It took little more than a minute for Dean to release a breath he hadn't intended to hold as his eyes locked onto a familiar figure. The man had wandered considerably from the asphalt, but luckily the surrounding foliage was sparse, offering little shelter from the view of passing cars. Dean immediately pulled off the road, shifting into park.

Sam, though a hundred yards away, glanced over his shoulder, slowing his stride immediately, his legs dragging a few more steps as though it took a moment for the command to halt to reach them. Sam stared at the car for a moment, before he pinched the bridge of his nose and dropped his head, waiting.

For several seconds, Dean didn't move, watching his brother. Logically, he knew there was no way Sam could have found and drained a demon so quickly, but he couldn't help the veil of uncertainty that shrouded his mind—the question at what Sam was doing out here, the unease at whether he would lie. Dean hated the lies. He hated the sneaking out. He'd thought they were long past that. It made his blood jitter at the thought that Sam might be slinking back to old tendencies. Even if it wasn't entirely his fault.

When he finally coerced his body to motion, he withdrew his cellphone, tried to ignore the name of his last contact, and scrolled quickly to Castiel's. Found him,Dean punched out with his thumb before tossing his phone onto the passenger's seat. With another glance upward—as though to verify Sam hadn't vanished—Dean inhaled slowly and stepped out of the car.

The cold wind immediately bit at his skin, but he barely noticed, his gaze fixed forward as he advanced slowly.

The rasp in Sam's heaving, though gradually steadying, breaths was audible from yards away. His skin was pale and beaded with sweat, though his body trembled visibly. His hair fell in disheveled locks, obscuring parts of his face. His eyes, dark and nervous, struggled to hold Dean in their focus. He looked like he might collapse or vomit at any moment. Had he been running? …Why?

"You look awful, man." Dean remarked, staring at his brother, his voice not entirely devoid of concern.

Sam snorted, still struggling to glance up. "Thanks, Dean."

His struggle to maintain eye contact, his shifting posture, his fidgety hands—Dean didn't have to know the kid since birth to catch the signs. He was nervous. Was he hiding something?

He glanced sideways over his brother, "You had us worried. Went to check on you, and you weren't there."

Sam's brow tweaked, "I left a note."

"Yeah," Dean dug a hand into his pocket, withdrawing the crumpled scrap of paper, "Cas found that. Didn't exactly spoil us for details."

Sam scoffed, muttering half-heartedly, "Thought it was better than 'let me go.'"

Dean flinched at the mention of the note he'd left Sam upon waking up a demon. Sam's gaze fell further, and he corrected, "Sorry."

Dean shook his head, waving a hand in dismissal. It was fair, especially given what he'd put Sam through.

Dean shoved the paper back into his pocket, surveying their sparse surroundings, "What are you doing out here, Sam?" Though he'd tried to dress it in an air of indifference, the question felt like an accusation on his tongue—he hated the aftertaste of guilt.

Sam didn't raise his gaze, nudging something on the ground with his toe, "I just needed air." At Dean's squint, he exhaled a sigh, his voice low, "I wasn't trying to get more blood, Dean."

"I know," Dean replied nonchalantly, though the lie tasted sour. He watched Sam carefully. He knew the kid better than anything else in the world. Right now, Sam didn't look like he was lying, but how much did that mean?

Unfortunately, the street went two ways. Sam shook his head, maybe in frustration if not disbelief, pacing in a slow circle as he ran his fingers through his hair. Dean frowned as he scanned his brother, his gaze catching.

"What's the knife for?" Sam hadn't been carrying it the last time Dean had seen him. While he was a demon, Dean had carefully monitored every weapon within reach, including those on Sam, and this wasn't the demon-killing blade.

Sam paused, hand grasping the exposed hilt from his back pocket and withdrawing it. He shrugged, though his brow was furrowed.

Sam might not be lying, yet Dean couldn't help but wonder if Sam was fully aware of what he was doing. Regardless of whether it was for a demon's throat or for… something else, it was better out of Sam's reach. Dean closed the distance between them and extended his hand.

Sam worked his jaw, but he placed the hilt in Dean's open palm. He looked like he was chewing on his words, maybe contemplating an objection to Dean's lack of trust, but he swallowed them down. Maybe he reached the same conclusion as Dean.

Tucking the knife into the back of his pants, Dean's gaze slid back over his brother, who shifted uneasily every few seconds. Quieter, his tone inflected with concern, he asked, "Are you okay?"

Sam didn't look up, "Yeah, I uh…" he trailed off, perhaps realizing that his voice and body betrayed his words, or that Dean assuredly already knew the truth.

"Sam," Dean started slowly, softly, and his brother finally glanced up as though he could sense what would follow. "I… I know you're not gonna want to hear this, but… you know what we've gotta do."

Sam nodded as though he'd expected it, his expression twisting.

"I know it wasn't your fault, and I know how bad the detox is—" Sam scoffed lightly at that, though Dean continued, "—But we've gotta get you clean."

Sam bit his lip, nodding again, "I know."

"Cas and I will be right there," Dean assured, trying to catch his brother's gaze, "We'll get you through this." Admittedly, Dean wasn't looking forward to this detox either. It was hell, hearing Sam's agonizing screams, hearing him beg for just one more hit, watching him seize uncontrollably, seeing what the blood reduced him to. Being powerless to do anything at all to help his baby brother. Dean couldn't bear to watch, not for more than a few scarce minutes at a time. But he'd condemned Sam to this wretched fate, and it wouldn't be fair to leave Sam to suffer it alone—not again. So he would stay by his brother's side for as long as he could.

Sam kept staring at the grass, his head now shaking faintly. His eyes flicked up toward the road, and Dean followed his gaze back as Castiel's Lincoln rolled to a stop behind the Impala. The angel stepped out of the car, squinting toward them as though determining whether to approach or give the brothers space. Dean wasn't sure which was preferable at this point, so he didn't aid the decision with a signal, instead turning back toward Sam.

Dean glanced over him, breathing a careful exhale, "You ready to come back?" They'd find a safe place for him to detox—not the dungeon, not where they chained up monsters. He didn't deserve that. Given the way Sam had avoided the panic room like the plague afterward, not Sam's bedroom, either. It'd be safe, familiar, but he wasn't sure his brother would ever sleep in there again. Maybe the infirmary, then. That's where sick people went to get better, right? They could clear it out, lock Sam down on a cot when they needed to.

Sam didn't move. Finally, he whispered, "No."

"Sammy," Dean employed the name in both pleading and warning. He didn't want to have to resort to force. Maybe it was a good thing Cas had arrived when he did, though. He cast another glance backward, his expression apparently summons enough for the angel, who began approaching guardedly.

"Dean," Sam met his gaze for a moment, rubbing his arms, "I can't."

"I know it's bad, but we'll—"

"No, you don't," Sam's voice strengthened, his gaze steadier, "You don't know."

Dean's hands bunched into fists. It was true, he only knew what he could bear to hear, to see. When it got to be too much… he couldn't take it. Both times they'd done this before, he'd needed air, a drink. A dozen drinks. But he knew Sam couldn't take a breather, couldn't step out when it got to be too much—he didn't get a choice on what he could or couldn't take.

"You're right," he acquiesced, "I don't know what it's like. But I do know we gotta get it out of your system."

Sam shook his head like Dean didn't understand, then took a breath, held his gaze, and spoke slowly, "Dean. If I detox like that again, I'll die."

It was Dean's turn to stare in silence. He didn't even notice when Castiel appeared beside him. Finally, he broke free of his startled confusion enough to manage, "What are you talking about?"

Sam's voice remained slow, careful, as he repeated, "If you lock me up, the detox will kill me."

Dean scowled. There was no might, there was no maybe—Sam was speaking as if it was a foregone fact. "That doesn't make any sense. I know it's bad, but you've done this before, Sam, you can do it again." Was this just an addict's attempted manipulation to avoid getting clean?

"I haven't," Sam's voice wavered, "I've never survived a detox, Dean."

Dean stared incredulously, echoing, "Man, what are you talking about?" He glanced to his right, at the angel at his side, but Castiel only frowned at Sam, his expression troubled. He looked back to his brother, "You're not making any sense." Of course Sam had survived. Was he losing his mind?

"The first time, I never finished the detox. I, uh…" He got more blood from Ruby before he got clean—Dean knew it already, silently cursing her name. "And when God pulled us out of that church and put us on that plane, he gave me some holy methadone or whatever—cleaned me right up. The second time, after Famine…"

"You were fine," Dean interrupted, his scowl carved in his face. Obviously Sam was fine—well, alive at least. Besides the fact that Sam was standing here, alive, Dean would've remembered finding Sam's dead body in the panic room. Sam hadn't died—he'd walked out of there on his own two feet, clean.

Sam shook his head, "The detox just kept getting worse," he glanced between Dean and Castiel, "And eventually… my heart stopped. I died… for an hour, maybe more, I dunno." Dean noticed Sam's thumb twisting into his left palm as he spoke, his whole body trembling, "And Lucifer appeared, like in my dreams, and… I didn't even know If it was real at first, but… it was him." He breathed shakily, his gaze distant, "He wanted me to say yes, of course, but he needed me alive anyway, so he… he resurrected me."

Dean searched Sam disbelievingly, "Lucifer resurrected you?"

Sam seemed to tear himself back from wherever his gaze had been lost, meeting Dean's scrutiny with a nod.

"Why is this the first I'm hearing of this?" He demanded, again glancing at Castiel. This time, the angel raised his shoulders helplessly, indicating he hadn't known either.

"I dunno," Sam shrugged, expression pained, "I wasn't gonna say yes, and I… wasn't dead anymore. Didn't seem to be a point, bringing it up, I guess."

Dean paced a few steps. Sam had supposedly died in that panic room, and no one else knew? He gritted his teeth. He'd stepped away for a few hours at a time. He hated that it was possible.

He wrung his head, "Are you sure it wasn't the demon blood playing tricks with your head? You were seeing things, before."

"It was him, Dean." Sam's voice was rigid with conviction, though shaky with the memory, "It was real."

Would he lie about something like this? Was he that scared of the withdrawals?

Dean turned to Castiel, "Is it even possible? Lucifer didn't even know where we were. How would he even know Sam was dead?"

"We know Lucifer was able to contact Sam from a great distance before, without knowing where he was," Castiel started slowly, monitoring Sam as he spoke, "Given their connection—" Sam flinched, squeezing his eyes closed. Castiel only paused a moment in silent apology before concluding, "It's very likely he would have sensed Sam's death."

Dread crept along Dean's veins, though he fought against it. Sam had been underground in a salt-coated iron can. Talking to Sam from afar was one thing. But raising him from the dead? "Even if he knew Sam was dead, how could he resurrect him from that far away in a supernatural-proof bunker?" Even for an archangel, that was a stretch, right? And they'd have known if he showed up. Castiel had stayed at the scrap yard for most of the detox—surely they'd have known. This was impossible. Sam couldn't have died.

"He did it before," Sam noted quietly, earning another glare of confusion and concern from Dean. He took a step back, staring at his brother. This was too much—he needed it to slow down so he could process the flurry of secrets Sam had apparently been keeping from him.

"The room wasn't warded against angels, much less archangels." Castiel pointed out, "Lucifer's power is immense, and his…" he seemed to consider his phrasing, dropping his voice, though not quite low enough to escape Sam's hearing, "Claim over Sam is strong. It wouldn't surprise me if Lucifer was able to resurrect him from that distance."

Dean watched Sam for a moment, watched him hang his head and immediately pace a few steps away at Castiel's words, turning his back so they couldn't see his face as he raked his fingers through his hair. Maybe it wasn't the best idea to bring up Lucifer right now, Dean realized too late, not while Sam was in this state.

Was it possible? He stared at his brother's back, still rigid in shock. Could Sam have really died in that room, where Dean had locked him inside, and been resurrected by the Devil? All without Dean knowing, for years?

"Look," Sam spoke finally over his shoulder, his voice still quiet, "Maybe it'll be different this time. I don't know how much got down… maybe a pint, at most?"

The image of Sam struggling to breathe as Dean forced blood down his throat, the grin on Dean's lips at the fear in Sam's face, at the backwards roll of his eyes as he realized it was too late… it flooded Dean's mind. Dean forced his gaze back on Sam, trying to ignore the memory, trying to swallow the bile in his throat.

"With Famine, I drained two demons dry," Sam continued, shrugging halfheartedly, "Maybe… maybe it won't be enough to kill me this time. But…" his voice was thin, eyes meeting Dean's, "Maybe it's just something you can't survive."

Dean shook his head, his muscles taut. "So, what are we supposed to do, then? Just let you loose with demon blood?" He wasn't sure he believed Sam yet, but he couldn't see an alternative regardless. He hated Sam's resignation, as though his imminent death was a surety.

"No, Dean," Sam sighed, "Trust me, I want to be clean just as much as you want me to." That, Dean believed—at least when Sam wasn't hopped up on the stuff.

"What, then?" Dean pressed. This wasn't exactly a problem they could just ignore. "I'm not just gonna let you die, Sam."

"I don't know…" Sam looked defeated even before his words took air, "If I can't go cold turkey, maybe we try tapering off."

Dean was silent for a long moment, allowing enough time for both Sam to glance up uneasily and Castiel to look over his shoulder in concern.

When Dean spoke, it was deathly slow, "You want us to… give you demon blood?"

Sam didn't look surprised, but he started wringing his head, then seemed to catch himself, as though he realized that was exactly his suggestion. "Not like that. Controlled, measured doses. Just enough to keep the withdrawals at bay until it's safe… safer to go clean."

Dean stared at his brother in scrutiny for several minutes, before he finally spoke, "I need a minute." He turned his back, taking a few steps toward the road and calling, "Cas."

He didn't look back to catch Sam's reaction, but he heard the angel's obliging footfalls crushing the springy grass as he followed behind.

When they had allotted enough distance so Sam couldn't overhear, Dean spoke quietly, "We've gotta get him clean, Cas."

The angel frowned, noting more as an observation than a question, "You don't believe him."

Dean didn't know what to believe. "He just asked us for more blood."

"You don't think he wants to get clean?"

"I know he does." Dean rebutted, "But he's a junkie, Cas. He'll do whatever he can to get more blood."

Castiel's brow furrowed. "So you would prefer we try… 'chilled fowl,' as you say."

Dean ignored the improper phrasing, grinding his jaw. "I don't know." He searched Castiel's face, "Will a detox kill him?"

Castiel's face contorted in desperation, "Dean, I don't know. To my knowledge, outside of your brother, no human has ever ingested more than a few drops of demon blood and survived. The only one who has ever needed or attempted a detoxification from the substance is Sam." The angel held Dean's gaze, "He likely knows more about it than anyone."

Dean ran a hand over his face. It wasn't the answer he wanted. It was true—Sam probably did know the most about it. But that didn't mean he was telling the truth.

Softly, Dean prompted, "Do you believe him?"

Castiel looked at Dean helplessly, as though pleading for the determination to not rest on his words. When Dean's gaze didn't release him, he countered, "Do you believe he would lie about Lucifer like that?" Dean went silent, dropping his gaze, and Castiel added, "You know your brother better than I do."

Dean crossed his arms, not disputing Castiel's assertion, but irritated with the angel's refusal to share the onus of the verdict.

"Dean," Castiel began again after several seconds, "There's something else you have to consider."

"What?" Dean turned, the word sharp.

"We haven't found a cure yet for the Mark of Cain."

Dean scoffed, unappreciative of the reminder, "One thing at a time, Cas."

"I mean that if we force Sam to detoxify, and he dies, you'll still have that Mark on your arm." Castiel explained guardedly, "And it will not be long before my borrowed grace expires. Within a few weeks, Dean, you would be alone. Knowing that if you die, the Mark will simply transform you into a demon again in a matter of hours."

Dean went utterly still, his blood running cold. It felt like he'd glanced over his shoulder to find a tsunami bearing overhead. If he forced a detox, and Sam wasn't lying… Dean sealed his eyes shut. He couldn't lose him. Sam couldn't die—not now. And Cas… they'd find something to patch him up. They had to. To be alone, so suddenly, so truly alone, cursed to immortality… it made his hands shake.

"Dean?" Castiel's voice was edged in concern, drawing Dean back like an anchor from the ocean floor.

"Okay," he breathed, then nodded, clearing his throat, "Okay."

Castiel frowned, prompting Dean to clarify, "We'll try it Sam's way."

The angel blinked, but Dean barely noticed, turning back toward his brother.

Sam was staring into the distance as he dug into his left palm absently—Dean doubted he even knew he was doing it—though he caught Dean's approach in the corner of his vision and snapped back, struggling to hold Dean's gaze.

"You realize this is going to make it last a whole lot longer." Dean warned abruptly, his voice firm, if not harsh. It being the cravings, the symptoms… the glances, the distrust.

Sam's brow tweaked, and he titled his head faintly as though in surprise, his eyes flicking to Castiel in a brief, silent question, before he nodded.

"Okay," Dean yielded, keeping his voice strict, "But Cas and I control the blood. There's no more running off alone. We hunker down until you're clean."

Sam nodded his assent, his voice quiet, "Probably for the best." Dean's gaze lingered on Sam, searching for any sign of hesitation, any flicker of reservation that might betray him. But all he found was surprise, exhaustion, maybe even relief—and fear.

"Dean?" He spoke after a long minute, his voice wavering, "If this goes sideways…"

Dean interrupted immediately, "It can't go sideways."

"I know," Sam met his gaze warily, "But if it does… I don't want to go down that road again."

Dean was silent—motionless.

"If I start…" He couldn't seem to finish, but Dean could predict his words nonetheless. He'd voiced much the same concern—the same request—when they'd first learned about the dark portent looming over him, all those years ago.

Dean couldn't fulfill it before. He wasn't sure what gave Sam the idea that his answer would be any different now. As he stared at his brother, his mind racing, he barely caught Sam's glance to Castiel—and he hated it.

"Dean," Sam tried again. recapturing Dean's glare. "I'm not against going this cold turkey. It might work."

Dean exhaled through his teeth, then searched Sam's eyes, keeping his words slow and quiet to avoid their fracture, "Do you think you'd survive it?"

Sam bit his lip, then shook his head, nearly choking on the word, the shadow of defeat in his eyes conveying how desperately he wanted it to be untrue, "No."

Dean nodded once, setting his face in his resolve, his words an order as much as a prayer, "Then this can't go sideways."