Of Smoke and Ash - Part 2

[jacyevans]

Part 1

Dean slides his hand lovingly across the hood of the Impala, still parked outside of Bobby's. Both the house and the car are in shockingly perfect condition. He closes his eyes as he climbs into the driver's seat.

"Oh baby, I am never leaving you again," he murmurs, revs the engine, and guns down the highway, grinning at the feel of the wind blowing past his face, rain be damned. He swears this car will out-survive them all.

When Dean arrives at Chuck's, Sam is already there, and his gun itches at the small of his back as he eases out of the car, the demon killing knife burning a hole against his side. He reaches to unsheathe the knife at the same time Sam tenses, freezes, automatically reaching for his gun.

"If either of you so much as put a finger on a weapon, I will reign down fire and brimstone myself, never mind waiting for the archangel to smite."

Dean freezes at the sound of the familiar voice, notices Sam do the same, and both comically turn in tandem towards the front door, which is hanging from its hinges but still half doing its job, where Chuck is standing half huddled behind a fuming Missouri Moseley.

"Missouri?" Dean sputters when he finally finds his voice.

"What?" Missouri cocks a hand on her hip and sticks her thumb in Chuck's direction. "You think just because this one is getting messages from on high, the rest of us have stopped seeing things altogether?" Chuck slumps in on himself even further at being addressed directly. "He's not the only psychic tapping into this hotbed of insanity, he's just the only one with divine intervention."

"Missouri, you shouldn't be here," Sam says, and Dean chokes down his shock, turning instead to openly gawk.

"Oh, but you should?"

Sam glares and Dean recognizes the defensive stance - feet shoulder width apart, hands at his sides but arms tense, braced for a fight. "And what exactly are you doing here, Dean? More orders from the heavenly host?"

Dean opens his mouth to retort when he hears Missouri mutter, "See, this is exactly what I'm talking about," then, louder, "You boys stop arguing like fools and get in this house right now or so help me, I'll come down there and drag you both in here by your ears."

Dean blinks, completely taken aback.

"Don't you doubt me, Dean Winchester. My bark is most certainly not worse than my bite. Let's go!" she says, moving into the house, Chuck scuttling after her. Dean eyes Sam furtively, but as Sam hesitantly begins up the stairs, Dean sees no choice but to follow.

--

Chuck's house looks like every other house on his street - broken down, dilapidated, and standing by the will of God alone. Except in Chuck's case, that's probably literal. Missouri continues her grumbling as they walk through the front door, finally turning around once they reach the living room - or what was once the living room, as the couch falls apart at the seams, half the chairs are broken, and the coffee table sits against the wall in the corner - to make sure they hear what she has to say.

"You boys aren't just going to be the death of each other, you're going to be the death of the world. Now, how do you feel about that?"

The guilt already eats Sam alive from the inside out. He doesn't think it's possible to feel any worse. Clearly, he is wrong.

"Now, the two of you get your behinds upstairs and try to get your heads out of them long enough to talk to each other. And don't roll your eyes at me, Dean, I may not be your mother, but I will slap that smart alack look off of your face. Don't you smirk, Sam," Sam's smirk falls. "You'll be next."

"What, we're just supposed to wait here like sitting ducks for the apocalypse to find us?" Dean asks, then flinches, like he knows Missouri will stay true to her threats. Sam would laugh, if this situation were even remotely funny.

"The prophet here is a walking, talking protection charm against evil. You think anything's gonna walk through that door and try to kill you with an archangel tethered to him? I don't think so."

"Lucifer isn't afraid of the archangels, Missouri," Sam says quietly, and she sighs.

"I know that, baby. Which is why I've taken extra precautions." Missouri points to the doorways, and Sam's eyes widen at the familiar sigils inscribed on the walls. Dean seems to recognize them, too, but that's no surprise. He seems more shocked that Sam does, then suspicious.

Sam walks over, his hands hovering over one of the marks. He can feel the faint buzz of power crawling up his arm, light to his dark. "How did you know how to make these?"

He feels Missouri's presence at his back before he sees her, comforting, soothing as she places her hand on his arm. He looks at her and she smirks, but the expression is not meant to be condescending.

"What? You think you're the only one Anna's paid a visit to since she escaped?"

Sam can see Dean's expression over Missouri's shoulder, closed off, wary, but his eyes register no slight level of shock.

Sam flinches away from Missouri's touch, from Dean's surprise, as if Sam is no longer worthy of any angel's presence. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, holds it, then gives Missouri a shaky smile on the exhale before trudging up the stairs, not bothering to wait to see if Dean will follow.

--

Dean paces back and forth, the floor weathered and torn beneath his boots. Sam stares at the rain falling outside the window, fingers gripping the bottom of the sill. Dean wonders what he thinks of the apocalyptic weather - if he approves.

He also wonders how his brother can stand to keep so goddamned still when the world is falling down around them and they're trapped like flies in a web.

Dean sighs, hums a few bars of Metallica, before he segues into something else subconsciously.

Sam's lips quirk. "R.E.M.? Dude, seriously?"

"What?" Dean asks with a shrug of his shoulders. "It's a good song."

"I thought you hated that song."

"Only because some pansy ass bitch played the damn tape on repeat every time it was his turn in the passenger seat." Sam stills at the same time Dean realizes how easily they've fallen into the comfortable, old routine. This should be something simple, easy, yet it's anything but familiar.

Sam turns his face back to the window, shoulders tensing, back hunched. "So, how long until your angel finds us?" he asks, voice bitter, and the moment is gone.

Dean can't help but bite back, "Don't know. How long until your demon shows up?"

"She won't," Sam snaps, eyes still cast out the window, "She's dead."

Sam's tone more than implies that he killed her, and Dean wants to ask when, but he doesn't need to - he remembers Sam fleeing alone from the terrible light in Maryland where this all started. Suddenly, the lack of Sam's hip attachment for the past three months, his outburst after Dean's crack about Ruby back at the church, makes perfect sense.

The revelation comes to Dean swiftly, hits him like a battering ram - he has been fighting his battles against hell with the armies of earth and, reluctantly, heaven on his side.

Sam has been fighting a war coming at him from all sides all by himself.

I'm asking you, for once, trust me.

The realization is enough to make Dean need to sit down, his legs suddenly feeling unsteady.

Sam frowns, glancing at him out of the corner of his eye as he sits down hard on the rickety chair, the legs threatening to give beneath his weight. "You okay?"

Dean snorts. "What, suddenly you care?"

Sam flinches, pulls in on himself. He closes his eyes and whispers, "I never stopped."

Dean doesn't have an answer to that.

--

Somehow, Sam isn't surprised to hear Bobby's voice screaming at the top of his lungs from below them three days later.

"Missouri, goddamnit, you open this door right now, or I'm breaking it down!"

Dean flies down the stairs at top speed. Sam doesn't blame him - three days of tense silences, sparse discussions about nothing, and small arguments that threaten to grow into something much larger have both of them on edge, looking for any escape. Sam is much slower, taking his time, not sure what Bobby's reaction will be to finding him in the house, too.

Missouri reaches the door first, facing down Bobby with a fury that would put angels and demons to shame. "Bobby Singer, you will not scream at me, first of all, and second of all, you will put that gun away, or we are all as good as chickens waiting for the slaughter."

"Told you to knock," Sam freezes at the sound of Jo's voice. He considers fleeing upstairs, but he was never one for running and hiding before, and doesn't plan to start now. Instead, he stands on the stairs, admiring the intricate Devil's Trap above his head, wondering at all the times he's passed beneath it the past few days and hasn't been caught.

He hears their whispers, but can no longer make out the words until the sound stops, footsteps along the floor coming to a halt just ten short feet in front of him and Sam almost laughs at what this must look like - him standing in the middle of the stairway, lost in his thoughts, staring up at a Devil's Trap.

Of all people, Dean should know better; he's watched him climb this staircase time after time, and the fact that he has so little faith in Sam makes something deep within him ache, but to make all of them feel better, Sam takes three steps forward, taking him well outside of the limits of the trap. Jo breathes a sigh of relief.

Sam leans against the railing, folding his arms, waiting for someone to say something, anything, to break the rising tension in the room.

Missouri comes to his rescue. "What is this, a Mexican standoff?" Jo's lips twitch. "Well, I can see you haven't lost your sense of humor, Jo. Glad someone around here hasn't. Why don't you take your mother and Bobby into the kitchen? Chuck can show you around."

"Show us around where?" Bobby asks, eying the dilapidated walls.

Ellen shoves him towards the back of the house, and he stumbles with a squawk of protest that sounds vaguely like, "I'm still injured, woman!"

"She means get lost, Singer. And you didn't seem to care about your injuries when you were waving that gun around like a lunatic."

Missouri waits until their footsteps fade before rounding on Sam and Dean with a vengeance. "You know, I was hoping that the two of you would pull yourselves together, but I see I was asking too much. You Winchesters are much too stubborn for your own damn good. Get that from your father. And no, Dean, that is not a compliment." Dean's mouth snaps shut.

Missouri sighs. "I just don't understand you two. Heaven and hell have been playing you like fiddles from the start. You've always been stronger together. Why do you think they've been working so hard to keep you apart, filling your heads with nonsense."

Sam eyes Dean, but his face is blank, a hard mask. He goes back to staring at his shoes.

"Since when do you trust angels and demons over your own brother?"

--

The whiskey is warm and burns down Sam's throat. He has no idea where Chuck acquired the bottle - as far as he knows, most of the stores have been closed for days and those abandoned have been looted for money, food, and provisions. Sam dug the bottle out of the back of Chuck's pantry and came outside for his one man pity party. He has no idea where Dean is hiding. He pretends not to care, an acknowledgment that burns more than the alcohol.

"Thought I'd find you out here."

Sam glances up, already two sheets to the wind and well on his way to three. "That supposed to be funny?"

Chuck wraps his shirt more firmly around him and shivers. The rain stopped an hour ago, replaced by a biting wind that roars around them.

"Sam, I haven't been able to see anything since you and Dean showed up here. Nothing is happening according to plan. You're throwing the divine for a loop."

"Is there a reassurance in there?" Sam asks, frowning, forgetting about his plan to get drunk for a moment.

"Yes. Don't you see?" Chuck steps closer, sits down next to him, then seems to think better of the gesture and stands back up, eyes practically glittering with excitement. "This is an advantage. If I don't know what you're going to do next, then neither do the angels. The two of you keep doing things they don't expect."

"And Lucifer? The demons? What about them?"

"Sam..." Chuck hesitates, as if he's saying too much, takes a deep breath. "Missouri's right, you know - about you and Dean. You weren't the only one being played."

He winces, as if waiting to be struck down by a bolt of lightning. When the strike never comes, he breathes a sigh of relief, shrugs at Sam's openly curious expression, and quickly walks back into the house.

--

The blood is warm beneath Dean's fingers. The knife was dulled, burned as it sliced through his arm, but did the job. The circle of the sigil is complete along the floor, complicated lines running through. All Dean has to do is complete the last, seal the center with his hand, and Castiel will be able to find them. Just one more line to cross. Just one.

"You sure you wanna be doing that?"

Dean's head snaps up at the sound of Chuck's voice and he glares, dropping his eyes back down. "Stay out of this, Chuck."

Chuck shrugs. "Sure. I just want you to know that if you do this, you're playing right into the angels' hands."

"And what the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Apocalypse now." Dean pauses, eyes still on the floor. "You do this, bring the angels here, and everything is restored to it's original order."

"Maybe that's what I want." Although Dean's not really sure what he wants anymore.

"It's not," Chuck says quietly, "It's really not."

Dean pulls his hand back, standing slowly. He drops the knife, but the tone of Chuck's voice, the regret...

"You know what could happen, don't you?" Dean says, stalking forward.

Chuck's eyes flit from side to side like an animal who knows he's trapped. He backs up but ends up with his back against the wall. "No, I- I -"

"Chuck-" Dean slams his fist into the wall right next to Chuck's head and he winces. "I'm not really in the mood for social niceties here, so you're going to tell me what you know, or I'm going to see just how quick your archangel can get here before I put my fist through your face."

The room lights up almost immediately, the walls shaking with a force that rivals the earthquake in South Dakota. Dean scrabbles for purchase on the wall beside Chuck's head, but does not back down.

"What the hell is goin' on in here?" Bobby asks, stumbling with a curse, followed closely by Ellen and Jo. When he sees Dean with his hands at Chuck's throat, he takes a step forward, using the door frame for support.

"Dean, have you lost your mind?" Missouri's shrill voice pierces the room.

"The prophet's been holding out on us, and I for one want to know why." He yanks Chuck forward by his collar, then slams him back against the wall. "Come on, Chuck. What do you know?"

"I don't know anything!"

The hand that clamps down on his shoulder is decidedly not Bobby's. Sam yanks him backwards away from Chuck, forcing him across the room. Sam looms in front of the prophet, and Chuck cowers behind his frame. The shaking desists to a quiet rumble.

"Dean, what are you thinking?"

Dean glares, resentful of his brother's interference. "I'm thinking that the prophet here has useful information that I intend to have him share with the rest of the class."

"By facing down one of heaven's most powerful angels?" Sam's voice is incredulous.

"You got any brighter ideas, Sherlock?"

"Yeah, stop trying to pummel him into the floor and just let him talk. If it's really that important, he'll tell you. Secrets only stay that way for so long."

Sam turns to walk away when Dean's voice stops him in his tracks. "Well, you'd be the expert on that subject, wouldn't you, Sammy?"

Sam's entire body goes rigid, and his hands clench and unclench at his sides. Dean wants him to throw the first punch. His skin itches with the desperation for another fight.

Instead, all of the breath wheezes out of Sam, and his hands finally settle into tight fists at his sides. "Do you really hate me that much, Dean?"

The question stuns Dean into silence; his tongue sticks to the back of his throat. Sam shakes his head, dragging his feet as he leaves the room, finding Dean's lack of words answer enough.

--

Sam sits down on the porch steps, staring out nothing. The sky has begun to clear for the first time in months, clouds shifting enough for just a few stars to show themselves, the wind dying down to a gentle breeze - the calm before the storm.

The door shifts open, but Sam doesn't look up until Dean sits down next to him. He keeps a slight distance between them, a foot that feels like a mile. Dean claps his hands together, clasping his fingers. His foot taps against the step. Sam eyes him as he fidgets until he sighs.

"I don't hate you, Sam," he murmurs, and Sam stills, turning so he faces his brother more fully. "It would be easier if I did. I could have abandoned you a long time ago, just let you run yourself into the ground."

In the silence that follows, Dean exhales loudly, as if this admission has taken a toll on him.

"You never asked why," Sam says quietly. "All those times - you accused me of turning into something you would want to hunt, you accused me of being a monster," his voice catches on the word, "But you never asked me why."

"Why, Sam?" Dean raises his eyes from his lap, and Sam is shocked at the desperation he sees there. His brother pleads with him, "Why?"

Sam swallows. "For you," the words are whispered, but ring clear into the night. He can read the shock in Dean's silence. "For revenge." He lifts his head to stare at Dean. "I wanted Lilith's head for what she did to you, Dean, and Ruby convinced me that drinking demon blood was the only way to be strong enough." He laughs, the sound self-loathing. "The blood was only bringing me down. I stopped drinking it and became stronger. If I was sober those three months you were in hell, figured out how to hone my powers, I probably could have taken on Lilith. Probably could have gone down to hell and pulled you out myself, angels be damned, and this whole thing never would have happened." He shakes his head. "Ironic, huh?"

"This would have happened anyway, Sammy." The sound of his nickname makes something in his chest tighten, almost enough of a distraction from the rest of Dean's statement.

His brow furrows and he forces himself to concentrate. "What?"

Dean laughs, but his tone is familiar - self-loathing. "And so it is written that the first seal will be broken when a righteous man sheds blood in hell. You may have broken the last seal, Sammy, but not before I broke the first."

"Lucifer...he told me something," Sam says hesitantly as the conversation lulls into silence, figuring since they're playing the confessions game, he might as well go for broke.

Dean arches his eyebrow, left leg shaking anxiously, waves his hand when Sam doesn't continue.

"He... well more like showed me... that all of this - Lilith breaking the seals, the Apocalypse. It's always been the plan."

"What, hell has their own version of a divine plan?" Dean asks sarcastically and Sam laughs, nodding.

"Yeah, I guess so." His smile fades, and he drops his eyes to his lap. "Dean... Lucifer told Azazel to find him a child." Sam raises his eyes to meet Dean's, who has stopped moving, practically stopped breathing. "Ruby told me that everything Azazel and Lilith did was to get me to free Lucifer. That I was the only one who could do it." Sam sighs, running a hand through his hair. "Lucifer told me that this was always my destiny, that this was always the plan. To get me here. That I'm just fighting who I am."

"And you believed him? You believed Ruby?" Dean shakes his head incredulously.

"Dean-"

"No, shut up, Sam," Dean says, and Sam is so stunned, he lets him cut him off. "Just... just shut up." Dean stands, begins pacing at the foot of the stairs. "All I've been hearing from the angels for the past three months is all about how you need to be stopped. How - how the demon blood makes you evil." Sam drops his head. "And I believed them, Sam. God help me, I believed them. But do you know what else I realized?"

"What?" Sam's terrified of the answer.

Dean steps forward until he is standing just in front of Sam, pulls Sam to his feet. "That they're all full of shit. They want things done their way, and they will do and say anything to get it. Well I've had it - with them, and their lies. I am finishing this once and for all, and I am doing this my way."

Dean drops his eyes, his hand still grasping to Sam's shoulder - clinging. "Sammy, I can't do this alone."

Sam swallows; he thinks of the past three months. "Yes, you can."

Dean shrugs. "Yeah, well. I don't want to."

Sam isn't sure of the right response - a hug would be too much, okay too little. He opens his mouth to say something to break the silence, when Missouri's smirking face pokes out the door, making both of them turn in shock.

"Well, it's about damn time."

--

"So, what the devil do we do about... the devil?" Bobby asks, crossing his arms. He eyes Sam from where he leans against the wall, more curious than anything. Sam fidgets under his gaze, but he doesn't look away.

"We kill the bastard, obviously." Bobby rolls his eyes, fixes Dean with a stare and raises his eyebrow, and Dean concedes his point - he only wishes it were that easy.

"You can't kill the devil, Dean, just like you can't kill God. You'll tip the scales too far one way or the other. That's what the angels are counting on," Sam protests, leaning his arms on the table.

"Then what do you suppose we do, Oh Wise and All-Knowing Samuel?" Dean snarks, but although he's annoyed, the words are not meant to be a jab - the banter feels familiar, a feeling he hasn't felt in too long.

Sam’s jaw tightens infinitesimally, but Dean notices and quickly reviews his words, wondering what he said that was wrong.

"We send him back to hell, of course," Sam says, face quickly relaxing into a grin, and Dean ignores the way his brother’s devilish smile gives him the creeps.

"Easy as that, huh?" Jo asks from where she sits, twirling a knife along the edge of the table. "What do you propose we do, wave our hands, say a few magic words, and make him disappear?"

Sam arches his eyebrow, and Jo takes all of ten seconds, eight more than Dean, to realize his brother takes her words literally.

"Don't even think about it, Sam." Apparently, Ellen realizes it too as she approaches Jo's chair and braces her hands on the back. "You can't take on Lucifer - not by yourself."

"I wouldn't have to take him on by myself. I could be your last line of defense, I could-"

"Forget it," Dean cuts him off curtly, beginning to wonder if what he mistook for withdrawal back in New York was actually a result of his brother taking on the devil, pushing himself past his limits.

Sam literally bites his tongue, but he doesn't argue - much. "You have a better plan?"

"Yeah." A bang on the table makes both of them jump, and Dean glances down, shocked, to find a pile of musty, ancient books, some he's sure he recognizes, follows the hand on top of the pile to Bobby. "We research instead of running after Lucifer half-cocked. You idjits."

Dean and Sam stare at the books which seemed to appear out of nowhere, but more than likely were stored in Bobby's trunk all this time, blink up at Bobby, who smirks.

"Always be prepared, boys," he says haughtily, handing each of them one of the old tomes, "Always be prepared."

--

They've researched for hours. Sam can feel his eyes burning from the dust and mold kicked up from turning the old pages. Even Chuck lends a hand, sitting in a chair in the corner, eyes drooping behind his glasses while he dutifully pores over book after book. Sam's eyesight blurs and the words smear together. He desperately yearns for a laptop with a half-way decent Internet hook-up. Google calls his name. Sam closes his eyes, the book sliding from his fingers.

A slap in the arm startles him, and Sam turns to where Bobby slips his hat back on his head. "No sleeping on the job."

He can hear Dean chuckling from the kitchen.

Sam scrubs his hands over his eyes. A mug is suddenly in front of his face, and Sam glances up at Dean who mutters, "Coffee. Elixir of life."

"You went all the way to the fountain of youth for coffee?"

Dean rolls his eyes. "Just drink it, wise ass."

Sam grins, taking a long sip of his coffee, closing his eyes and savoring the taste. He sighs, opens his eyes, and flips to the next page of his book.

Suddenly, Sam's eyes widen - he can feel them literally bulging out of his head, and he has to place the mug on the table extra carefully so the coffee doesn't spill all over Bobby's books as he stares at the picture on the page.

Dean elbows him rather roughly, but he still can't tear his eyes away, disbelief running like a bolt of lightning down his spine. "You want to tell me what's got you all bug eyed there, Sasquatch?"

Sam shakes his head, whispers, "It can't be that simple." Nothing ever is - everything requires days of research, weeks of angst. Nothing is ever this easy.

Dean tugs the book towards him. He glances down at the pages, then arches his eyebrow at Sam. "I have no idea what's got your panties in such a twist, but -"

"Give me Ruby's knife."

His face falls, and Sam sighs at Dean's suspicion, but part of gaining trust is building trust. Dean slips the knife from his belt, eyes never leaving his brother's face, slowly hands the knife to Sam. Sam tries not to grab it in his haste. He places the knife on top of the book along the binding.

"Look at these symbols along the blade," Sam says, running his finger slowly down the surface. Dean follows his gaze.

"Now, look at the markings on Michael's sword."

Sam grins as the same shocked expression comes over Dean's face. Dean runs his finger down the blade and starts to laugh.

"I'll be goddamned," he says, voice hushed, "That bitch was good for something, huh?"

Sam clenches his jaw, his smile a little more forced now, and Dean stares at him blankly. Sam hates that they're walking on eggshells with each other, hates that everything can't be fixed with a well-placed and possibly tasteless joke, a nudge, and some eye rolling.

"You know, Michael's sword is supposed to be powerful and mighty and..." He picks up Ruby's knife, frowning, "Well, a sword. At least the way they draw it in all the pictures." Dean grins, waggling his eyebrows, and nudges Sam in the ribs.. "Think they're compensating for something?"

Sam releases the breath he was holding and rolls his eyes. The smile he gives his brother, though exasperated, is genuine this time.

--

The news breaks over the radio the next morning - a freak hurricane wipes out half of Baltimore, and the temperature plummets almost overnight, hail falling heavily across the eastern seaboard - the west coast burns. Ilchester exists at the center, the eye of the storm, a world apart, not affected by the strange weather at all. The experts don't even try to explain anymore, settling on, "The end is nigh."

"That sounds... pleasant," Chuck says, trying for sarcasm and failing.

"Yeah, if your idea of 'pleasant' is eternal damnation," Bobby mutters.

Dean turns the dial, cutting off the newscasters' muttered prayers. "So, back to ground zero?"

"Looks like," Bobby says, shoving his hands in his pockets. "You brainiacs got a plan?"

"Yeah, find Lucifer and stick him with this," Dean says, dangling the knife in front of him. Bobby quirks an eyebrow and Dean throws up his arms. "You got any better ideas, I'm open to suggestion."

"The best laid plans of mice and men often go awry." Dean's head snaps up, shocked to see Castiel in the doorway, battered and worse for wear, leaning heavily on Anna for support.

Sam rushes forward to help the angel to a chair. "Jesus, Castiel, what the hell happened?"

Castiel leans his head against the back of the chair. Anna kneels down at his side, immediately sets to trying to heal his wounds. Her power feels like a soft warmth in the room. "Heaven does not like rebellion. Lucifer and his fallen angels are the perfect examples of what the garrison does to traitors."

"Traitors?" Missouri steps forward, jaw tense. "Castiel, just what the hell did you do?"

"I questioned our role in the Apocalypse. I dared to defy my orders."

Even now, they can't get a straight answer out of him. Dean bites back his frustration. "Which were?"

Castiel's eyes bore into Dean's. "Stop you from sending Lucifer back to hell, and convince you to kill him," his eyes flicker to Sam, "By any means necessary."

"Jesus," Ellen mutters, crossing her arms and pacing the room. "What I want to know is how you found us. I thought this place was off angelic radar."

"Not if you know where to look," Anna says, frowning down at a wound on Castiel's side she hasn't managed to heal completely.

"Zachariah is headed for Ilchester. You have to get there before him, Dean. The entire world is at stake."

"No pressure there," Dean mutters.

"Castiel and I will follow as soon as he is able," Anna says, and Dean stares at the wound on his side, now healing slowly beneath her fingers. Castiel winces, and she places her hand over his, an apology, before setting back to work.

"And do what? All we have is a knife and some biblical mumbo jumbo. We're in over our heads here."

"The knife is useless without Michael, Dean," Castiel's announcement seems to pull the air from the room. "Did you not read the lore? Only Michael could send Lucifer to hell."

Dean's beginning to follow Castiel's rather haphazard train of thought, and does not like what he discovers. "Cut the crap, Cas. Just say what's on your mind and be done with it."

"Michael needs a vessel. You are destined to save the world. I am speaking quite plainly."

Castiel blinks at him from across the room, silent, undisturbed, and Dean feels something within himself crumble as this last piece of the angels' plan finally comes to light. "There are a lot of things I am willing to do to save the world, but playing host to an angel is not one of them. I'm sorry, Cas, but the answer is no."

Castiel slowly pushes himself to his feet, and as Anna stands at his side, Dean wonders how much of this she knew about when she came to visit him just a few short weeks ago. "You once told me that you would do anything but kill Sam to stop Armageddon," Dean doesn't look at Sam, but can see his brother flinch violently out of the corner of his eye. He remembers the flash of Castiel's eyes, the calculating expression that finally makes sense. "I'm holding you to that promise."

"Please, Cas, find another way."

"There is no other way!" Castiel's voice cracks like a whip.

"Dean, maybe we should-"

"Sam!" Dean snaps, and Sam folds under the force of his anger. He nods, not willing to start up another argument.

Anna raises her eyes, stares at Sam from across the room. A flicker of understanding passes across his brother's face as if she's just reminded him of something, and he nods. Dean doesn't understand the exchange, desperately wants to ask what transpired between the two that would make him recognize angelic sigils and trust her silent judgement. He misses being the person who could speak across the room to his brother with a gesture or a single glance.

Sam turns away from Anna, fixes his desperately determined eyes on Dean. "I have an idea."

--

Dean argues through every step of the planning process, most notably at every mention of Sam using his powers. No one mentions Michael again, except to propose strategy around the knife. Sam tries to reason with him, but he shakes his head, a stone, unmoving.

"You are destined to save the world, Dean, but you must let your brother play his part."

Dean isn't the only one shocked by Castiel's endorsement, but his brother nods and stops protesting.

The best laid plans could still go awry, but at least now they have a plan.

Missouri and Chuck take a step back and Sam eyes Anna curiously as she raises her hand, twists her fingers. A flash of white burns across his eyes, followed by the sinking feeling like his body falls through nothing, before his feet hit the ground in front of St. Mary's convent. Sam stumbles, groaning when the light fades from his eyes. Jo appears to be experiencing the same effects, grabbing onto the trunk of a tree for support.

"You okay there, Sammy?" Dean asks, and Sam can hear the grin in his voice. "Should have warned you to close your eyes - sorry."

Sam waits until his stomach stops churning and the world stops spinning to shove him half heartedly in the shoulder and grumble, "Dick."

Jo slaps him across the back of the head. "Jackass."

"Now, now, kids, play nice," Sam spins, all thoughts of stomach pains forgotten at the same time Dean reaches for the knife at his belt.

Zachariah stands, grinning, and Sam's eyes flit to the angels standing behind him. There's only two, but he knows more are on the way. He can feel their power pressing down on him like a weight. The clouds roll across the sky, turning the grey horizon black.

"So nice of you to join our little end of the world party," Zachariah says, the angels fanning out behind him like a guard.

"Get inside," Sam hisses to Ellen, Jo, and Bobby, "We'll follow."

"But-" Jo tries to protest, but Sam can feel his eyes growing cold, power flaring along his arms, and the argument dies on her lips as she runs up the stairs and into the convent. Sam turns his attention back to his brother and the problem at hand.

"Is this just a game to you, Zach?"

"All the world's a stage, all the men and women merely players," Zachariah chuckles and Sam's hands ball into fists. "In the grand scheme of things, we all have parts to play."

"Maybe I'm a little sick of being one of your pawns."

"You don't have a choice, boy," Zachariah's smile falls, voice instantly dropping an octave. "Did you forget the oath you swore?"

"Serve God and his angels as swiftly and obediently I served my father," Sam's stunned by this announcement, but Dean steps forward, a grin on his face. "Except Sammy here reminded me of something. There were the rare occasions I even told my father 'no, sir.' So, you can take your divine plan and shove it up your-"

Dean flies across the grass, falls to the ground clutching his chest, all of the wind knocked out of him. When he doesn't catch his breath, continues to wheeze as if his lungs have collapsed, Sam steps in front of him, raises his arm, and watches with grim satisfaction as Zachariah's two guards fall to their knees.

The angel eyes their bodies with distaste. "They were droids. Lackeys. Killing me will take far more energy than you can spare, Sammy," Zachariah says smugly.

Sam doesn't lower his arm, but jumps as the point of a knife impales itself through Zachariah's throat.

"He's not the one you should be worrying about," Castiel hisses, ripping the knife backwards. Zachariah turns his head, stunned, and Sam shields his eyes with his arm as a light flashes in front of his eyes, before Zachariah falls forward, dead.

Castiel stares at Sam for a moment, at his eyes, black fading slowly to hazel. Sam rushes to Dean's side.

"Dean, Dean, you okay?"

Dean groans, shoving Sam off of him. "Fine," he mutters, standing. He takes in the three dead angels, looks from Sam to Castiel, throwing both of them questioning glances. "Anna heal you up already?"

"Not completely," Anna says, somewhat annoyed, stepping out from behind him and startling Sam and Dean.

"Missouri thought you might be in need of assistance," Castiel says, and Dean rolls his eyes.

"Right, well - thanks," he mumbles, taking a deep breath, as if he's making sure his lungs still work. Sam resists the urge to reach out and grab his brother, just to make sure he's still whole.

"Lucifer comes closer every moment; you must hurry."

Sam nods, taking a deep breath to steel himself against the rush of demonic power he can already feel crawling along his skin. He doesn't need to see the demons to know there's an army waiting for them just around the corner.

Dean pauses at the foot of the stairs, his back to Castiel, eyes on his shoes. "I mean that, Cas - thanks."

Castiel nods, and Dean turns awkwardly, following Sam up the stairs and into the convent.

--

Sam inhales sharply as soon as they pass the doorway. Dean can feel a slight pressure along the air, a drop in the temperature, but he has no idea what has his brother so distracted.

"Sam," Dean's voice echoes down the hall, making Sam jump. Sam takes a deep breath, nods, and lets Dean take the lead.

Suddenly, Sam grabs his shoulder as he turns a corner.

"What?" Dean asks, clearly annoyed.

"Demons," Sam says, voice pitched low. "Lots of them."

Dean carefully peers around the corner, shocked at the sight of the large group of demons in front of him, before turning back to Sam, both curious and suspicious. "How did you know that?"

Sam swallows hard. Dean can tell he isn't lying, but is terrified of his brother's reaction to his answer. "Felt them."

Dean just stares, shakes his head to clear it. His brother feels out demons now, probably angels too, enough to tell the difference between one and many. The thought creeps him out, but he doesn't voice this to Sam. "So, what, you're just going to waltz in there, wave your magic jazz hands, and send them back to hell?"

"No - I'm going to kill them." Sam doesn't wait for Dean's reply before he turns the corner and comes face to face with the first wave of Lucifer's army.

As Dean watches Sam take out twenty demons with one wave of his hand, he can't help but shiver. Sam controls his powers in a way he never did when Dean caught him pulling out demons with Ruby; he commands attention. Dean hears the others making plans to fan out behind him, but he can't take his eyes off of Sam, even as the demons flicker out of existence, their bodies falling to the floor.

The image of Amriel lying on the ground flashes through his mind, and for a moment, he tries to imagine what would drive his brother to kill an angel, then thinks of Zachariah and the end of the world, and feels like a hypocrite.

Sam slowly lowers his arm, pauses, then turns around even slower, and Dean's breath catches at the sight of black eyes meeting his from across the cavern. He swallows, forces his feet to stay rooted to their spot, repeats the name SammySammySammy over and over in his head like a mantra. This is still the same little brother he carried out of a burning house when he was six months old, taught how to read and tie his shoes - the same little brother he sold his soul for - went to hell for. He ignores the niggling voices in the back of his head reminding him save Sam or kill him, ignores one hundred percent pure Sam, and just looks at his brother.

Sam's eyes fade to hazel as he watches. He blinks, swallows, says, "Come on. Lucifer's this way."

Dean doesn't ask how Sam knows that, isn't sure he wants to know, just trusts his brother, follows his lead.

Sam doesn't say thank you - he doesn't have to.

--

When Sam enters the main hall of the convent, a shudder passes through him. He can feel the stifling press of Lucifer's power, but everything is quiet - too quiet. Dean stands his ground, eyes flitting from the walls to the floor and back again, as if waiting for something to jump out, and Sam stares at the ground, strangely empty of blood or any sign of the carnage that occurred just three short months ago.

He can hear the faint sounds of the battle still going on, demons and angels threatening to spill into the chamber, when the noise stops, the convent deathly silent except for the sound of his and Dean's breathing.

The air pressure increases, and for a moment, Sam feels like his lungs have stopped working. Dean's knees buckle, and Sam grasps at his jacket, when suddenly, he can breathe again, inhales in quick gasps.

"Hello, Samuel."

Sam spins at the voice, both familiar and unfamiliar, deep and soothing, yet harsh at the same time. The body Lucifer chose is shorter this time, about as tall as Dean, but the eyes are still the same, that strange, penetrating blue that makes Sam shiver.

"Dean," Lucifer says, and he grins. Dean fights to keep himself from glaring. The corners of his eyes twitch. "Well, well, well, this is a pleasant surprise. Last time we ran into each other, you were tying souls down to a rack." Dean winces almost imperceptibly, but Sam notices. "My, how times have changed."

"Leave him alone," Sam hisses, and Lucifer arches an eyebrow, then laughs, the sound echoing off of the walls.

"Samuel, Samuel, Samuel," Lucifer admonishes him, pacing, and Sam turns, careful to keep him in his sight. "What makes you think I want anything to do with him?"

Lucifer flicks his wrist, and Dean falls backwards, the doors slamming closed with a foreboding echo off of the stone walls. Sam can hear Dean banging against the wood, screaming, "Sam! Sammy!" but there's no point.

"Now that we have all...distractions out of the way," Lucifer smiles and Sam swallows, knowing he is completely on his own, and there isn't a damn thing he can do about it but fight.

"You know, I thought we already established this, Samuel."

"We established nothing," Sam spits, the words falling from his lips like venom. "I don't belong to you."

"Oh," Lucifer smiles, and Sam can feel his power begin to crackle along the air, like lightning just before it strikes, "Oh, I think you'll find you're more mine than you realize."

Sam raises his hand and throws as much power as he can at Lucifer in one burst, even as he feels Lucifer's power snap painfully along his arms, making him gasp. The devil stumbles, stands back up, pulling his jacket across his chest while Sam fights to catch his breath.

"Do you hear that, Samuel?" Against his better judgement, Sam listens, and hears the battle waging just behind the doors. Lucifer's lips pull into a beatific smile. "That's hell rising to take over the earth with nothing and no one standing in it's way. That's music to my ears."

Sam can feel himself weakening, extends his power far beyond his limits, but doesn't stop, not even when Lucifer pushes back. His power feels like red hot knives being raked against his mind; every moment Lucifer gets one step closer to forcing himself past that barrier, Sam pushes himself a little more, forces his power a little farther.

"You can't win, Samuel."

"It's Sam," Sam gasps, Lucifer's voice rolling through the room, over his mind, pin pricks of pain turning into knife points. Lucifer looses his footing, staggering for a moment, just long enough for the doors to be thrown open, a mix of battling demons, angels, and hunters slipping into the room. He just catches sight of Dean, jaw ticking, mumbling something under his breath as he takes down demon after demon, but doesn't have time to try to guess what's going on before Lucifer is back on his feet, ready for another round.

Sam takes comfort in the fact that he may not defeat the devil, may die here today, but at least he's weakening him enough that Dean might be able to stop him.

"Just stop fighting, Samuel. What do you have to lose?"

Sam glances across the room, at Bobby neck deep in demons, at Ellen and Jo fighting back to back, Castiel and Anna leading the angels, screaming out orders - at Dean slicing his way through body after body, trying his damnedest to get to his brother, and narrows his eyes.

"Everything," he whispers, throwing everything he has at Lucifer, all of his power in one fell swoop.

The devil doesn't take lightly to this challenge, thrusts back, but Sam can't hold on any longer and falls to his knees.

--

"Sam! Sammy!"

Sam collapses at the same time Lucifer grins, blinding white light filling the convent just before Lucifer's body falls to the ground. Dean blindly slashes his way through demons and approaches the fallen Lucifer warily, kicking at his leg with a toe.

He isn't gone. Not yet. You know that.

"You shut up," Dean mutters, already feeling crazy for talking to a voice in his head. Some time while Sam was fighting Lucifer, while he was fighting off demons, Michael decided to make his presence known, a gentle hum in the back of Dean's brain that turned into an almost unbearable vibration before the angel revealed himself.

Dean wonders, offhandedly, if all angels have impeccable timing.

My timing means nothing, Dean, but that the end is near, and you must make a choice. Dean rolls his eyes. You know you cannot defeat Lucifer on your own.

"Yeah? Watch us."

'Us?' Michael sounds doubtful, but there's a thread of unease in his voice that makes Dean pause. Tell me, Dean - where is Sam?

Dean turns quickly, almost slips mid-step when he realizes Sam isn't on the ground where he fell. Warily, he casts his eyes around the room, before a hand on his shoulder spins him around, bringing him face to face with a grinning Sam - and all at once, from that one glance, he knows where Lucifer's gone.

"Hello, Dean," Lucifer punches him in the jaw, sends him reeling backwards into the wall, head smacking against the brick. Dean groans, raising his eyes as Lucifer paces towards him wearing his brother's body.

"You know, I have no idea why I didn't possess Samuel in the first place. I mean really, let's be honest here - it would have made both of our lives a hell of a lot easier. No weeks of questioning whether little Sammy went dark-side, just - Sam with the blood of the world on his hands. Only literally this time, not just metaphorically. That's rather poetic."

"You bastard," Dean chokes, grasping for the knife at his hip. He can feel Michael pushing at the barriers of his mind.

You can't save your brother without me, Dean. Just agree, and this will all be over.

"Go to hell," Dean rasps, not sure who he's talking to anymore.

Lucifer tsks, and the knife goes flying from his hands, skittering across the floor. "Now, now. None of that. You kill me, and Sammy will die. You send me to hell, and I'll drag him down with me." Lucifer laughs, and Dean shuts his eyes. "There's nothing you can do, Dean. You won't damn your brother." He leans down, whispers in Dean's ear, "You've lost."

Just say yes, Dean.

The words are a damnable breath against his mind, and Dean offers up a prayer, hopes someone up there is listening besides the angels, and whispers, "Yes."

--

The light that fills the convent blinds Lucifer, but he does not cover his eyes. He stares, captivated, as Dean becomes one with that light.

Sam stares out from Lucifer's eyes, wondering what the hell took Dean so long to finally agree. At least one of them has the chance to get out of here alive.

When Dean stands up, there's something different about the way he carries himself - something regal, powerful. Neither are characteristics his brother would ever use to describe himself, and yet there he stands, strength radiating from ever fiber of him.

When he transfixes Lucifer with a long stare, for the first time, Sam feels Lucifer's anxiety. The devil worries.

"Hello, Lucifer."

Lucifer's eyes narrow. "Michael." He smirks. "So, you finally managed to get the human to agree."

"Unlike you, I do not wear a human's mind down before I possess them," Michael's vocal patterns are undeniably his own, his eyes a clear, glassy green. Though he speaks with Dean's voice, Sam knows straight away that this person standing before him is not his brother.

Lucifer laughs. "Michael, you wound me with your accusations. Any damage inflicted on the boy's mind was done to himself and on his own."

"Enough," Michael lashes out, shoves a burst of power at Lucifer that sends him spiraling backwards into the wall.

Lucifer catches his breath, but rises to his feet in an instant, eyes narrowing. "So, that's how things are going to be."

Michael even moves different, more fluid lines and grace; Sam will be the first to admit that Lucifer is still an angel, through and through. Each move he makes as he parries Michael's have that same power that he's seen in other angels so many times on the battlefield, only to an extreme degree.

Sam notices that even the angels and demons seem to be transfixed by the spectacle, giving the hunters a one-up, taking advantage of their distraction. Bobby rattles off exorcisms from memory, and Jo literally sends heads rolling. The angels appear to be on their side, fighting with them instead of against them, and Sam wonders when the rules changed, when the grunts on the ground realized that this wasn't a war to save the world but to end it.

Sam snaps his attention back to Lucifer just as Michael sends him sprawling to the floor, boot shoved against his throat. Sam feels the breath wheeze out of him, and internally takes a deep breath, waiting for the inevitable.

Just end it.

"You can't do it, can you?" Lucifer laughs, and Sam decides this might be what destroys them for good, him and Dean, Lucifer's words spoken from his mouth. They won't ever recover from this, even if they do both make it out alive. "You can't sacrifice one to save the many. You can't kill Sam Winchester to send me back to hell. How very noble of you, Michael."

Something strange passes through Michael's eyes then, an emotion Sam takes a minute to identify - regret. For that single second, Sam swears he sees Dean radiating through those eyes.

Then, Michael twists his ankle against Lucifer’s neck, knife gleaming in his right fist. His eyes darken with determination, and Sam knows it's over.

"You have no idea what I can do."

Sam feels the knife burning through his chest, pain like nothing he's ever felt before. He hears Lucifer's screams echo through the chamber. There's a flash of light and then, blessedly, nothing.

--

When Sam collapses on the stone floor, Dean feels like screaming.

The blood that begins to pool around his brother's body isn't a fallen angel's, and no human could survive that sort of injury. If Dean had control of his fists, he'd be pounding them against his own mind, trying to get Michael's attention.

"You cannot let Sam Winchester die."

Michael turns and raises his eyebrows at Castiel, slowly walking towards him, each step controlled. "Do you presume to tell me what I can and cannot do, Castiel?"

"Lucifer took advantage of his weakness. He did everything in his power-"

"Sam Winchester started the Apocalypse. He brought on the end of the world."

"He was misled," Castiel lowers his eyes, voice dropping to a whisper. "As was I. As were we all."

Michael stares blankly, and Dean holds his breath, waiting, wishing there was a way to take back command of his body, just for a moment, long enough to help Sam. When Michael leans down, pressing his hands to the wound high on Sam's chest, Dean almost cries with relief, until he realizes Sam's stopped breathing. The pulse beneath Michael's fingers is weak, barely beating.

"You're not going to lose him," Michael says quietly, and Dean startles, feeling a strange warmth growing beneath his - Michael's - his hands, growing hotter and moving outwards, reaching for Sam. The wound closes under his fingers, then Sam's chest rises and falls, first slowly, then more steadily, and riding shotgun in his own body or not, Dean swears he feels dizzy.

Thank you, Dean breathes, Now get the hell out of my body.

Michael smirks as if he's heard the thought - which, come to think of it, Dean wouldn't be surprised if he's heard each and every thought that's run through Dean's mind since he took over Dean's body.

Michael turns to Castiel, gives him a nod, before closing his eyes. The convent fills with a soft light, and Bobby catches Dean's body as he falls.

Dean groans, struggling to open his eyes.

"This isn't the time for napping, boy. Sam needs you."

Dean's eyes snap open, and he takes in his surroundings - the last of the demons trying and failing to escape, the angels standing guard along the walls. He takes a deep breath, experimentally flexing his fingers.

"Well, that was something for the books," Bobby says, and Dean smirks. The smirk falls immediately at the sight of Ellen and Jo kneeling next to Sam, Castiel and Anna standing beside them. Dean scrambles over, and Ellen shifts so he can kneel at his side.

Sam lays on the ground, eyes closed, breathing labored, his skin pale and cool as Dean clasps one of Sam's hands in his.

"Come on, Sammy, don't give up on me now," Dean whispers. He looks to Castiel imploringly, but Castiel just shakes his head. Anna has tears in her eyes.

"This isn't something I can heal him of, Dean," he says quietly, kneeling down next to both of them. Dean's eyes widen, and he swallows, turning his gaze back to his brother as Castiel whispers, "I am sorry. There is nothing I can do."

Sam is still lying there, too still, just barely breathing, and Dean does something he hasn't done in years - he prays, lips moving frantically over everything he will offer up, everything he'll change if Sam will just open his eyes.

"God, Sammy, please," Dean chokes, not caring that the entire room can see him cry, tears falling onto Sam's cheek, his shirt.

The hand clasped in his moves, fingers squeeze around his, and Sam moans, shifting, eyes fluttering open. "It's Sam," he mutters, and Dean grabs onto Sam's shoulders as his brother sits up, holding on for dear life.

--

Shockingly, Chuck's house still stands, a little worse for wear, but in good enough condition for Sam and Dean to each throw a mattress onto the floor upstairs and fall into bed just after Missouri takes a long look at both of them, makes sure they're both back in once piece.

Sam sleeps fitfully at first, dreams of fire and ash and blood, but Anna swipes a gentle hand across his forehead, and he wakes up two days later, wide awake and rested.

Both Castiel and Anna are gone by the time they make their way down the stairs. Dean smiles wistfully, but Sam isn't surprised they didn't say goodbye - he's sure they'll be seeing them again. There's still a lot of work to be done.

Chuck insists he can no longer hear the angels, isn't sure he will ever have another vision again. He doesn't seem to know whether to be relieved or upset about this fact.

Dean punches him lightly in the arm. "Buck up, Chuck. You still have those Winchester Gospels to write." He grins. Sam rolls his eyes. Missouri slaps him in the shoulder before Sam gets the chance.

Ellen knocks them both upside the head with her right arm, her left arm bandaged tightly and pulled against her side, threatening bodily harm if they don't check in at least once a week. Jo grins, the stitches of the cut on her cheek pulling what must be painfully at the look of shock on Dean's face as he rubs the side of his face.

"Let that be a reminder to you, Dean Winchester," Missouri says, much to Sam's glee. "Now get over here, because God only knows when we'll be seeing you again."

Bobby clasps Dean in a tight hug and mutters, "I'm proud of you, boy. Your father would be, too." Sam shuffles his feet awkwardly in the background until Bobby yanks him forward, and Sam wraps his arms tightly around Bobby's shoulders once he gets over his shock. Sam can feel the press of gauze beneath Bobby’s shirt from where his wound opened up during the battle and Ellen had to stitch him back up. Sam's still shocked they all made it back alive and mostly unharmed - shocked and profoundly grateful.

"Proud of you, too, you knucklehead." He can see Dean practically beaming over Bobby's shoulder.

Sam runs his hand slowly across the hood of the Impala. The metal is hot from the sun trying to push it's way through the clouds all morning. He glances up as Dean leans on the roof of the car and Sam turns to meet his brother's gaze.

Sam doesn't apologize. Neither does Dean. Both of them are still too proud for that, and what they have done goes beyond words. They each have their own making up to do, a fractured and broken relationship that will take time to mend.

For now, Dean opens the door to the Impala and says, "Come on, we're burning daylight."

Sam climbs in on the other side, the squeaky door familiar, beloved, home. He swallows and takes a deep breath, looks at Dean, but recognizes the expression on his face as one that says he is worn out, closed down, and does not want to talk anymore.

Sam swallows down the words, instead says nothing and turns on the radio.

When the opening notes of R.E.M. blare through the speakers, Sam groans, chuckles as he shakes his head.

Dean laughs, head titled back, turns the key in the ignition, and drives off towards the newly setting sun.

End.

End Notes: This was supposed to be a short and simple fic from an AU idea I've had since just about the time the finale aired - the boys were supposed to be split, each piece was about 100-200 words long, and that was that. 1,000-1,500 words, no muss, no fuss.

Then, an actual plot emerged, everyone and their mother wanted a costarring role, and the next thing I knew, I was over 5,000 words in, the pieces were getting longer, more twists kept coming, and there was no end in sight. This fic was written over about two months' time, in out of order parts. I wrote characters I swore up and down I would never write because I was terrified of them (Castiel, Missouri, Anna), characters who took on a personality of their own before my very eyes (Lucifer, Michael), and Sam and Dean - who tore me apart as I tore them apart and put them back together again.

Thank you to my betas for their invaluable input as I wrote and stressed over this fic. Without either of them, this fic never would have been finished ♥

Also, a soundtrack can be found here, for anyone who might be interested.