A/N: Dean is slowly getting better but my explanation as to why get a little muddled…

If you're looking for a really clear plot, I think it best to quote my good friend Edward Cullen: I hope you enjoy disappointment.

Dean was high on adrenaline; his theory making more sense by the hour. He didn't know if this theory meant that any action could be taken, but it opened new possibilities. He was too jittery to sit and opted for doing laps around the bunker instead. His leg was unappreciative of his movements but he didn't care. Dean began formulating more conspiracies as time passed, and Sam's arrival could not have seemed further off. Still, Dean didn't want to ruin Sam's night. Maybe he'd wait til tomorrow to share. Yeah right. Sam would smell it on him the second he got home; Dean wasn't known for his patience.

After what felt like an eternity, Dean heard distant noises and breathed a sigh of relief that Sam was finally home; if he had to wait to share his theory any longer, he might explode. Beginning the arduous walk to the map room, Dean tried to calm his nerves and remember that Sam didn't need to be accosted with stress. Dean took a few deep breaths and for the first time ever, actually tried planning on what he was going to say.

The sound of the door opening actually scared him a little he was so lost in thought. He was still a couple turns from the map room and knew that Sam would make it down the steps before he got there.

"Sam?" Dean called, altering his brother that he was awake and safe.

"Hey, you finally woke up?" Sam shouted his reply a bit too loudly, clearly not knowing exactly how far away Dean was.

"Yeah. Cas came by for a bit."

Dean finally emerged in the map room and noted Sam dropping a plastic bag onto the table.

"Gift shop?" Dean mocked, smiling.

"Research." Sam defended.

"Yuh-huh." Dean's sarcastic sound made Sam snort and he confessed more information.

"They had transcripts of the footage. I got it for our archives." Sam turned a little red with embarrassment but Dean loved that he was genuinely smiling about something. Even if that something was geeky.

"So what did Cas have to say?" Sam sat as he spoke, removing items from his bag.

"Not much...Heaven's a cluster…"

Sam's head snapped upwards at a strange twinge in Dean's tone.

"What?" He inquired, swallowing thickly.

"Cas and I were talking...about the scales. In my head. And I started thinking."

Sam sat up straight in his chair, not knowing where this was going.

"Sam. What if we've been thinking about this wrong? About me. About the scales. About M-Michael..."

Sam, fearing the worst, thought that Dean was entering a depressive, suicidal state.

"Dean, you've been doing so well-"

Dean held his hand up to stop Sam and instead sat across from him, head shaking.

"No, no, Sam I know. Just hear me out, okay?"

Sam nodded and sat back in his chair, trying to lessen his worry.

"This whole time we've been thinking that I've been trying to recover from Michael. That my body is holding onto him somehow. Kinda like what happened to Nick after Lucifer … But what if the opposite is true? What if Michael is holding onto me? Like he found a way to leave his hooks in, in case he ever needed to come back…"

Sam knitted his brow and pinched his eyes together as he tried to process. It was beyond difficult to try and shift the beliefs they'd had for so long.

"You're saying the crack Michael left...it was a crack in him as much as in you? Like the part of him he left in you is what? A horcrux kinda thing?"

"I don't know what that last part means, but sure. The part of Michael's grace that got left behind-the thing that's causing all this...We've assumed that it's desperately kicking and fighting to take hold of me, to drag me under. And the seizures and pain and everything wrong with me is because of that-Michael fighting me. But what if he's not the one pushing back, what if it's me?"

Dean let out a huge breath and felt his tension drain away as he was finally able to share his theory. Sam was still struggling to catch up; he hadn't had hours to think this over the way Dean did.

"Dean, if this was true wouldn't Cas have seen it? I mean, hell, he did see it-he said there was a trace of Micahel's grace left over, he said it was the thing making you sick."

"I don't think what Cas saw was wrong, but I think he interpreted it wrong. He made it seem earlier that he thinks it's some kind of diversion, as if Michael's not the direct cause, like a loophole or something. What if Michael's not playing offense? What if he's on the defensive? Sam, I think my body's on the offensive trying to beat back Michael's grace." Dean stopped babbling and proposed a new way of thinking about it. "Sam, it's like a fever...I'm fighting a virus and my body has to hurt itself in order to kill the bigger-bad. I think my very stupid, very human immune system is treating his grace like a pathogen. It's doing everything it can to force it out. It explains why Cas' grace does jack when he tries to heal me-my body rejects it because it recognizes it as an enemy."

Sam had to admit that if he was understanding this correctly, it was an entirely new perspective. Still, he'd need to give it more thought. Beyond that, he had to consider what implications Dean's theory had. If this was true-and that was a big if-what was there to do about it? Could Michael's grace be removed? Was there any guarantee that would solve the problem? Cas had said before that he'd seen a trace of Michael's power left in Dean. But what if Dean was right...what if his soul wasn't playing defense, what if it was playing offense? What if all his symptoms were ways that his body was combating a larger issue? What bigger issue could there be? There were too many questions, and more importantly, there were too many risks. Sam looked up at Dean and was met with a different pair of green eyes than he'd been expecting. They were still his brother's eyes, yes, but they were bright with hope.

"C'mon, Sam. It's our best theory." Dean was desperate for Sam to be on board.

"It's our only theory, that doesn't make it the best" He countered.

"Sure it does!"

"I'm not sure I even get what you're saying. How does that change anything? Any way you look at it, it seems like Michael's grace is still inside and it's hurting you." Sam admitted, a little defeated.

Dean wiggled his eyebrows in an attempt to excite his brother as he tried to summarize his point.

"Look, I know we've been batting zero for months. And I know Cas has looked inside my head plenty of times and we've had ideas and conspiracies before. All I'm saying is that maybe we've been inventing motives to fit the evidence. We've thought that this shred of Michael has been disrupting the mental scales Cas keeps talking about, right?" Dean looked for affirmation that Sam was following and his brother nodded in silent response. "That little sliver of his power has been keeping my scales unbalanced-throwing my body into panic mode. But what if Michael's grace is the thing keeping me balanced? What if my mind is trying to get him out and the only way to do that is to jack the scales so out of balance that he doesn't have a hold anymore."

Sam's face contorted in further confusion.

"You're saying...the piece of Michael's power still inside you...instead of that being the thing throwing you out of balance, it's the thing forcing you to stay balanced?"

"Yahtzee."

"So your seizures and your pain...aren't because of Michael? Not directly at least?"

"Think about it. Angel grace heals, for one, and two, Michael learned that keeping me content was the best way to make me his bitch. Why would he leave me so broken? It doesn't make any sense. Unless he's not the thing causing it. That trace of him is trying to keep me content-trying to keep my scales in order. The part of me that wants to fight back, to make sure he's gone for good-that part of me is doing everything it can to shake him. So it's trying to tip the scales. That's why I'm all over the place...good days, bad days, spasms, headaches, you name it. My body's doing everything it can to toss that little piece of Michael out-to get me back to me."

"So with that… you're bad days are actually you're good days? The days you feel like crap are the days you're closest to shaking Michael?"

"I have no idea. Not yet. We got a lot to think about and a lot to run by Cas."

Sam opened his eyes wide.

"Dean." Sam began with a saddened tone and let his head drop. "I'm all for seeing this through, I am. But what if we're seeing things that just aren't there? Dean, maybe you're getting better on your own. Maybe we shouldn't push too hard on this."

Dean rubbed his head with his hand and shifted his weight back and forth.

"We'll give it a few days. See how I'm doing. Cas can come and look at me and we'll get his opinion, okay?"

Sam nodded and yawned, covering his mouth with a fist.

"Go to bed, dork" Dean gestured to the hallway and waved Sam away.

"Night. And Dean? Thanks for tonight."

Dean nodded and Sam walked to the door.

"Oh and get me-" Sam began.

"Get you if I need. I know, Sam." Dean sighed. "You know you can get me too."

Sam smiled.

"Yeah. I've known that for 36 years."

( ) ( ) ( )

"You don't have to read my mind/ To know what I have in mind/ Honey you oughta know…"

Dean's off-key singing funneled down the hallway and interrupted Sam's sleep. He rubbed his eyes and squinted at his bedside clock; it was almost one in the afternoon. Bolting upright, he wondered how it was possible he could have slept this long. Standing and changing immediately, he went to yell at Dean. Sam's brother was still in the shower and he pounded on the bathroom door, stopping the cheerful singing.

"Dean, what the hell? Why didn't you wake me up?"

Dean coughed and spoke loudly so that he could be heard over the water.

"Relax, groucho. You needed the rest. Besides, it's not like we have anything going on."

"You know I hate oversleeping." Sam was still upset, and clearly not letting this go.

"Yeah well then you should have set an alarm." Dean snapped right back, not having it.

Responding, Sam's tone was dripping with passive aggression and sarcasm.

"Thank you, that's really helpful."

"What bug is up your ass today? Why the hell are you so pissed off?" Dean lost all humor.

Sam considered the question for a minute and realized there was no good response.

"I don't know."

He sighed his overly dramatic sigh and stepped away from the bathroom door, walking towards the kitchen.

The taller man contemplated his temperament as me moved through the bunker and reflected on the conversation he and Dean had last night. The implications of the theory were clear now that he'd had a night to think on it. If what Dean proposed was true, it meant that in order to heal, Dean had to get worse. Much worse. They needed to wait and let the proverbial fever break—the very thing they'd been trying to stave off this whole time. Half a year and all Sam had done was ensure that Dean was adhering to every possible drug regiment, every physical therapy exercises, every routine that would cause the least amount of aggravation. If what Dean proposed was true, then all of Sam's efforts had been impeding his healing all along.

Floored, Sam sat at the kitchen table with his head in his hands. How could this have happened? How could they have ended up here? But Sam Winchester took charge of his own emotions; he might have to experience pain and suffering, trauma and guilt, but he didn't have to suffer. He had to deal, yes, but he didn't have to let it eat him. Closing his eyes and pushing his hair away from his face, he remembered Jody's words to him. You're a good brother, Sam. And a good man.

Michael was not his fault.

Dean's condition was not his fault.

Monsters and darkness and danger were not. his. fault.

It took tremendous energy for the youngest Winchester to convince himself of these truths, but he knew that if he stayed the course he was on-if he kept feeling responsible for every moment-then it would end in catastrophe. That wasn't fair to Cas. It wasn't fair to Dean. It wasn't fair to himself. Sam chuckled internally at a memory from weeks ago-from one of Dean's particularly bad days. Dean had pointed out (accused, really) that Sam was beginning to act like him. And Sam had known this, on some level, to be true. It was ironic, then, to consider that perhaps Sam's spiral into guilt and darkness was just another way he was adopting his brother's disposition. Great. In any case, Sam was done living stagnantly. He wasn't intending to make any rash decisions, to drastically change or reinvent himself...he just wanted to feel like his life was his again. He wanted the same for his brother. The first step, he hoped, was getting Cas' opinion on the new hypothesis; maybe he'd have a better sense, or a new perspective.

( ) ( ) ( )

Sitting in the "Fortress of Dean-itude," the brothers had on a mindless game show that they had both become much too invested in.

"What?!" Sam's voice cracked as his pitch rose in disbelief. "Why would you make an offer now? That's the worst possible decision."

Dean bowed his head in silent embarrassment and pretended that he wouldn't have done exactly what the contestant just had.

"Guy's a freakin idiot." Dean made a face that mimicked Sam's expression of disgust.

Cutting to commercial, the tense moment of the show was easily forgotten and new topics introduced.

"You wanna call Cas? See if he wants to come hear the new theory?" Sam offered his comment casually, looking at his phone the whole time.

"He seemed pretty uptight about the mess in Heaven. Let's give him another day." As he answered, Dean stood from the chair and made his way to the back wall, opening and digging through a drawer.

He returned with three batteries and picked up the faulty remote, turning it over in his hand. He wedged the batteries, one by one, into the small compartment. By the end, his one good hand was shaking. He kept calm, not knowing what the cause may have been; sometimes, it was just a reaction to being overworked. Sitting back down, his hooked arm gave an unexpected clench and he let out a breath.

Sam tensed and his instinct told him to ask Dean what the sound was in reaction to. Taking another breath, Sam gave himself a silent lecture. Dean's fine. There's nothing for you to feel bad about. He'll tell you if he wants something. Despite the fact that he hated having to lecture himself like this, it was helping. If Dean felt like he was okay on his own, then Sam should feel that way too. Maybe what Dean really needed, what they both really needed, was to get back to being themselves.

"So…" Sam began, struggling to find something to talk about that didn't include Michael but Dean interjected before Sam could propose a conversation.

"Why do you think Scooby never demands more than just two Scooby snacks?" Dean stared into space as he absentmindedly clicked through the channels, game show forgotten.

"What?" Sam was thrown by the left-field question.

"Every time he gets asked to do something he says he's too scared. And then Daphne or Velma will hold up the box and taunt him with it. But every time he gives in too soon. Why can't he bargain for the whole box?"

"Dean, he's a talking dog…"

"Exactly! He can, he just doesn't. Scoob needs to learn the art of persuasion."

"I think you mean extortion."

"They're forcing him into the creepy places. It's compensation."

"So you're telling me if I bribed you to go down some dank, rancid spelling tunnel with only one slice of pie, you wouldn't go? You'd stand there and barter for a whole pie?" Sam's face turned youthful for a moment, his eyes brighter, and his smirk more innocent.

Dean knitted his eyebrows together-he knew he'd been had by Sam's logic.

"Well I might die in that tunnel! I'm not gonna waste my time haggling, I gotta enjoy life's little pleasure when I can...I'm not in the position to look a gift horse in the mouth!"

Sam smirked a bitchy little smile and Dean mock defended himself further.

"Scooby's a freakin cartoon of course he's not gonna die! He has the luxury of demanding another Scooby Snack. End of discussion." Dean pouted and leaned back in his chair, arm still tense. While Sam continued making noises of satisfaction, Dean went unusually silent and stared blankly at the television.

Sam observed Dean for another moment before concluding that his brother was momentarily lost to conscious thought. The absent seizure, as wrong as it sounded, was good fortune. For Dean, it usually consisted of a few moments of foggy thought, and he was right back to normal. It was truly the least of all their evils; Sam was pleased that their upward trend seemed to be continuing. Sam sat in silence until he noted his brother's eyes blink, and his head begin turning. Knowing that waking up to silence would likely only confuse him more, Sam spoke gently, casually, and without expectation of response.

"Hey. Dean. We were watching a game show, and then we started talking about Scooby Doo… You said you wanted to give Cas another day in Heaven before calling him back down here but to be honest I'm getting a little impatient."

Dean turned his head to Sam, conscious again.

"I tuned out there for a minute, didn't I?"

"It was a really short one. We were just talking."

"Scooby Doo?" Dean clarified.

Sam nodded with a laugh and stood from his chair, hovering over Dean. Sam was going to stop panicking over everything. He was going to get back to normal. But he couldn't adjust instantaneously.

Baby steps.

So rather than waiting for Dean to ask him, Sam volunteered to stretch out his bad hand; the one that had clearly been hurting all day.

Dean rolled his eyes at Sam's offer but accepted.

"It's really fine, Sam." Dean argued.

"I know. But I can't go from sixty to zero in one day. I know you want your space and your freedom and I want that too. For both of us. But how impossible was it for you to just walk away when I was detoxing?"

"Yeah, okay. Point made." Dean grumbled as Sam gently extended each of his fingers away from his palm and pulled muscles Dean didn't know he had.

"So we'll wait on Cas and then just see what his thoughts are?" Sam asked, impatience peaking through.

"I guess."

"Isn't he gonna see the same thing, though? It's still all just a product of Michael's grace."

"Don't think he'll see anything different. I just want us to think about it in a new way. Maybe that'll give us some fresh ideas."

"Yeah, I guess."

Dean was still picking up on Sam's hesitance...resistance...something that was off.

"Sam. You're being weird about this whole thing. What's going on?"

Sam sighed and didn't beat around the bush; he didn't have the energy to.

"I told myself that I wasn't gonna worry anymore. I mean, of course I'll worry. But I don't want it to stop us from living anymore. You on that hunt? Me? Dean, that was the best time we've had in months. And I know what the consequences of that were. But part of me doesn't care. And I feel like crap for thinking that way. But I'm gonna forgive myself...it's just gonna take me a little longer to hop on board with stuff, that's all."

Dean nodded, taking a moment to process all that had been said.

"I know you know this. But I also know you need to hear it. From me. Sam?"

Sam looked at Dean, eyes wide.

"None of this is your fault."

( ) ( ) ( )

Two days back home and the boys were restless. With Dean so much better, the nothingness that existed in the bunker was beginning to eat away at them. Dean had already cleaned Baby twice over. (Unfortunately, there was a messy incident resulting from bad coordination and a slippery hose but the resulting sight of Dean soaking wet and covered in bubbles left Sam holding his abdomen in hysterical laughter.) Sam had been pouring over the transcripts from the Sayer House event he'd gone to and adding the documents to the library's files. Dean called back a hunter from Montana, Katie, who'd had an unexpected run in with a Djinn. T's crossed and I's dotted, Sam and Dean were struggling to find activities to pass the time. Sam was anxious to call Cas, but Dean insisted that Cas had his hands full with angel drama. Sam knew that Dean was as desperate as he was, but something was holding him back. Perhaps it was simply that he didn't want to be needy. Then again, maybe Dean was slowly drifting away from the depreciation for answers. It had been nearly 48 hours since he'd had any kind of seizure, his mobility was about as smooth as it could be, and he appeared to be in little pain. It was more than plausible that Dean simply didn't want to ruin a good thing. But (as is always true), all good things end badly, or else they wouldn't end.

Sam didn't know what set his brother off, but whatever it was, it was bad. Dean slammed his bedroom door and violent sounds echoed down the hallway. It was clear that Dean was physically safe, so Sam left him alone. He wondered what possibly could have gone so wrong-what could have ruined Dean's mood so rapidly. Answers unexpectedly came from his vibrating phone. A text message from an unknown number appeared on Sam's screen and he opened it curiously. As he read, new messages flooded in.

Hey, Sam. I hope this is still your number. This is Nikki-we met about eight years ago in Utah on a poltergeist.

I fell off the grid for a while but am getting back in the swing of things. I texted your brother.

I didn't know. I'm so sorry.

Sam responded, remembering her well-she had been kind and energetic, a little loud but always well-intentioned.

Hi Nikki. This is still my number. Good to hear from you.

Bubbles indicated she was typing back, and Sam waited for her new message.

I haven't been in contact with any hunters for the past couple of years. I had no idea who was even still alive, let alone the state of things.

Sam, still searching for answers about Dean, prompted Nikki.

It's okay. Not your fault. Did you say something to Dean? Did you guys have a falling out before or something?

There was a lag in response and Sam swallowed thickly, wondering what old baggage might have been brought up. But soon enough, new messages from Nikki came through and Dean's reactions made more and more sense.

Dean and I had a few long weekends...if you know what I mean. Eventually hunting got in the way, I fell off the map…

I wanted to reconnect...see if you two were still alive and kicking. Dean and I were talking and…

…

I asked if he'd want to see me again. I made a stupid joke about our...relations...from before.

Sam, I swear I had no idea what happened to him. I never would have said what I did the way that I said it.

Even without all the details (details Sam didn't even want to know), he understood what had happened. Nikki must have felt awful, and Sam wanted her to know that she didn't need to feel guilty. He knew Dean wasn't even mad at her-he was just so upset by the facts of the situation.

Nikki, you couldn't possibly have known. It's okay, I promise. Dean's not angry with you. The situation sucks but we all just have to roll with the punches, deal with what we've got.

Sam sent his massage, and read her reply.

Just tell him I'm sorry. And that…

I'm sorry to rope you into this, I'm sure you don't want to hear it

But tell him the offer still stands. Regardless.

Sam was unphased but the intimate nature of the conversation, and instead was hopeful that Dean might be able to get over the hurdle.

I will. Thanks, Nikki.

With that, Sam pocketed his phone and waited to see if and when Dean would emerge from his room.

( ) ( ) ( )

Two hours later and Dean was still locked away. At this point, Sam was unable to distance himself any longer and he walked down to Dean's room and knocked on the door.

"Dean?"

There was a beat of silence, but Sam had yet to panic. Finally, Dean's curt voice replied.

"I'm fine, Sam."

Not knowing how to proceed, Sam was quiet. He was surprised when shuffling behind the door indicated that Dean was coming to greet him. Door opening, Dean walked past Sam, and headed towards the library. Trailing him, the little brother followed behind as Dean spoke.

"We worked a case with a hunter named Nikki years ago. She and I had a thing. On and off but enough that… … she was a friend." Dean took a breath and Sam tried to stifle his surprise at Dean's willingness to talk. "She texted me earlier. Wanted to see if we were still alive, what we had going on. I didn't tell her about me. Not right away. And she asked if-" Dean cut himself off and opened a new sentence. "She wondered if I was still...interested. In the relationship we used to have."

Dean stopped talking as he worked on climbing the couple of steps up to the library.

"I told her. About me. And it was really hard to do that, Sam. It was just really fucking hard."

Dean spoke dryly, but in the beat of silence that followed his confession, the ghost of a fake smile forced itself onto his face.

"This is the part where you're supposed to say, 'that's what she said.'"

Sam raised his eyebrows as if to sarcastically say 'very funny.' Rather than directly respond, he decided to confess that he'd spoken to Nikki himself.

"She texted me. Nikki. She wanted me to check in with you."

Dean rolled his eyes.

"She always did worry too much." Dean sighed.

"She says she's sorry. And that 'her offer still stands.'"

Dean let out a held breath and eased himself into a chair; Sam followed suit.

"Nikki. Branch. Talk about old memories…" Dean became lost in a silent flood of reminances and Sam attempted to prod him in the right direction.

"Could make some new ones…" Sam was shy in his offer, but not backing down.

"No, no, nooo. Sam. Stop. I'm not doing this with you."

"What?" Sam's voice broke in mock confusion despite knowing precisely what Dean was getting at.

"We're not having that discussion. I'm not doing a therapy session with you."

"Why not?"

"Because the thought of you encouraging me to have sex makes my skin crawl."

"It doesn't have to be about that-"

"Yeah. But it is. And I'm not talking about my sex life with you."

Sam knew there was nothing more to do. Nothing to say. It was something that Dean had to figure out himself, and Sam had to accept that.

"I'll text Nikki, alright? I'll tell her I'm not mad. Let's just let this go and find a case or something."

Sam nodded and pulled out his laptop, looking productive. He wasn't sure if Dean intended to find a case for them, or for another hunter, but this wasn't the moment to ask.

An hour in, they'd mostly come up dry...a few weak leads in distant states was all they had: a possible haunting in Maine...maybe a shifter in Washington. It was far from sufficient.

Giving up, Sam stood to stretch and noted that Dean had drifted off to sleep. Despite his improvements, it was good that he was still getting enough rest. Sam quietly made his way to the kitchen and put a pot of water on, planning on making pasta. Going through absent motions, Sam's mind wandered to further considering the cause of Dean's issues.

Michael's grace was embedded in Dean's soul and it was disrupting the natural order. That part was obvious enough.

The next question was whether or not the natural balance would be restored if Michael's grace were to be expelled-and if that meant that Dean would go back to being healthy.

Finally, he considered Dean's most recent idea: in order to expel the remnants of Michael, his body was making him sick. Thus, they needed to stop trying to cure the condition. Like a fever, they needed to let it run its course in hopes that Michael's grace is destroyed, and Dean gets better.

If any of that was true, then how did it explain Dean's good and bad phases? Were his good days the days Michael was most in control? Was it the opposite? This was one part of the theory that Sam did not yet have answers for. This is why they needed Cas...if the angel could look inside Dean and know what to look for then maybe he could help. Sam recalled being trapped in Dean's head with Michael-the terror and helplessness that he felt. Sam wondered if part of that feeling had stayed with Dean...if Michael intended that fear to keep Dean weak.

Interrupting Sam's contemplation was the distant sound of labored movements. Departing from the kitchen immediately, Sam headed for the library where he'd left Dean sleeping. Still in the chair, Dean was unconscious but clearly having a nightmare. Covered in a sheen of sweat and mumbling under his breath, Sam could only make out one word: Michael.

Desperate to wake his brother, Sam firmly grabbed Dean's shoulders and shook them hard in a single motion.

"Dean! Wake up!"

With no change, Sam tried again, shaking harder this time.

"DEAN! You're in a dream! Wake up!"

Abruptly, Dean's eyes shot open and he launched himself from the chair, practically knocking Sam to the ground. He began coughing violently and struggled to catch his breath. Dripping in sweat and practically vibrating with tension, Dean was very clearly in distress.

"Hey, heyheyhey, HEY!" Sam attempted to snap his brother from the throws of his nightmare.

Responding to Sam's commanding tone, Dean's panic began to subdue; his breathing resumed a somewhat normal rhythm and he closed his eyes in a quasi-meditative state.

"Good. Just breathe. Was just a dream."

Dean still had his eyes closed, but was intently listening to Sam. He shook his head lightly, and wrinkled his forehead.

"N-n't j-just a d'rm." Not just a dream.

Sam's heart thumped arhythmically in his chest at Dean's words; both the content of the sentence, and its delivery.

"The scales?" Sam's voice was thick with concern.

Dean nodded.

"T-ime t' c'all Cas."

A/N: As always- thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you for all your kind words.