The Burning Bridge 2/2

[ratherastory]

[Master Post]

[Part 1]

Sam's notes on the doctor himself are frustratingly cryptic, but Dean does at least get the name he wants: Peter Donnelly. It takes a little more digging in the archives at the records office, but eventually he gets the right plot number for where the murdering son of a bitch got buried-bought by his family even if he was a psychopath with a God complex, apparently. There's not much to be done right now, though. It's the middle of the damned day, and desecrating graves in broad daylight is not something Dean is willing to try just yet, not even when Sam's body is on the line. Instead, he calls Bobby.

"And you're only telling me this now?" comes the incredulous response.

"Chill, Bobby, it's been barely a few hours. I was finding out where they buried the douchebag so I can go toast his remains as soon as it's dark," Dean rolls his eyes but keeps his hand up to shield what he's saying from casual eavesdroppers. It's not that he's particularly concerned, especially since he ducked around a corner into a deserted alleyway, but you can never be too careful these days. There's no telling who might be listening anymore. "I just wanted to make sure all our bases were covered, you know? Ask if there's anything I'm missing. I mean, last time I kind of wasn't paying all that much attention to how you fixed the problem."

"Yeah, you were a hot mess, as I recall," Bobby says, not unkindly.

"Bite me, I was infected by a ghost. So am I missing anything?"

"Well, you can never really go wrong with salting and burning, that usually does the trick. Just make sure the ghost ain't anchored by something else. The only way to find that out is if you burn 'im and he sticks around anyway. You figure out why he picked Sam and not you?"

Dean shrugs even though he knows Bobby can't see him. "No idea. It's pretty random, seems to me. A death row inmate, an accountant, a nurse, some random dude from the hospital administration, and now Sam? I got nothin'. It might as well have been me, the only big difference between Sam and me lately is that I've got a soul and he doesn't. Oh, and he's way more OCD and I'm better-looking."

Bobby snorts. "You're cracking jokes now?"

"Better than the alternative," Dean paces along the alley, checks behind him, paces the other way again. "I gotta go, Bobby. I'm gonna check on Sam, go back when it gets dark and torch this sucker."

"You want me to come down?"

Dean hesitates. There's nothing he wants more right now than for Bobby to drop everything and come running, for there to be someone else in this whole mess who's not an angel or a soulless dickbag to talk to. "Nah, we're good. I'll call you later, let you know how it went. Thanks, Bobby."

"You're welcome, kid. Be careful, you hear?"

"Always am," Dean lies.

Sam's fever is up by the time he gets back to the hospital, and the patches of blisters and peeling skin have multiplied. He doesn't respond to Dean's voice at first, so Dean just sits next to his bed and pulls the laptop onto his knees, waiting for him to wake up or for it to get dark out, whichever comes first. Sam's not asleep, but he's not really conscious either, shifting uncomfortably on the bed that's slightly too small for him and murmuring something Dean can't make out under his breath.

Once Dean has well and truly lost track of the time, Sam stirs again, eyes opening. He twists on the bed to look at Dean, eyes still glassy, his expression a little bewildered. Carefully he raises a hand toward his head, rakes his fingers over his scalp, and comes away with a handful of hair.

"Oh," he says softly. "Damn."

"Fuck," Dean is up and out of his chair in a flash. "Sammy?"

That gets him a weird look before he realises his slip of the tongue, but he doesn't acknowledge it and neither does Sam.

"Guess I'm getting worse."

Dean looks out the window to where the sun is only just beginning to creep toward the horizon. "Almost time. The minute I can get out there without being seen, I'm on it, okay? Sam? Hey," he says, when Sam doesn't answer. "You still awake?"

Sam's staring straight ahead though, and doesn't appear to have heard him at all.

"Sam? Shit!"

The next thing Dean knows Sam's eyes have rolled back into his head and his whole body threatens to come off the bed as his back arches.

"Hey! I need somebody in here!" Dean yells, forcing himself not to grab Sam's shoulders to pin him down while he seizes. He knows just enough about first aid with seizures to know not to touch Sam, even though every single other instinct is screaming at him to haul Sam into his arms and never let him go again. "Somebody get a doctor in here!"

The room fills almost instantly with nurses, Dr. Rayner close behind them, pulling her stethoscope from around her neck and barking orders. A moment later Dean finds himself unceremoniously shoved into the hallway and watches helplessly as the doctor draws the curtain around Sam's bed to afford them some privacy.

"Fuck," he says to the nearest wall, then spins on his heel and all but sprints for the elevator. Waiting for sunset be damned, he's going to go dig up the dickbag right now and make him wish he'd never existed.

~*~

It takes a little time for him to gather up his supplies and change into less-recognizable clothes, and by the time he's wandered through all the various plots in the cemetery it's almost dark anyway. Who knew the cemetery was this goddamn big, anyway? It makes no sense. He doesn't bother calling Bobby, just picks up his spade once he's found the headstone he's looking for, and starts digging in earnest.

Digging up a grave is never as easy as they make it look in the movies, especially when the grave is old and the grass has grown in thick and even on top of it. It goes faster with two people, but even then it takes a long damned time, and if you're in the middle of a graveyard with lots of foot traffic, keeping your activities a secret is a damned sight harder. Luckily no one wanted to give the good doctor a burial plot with a view, and so the grave is way at the far end of the lot, which at the very least means Dean doesn't run much risk of discovery.

It takes him the better part of an hour to break through enough of the sod to start digging properly, and by the end he simply kneels on the ground and tears it away in strips. The earth underneath is mercifully relatively loose and not like the solid mounds of clay that they've sometimes had to deal with, but it's still a bitch to shovel. He plants the spade into the ground, shoves it all the way down with his foot, and tries to establish a steady rhythm, wishing not for the first time that Sam was here, or Cas, or Bobby, or anybody who could be his back-up.

Mostly he wishes it was Sam-the real Sam, not the robot version that he's been dragging around with him for the past few months only so that it won't use his brother's body to commit atrocities or contract STDs because this version of Sam doesn't fucking know any better. There are times when he still misses Sam so much it's like a hole has been dug out of his chest where his heart is meant to be, only made worse by the presence of this damned stranger wearing his brother's face.

"Son of a bitch," he stops for a minute to catch his breath, mops the sweat from his forehead. "Burial was too good for you, you psychopath."

It's pitch black by the time his spade hits wood, and he drops to his knees and uses his hands to brush away the dirt from the surface of the coffin, then uses the spade to stab at it repeatedly until the already rotting wood gives way, pries it open, hoists himself back out of the grave in order to retrieve his salt and lighter fluid.

"Burn in hell, dickbag," he says to the dried-up remains beneath him, pouring the salt more than a little generously over the desiccated corpse. He pours out all the lighter fluid too, just for good measure, before lighting a match. "And I actually know what that's like, so it ain't no joke. If you weren't in Hell before, you're definitely going there now. Fucker."

The corpse goes up in a really satisfying way. It'd be more satisfying if Sam were here to witness it with him, but at least this means that Sam's going to live to see the morning. Otherwise, if Dr. Rayner is to be believed, Sam's not going to make it more than another couple of days, and Dean isn't really sure what to make of that, if anything.

He pulls out his phone on the way back, dials the number of the hospital, where he's told that Dr. Rayner has gone home for a few hours of much-needed sleep. "I'll put you through to the on-call doctor."

The minute the strange voice comes over the line Dean is already barking questions. "What's the patients' status?"

"I'm afraid I can't discuss that over the phone," comes the careful answer.

"One of them is my partner, damn it. I'll be back at the hospital in less than an hour, and all I want is a damned update. Can you give me that or do I need to go over your head?"

"I realise that you're upset, but there's not need to take that tone with me," the doctor replies snippily. "I'm afraid that the news is not good-we've had two more deaths since you were last here."

Dean's heart lurches unpleasantly in his chest. "Sam?" he asks quietly, hoping his voice won't betray him.

"He is still alive, I would have told you right away, but I'm afraid Ms. Carter and Mr. Gerard didn't make it. The illness was too severe. Look, I don't want to do this over the phone, but... you must realise as well as I do that your partner is exhibiting symptoms of exposure to a lethal dose of radiation. I'm afraid that no matter what we do..." he trails off.

"Yeah, okay. Give me half an hour, there should be someone with him."

He hangs up before the doctor has a chance to answer, heads back to the motel to wash off the grave dirt and change his clothes, even though every instinct is yelling at him to get back to Sam as soon as he can. He's pulling on his jeans, cursing as they stick to his still-damp skin, when he realises that he should call Bobby, give him an update on how Sam is doing.

"Jesus, boy," is Bobby's reaction. "Why didn't you tell me it was this bad?"

"Oh, I don't know, Bobby, maybe because I've been busy trying to fix this!" Dean snaps, shoving his feet back into his boots, the phone wedged between his ear and shoulders.

"All right, keep your shirt on," Bobby's tone turns soothing-well, as soothing as Bobby ever gets, anyway. "Look, I'm coming down. It ain't that far, maybe a five, six hour drive tops. You hang in there, all right? Tell Sam I'm comin', and tell him not to give up."

Dean takes a deep breath and nods. "Yeah, okay. Thanks, Bobby."

"No problem, kid. You know I won't leave you in the lurch when the chips are down."

And he's pretty much the only one, Dean thinks tiredly as he hangs up. He stays where he is for a moment, allowing himself the brief luxury of feeling every aching muscle, exhausted right down to the marrow of his bones. He doesn't know exactly when their lives got this shitty, that they only have Bobby to count on when they're in trouble anymore. There was a time when they had other allies-Ellen and Jo and Ash, Rufus and Pamela-but apparently allying yourself with the Winchesters is a goddamned curse.

For a second he's tempted to just stay here and wait for Bobby. It's not like the replicant back at the hospital gives a good goddamn about whether or not Dean is there by his bedside to hold his hair back while he pukes, or to watch while his intestines liquefy. This version of his brother doesn't care about anyone, definitely doesn't care about him, no matter what he might say to the contrary. Hell, this version of Sam doesn't know why the old Sam would have pulled that fucking amulet out of the trash and kept it all this time, and didn't care enough to keep it himself, just shoved it out of sight at the bottom of his duffel bag.

On an impulse, Dean gets up and goes over to the bag, unzips it and dumps the contents onto the floor, not caring this time about keeping Sam's things in order. He pulls out the amulet, holds it in his palm again, and wonders just what Sam was thinking when he picked it up from where Dean had thrown it away, what he was thinking keeping it after all this time. That Sam-his Sam-is long gone, though, and it doesn't look like he's ever coming back, especially not if the thing using his body dies.

And for one brief, treacherous moment, Dean finds himself wondering if that might not be for the best after all.

~*~

Sam is awake when Dean gets back to his hospital room, but he doesn't recognize Dean at all. His hands are completely wrapped in gauze, and there are more bandages visible under his hospital gown. More of his hair has fallen out in the meantime, and Dean can see his scalp has turned red and blistered and is even oozing in places.

"How you doing, Sammy?" the nickname slips out again in spite of himself.

Sam turns his head a little bit, and a few strands of hair cling to the pillow, left behind as he moves. Dean tries not to cringe. Christ, maybe death would be a mercy, at this point. "I don't know," he slurs, but Dean gets the impression he never even heard the question. "I'd tell you if I did," he says, confirming Dean's suspicion.

"What don't you know?"

Sam doesn't answer, and Dean lets himself sink into the chair by the bed, rubbing a hand over his mouth as he tries to gather his thoughts. It's fucking unfair, is what it is. Every time he thinks he might be close to getting his brother back, something else happens to yank Sam further out of his reach. Even now, with Sam lying less than a foot away, he might as well be light-years away from where Dean is.

"Seriously, was I a mass murderer in a past life?" he mutters, staring at his hands. He's a little surprised to see he kept the amulet, wound the cord around his wrist without even realizing it. He doesn't remember doing it, but somehow it's comforting to see it there, and he nudges it further up on his wrist so that the amulet itself rests nestled in the palm of his hand, warm and a little reassuring just by the mere fact of its existence.

He looks up at the ceiling, then. "Hey, um, Cas? I don't know if you're really busy or whatever but... Sam's dying. I'm kind of running out of time, here. I don't even know if you can help, or what but I could really use..." he doesn't bother finishing his sentence.

For a while he stays silent, hands clasped between his knees. "Bobby will be here in the morning," he tells Sam's unresponsive form. "We'll look into it again, I swear. I mean, if it's ghost fever, then all we need to do is figure out how to destroy whatever it is that... God, I don't know. I don't know how this sort of thing works. Guess I should have paid better attention to what you were doing, but I was sort of too busy nearly dying. I never really said thank you for that either, did I? You must have been pretty goddamned worried, if what I'm feeling is anything to go by. Sam?"

Sam doesn't answer, but his lips are moving silently, talking to someone or something Dean can't see.

"I don't even know why this ghost picked you, you know?"

This time he hears Cas' arrival, a quiet gust of air in the doorway. "I didn't know," are the first words out of his mouth as he comes into the room. Dean decides not to point out that he totally used the door this time, and why can't he always do it? Cas comes to stand next to Sam's bed, both hands on the railing, and looks down at him, expression unreadable.

"Can you-can you heal him?" Dean asks, scarcely allowing himself to hope. Except he must have been holding out some hope because his stomach drops when Cas shakes his head.

"This is of supernatural origin, and almost entirely outside of my power. I can try, but at best I will be prolonging his life for a few hours."

Dean nods. "Do it. Please. Even a few hours is better than nothing." Or a few hours might just be prolonging Sam’s suffering, but he’s not quite ready to let this thing run its course. Not when there’s still a ghost of a chance he might be able to get his Sam back.

"Very well."

Dean gets up and paces across the room and back, fiddling with the amulet in his hands. "I don't know what to do anymore, Cas. I torched the remains, but there's something else going on here, something that's keeping him sick. What the hell am I supposed to do? I can't even tell how this goddamned psychotic ghost even picked his victims. I mean, the only thing they all had in common is that they were all varying levels of dicks without much of a conscience while they were alive. But it's not like it's Sam's fault he has no soul," he exclaims, tempted to kick the foot of Sam's bed out of frustration.

"True," Cas says, and something in his voice makes Dean look up sharply. He's only seen that expression on Cas' face a handful of times, but he knows it means that Cas is hiding something from him.

"Something you want to share, Cas?"

"No," Castiel shakes his head to emphasize his words. "It's bears no relevance to the situation at hand."

Dean gives him a flat look. "Yeah, are you lying to me, Cas?"

"I promise you, it has no relevance."

"But you are keeping something from me. Cas, come on, throw me a bone, here. Is it about Sam's soul? It is, isn't it?" he insists when Cas won't meet his gaze. "Cas, you can't keep this from me if you've found something out! Don't you trust me?"

"It's not that," Cas says. "It would serve no purpose to tell you what I know, it would only be damaging. It will not help us recover Sam's soul, nor will it help us to find a cure for his current condition."

"For fuck's sake!" Dean turns away, throwing his hands up, but he keeps his voice down to a heated whisper, at least trying to be mindful of the other patients in this wing, of Sam lying far too still in his bed even though he's probably beyond hearing them at this point. "Cas, whatever it is, I promise I won't be mad, okay? Okay, no, I don't promise that, but I promise I won't be mad forever. Come on, we've been helping you, haven't we?" He knows how desperate he sounds, but he can't bring himself to care at this point. "You can't know for sure this won't help, can you? Please!"

Cas leans further over Sam's bed, and places a hand on the top of his head. He closes his eyes, and for a moment a hushed stillness falls over the room, as though all its occupants are holding their breath. Then Sam stirs on the bed. He opens his eyes, frowns a little bit when he makes out what's directly in front of him.

"Cas?"

"I am here, Sam," Cas says. "Dean wishes me to impart something, and I will respect his wishes, but as it affects you too I must ask if you, too, wish to hear it."

"Are you doing this?" Sam's gaze flickers toward Dean, and he looks lost and even a little frightened, which is more than Dean knows how to deal with.

"No, Sam. This is the result of a spirit, not divine intervention. Do you remember?"

"I remember. Hurts, though," Sam murmurs.

"Cas, if we're caring and sharing, now's the time," Dean prompts.

Dean has never seen Castiel steel himself for anything before, but there's no mistaking that's what he's doing. He keeps both hands on the rail of Sam's bed, gripping it tightly, though not quite enough to break or bend it, looks down at the floor for a moment, then looks up again and turns to face Sam directly.

"Sam, it was I who raised you from perdition."

~*~

"What?" Dean is the first to recover, but he still can't wrap his mind around what he's hearing. "Cas, what are you talking about?"

Castiel doesn't answer for a moment, and Sam breaks in, voice even weaker than before. "No offense, Cas, but you kind of botched the job."

"I know, and I am sorry for it," Cas says, still looking only at Sam, like he can't bear to even turn and face Dean. "When -when God brought me back, not only hale and whole again but more powerful than ever before, I thought... I became arrogant, and I thought I knew what God's purpose for me was. I thought that it was unjust that you should suffer unending torment because of your bravery and selflessness, and so I descended into Hell to find you. It took over ten years for us to reach you," he says to Dean, though he still won't quite look him in the eye, "and that was with an entire garrison of angels. It was sheer hubris that made me think that I could descend to the furthest depths of Hell alone, unaided, and simply pluck Sam from Lucifer's clutches."

"Cas..." Dean's voice catches and breaks. The words that were on the tip of his tongue disappear entirely, and Castiel keeps talking as though he never spoke.

"It never occurred to me that your soul might remain if I brought your body back to the surface with me. I only realised that something was terribly wrong once we had already breached the borders of this realm, and you did not immediately return to Dean. And... although I suspected, it was not until I tried to sense the soul within you and found none that my suspicions were confirmed. I never at all sensed that your soul remained within the Cage with Lucifer. If I had, I promise I would not have left it behind. I was convinced that you were whole."

"Guess not," Sam manages. It sounds like it hurts him to talk.

"Evidently, and... I am sorry for it, truly."

Cas does sound sorry. Actually, he looks absolutely fucking destroyed, and that's probably the only thing preventing Dean from emptying an entire clip's worth of ammunition into him. Well, that and the fact that he didn't bother carrying a piece into the hospital.

"Fucking hell, Cas!"

Castiel does turn to look at him now. "I'm sorry. I meant only to help."

"I hate to break it to you, Cas, but this is one hell of a fuck-up," Dean snaps. "You... fuck, Cas, he threw himself into Hell to save the world, and you-you let him wander around without a soul for nearly two years? More importantly, you knew-you knew he was alive and you never so much as bothered to tell me?" He turns away, stalks to the door, comes back. "Nothing, for a whole year?"

"Sam told Bobby he didn't wish to disrupt your new life," Cas says a little desperately.

"Eavesdropper," Sam murmurs, which, okay, it makes Dean feel a little better that Cas wasn't talking to everyone except for him during that year.

"I thought you were happy," Cas takes a step toward him, away from Sam's bed, but stops when Dean jerks back, unwilling to let him get any closer just yet. "I thought you finally had the life you wanted for yourself, and... I thought you would be hurt by this-damaged-version of your brother."

"Bullshit," Dean snaps. "Admit you were just too chickenshit to come and tell me how badly you fucked up. After everything, everything we've been through, are you seriously telling me that you didn't trust me enough to come to me with this? You had to hide what you did?"

Cas looks away again, and that's the last straw. Dean crosses the narrow distance between them and grabs him by the wrist. Cas could easily snap his neck if he wanted to, but Dean is counting on the fact that he won't.

"Come on, Cas, you at least owe me an explanation!"

Instead,, Cas starts as though Dean's just electrocuted him. His eyes grow wide, the blue even more startling this close up, and he looks down at where Dean's fingers are wrapped around his forearm, the little bronze amulet brushing agains his skin.

"Where did you get that?"

"Sam had it in his bag. What the hell, Cas? Hey," he tries to pull away, but in the time it's taken him to even utter the words Castiel has reversed their positions and is now gripping his arm so tightly it hurts. "Ow, Cas! Let go!"

Instantly Castiel releases him. "My apologies," he says even as he slips the amulet off Dean's wrist, holding it in his hand, unwittingly mirroring Dean's earlier pose, just out of Dean's reach. "It's warm," he says, with not a little wonder in his tone.

"Doesn't that mean that we're near God?"

"I don't know. I don't think so," Cas confesses. "It grew somewhat colder when I took it from you. I think, rather... Here," he holds it out to Sam, lays it gently in his bandaged hand. "Do you feel that?"

Sam's eyes have drifted closed, but he rallies a little. "'s warm," he murmurs. "Like when I was wearing it. Thought it was always like that."

"No. It was always cold when I had it with me and, I believe, when Dean used to wear it. This is a new occurrence."

Dean reaches out carefully to brush just one finger against the amulet loosely clasped in Sam's hand and has to bite back a gasp of surprise when he feels just how hot it is. "It's a lot hotter now. What does it mean?" he asks, completely forgetting that less than two minutes ago he was ready to punch Cas into next week.

"I―think it might be Sam's soul," Cas says, and the wonder in his voice has only grown. "I think that, somehow, it's housed in this, at least temporarily."

"You're kidding me."

Sam's fingers curl around the amulet protectively. "He might be right. I dunno, but it feels familiar..."

"Sam, are you sure?" It all feels a little unreal, after all this time, to think that they might have been carrying Sam's soul around at the bottom of his goddamned duffel bag. Typical, Dean thinks. "Sam?"

Sam forces his eyes open. "'m thirsty," he rasps, and Dean reaches for the cup of ice chips on the table by his bed, holds a spoonful to his lips.

"Are you sure it's right?"

Sam swallows another spoonful of ice chips before answering. "Dunno. I'm not even sure of my name right now, to be honest. Can't think straight."

"So, can you put it back in him, if it's his soul?"

Castiel looks perplexed for a moment. "I don't think it's within my power to simply―put it back in, as you say. But, perhaps a ritual of some kind? A binding, maybe. But Sam would have to be a willing participant―give his consent."

That gives Dean pause. It's not like Sam has been all that enthusiastic about the notion of getting back his soul after it was all screwed up in Hell. Sam seems to read his mind.

"Didn't you say it might kill me?"

"When I thought it had spent all that time in the Cage with Lucifer. But if it came with you, trapped in the amulet, when I first brought you out, then there is no reason to suppose that it is any more damaged than when it went in."

"So it's safe?" Dean asks, trying not to betray how relieved he is.

Cas tilts his head. "Inasmuch of anything of this nature is safe. But I would have to devise a ritual, and we would likely need help. These things are complex, and Sam will not be able to assist us much in the ritual itself."

"Bobby's already on his way. He'll be here in a few hours. That give you enough time to figure something out?"

"I can try."

"That settles it, then," Dean practically feels like sobbing in relief, except that there'll be time for that later. "I mean, you want this, right Sam? Sam?" Sam's eyes are closed again, and this time he doesn't respond when Dean gives his arm a careful shake. "Sam, come on. Hey, we need to know you're on board, here. Sam? Fuck!"

"He's unconscious," Cas tells him, entirely unnecessarily. "There is no guarantee this will work," he cautions him again. "And the damage to his body may be too extensive to repair. You said that the spirit targeted him because of his lack of empathy?"

Dean holds up his hands in a gesture of impotence. "Maybe? It's the best theory I've got so far, and the other victims are all dead. I have pretty much nothing to go on except the hope that shoving his soul back inside him will give him a fighting chance. And if not... at least he'll have his soul for a little while, at least."

~*~

By the time Bobby gets there the first rays of dawn are coming through the window of the hospital room, and Sam is still unconscious. Bobby comes up behind Dean's chair, startling him a little when he puts both hands on his shoulders and squeezes comfortingly.

"How's he doin'?"

Dean shakes his head. "He had another seizure about an hour ago. They're talking intubation, but there doesn't seem to be much point. The doctor says he's going to slip into a coma soon and then he, uh, he just won't wake up again," he says, and is proud that his voice doesn't shake a damned bit.

"I'm sorry, boy."

"No, we're not giving up yet," Dean says. "There aren't any other cases of this, which means I got the bastard good when I torched the remains. We just-we just need to fix Sam, and Cas thinks he can do it. It's because he has no soul right now, right? So when we get it back-"

"Dean, boy," Bobby interrupts gently. "You really think you're going to get it back sometime in the next few hours?"

Dean's eyes are burning from fatigue and unshed tears, but he holds up the amulet and dangles it in front of Bobby's face. "He had it with him the whole time, stupid robot asshole. He never said anything. Sam kept it after-after I got rid of it. God only knows why, if it had been me and he'd done something like that I probably would have left it where he dropped it."

"You ain't makin' sense."

"No, I understand that," Dean rubs at his eyes. He's so damned tired. "I... Cas thinks it's Sam's soul, trapped in here," he closes his fist around the amulet. "I don't even know how, but it was the only thing that came out of Hell with him. Maybe it's because we're soul-mates, you know? We were always supposed to be together, and the necklace was the only thing Sam had down there in the Cage that was still connected to me. It's just a theory-I got more questions than answers, to be perfectly honest with you."

"You think your angel will be able to explain it better?"

"He's not my angel," Dean says mutinously. "And no, probably not. I barely understand it when he talks. Mind you, you speak Japanese, so you might have an edge. He's trying to come up with a binding ritual for this. If Sam were here he'd be all over this. It's the kind of thing he used to love messing around with, you know?"

"Yeah, all right. You think he might need help?"

Dean lifts one shoulder to show just how much he knows about that. "Worth asking him, I guess. I think he's using the motel room as a base of operations. I gotta stay here, Bobby. In case... uh, in case it doesn't work, or... if we're too late. I know it's not Sam, not right now, but... I don't know, I don't want him to be alone, you know?"

Bobby pats his shoulder. "I know. No one should have to die alone. It ain't wrong to sit with him, even if he ain't exactly like the brother you remember."

Sam hasn't so much as twitched in the last hour or so, but his breathing's getting more laboured, the beeping of the heart rate monitor increasingly erratic. Dean wants nothing more than to grab the hand that's lying nearest him on the bed and simply hang on and never let go, except that it might hurt Sam and he can't bring himself to do that.

"You know, I always thought he didn't have any feelings at all," he says quietly. "It was easier to think of him that way, like he's not a person at all. But he was scared, Bobby. I saw it with my own eyes. He was afraid, just like anyone else when you tell them they're probably going to die. It's why he didn't want his soul back."

"I could have told you that," Bobby remarks, but he manages not to make it sound like the rebuke it should be.

"I think you did tell me, I just wasn't listening," Dean sighs, fiddling with the edge of the sheet on Sam's bed. "It's just that he didn't care about other people, didn't care about me―and that's what was so hard to take, you know? I just-I waited so long to get him back, and he acted like I didn't matter at all, and it made me so goddamned angry. Shit, I don't know."

"You boys do have a knack for gettin' yourselves tied up in knots over each other for no good reason," Bobby says, voice uncharacteristically gruff. "I tell you one thing, even without a soul, your brother still valued you more than anyone else in the world. It's why he wouldn't let any of us tell you he was alive. 'Course, I didn't know that at the time, but it don't take a genius to figure out that he never wanted you to know he wasn't right."

Dean twists a little in his chair to look up at him. "Bobby, he let me get turned by a vampire."

"Well, think about it from the perspective of a man who ain't got a soul. Humour me," Bobby says when Dean gives him a skeptical look. "No empathy means he doesn't care about how you feel, but he does care about your safety. Otherwise he'd have just left you to be killed by those djinn all those months ago. He knew there was an antidote, so he made the decision based on that."

"God, that is so twisted I don't even know where to begin."

"I know it don't make much sense, boy, but I'd take heart, anyway. It means that, somewhere in there, your brother still loves you."

~*~

It's nearly seven o'clock in the morning when Castiel returns. "Is there any change?"

"No, none. Well, if you count getting incrementally worse, then I guess maybe there is," Dean says. "Please tell me you've got good news."

Cas goes to stand next to Sam's bed, places a hand on his forehead again, apparently concentrating on something. "Bobby has been assisting me in my research. We think we have come up with a ritual that will allow Sam's soul to reintegrate his body, but it requires some fine-tuning. You are right," he says abruptly, removing his hand from Sam's head. "His condition has deteriorated since I was last here."

"Tell me something I don't know."

Castiel pauses to look at him, tilting his head. "Was that a rhetorical statement, or do you wish me to instruct you in something about which you know nothing?"

"Rhetorical statement, Cas. But thanks anyway. You're getting better at spotting those," Dean offers by way of a token compliment, but Cas brightens perceptibly.

"Thank you."

"So how long until you and Bobby have fine-tuned this ritual of yours, do you think?"

"A few more hours. We have found some texts that are proving invaluable in our research."

"Where the hell did you get access to texts? We never got around to the local library here, but occult texts aren't exactly run-of-the-mill in these places."

"I simply transported us both there and back here."

"Of course you did," Dean pinches the bridge of his nose.

"I thought that I might do the same with Sam, but I fear he may be too weak by then. I don't wish to place any additional strain on him, given how much of an ordeal the binding ritual may end up being for him."

"How dangerous is it?"

Castiel looks worried. His expression doesn't change much, but Dean flatters himself that he knows his friend well enough to be able to tell when he's worried. "Very dangerous, I suspect. Manipulating that much energy and simply transferring it into such a fragile vessel..."

"Whoa. What do you mean, 'that much energy?' What sort of energy are we talking, here?"

Castiel gives him a considering look. "I forget how little you know, sometimes."

"I'll try not to take that personally," Dean glances at Sam, just to make sure he's still breathing. "Educate me, here, Cas. What energy?"

"From Sam's soul. Each soul is like... like a small nuclear reactor. It's an improper simile, but it will suffice for the purposes of my explanation. It contains the potential to unleash a tremendous amount of energy. It's why souls are so prized, you understand, why demons make deals to obtain them. It's why Raphael is currently winning the war in Heaven-he has more souls on his 'side,'" Cas actually raises his hands to make quotation marks in the air, and Dean has to stifle a laugh.

"What, you mean it's like having an arsenal of nukes? Mutual assured destruction and all that?"

"It's a close enough analogy. Souls are extremely volatile-they are not meant to be used in any way other than to inhabit a human body and give it life the way no other creature in God's creation has."

"Makes sense. So... what are the risks?"

"A soul needs to be handled with care. If not, it can-well, it can explode."

Dean feels his eyes grow wide. "As in, kaboom?"

"Precisely."

"How big an explosion are we talking, here? I mean, any explosion is bad, but... what sort of collateral damage are we talking about if this little experiment goes bad?" Cas does that uncomfortable squirmy thing he does when he's thinking about keeping something from Dean. "Come on, Cas, level with me. What's on your mind?"

"If something were to go wrong... you understand that not all souls are created equal?"

Dean refrains from rolling his eyes. "No, Cas," he says patiently. "I don't understand that at all. How about you explain it to me?"

The angel appears to be fumbling for his words. "What it means is that... while most souls are roughly equal in potency, and each is priceless in terms of its value in the eyes of our Father, there are a few souls which have far more latent power than the rest. Sam's is one of those. So is yours."

"Ours? Why? Is it because we're vessels?"

"Partly," Cas confirms. "It also has to do with how you have lived your lives, with your own strength of character, and with forces that were put into motion thousands of years before you were even born. It's difficult to explain. Suffice it to say that, if I mishandle Sam's soul, the results might be disastrous."

"Okay, then," Dean breathes. "So, we're going to do this very, very carefully?"

"Very gingerly,"comes the agreement. "I will also require your permission with regards to your own soul."

"I'm sorry, what?"

"Bobby explained your hypothesis that Sam's soul was bound into the amulet because it was the only thing of you that was contained in the Cage along with him. I think you were right, and that has given me reason to believe that your soul may prove to be the crucial element that will allow us to remove Sam's from the amulet and allow it to return to its proper vessel."

"Uh-huh." Dean's pretty sure he has no idea what the hell Cas is going on about. "So... what does that mean?"

"I need you to let me touch it."

"Touch it?"

"Touch it," Cas nods. "I promise to be very gentle."

"It didn't look all that gentle when you shoved your hand right into Sam's ribcage and felt around in there. Is it going to be like that?"

"Not exactly."

Dean lets his head drop into the palm of his hand. "But if we don't do it, then Sam dies."

"Yes."

He takes a deep breath. "All right, then, let's do it."

~*~

There's a ridiculously long list of supplies to obtain for the ritual, even if, from what Dean can tell, it mostly sounds like Castiel is going to shove his hand right into Dean's sternum and use himself as a conduit for Sam's soul to come out of the amulet. Even though he wants nothing more than to stay right next to Sam until the last possible minute, even Cas and Bobby can't gather everything as fast as if he helps them, so Dean reluctantly drags himself away from the hospital with a promise to come back as soon as possible.

Castiel tries to reassure him that Sam is still okay enough to hang on for the little amount of time that it'll take in order to prepare for the ritual, but it's not like Cas is infallible, and Dean can't help but worry that he's wrong this time, that he's going to come back and find that Sam has gone, without anyone there to be with him. He blinks away the sudden image of Sam standing in the muddy street in Cold Oak, sinking to his knees just a fraction of a second before Dean can get to him... the terrible, rattling exhale that signed his death. He can't think about that now, he tells himself sharply. Sam isn't going to die, not today, and not on his watch. Not if they can finish this ritual.

He tries to hurry, but sometimes these things can't be hurried, and Dean isn't sure that he's not going to lose his mind at the end of all of this. By the time he gets back to the hospital room with a couple of plastic bags full of stuff that he really hopes no one will ask about, it's well into the early afternoon.

"We should wait until twilight," Castiel says. "It's only a few hours more, but the time is better for a ritual such as this. If we had a little more time, I would suggest even waiting until just before sunrise, when the power flow would be waxing instead of waning, but all we truly require is that it be in flux."

"Am I supposed to know what you're talking about?"

Bobby interjects. "I can explain, if you'd like."

Dean shakes his head. "Thanks anyway. Maybe later. Right now, I don't think anything you say would come out sounding like English to me anyway. You sure we can wait?"

Castiel nods. "We must. To perform the ritual now would be too dangerous, even by the low standards we have set for ourselves. Don't worry, Sam is resilient. He will stay strong until tonight."

Dean nods, rubs a hand over his mouth. "Should we start setting up? I mean, it's in a few hours, but there's a lot of stuff here. Maybe we should get a head start on the rest of it."

"Might not be a bad idea," Bobby interjects. "We could start by smudging the place, get it cleansed. It won't hurt, and the sooner we can start, the sooner we'll be able to help Sam."

As if sensing that they're talking about him, Sam shifts on the bed with a low moan, and Dean moves up. "Sam? How you doing, dude? You hanging in there?"

Sam stirs a little, features pulling into a frown of pain, but he doesn't open his eyes. Dean smooths a hand over his head, comes away with a handful of his hair and winces before dropping it into the small waste basket by the bed. "Damn it. I'm sorry, Sammy. We're trying to fix this, but it's going to take some doing. I know you're somewhere in there, and that you do want this, on some level. I swear, we get this done, you'll be fine. Cas was wrong about your soul, Sammy, it's just fine. It's been up here with you the whole time, you hear me?" he says softly, leaning down in order to speak directly in Sam's ear. "That means Lucifer never got his filthy hands on it, and you're safe. I promise, we'll keep you safe."

Bobby clears his throat. "Give an old man's heart a break, would you, boy? Come help me pour some salt lines or something."

"Yeah, okay," Dean nods, tearing himself away from the bed. "What do I do?"

"Would have been better if we could do this elsewhere," Bobby mutters. "But I guess beggars can't be choosers."

"If I could, I would have chosen a more suitable venue," Cas says. "But I dare not risk moving Sam in his present condition. The strain would be too great."

"All right, enough jabbering," Bobby jerks his head at Dean. "Sooner we start, the sooner we'll be done."

It's actually sort of soothing to lose himself in the preparations for a ritual. It's familiar territory, even if the ritual itself is new. There are herbs to burn, chalk lines to draw on the ground, sigils to make. Dean's been in the game long enough to know that most of it is for show, the trappings just a way to get the human mind to focus properly in order to channel all the necessary energy to complete the ritual successfully. It's not so much the components themselves, but the intent behind them, which is why black magic components are always gross and creepy (he'll never really get over the cat-killing thing), and regular magic components are new age hippy-sounding crap like herbs and crystals and whatever. He consoles himself with the thought that Cas knows what he's doing, including warding the room door so that the hospital staff just sort of… forget it’s there, at least for the time being. By the time he and Bobby are done, he’s feeling a lot less like his heart is trying to climb its way out of his body through his mouth.

He glances at Sam, still motionless on the bed, rubs his hand over his mouth. "We doing this, or what? You need me to block the door or something?"

"That won't be necessary," Cas tells him. "I will ensure we are not interrupted."

Dean has never really liked being on the receiving end of stuff like this, but he finds being a passive participant isn't exactly all it's cracked up to be, either. Bobby's left to read out the incantation in Enochian-annoyingly, Cas claims his accent is better-while Cas rolls up his sleeve in a gesture that's worryingly similar to the one that preceded him driving his fist right into Sam's sternum.

"I really hope you're not about to―oh, God," Dean slams his eyes shut and braces himself when Cas does exactly that.

It hurts like nothing Dean has ever experienced before, including the forty years he spent in Hell. He remembers Alastair setting him on fire simply to watch his flesh melt off his bones, and this feels a thousand times worse, like the fire is burning him from the inside out. He barely has time to draw breath to scream before light flares behind his eyelids, so bright that it floods out all remaining thought. Then, blessedly, everything goes dark again.

When he comes to, the first thing he's aware of is just how cold, hard, and really uncomfortable the floor is. He shifts, is surprised when his fingers brush against the rough fabric of a carpet. He forces his eyes open, blinking against the light.

"Ow." His eyes focus just long enough to identify Castiel kneeling next to him on the floor. "Sam okay?"

"He's alive," Cas confirms. "For now, at least."

Cas props him up, and Dean has to bite back a groan. They're at Bobby's, up in the bedroom he's always shared with Sam whenever they come here. Better than the motel, he thinks groggily. At least Cas moved them somewhere familiar.

"God, everything hurts. D’ it work?" he tries to get up, ends up listing against Cas' chest and just stays there for a second. Just until he catches his breath, he tells himself. Besides, Cas is kind of comfortable.

"I believe so," Cas doesn't appear to mind that Dean is using him as a buttress. "We won't know for certain until Sam wakens, and I don't think we should force him. He's still weak, the shock of waking prematurely might prove too much."

"Okay," Dean agrees easily. "Why are we here? I mean, not that I mind, but..." he flaps a hand, indicating their surroundings.

"Bobby suggested that remaining at the hospital would be too risky, especially if Sam begins to recover quickly. His condition would normally have been fatal. Bobby has remained behind, and said he would arrange to have the rest of your things brought over soon. Can you get up?"

"Yeah, Cas, sure," Dean nods, even though it makes his head throb, but his legs don't work quite the way he remembers them working. "Crap."

Cas pulls him to his feet, braces him while the feeling returns to his legs and the pounding in his head recedes back down to a dull ache. Sam is lying on the bed, feet hanging off the end the way they always do when he and Dean stay here, because that bed's been too small for him since he was eighteen years old. He looks the same as in the hospital, still swathed in bandages, hair missing in large clumps, but he's breathing more easily than he has in days and looks as though he's no longer in pain. Dean staggers toward the bed on legs that still refuse to hold him up properly until Cas shoves a chair at him. He drops into it with a sigh of relief, carefully places his hand on top of one of Sam's bandaged ones.

"I will return to check on you as soon as I can," Cas surprises him by laying a hand on his shoulder-a gesture that's startlingly human. "There are matters that I must attend to right now."

There's a familiar gust of wind, and suddenly Dean is alone in the room with his unconscious brother. "Sammy?"

Predictably enough, there's no answer. So Dean slides down in the chair until he's a little more comfortable, and settles in to wait.

~*~

Dean's back has seized up in a really unpleasant way when he wakens again, sprawled awkwardly over Sam's bed, head pillowed on his arms, ankles wrapped uncomfortably around his chair legs. He blinks, eyes adjusting to the darkness in the room, trying to figure out what woke him. A quiet moan from the bed answers that question not half a second later.

"Sammy?" He reaches over to switch on the light, squinting as it threatens to blind him, and immediately regrets it when Sam flinches away, head jerking back on his pillow. "Hey, take it easy, it's just me."

"Dean?" Sam sounds like he's been gargling with broken glass. "What―"

Dean carefully puts a hand on top of Sam's bandaged one to keep him from doing anything too stupid, like try to get up. "How you doing, Sammy? You remember anything?"

For all he knows, it's not really Sam. The ritual might not have worked at all, and this might be exactly the same guy as before, dragging his brother's body into death with him. The amulet is lying on the side table, glinting dully in the light from the lamp he just switched on. It's stone cold to the touch when Dean brushes his fingers against it. Sam opens his mouth, throat working, and only manages a pained croak.

"Okay, hang on, I'll get you some water." Dean stumbles to the bathroom on shaky legs, but just the act of moving gets the circulation going in his limbs, and the stiffness in his back loosens with every step. By the time he gets back with a full glass, he feels almost human again. "Can you sit up if I help you?"

Sam nods, so he carefully slides a hand under his shoulders to prop him up, is pleased when Sam does most of the work of sitting up by himself. The water's gone in seconds, in spite of Dean's repeated attempts to get him to go slowly. Sam stares at his hands, still wrapped in so many bandages he looks like a mummy.

"What'd you do?" he asks, and Dean's heart sinks.

"You don't remember? We did a ritual..."

Sam shakes his head. "You promised. You promised you wouldn't try to get me back."

Dean is going to have a heart attack before he hits thirty-five, the way it keeps trying to leap into his mouth. "No-no, that's not it. That's not it. Sammy, Sam, you were already back. You were already back, don't you remember? We just... you... I don't know where to start. You wouldn't let me get turned by a vampire, would you?" his eyes sting, and he has to swallow a sudden lump in his throat.

Sam slumps against him a little, still obviously exhausted. "Not making any sense," he mutters, letting his head rest on Dean's shoulder. "What's wrong with you?"

Dean huffs a laugh. "Absolutely nothing. You feeling okay?"

"Tired. How'd I get back?" Sam's already slurring his words.

"Cas got you out. He kind of screwed it up, though, but it's fixed now."

"Cas is alive?" Sam jerks a little, twisting in his arms, then hisses as the movement pulls at his still-blistering skin. "I saw Michael kill him... right before Lucifer... God, Dean, I'm so sorry."

"Hey, hey, no, none of that," Dean tightens his hold. "We're all fine, you hear me? All of us, every single one. Me, Cas, Bobby, everyone's fine, we're all still here." He smooths a hand over Sam's head, winces a little when he comes away with another handful of hair, sparser than before. "Come on, let's get you lying down again. We'll catch you up later, once you've had some sleep."

Sam lets himself be eased back onto his pillow just as a familiar rustle of wings sounds just behind Dean's chair. "Cas?"

Dean doesn't look away from where he's tugging the blankets back up over Sam's chest. "Welcome back. You dealt with your Heaven thing?"

"For now. Raphael's forces are in retreat."

"How'd you manage that? I thought you were outgunned up there?"

Cas lets out a sound that's perilously close to an uncomfortable cough. "They may have been led to believe that I had Sam's soul with me. I am afraid the deception will be short-lived, however. How are you feeling, Sam?"

Sam tries to sit up again until Dean loses patience and holds him down with one hand on his chest. "Uh, confused, mostly. What's my soul got to do with anything?"

"Long story," Dean interrupts before Cas can launch into an explanation Sam's already too exhausted to process. "Short version: souls are kind of like weapons of mass destruction where Heaven's concerned, and yours is extra special. It's not important right now."

"Huh." Sam nods, eyes closing. "Hey, Cas..."

"Yes?" Castiel moves to lean over the bed, and Sam makes a visible effort to stay awake.

"If it'll help-you can use my soul, if you want. For your-thing. I want to help. 's my fault it all went wrong..."

"It's not your fault," Cas says sharply, and even Dean flinches at his tone. Cas must notice, because his voice is softer when he speaks again. "The blame for this doesn't lie with you, but nonetheless, I appreciate your offer, Sam." Cas takes a breath, as though he's about to say something else, then visibly changes his mind, closing his mouth again.

"What is it?" Dean nudges him, but Cas just shakes his head.

"Nothing of import. I'm sorry to leave you again so soon, but I... have something I must attend to immediately. I am sorry, though."

Somehow, Dean doesn't think he's apologising for leaving. "What for?"

To his surprise, Cas smiles at him a little sadly. "For forgetting my true allies for a time. I have to go. There are some important changes I need to make. I will be back as soon as I can."

"It's still creepy, how he does that," Dean says when he's gone, and Sam huffs a laugh.

"Nice, though, that he's still here." He shifts his weight in the bed, clearly uncomfortable.

"You need anything? More water?"

Sam shakes his head and doesn't answer. He opens his eyes, gaze flicking over to the little bronze pendant on the night table, and still says silent, though he doesn't try to go back to sleep. Dean isn't sure he gets it, but he does know one way to try to fix this. He picks up the pendant, holds it up so that it catches the light.

"This what you wanted?"

"Thought I lost it," Sam answers, but he shakes his head anyway.

"Guess not," Dean tries to smile at him and only half succeeds.

He swallows hard, reaches up to pull the pendant back over his head, feels it settle comfortably in the hollow at the base of his neck just above his breastbone, nestled where it always belonged. Sam's watching him carefully, expression guarded even under the bandages. Dean eases himself back into his chair, drops his hand back over Sam's.

"Get some sleep. We'll deal with the rest of it in the morning. No," he shakes his head when Sam opens his mouth to protest. "I'm not going anywhere, promise," he says, and that does the trick.

Sam settles back with a small sigh, and within minutes he's asleep, breathing peacefully. Dean allows himself a smile, then, and smooths a hand over Sam’s forehead, where the skin is beginning to heal.

“Sleep tight, Sammy.”

~END~