dean said. "Crowley told me."

"Of course he did," Sam spat, spots of color flushing his cheeks. "Asshole." He took a breath and then relaxed again. "Well, what he did, why ever he did it, I am not letting him get away with it."

"It was my fault," Dean started. "He was pissed at me because—"

Sam held up a shaky hand. "I don't need to hear it. I don't care what his excuse was. What he did was one of the worst things anyone has ever done to me, and I am not letting it go."

Dean frowned. "What are you going to do?"

"I am going to get better first," he said, "and then I am going to find him. I will track him down and then I will kill him."

Dean looked uncertain. "Sammy, I get it, I do. I feel the same way. But he's an angel that could be hiding in any vessel in any state, if he hasn't already left the country. How are we going to find him?"

"I don't know," Sam said. "I just know we will."

"You think we can really do it?"

Sam smiled weakly, his voice strong despite his obvious exhaustion. "Of course we can. Lucifer, Azazel, Lilith, Eve, Dick Roman, none of them were a match for us. He might be an angel, but we're Winchesters. I like our odds."

Dean grinned. "I'm in. You're right. One angel doesn't stand a chance."

Sam nodded and said solemnly, "He really doesn't."

So… Gadreel is all kinds of screwed now he's got the Winchesters riled and on his tail.

What did you think of Sam's reaction to the truth? I have to admit I prefer this honest and understanding response, but I'm biased.

Until next time…

Clowns or Midgets xxx