-Summary: It's the end of the world and they've got one last card to play. Castiel sends Dean back: back before everything. Now he has time to stop what's coming, but no friggin' clue how to do it. Time travel should really come with a manual. TIMELINE AU

-A/Ns: This marks the end of season one! Honestly, some days I can't believe we made it. We rounded out with six more chapters and forty thousand words more than I anticipated. Go us! It has totally been a team effort, as I could not have been as dedicated to this story without fan support.

Thank you so much everyone who joined us this far, whether you were with us from the start, binged in the middle, or managed this beast just now. You ALL rock, and I appreciate your interest, excitement, and especially your comments.

Here. We. Go!

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The Road So Far (this Time Around)

Chapter 30

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The demon left them alone in the cabin once more, probably to address the fact that half his arm was burned to a crisp, scaly flesh hanging off his limb like some sort of sick Halloween yard decoration. He didn't go far; Sam could hear him just outside the cabin. The hunter's limbs came free of the oppressive pressure of Azazel's power the moment the door shut, and he stumbled off the wall he'd been pinned to.

Sam didn't stop to question his newfound freedom. At this point, their captor had demonstrated quite clearly that an unfacilitated escape was unlikely. It was something Sam could stop and consider after he'd made sure his brother was still alive.

The younger Winchester raced to Dean's side, sliding to his knees beside the felled hunter. He didn't immediately spot movement in his brother's chest, heartrate and tension spiking in response. Sam reached out, resting a finger beneath Dean's nose, his other hand searching for an undamaged spot to rest against the man's chest. God, his skin was as charred and blackened as Azazel's. Sam had to bite his cheek and look away from the edges of the blast, where his brother's shirt had flash-burned right into his skin.

There's no way anyone could survive that.

Sam shook his head, trying to fight back the death toll ringing in his head for his brother. Dean could. Dean could survive all sorts of things.

"Come on," he whispered, fighting back the flood of water that blurred his vision and threatened to spill past his eyelashes. "We have- We have an apocalypse to fight, Dean. You can't leave that all on me."

His brother didn't stir, and Sam's fear went from hyperventilating in his lungs to sinking heavy in his stomach, cementing with realization. Dean's chest wasn't moving beneath his hand, and he'd detected no current of air on his finger. The death toll persisted and the hunter let out a frustrated cry. He hobbled on his knees to his brother's legs and grabbed his ankles. Sam pulled the older man away from the wall, mindful of his head hitting the floor too hard. He slid a cautious hand beneath his head, weary of skull or neck trauma. Nothing shifted beneath his touch, at least, and he thanked God for that thick skull if nothing else.

Dean's chest still wasn't moving and Sam started CPR. His brother's skin was still warm. Sam tried to silence the science-wise section of his brain that insisted it took time for a dead body to lose its heat. Dean wasn't dead.

Not yet.

Sam ground his teeth, muttering at his internal dialogue to shut the hell up. Dean's skill was pale and sallow. If- When he got his brother breathing again, blood loss would be his next concern. The beating had earned the hunter more bruises than broken skin, but some of the cuts were still sluggishly leaking, and Sam didn't even know how to triage the blast to his chest. At least any external damage he had taken from it seemed superficial. Mostly burns, which would have cauterized any potential bleeding. It spoke little to the internal injuries that would come with a ground-zero discharge capable of throwing a grown man and a demon across a room.

Sam tried to put it out of his mind. Fifteen compressions. The young hunter shut his eyes tightly against the way his brother's ribcage moved beneath each forceful push of his palm. Multiple broken ribs. From the beating or the blast was anyone's guess. Dean's sternum was intact, however, and that bore the brunt of the compressions and kept his heart moving blood through his body.

Thirteen. Fourteen.

"Come on, man. Don't make me kiss you."

His brother didn't answer and Sam didn't wait for him to, instead tilting Dean's head back and sealing their mouths together. The older man's chest rose with the breath of air, and Sam delivered another. He immediately went back to chest compressions.

"I can't do this alone, Dean. Please!"

It took two more rounds of compressions and rescue breaths, tears falling freely to splash atop his interlocked hands, before Dean's chest rose of its own accord in a desperate grab for air. Sam practically collapsed atop the man, grabbing at the back of his head to keep him from falling to the hard floor again. Dean hacked and grabbed weakly at his chest with his one sort-of-good arm. He was too out of it to complain about his brother cradling him and pushing their foreheads together as they both just breathed.

"S'mmy?"

"Here, Dean," the kid whispered, shuttering his eyes and forcing his face and lungs back under composure.

"You huggin' me?" Dean's good eye was half-lidded, fingers twitching lightly, neurotically, against his chest in a way that suggested he wanted to rub it. Sam wondered if it was a leftover motion from before his torso decided to become a bomb, or if the burns itched.

"Kissed you, too," he muttered with a laugh, finally pulling away from his brother and lowering him back to the floor gently.

"Gross."

"Yeah." Sam scooted back an inch, trying to give Dean some space as the hunter took slow, measured breaths. They were shallow and looked painful, but were steady in their way. The two sat in silent reprieve, Sam listening to his brother breathe with just barely concealed paranoia and an impending adrenaline crash. Dean focused on inhaling, exhaling, not dying, and not thinking about the blinding explosion or the hollow ache in his chest.

"You figured…how to 'scape yet?" Dean's sentences were fractured, punctuated with slow breaths and still slurred words. The bomb had done his concussion no favors, but while his vision and equilibrium were shot, his thoughts were at least semi-lucid for the time being. Coming back from the dead would do that to you, apparently.

"Nah. Thought I'd save your lazy butt, first." Now that Dean was at least not dead, Sam turned his eyes to the cabin door. Azazel hadn't come back in, but the hunter could see movement beneath the line of the door.

"Bitch."

"Jerk." He turned back to Dean. The older Winchester was breathing steady, hand finally settled atop his chest, eyes closed. "Dean, what was that?"

"S'plosion."

Sam couldn't help the laugh that bubbled past his lips, even if was half formed by hysteria. "Yeah, I figured that much out for myself, thanks."

"Sorry."

He didn't bother asking what he was sorry for. He suspected it was that he'd sent his kid brother tomahawking across the room with that little chest bomb of his. Not that Dean had likely been conscious for that. Or able to see past the bright light.

The younger hunter's brain took a misstep at that thought, then reversed to examine it. That white-blue light had been familiar, now that he reconsidered it. It was eerily similar to the weird, high-pitched explosion that had chased away the Baku nightmare and ended the dream world a week ago.

Hadn't Azazel said something about an angel at Bobby's?

Slowly, Sam's eyes moved down to his stare at his brother's rising and falling chest. The niggling in his brain was turning into a full-fledged idea, which brought with it both fascination and trepidation. He hadn't gotten very far in his research on angels (they had had a lot going on lately), but what he had read mentioned something about vessels needed for angelic possession. Dean corroborated the notion on the way to Max's, though in far less words, with Sam sort of filling in the blanks his brother hadn't wanted to say out loud. They were meant to be weapons of Heaven and Hell; rare humans capable of housing archangels. Vessels.

Could Castiel have been with them the entire time?

"Dean…" His brother slit open one green eye to stare up at him. "Was that Cas?"

A look of pain crossed the hunter's face and his fingers curled around the ruined edges of his shirt. It was clear from his shuddering breaths that he was fighting back panic and probably tears. Of course, given that he'd recently been tortured, had a demon's hand buried in his chest, and been technically deceased for at least forty five, fifty seconds, he was entitled to some manly crying. Even an emotionally challenged Dean Winchester couldn't argue with that, though Sam would never be so cruel (or suicidal) as to mention it aloud.

"I don't know." His voice was thick with something Sam could only compare to mourning, though he knew it wasn't quite the right fit. He didn't know what the story was with the angel, only that he had sent Dean back. But he recognized the emotion in his brother's words enough to know they must have been close.

It was weird to think of his big brother, staunch hunter and defender of humanity, caring for something so severely inhuman.

Dean was still valiantly trying not to think about it, and Sam's question was not helping. While he really didn't know what the hell that blast had been, he was seriously beginning to think it was Cas. The angel must have made the trip back with him, after all. What the hell his best friend was doing sitting in his chest, ignoring him for most of six months, was a whole other mystery for another time. If they ever got the time. Because what Dean didn't want to admit out loud – what he suspected was behind the harsh ache in his chest and the tightness of his throat and his burning eyes – was that if it had been Cas, setup with a nice Dean Winchester Sternum Condo, the angel was sure as hell gone now.

He couldn't muster the strength (or the courage) to look at the floor or the walls. But he'd seen that white explosion plenty of times before, most often followed by wing prints seared into whatever surface was nearby.

"Sammy." His voice was croaky and broke mid word. He cleared his throat and coughed, wincing as his broken ribs were jostled and his prickly, stinging flesh disturbed. "Are there…Are there, uh…"

Oh, man up, Winchester!

"Are there wing prints?"

Above him, Sammy frowned at the question. "Wing prints?"

Dean tried not to let the fact that Sam had no idea what he was talking about spark any significant amount of hope in him. "On the fl-floor. Or wall."

Sam's puppy-brown eyes tracked away from Dean's body and up the wall they were camped out next to, searching for something he clearly wasn't seeing. There was nothing there but old graffiti, hints of mold, and the evidence of Azazel's torture. Sam looked away.

The floor was equally bare of whatever Dean was fearful of seeing. The young hunter scanned the rest of the room, but his eyes stopped on a spread of crimson not far from them. Sam's brilliant brain completely faltered, ending all attempts to parse what wing prints would be doing on the floor. Instead, he sat by his brother's side, mind blank, staring at the spilled demon blood two and a half feet away.

The jar was in shatters among the thick liquid; it must have been knocked off the dresser in the explosion. Iron filled his nostrils suddenly, and then it was all he could smell. The metallic cloy of the blood was everywhere. Breathing became hard. Air hitched in his lungs as he tried to take in more of the precious oxygen, but none seemed available. He couldn't tear his gaze away from that puddle of red as it grew ever closer. Expanding. Creeping.

Sam didn't know what was happening to him. He couldn't look away. The vibrating hum beneath the surface was burning. His fingers twitched on his thighs. His mouth salivated and his heart beat like a freight train.

He wanted that blood.

"Sam?"

The young hunter startled, snapping his head back at his brother's low, panicked keen. He looked on the verge of an anxiety attack of his own for very, very different reasons.

"They're there, aren't they?" he whispered hoarsely. He pulled his gaze away from Sam, staring up at the ceiling as he tried and failed to keep a blank face. "God, he's dead. Again."

What?

Sam realized he had never answered his brother. However angels died, they must leave behind some sort of wing print. The kind of charcoal impression left by a massive explosion, he thought, as images of nuclear shadows came to mind. Oh, God.

"N-no," he stuttered, realizing his silence had done no favors to his brother, who was now sure that bomb had been his friend…exploding? Sam could ask questions about angelic death later. "No wing prints, Dean."

He staunchly kept his eyes on his older brother and didn't dare look back at that puddle.

Dean stared up at him, disbelieving and suspicious of his brother lying for only a moment before his face cleared and he sagged against the floor. Cas wasn't dead. The unhelpful voice that was his inner self quickly supplied the fact they weren't entirely sure Cas was ever alive or there to begin with. He told that voice to shut it, though, because no wing prints meant the angel wasn't dead, and that was a good enough place to start for him. Whether Cas was capable of being dead or dying in the first place was an existential question beyond Dean's emotional and mental capacity to handle for the time being.

The door to the cabin swung inward with a bang, and Sam instinctively moved himself between the danger and his brother, as best as he could while staying on the floor. Azazel strolled in, a new flannel covering his crispy arm. The shirt made him look almost human again, but the arm beneath the fabric remained ugly. Yellow Eyes paid it no mind, though, as he marched towards the two. Sam curled his fingers against his Dean's shoulder and chest, jaw set and chin up. He would not let the demon touch his brother again.

"Time for the main event, boys!" he announced. He didn't bother using his powers, moving straight up to Sam and grabbing him by the back of his shirt. The large human fought with everything he was worth – punches and kicks flying. Sam's fists took more damage than Azazel's meatsuit and the demon dragged the hunter back to the pillar in the center of the room.

He was straightened against it and a single push to his abdomen assured he stayed there. Azazel, confident his power would keep the boy pressed to the wood once more, strolled back over to Dean.

"Don't touch him! He's had enough!" Sam kicked out against the power that only seemed to be holding his torso in place this time. Azazel stopped by Dean's side, staring down at the hunter who glared right back at him. He didn't bother moving or trying to sit up – that strength was honestly beyond him now. Instead, he focused his energy into steady, even breathing and curled his hand protectively against his wrecked chest.

If Cas was in there, the demon was not touching him again.

But Azazel only bent down and hauled the hunter up, directing his words and attention more to Sam than the guy he was currently manhandling. "Oh, he's fine. Aren't ya, sport?"

The demon tapped him on the shoulder, half to push him against the wall – not that it took much to topple the hunter backwards against the supportive surface – and half in a sick mockery of comradery.

"Whoa!" Dean yelped when his one good eye focused on the hand currently giving his left shoulder a love tap. The hunter struggled away from the blackened skin and clinging flesh. "Uh-uh. No, no way. Keep those Kentucky Fried Fingers the hell away from me!"

Azazel's regarded Dean with an unimpressed look, the pat turning into a painfully tight grip just above his collarbone. The hunter still made a disgusted face at the crispy arm that settled him against the wall with the kind of firm push that said, 'stay.' The demon stepped back, releasing him almost cautiously, eyebrows raised in a way that clearly expected the hunter to collapse without the support. Dean did slide down the wall a bit, but managed to wedge himself into a position where the surface bore enough of his weight to keep him upright.

"Well…mostly fine." Azazel grinned at him.

Dean doubled the power of his glare.

"I admit," Yellow Eyes turned away from him and bent over, scooping up John's jacket from the floor and giving it a quick dust off, "I wasn't expecting that little lightshow."

The keys to the Impala slipped free from the split pocket and rang out as they hit floor. The demon scooped them up as well and tucked them into the pocket of his jeans. Dean growled from his position on the wall, but the Azazel ignored him. His attention returned to John Winchester's jacket.

The article of clothing was beyond repair, ripped in multiple places and down both sleeves in the demon's efforts to remove it from the hunter earlier that night. It was really more hanging rags than clothing now. Azazel glanced at the hunter, then his ruined chest, then the jacket, and seemed to make up his mind with a nod and a snap of his fingers.

Sam watched with wide eyes as the clothing was torn and bloodied one second, then whole the next. Azazel snapped a second time and the leather was suddenly snuggly fit around his brother's torso, good as new.

"I might have blown the fireworks a bit early. Didn't mean to bang you up quite that much, bucko." The demon stepped back into Dean's personal space and the hunter drew back as much as was possible with the wall already barely keeping him standing. Azazel pulled the jacket closed a bit more, particularly around his damaged chest.

"There. You can hardly even tell." He patted Dean's shoulder with a grin and stepped away. The demon turned towards Sam. He raised a finger to his lips with a conspiratorial wink. "It'll be our little secret, right, Sammy?"

"You son of a bitch!" Sam surged against the power holding him back, kicking out his legs because he could, though little good it did him. The young hunter opened his mouth to spit out something really unpleasant, but the rumble of a truck coming up a dirt drive killed the words still on his tongue. The kid turned his head, view of the front of the cabin blocked once more by the pillar, but the wall Dean was leaning against lit up as headlights pierced through the broken windows and moved along the surface.

Dad.

Sam locked eyes with his brother, meeting Dean's mixed gaze with his own.

"Show time!" Azazel clapped his hands together as the engine cut off outside, the light vanishing as a car door opened. There was tense silence in the room, the demon quiet in anticipation, and the boys in trepidation. Heavy footsteps preceded the cabin door banging open. Sam whipped his head around, again trying to see the rest of the room behind him to no avail.

John Winchester stood in the doorway, hand wrapped around the grip of an antique gun in one hand. Trained eyes assessed the single room before he strode into the space.

Sam met his gaze the moment he appeared beside the pillar, head turned to take in his son. "Dad."

John looked well-rested, Sam was relieved to see. He'd left before they'd been able to confirm the Baku dead, and some part of the youngest Winchester had chased after him not only to catch up, to maybe yell at him for being a stubborn ass, to give him a piece of his mind and aid in the hunt, but also to make sure he really was safe. Blood always did run thicker than water for Winchesters; a fact he'd tried so hard to escape.

His father gave a solemn nod in response. The young man took heart in that steadfast gaze. It had gotten him and Dean through many ugly spots, and he trusted it to get them through this one, too.

John turned back to the other two occupants of the cabin. The yellow eyed bastard stood beside his eldest, who was slouched against the wall looking for all the world like it was the only thing holding him up. The old hunter grit his teeth at the sight of his boy.

The way Dean favored his right leg spoke volumes as to the condition of his left. His jeans were torn to shit, stained dark with what John could only assume was his kid's blood. His own boiled in his veins at the rest of the boy. His old leather jacket was oddly clean; it still showed wear and tear from the years, but was unnaturally spotless on a bloody and torn body.

"Dad," Dean croaked, the twitch of a smile a reassuring sign for the struggling father buried within the steadfast hunter. His son's face was more swollen than not, though his one good eye was focused on his dad, pupil dilated but clear.

"Son," he whispered back, clearing his throat when the declaration was far softer than he'd intended.

"Is that my gun, John?"

The hunter's focus shifted to the demon, expression hardening to stone. John glanced down at the 1836 Colt Paterson he held in his hand, lifting his arm to chest-height to examine the antique weapon. With a deep, fortifying breath, he unwrapped his hand from the grip and held the gun out in his open palm, presenting it to the yellow eyed bastard.

Azazel strolled forward. Beside them, Sam tensed, every warning imaginable on the tip of his tongue but he couldn't bring himself to speak any of them. It was that gun or his brother's life, and the choice was not a hard one for him. The demon plucked the weapon from John's hand and the hunter lowered his outstretched arm with the stiffness of someone barely holding back a punch.

Yellow Eyes curled his charred fingers around the grip of the antique gun, running his other hand down the barrel in admiration. He reached his thumb up to the hammer, lowering it back slowly and listening to the settling of the chamber and the click of a bullet lining into place. Azazel gave a hearty sigh. "What a pain in the ass this thing has been."

He turned his shoulder into the room, raised the gun, and leveled it straight at Dean.

"No!" Sam screamed as the report of the weapon cracked through the cabin like thunder. Dean jerked back in shock as the bullet caught him in his right shoulder, just beneath the collar bone. Blood splattered the wall behind him as the bullet pierced straight through, embedding into the wood. He slid down another inch, good leg scrabbling for purchase. The hunter's eyes were wide with surprise, his chest heaving despite the bursts of pain each breath caused, and his workable arm reaching shakily up for the new injury.

But he kept to his feet, and he didn't die.

Brown eyes spun back to the weapon, still smoking in the demons outstretched arm. It wasn't the Colt. Sam could see the differences now that he was looking for them. His dad had brought a fake – he must have picked up an antique Texas Paterson on his way to the cabin.

Azazel lowered the useless gun to his side, sending John a baleful glower over his shoulder. "You're lucky that wasn't the real deal, John. Now where's my gun?"

The hunter grit his teeth, fisted hands shaking at his side as he struggled to keep his composure. Luckily, the anger coursing through him was as good a cover as any for the tremors of fear and adrenaline running parallel within him. His eldest son slid further down the wall, energy and consciousness clearly flagging.

"You son of a bitch-"

"I'll shoot him again."

"It's nearby." He kept his tone even and impressively calm. If there was one thing John Winchester was good at, it was refusing to fall prey to emotions. "Let my boys go and I'll take you to it myself."

Azazel lifted the false Colt, this time aiming for Dean's head. The kid, mess as he was, met the barrel straight on, chest heaving, hand clasped to his bleeding shoulder, body barely holding itself up. Yellow Eyes just smirked down the sight of the weapon.

"You can go get it, Johnny-Boy, or Sam here becomes an only child."

The youngest Winchester snarled, kicking out forcefully against the weight still holding him back. John clenched and unclenched his fists in indecision, eyes flickering between the demon and his ailing son.

"It'll take two people," he finally said through gritted teeth. "I'm not stupid enough to come in here without insurance. So we can go get it together, or-"

Sam tumbled off the pillar as his invisible restraints abruptly vanished. He righted himself quickly, but moved no further. Uncertainty warred across his face as he glanced between the members of his family, both who needed him.

"You have twenty minutes." Azazel finally withdrew the gun, twirling it around his finger. "Dean and I will be making the most of every one of them, so I suggest you hurry."

Dean growled by the wall, but the look he sent his family clearly said to get out while they could. He'd be fine. Sam started towards him on that stare alone. He wasn't leaving his brother with that demon for another second. Dean wouldn't survive it – he was barely surviving it now!

"Sam!"

His father's sharp command made the boy flinch, but stopped him mid step. He turned to confront the older man, anger and defiance immediately flashing to the surface. Both died at the stern look on John's face. Sam knew that look. Sure, it looked just like the expression their dad always wore when reprimanding his boys. But the young hunter had spent years reading the subtleties of his father and brother, particularly in strenuous, critical situations. He knew that look.

So he stalked towards his dad with the right amount of moody anger and hesitant glances over his shoulder at Dean. As soon as he was within arm's reach, John wrapped a firm hand to the back of his neck. It was possessive as it was comforting, as sure a paradox as the concerned but demanding look he gave his youngest.

"It'll be alright, son." John pulled Sam into a one armed hug. His eyes darkened as he locked gazes with the demon over his boy's shoulder.

The possessive gesture was an unmistakable challenge for Yellow Eyes. It was also enough to make him leer at the hunter and completely miss the way Sam reached around his father's waist, fingers finding purchase along the hilt of the Colt tucked in the waistline of John's jeans. He withdrew the weapon from his father's back, swinging his shoulder around. In one fluid motion, he brought his arm up, cocked and leveled the gun on the yellow eyed demon, and squeezed the trigger.

The bullet tore from the barrel, its aim true. It ripped through the demon's chest, only milliseconds after Azazel disappeared. A startled breath left the hunter's lungs like a punch. The bullet shot through the cabin unhindered and slammed into the wall inches from his brother's head.

Dean jerked to the side, instinct and surprise taking over his failing body. He wasn't able to recover from the sudden, violent movement, and he fell more than slid the rest of the way to the floor.

John was already moving. From his coat pocket he pulled out a thick leather sack, fingers hastily working the strings loose as he reached Dean's side. Dropping to one knee beside the unconscious boy, the hunter spun in a half circle around them. The old joint twinged from too many rough years spent on the job, but he ignored the soreness. Within the frame of thirty seconds, he had a thick salt line poured from wall to wall in a half ring around himself and his boy.

Sam had moved with his father and now stood a scant foot away with his back to his family. He scanned the room with focus and anxious fury. The hammer of the Colt was drawn back once more, weapon raised and ready to fire as soon as he saw the yellow eyed bastard.

"Sam!"

The young Winchester glanced behind him at his father's bark, spotting the completely salt line. He took a hasty foot back, careful to step over the grains without disturbing the line. The boy immediately went back to scouring the room as John set the leather pouch aside and scooted up to his oldest. Dean didn't make a sound as their dad bunched up his own jacket and pressed it to the sluggishly bleeding shoulder wound. Sam could tell from his brother's breathing that he had finally lost the fight against unconsciousness.

"That line won't last forever."

Sam spun at the whisper, slimy and coming from their right. The demon was already gone, but the granules of salt shifted in the breeze of his disappearance. John managed to firm up the line and hold the makeshift bandage to his son.

"Neither will your brother."

This time Sam fired before he had line of sight on the demon. His aim was still good, drilled in by years of training to act faster than his vision allowed. But the demon blinked out once more and the bullet bit into the front wall of the cabin.

"Sam." Once more, his father's voice forced him to pull his gaze from the room and back to his family. The tone was far too familiar and set Sam's teeth on edge. The demon would be back at any moment, and this was no time for a damn lecture. John stared at him, then the gun with something fierce and warning in his gaze. Terrible realization filled the boy, turning his lungs and gut to cement. He turned his back to the room to shield the weapon from sight as he slid open the chamber.

Only two bullets left.

Damn it. The way his dad was looking at him meant they didn't have spare ammo, either. Sam had already wasted two in his anger and desperation, the bullet count the last thing on his mind in the face of his family's annihilation. He twisted the cylinder shut. The demon could vanish faster than his eye could even register. Sam knew his worth as a sharp shooter, and it wasn't that good.

"I can save Dean, you know."

Sam stiffened at the voice coming just over his shoulder. John stilled his ministrations on his oldest boy, turning sharp eyes to the Yellow Eyed Demon standing just outside the line of salt. Pale irises regarded the man whose son's life hung in the balance.

"Maybe in exchange for that gun." That sickening gaze slid from John to Sam like slime. "And a little something more."

John lashed his hand out faster than Sam could turn around with the Colt. Water arced through the air, splashing across the demon's chest. The liquid soaked into the flannel and both hunters waited for the sizzle and steam of the unholy. Azazel glanced up from his chest, a single brow raised in amusement.

"You think something like that works on something like me?"

Sam made to turn, raising the gun and the demon disappeared once more.

"Son, give me the Colt." The order was non-negotiable and John held his hand out expectantly. His youngest looked down at the weapon, eyes cloudy with thought and emotion that they didn't have time for now. John waved his open palm expectantly. "This is me. I won't miss."

Sam still stared at the gun. He knew his father's worth as a sharp shooter too, and it was better than his own. The boy's fingers tightened around the handle, considering his options. John was still holding his hand out, other arm cradling Dean. Dean needed a hospital, and he needed it yesterday. Sam's eyes roved over his brother, blood dripping from so many wounds.

The youngest Winchester closed his eyes briefly, making peace with the same decision he'd once before faced. Sam turned around, raising the Colt to his head. A sound he had never heard his father make before escaped the man's throat. He was watching his boy raise a gun that could kill anything – that would destroy his soul, if John Winchester believed in such a thing – to his own skull. Sam couldn't spare him any of his focus, eyes locked on the center of the room as he waited.

Azazel did not make him wait long. The demon reappeared right in his sightline, several feet away with a sour look. "Using the same bluff twice, Sam? I thought we were past this."

Sam flexed his fingers around the cold grip of the gun, but otherwise didn't move. He ignored the way his lungs begged for air like he wasn't breathing and his heart beat away at his rib cage like it was the lead drummer at a Metallica concert. "It's not a bluff."

"Sammy…" John's voice was quiet, probably the softest Sam had ever heard it. He couldn't look his dad's way, couldn't see the disappointment or concern. This wasn't a bluff, but it would turn into one if he couldn't keep his resolve rock steady.

Azazel took a step forward, head tilting to the side in an inhuman, calculative way that set Sam's nerves on edge. He struggled not to counter the move with a step back.

"What's it gonna get you, tiger?" Yellow Eyes flicked his gaze to the two men on the ground behind him. "I'm going to tear through them as soon as you're dead."

"No. You won't. You're going to let us walk out of here. Then my dad and I are going to drive my brother to the nearest hospital, and you're not going to follow us."

The demon snorted. "And they're not the droids I'm looking for, I take it."

There was a silly, irrational part of Sam, likely born of hysteria and stress, that wished Dean was awake because he was so much better at mindless banter and he would have enjoyed that line. But Dean wasn't awake, this wasn't a clever line in a movie, and Sam couldn't afford to falter.

"I'm not just your favorite, am I?" Because some of this was a bluff, and he would never pull it off if he didn't sound like he believed it. "I'm it. I'm the one. You already know none of those other kids have what it takes. They won't get the job done."

The change in the demon's demeanor was subtle, but his face twitched as a war between distaste and severe satisfaction started its way to the surface of his skin.

"Are you going to risk losing that? Waste twenty-three years of waiting – grooming – just to kill two hunters?"

Yellow eyes swirled back to their natural steel blue, and slid slowly over to the two men behind Sam. The unpleasant expression on his face broke as he gave a casual little shrug. "They are really annoying hunters."

Sam cocked the hammer of the colt with his thumb, and Azazel finally relented with an eye roll. His body language turned on a dime, tension fading in an instant. He let out a boisterous laugh and clapped his hands together. There was a swagger to him that hadn't seemed possible a tense ten seconds ago.

"You. You!" He waggled his finger at the hunter. "Still shooting straight down the center, slugger!"

Sam clenched his teeth as the demon all but danced before them.

"Oh, breaking you is going to be a pain in the ass, I can tell." Azazel's eyes slipped closed, his head tilting back with a deep and prideful breath. A smile played at his lips that made Sam's stomach clench. When he opened his eyes once more, there was a predatory gleam to their blue depths that hadn't been there before. "But it's gonna be a thing of beauty when I do."

The demon enjoyed himself a moment longer before simmering down. He regarded Sammy calmly. The young hunter still held the gun tightly to his head, almost nervously now. Azazel's smile smoothed out and he glanced past the staunch boy to the brother on the floor, shielded protectively – uselessly – by his father. The kid was getting a bit low on blood, the demon noted, and that chunk of grace in his chest didn't seem to be doing him any favors in the healing department.

Perfect.

Azazel locked eyes with his favorite kiddo once more and dug into the pocket of his jeans. Sam's hand flexed around the gun, but there was no need. The demon pulled out Dean's car keys and tossed the bundle at the hunter, who caught them one handed.

"Better drive fast, Sammy."

Then he was gone.

-o-o-o-

Sam dropped his arm and the Colt with it as soon as the demon disappeared. He had no guarantee that Azazel was truly gone; the demon could just be letting them think they were free. Either way, it didn't really matter. If they didn't get Dean medical help immediately, he was going to die. So they had to risk it; they had to try.

The young hunter turned his back on the room, tucking the Colt into his jeans and crouching beside his brother and father. This time, he couldn't afford to heed the shaking in his hands or the way his head spun with a rush of vertigo and nausea following his most recent, purposeful brush with death. Holding that damn gun to his head was worse than any close call he'd had on a hunt. It was so much worse because he had to accept, each time, that he was ready and willing to die, to pull that trigger and cease existing.

It terrified him just how easy it was, both times. It wasn't just Azazel hoping to never see that move again.

John was staring at him with an expression Sam didn't have the energy to decipher. He settled on his knees beside his brother, blurry vision feeding him the same conclusion Yellow Eyes had taunted him with. Dean was seriously running out of time.

"You should have given me the gun." That look his father was giving him didn't waiver. Sam filed it away as disappointment. It was the most likely conclusion anyway and the easiest for the beleaguered son to push from his mind. "We could have ended this!"

Sam was too tired to fight, he decided, curling his fingers into loose fists to hide the tremors from his father and from himself. "Dean doesn't have time for your revenge, Dad."

He studied his brother's injured body, trying to decide the best way to lift the broken hunter without injuring him further. There was no way of telling if Dean had suffered internal damage from that bomb blast, and he was loathe to move those broken ribs. They needed to get him to a hospital somehow, though.

Well, if CPR didn't puncture a lung, what more can moving him do?

Sam scooped his arms under his brother's shoulders, intending to push Dean into an upright position enough to gather his legs beneath him and lift the man into a bridal carry. If awake, his brother would protest fiercely. Sam could already hear the flustered, furious outcry that Dean wasn't anybody's bride, fuck you very much. But he wasn't awake, and Sam couldn't risk a fireman's carry with his brother's ribcage as it was.

John grabbed him harshly by the arm before he could transition Dean upright. The youngest Winchester managed not to jerk away, though the first degree burns on the inside of his arm protested angrily under the harsh treatment.

"Those bullets were made special for that gun, Sam. Once they're gone, it's useless! You have to make every one of them count."

Sam just stared at his father, eyes going dead to the reproach in his voice and the anger in every line of his body. "That's what you're worried about right now? Your son is dying and you want to lecture me about wasting ammo?"

"Damn it, boy, killing that thing comes first – before you, me, your brother. Before everything!"

A groan interrupted the argument. Dean was starting to come back around, good eye cracking open. The green iris was glazed with pain and confusion, and Sam doubted Dean knew where he was. But he knew that angry voice, even if his clouded brain couldn't process the words.

"Dad…" His voice was wrecked, and Sam slid his eyes closed in regret. Getting him to the car would have been far easier on Dean if he'd stayed unconscious for it.

Sam pulled away from his father's grip. He reached behind him for the Colt and pulled it free from his waist. The youngest Winchester all but shoved the gun at John's chest, the force of it causing his father to stumble back on his heels. John released his arm in order to catch the weapon before it tumbled into his lap.

"No, sir. Not everything." He said it straight to his father's face, daring him to choose the demon over his oldest son. There was still hesitation there, side by side with pain and what Sam knew was fear even if John Winchester would never own up to it. The young hunter gave him a pointed look, then scooped his hands beneath Dean's armpits and, with a silent apology, hauled his brother up.

Dean let out a breathless groan and what was probably meant to be an "oh hell." He spat a mouthful of blood to the side, words too garbled and wet to understand. He may not be very aware of what was going on outside his world of pain and spinning, but he knew his brother's presence by his side. That was the same as safe in his book, so he allowed Sam to start shuffling them forward and helped the best he could with uncooperative feet.

With his brother's least injured arm slung over his shoulder, Sam helped him hobble on one leg to the door of their prison. Dean was making a valiant effort, biting down on the pain that every step surely caused. Sam opted to honor his effort and not carry him until he faltered. The upright struggle was probably better for his busted ribs anyhow, even if it was hell on his broken limbs.

The youngest Winchester didn't wait to see if his father followed. He moved his brother through the front door, still open from John's entrance. Relief flooded him on an irrational level at the sight of the dirt drive, sans stairs, and the Impala parked only a half dozen feet away. Sam had already been mentally preparing himself for up to a half-flight of stairs with his one-legged, flagging brother. What cabin didn't come with a rickety wooden staircase on its front porch? Just seeing the car – their home – so close, with no further obstacles between them, felt like a win.

It was the little things in life, really.

He heard John's heavy boots walking the inside of the cabin – what sounded like a perimeter sweep – as he hauled Dean towards the car. Sam was just trying to figure out how he was going to get the door open and his brother inside when their dad appeared at his elbow. John reached around his sons to pull open the back door of the Impala, and Sam slipped Dean inside as gingerly as possible.

His dad moved around to help pull Dean through the backseat so he could lay along the length of it. The boy mumbled something almost unintelligible that sounded a hell of a lot like 'Bastard did drive my car.'Sam couldn't believe it, staring at his brother with the ridiculous urge to laugh right there. Their dad, almost gently, told Dean to shelve it and stop talking. He closed the driver's side passenger door and Dean settled his head against the interior of it as soon as it clicked shut.

John moved for the driver's seat automatically, but Sam was already pulling open the door and sliding in behind the steering wheel. The older hunter faltered for only a moment of genuine uncertainty before going around the back of the vehicle to the passenger side. The Impala wasn't his car anymore, and his sons weren't children. Sam started the old vehicle up with a deep, welcoming rumble.

Glancing at his truck parked to their side, John hesitated climbing into muscle car, instead considering following the boys to the hospital instead. One look at his barely conscious son in the back seat banished the notion from his mind. He climbed into the Impala and Sam reversed down the dirt road as fast as he could without jostling their cargo too much.

-o-o-o-

Dean easily lost time surrounded by the comforting, familiar rumble of his Baby beneath his hurting body. The first stretch of road had been torture, both in the slow progress they made and the tossing of the low-riding muscle car on a forest road. But they'd hit a paved path soon enough, the ride smoothing out and speeding up, and Dean found himself mentally unfurling as his Baby bore them towards blessed morphine.

The thought of a hospital was one of relief, rare as it was in their line of work, and he found the idea disconcerting. At first, Dean blamed the uncomfortable weight in his chest on that. No hunter ever volunteered to go to the hospital. If you needed medical attention that badly, your odds of making it to the next hunt were slim. But the weight became a niggle in the back of his brain that wouldn't leave him be, so Dean next chalked it up to the numerous injuries, the explosion of light from his sternum that he was still refusing to think about, and multiple concussions. Yet, still it persisted. Dean frowned in the backseat as the nagging started to poke holes in the peaceful lull cocooning his brain. He just wanted to fall asleep in the back of his Baby with his family safe and sound with him. Was that so much to ask, damn it?

His train of thought stumbled and the worry became full-fledged panic. This whole thing was awfully familiar, wasn't it? And not in a good way. His dad in the passenger seat, speaking terse, quiet words. Sammy sitting rigid in the front, steering them to safety as fast as his Baby would go. The gentle give of the backseat beneath his bleeding, broken body. Dean knew, though it took his addled brain too long to peace it together, that they'd been here before.

The semi slammed into the Impala, t-boning it straight off the country road, before Dean could form the words to warn his family.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

END of SEASON 1

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

A/Ns: I swear that's the last cliffhanger for a while. You guys have been champs through all of them; the amount of all-caps screaming in my general direction has been spectacular.

CPR - Current CPR guidelines list the compression to breath ration at 30:2 for a single resuscitator, but prior to mid-2005 the standard was 15:2. My guess is that in May of 2006, Sam would still be performing CPR the old way, especially as that's how John would have taught him.

Up Next: Season 2 – This story is going to go on a *small* break, just a month and a half, while I stockpile chapters for next season. However, never fear, during that month break I will be posting two interlude stories featuring the movements of Heaven and Hell, so it won't be radio silence. Our favorite angel features prominently in the first, so all you Cas fans should finally be happy XP

Reviews: Please, please, please review! Comments spur the muse forward, excitement for the story even more so. The more excited the muse, the more chapters I get written, the more weekly updates you get during Season 2. All caps is absolutely accepted. Unintelligible yelling, totally welcome. Death threats for what comes next, the more the merrier.

Thank you all again for sticking with me this far!