#sam!whump

Sam remembered their last Chicago case. Of course he did. The city had been quiet for years though. It might still be overrun by monsters, but then, apparently that was true everywhere. He told Dean so, then said, “Taking Jack isn’t exactly going without backup. Besides, we’re not going to be hunting.”

Dean grumbled under his breath.

Sam rolled his eyes. It wasn’t like he’d been asking permission. Asking for Dean’s opinion, maybe. Letting Dean know he would be gone for a few days, definitely. But not asking permission, and Dean knew it.

“Fine. Check-in every few hours though, or I’ll bring the cavalry.”

“Once a day, unless there’s trouble, jerk.”

“Bitch.”

Sam smiled and left to go pack.

 Convincing Dean had been one thing, but Sam wasn’t sure where to start with Jack. He’d been distant since they’d returned from Apocalypse World. Sam didn’t know how much of it was because he’d lost Lucifer and how much was just him avoiding Sam. Because it was just Sam he’d been avoiding. Dean and Cass had been teaching Jack to hunt, and while Sam was always there, ready to help however Jack needed him, Jack just…didn’t. He went to Dean or Cass first. It stung, but Sam supposed they were the logical choices, after all.

Sometimes Sam thought he was imagining it. They would all be together, and Jack would be utterly normal with him. No one else seemed to notice anything either. But Sam would. He’d catch a glance or a look from Jack that made his heart sink. Like he wasn’t really part of Jack’s family anymore.

So, maybe he was being selfish, hoping Jack would open up to him if they went on a road trip together. But hey, it had always worked for him and Dean. You know, eventually.

Sam rapped his knuckles lightly against Jack’s door. “Can I come in?” he asked.

Upon hearing Jack’s affirmative, he pushed open the door to reveal Jack slumped on the bed poking at Sam’s laptop. He looked every bit the sullen teenager, though Sam knew better.

“Hey,” he started. “I’m thinking of taking a trip for a few days. How would you feel about seeing Chicago with me?”

Jack looked up, eyes narrowed. “What are we hunting?”

Sam shook his head. “Nothing. There’s a festival I want to go to, and I thought you’d like to come with me.”

“A…festival?” Jack said, slowly.

“Yeah, a celebration. With food and street vendors. There’s a parade on the last day.” Sam shifted awkwardly, feeling uncomfortably large in the small room.

“Is Dean going?”

Sam tried not to let his disappointment show. Of course Jack would ask about Dean. “No. He really doesn’t enjoy big cities much these days. He and Cass are staying here.” He sighed, letting it turn into an embarrassed laugh. “I just thought it would be fun. Never mind. Have a good night, Jack.”

Sam turned to go, prepared to make a hasty retreat to his room.

“Wait, Sam.” He heard Jack call out before he could clear the door. He half-turned, acknowledging Jack with a quirk of his eyebrow. “I’d like to go with you.”

Sam smiled. “Great. Then pack a bag. We’re leaving in the morning.”

 They had perfect driving weather. Warm enough to keep the windows down, just overcast enough that the sun wasn’t blinding, not a hint of rain. They took turns finding radio stations as they faded out. The one they were listening to was beginning to dissolve into static, and instead of spinning the dial to something new, Jack snapped the radio off.

Sam braced himself. Jack had been working up the courage to say something for an hour, and he’d apparently decided now was the time. “Why did you ask me to come with you, Sam?”

Sam glanced to the passenger seat. Jack’s brow was furrowed. He looked almost afraid of how Sam was going to answer his question. So, he paused before he answered. He wasn’t sure what Jack was afraid of, but he wanted to reassure the kid. “I know things have been tough this past year. Just thought we could both do with some celebration.”

Jack nodded, slowly. “What kind of festival is it?”

Sam considered his answer. “Have you ever heard of a pride parade?”

Jack shook his head. Sam smiled, and they filled the rest of the drive with conversation, mostly about the various facets of the LGBT community.

 Chicago in late June could be surprisingly miserable. The buildings and asphalt raised the temperature downtown to an uncomfortable degree, and the lake did nothing but provide stifling humidity. To top it off, for a place called the Windy City, the air today was oppressive and still. Sam would have killed for a breeze as they wandered the festival.

The weather didn’t kill the festive air though. All around them were people laughing and shopping. There was an abundance of glitter and leather, and rainbows were everywhere. Jack was marveling at a pair of women with matching rainbow hair while Sam purchased a pan rainbow tank top. If tomorrow’s weather was anything like today, that would be what he was wearing to the parade.

“Cute kid. He yours?”

Sam turned toward the voice. It belonged to a gorgeous woman with long blonde hair piled on top of her head in a messy bun. She was almost as tall as he was, and judging by her Adam’s apple, broad shoulders, and Trans Pride pendant, she hadn’t been born into a female body. She wore her femininity well, from long earrings to flowing flower skirt, and she was looking at Sam like she wanted to eat him. It had been awhile for him, a long while, and he was plenty interested, but no. This weekend was about reconnecting with Jack.

“He’s—my nephew. We’re just in town for the weekend.”

She smiled and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Some friends and I are meeting up at a club later. Maybe you two would like to join us?”

Sam grinned, flattered. “Thanks, but I think we’re just going to crash in our hotel. I’m not really looking for extra company this weekend.”

She shrugged. “Can’t blame a girl for trying, right?” She raised her eyebrows once more, suggestively, before disappearing into the crowd.

Oof. Flirting, being flirted with. It felt good, even if he was rusty. He’d never sought casual hookups at Dean’s pace, but once in a while that release felt damn good.

He turned around to find Jack watching him, expression unreadable.

“That was a woman?” Jack asked.

“Yeah, she was,” Sam said.

“And she wished to have sex with you.”

Sam nodded. “Yeah, I think so.”

“But you didn’t want to. Because of me?” Jack said, clearly trying to puzzle something out.

“This weekend is about us spending time together. Reconnecting. Not about me hooking up,” Sam said firmly.

They found a relatively quiet spot to rest for a bit, out of the main flow of pedestrians. Sam startled when he heard his phone ring, even though he quickly realized it was probably Dean making sure they hadn’t been murdered by a shifter yet. He loved his brother, but Dean in mother-hen mode was ridiculous.

“Hey, we’re still alive, jerk.”

“Shut up, bitch,” Dean growled. “You guys hit any trouble?”

Sam frowned. There was something in Dean’s voice that was setting off alarm bells for Sam. “What kind of trouble do you mean? Our kind?”

“You haven’t heard the news?”

Sam glanced around, making sure no one was paying attention to them. “No, what news?”

Jack turned to watch Sam, now paying attention to the conversation.

“People are getting jumped leaving the festival. Three so far, at least.”

“It’s a pretty big city, you sure it’s not just random violence? I hate to say it, but this is Chicago. Three muggings doesn’t really sound like our kind of thing.”

“I’m not saying it is. I’m saying you’re at the damn festival, which makes the two of you targets. Watch yourselves.”

Sam could appreciate the concern, even if it confused him. Dean knew he was more than capable of handling some thugs—oh. He supposed it had just been a few weeks ago that the vamps had taken him down in that cave. He’d come back so many times now that it had hardly registered for him. Just another trauma in a long line of trauma. For Dean, though—

“We will. Thanks for the heads up. I’ll call you tonight.” He hung up and turned to Jack. “Ready to keep going?”

They moved back into the crowd and had purchased ice cream before Jack spoke again.

“I have been imagining myself in various scenarios, after that woman flirted with you. And they all seem very unpleasant to me.”

Sam looked sidelong at Jack. “What kind of scenarios?”

“All kinds. Sexual encounters, pre-sexual encounters, and with a variety of genders. None of it seems appealing. I believe I may be asexual,” he stated, more confident than Sam had heard him all weekend.

“Ok. Her flirting with me made you realize this?” Sam wasn’t sure he saw the connection, but he supposed that didn’t matter. If it helped Jack discover something about himself, then it was a good thing.

“You looked very happy. So, I wondered if it would have made me happy too. But I don’t think it would.” Jack had been eating his ice cream intermittently while he spoke, and was nearly done, while Sam’s was starting to drip down his fingers. He hadn’t been paying attention to it, too focused on Jack to eat.

 They shopped and ate and people watched for a few more hours before they both decided they were tired enough to head back to the hotel. It was still plenty light out and still oppressively muggy and warm, so Sam opted to cut them through some back alleys. A stupid risk, probably, but he didn’t think anyone would want to jump a guy as tall as himself, especially since he wasn’t alone. He was wrong.

“Hey, Winchester!” the would-be mugger shouted, brandishing a gun.

Fantastic. Any mugger that recognized him was probably a monster, and he wasn’t exactly armed for a hunt. Sam instinctively pushed Jack behind him and said, “What are you?”

“Ghoul,” a familiar voice snarled from behind Sam, the woman that had flirted with him earlier. “You know what happens when you cross territory lines, vulture.”

Without further warning, she transformed and leapt at their attacker, slashing him deeply across the chest. The sound of a gunshot boomed, echoing in the narrow alley. Pain bloomed in Sam’s side and the world wobbled dangerously. Distantly, he heard Jack calling his name, and he felt rough concrete under his hands as a dark haze encroached on his vision.

The next things he became aware of were Jack’s face hovering over his and a bone deep ache he recognized from when Castiel healed some of his more egregious injuries. He was laying on the ground, in a puddle of something, if his damp clothes were any indication. Given the lack of rain, that only left disgusting, possibly body fluids options. Gross. Jack didn’t seem to care, as he flung himself onto Sam.

“What happened?” Sam coughed, voice rough. His throat felt like it was filled with sand.

“Please stop doing that. Please.” Jack was mumbling into Sam’s chest, repeating himself over and over in between hitches of breath.

He carefully dislodged the boy and sat up. The puddle turned out to be blood, and a lot of it. Judging from the dark stain on the front of his clothes, it had been his blood. That explained a lot. He hugged Jack close and muttered his apologies for getting hurt again.

The woman was watching them, obviously curious. “So, I hit on a Winchester. Huh. Guess you really do have nine lives.” She grinned.

Sam wasn’t sure how to respond to that. The ghoul was still on the ground, bleeding. The woman—the werewolf, Sam corrected—stood over it, claws pressing firmly into its throat. This was not a fight he especially wanted to get in the middle of.

“You two should go,” she said. “This part of downtown? Cops are probably already on their way.”

“What about you?” Sam asked, standing and helping Jack to his feet.

She smirked. “Plenty of wolves on the force. I’ll be fine.” She gave Sam one last long, appraising look. “My earlier offer still stands, by the way, if you’re ever out this way again.”

 Once they were away from witnesses, Jack flew them back to the hotel. He was still upset, and Sam was feeling the crash from an adrenaline rush he hadn’t noticed having.

First things first, make sure Jack was ok. Then he could shower and check in with Dean. Dean, who definitely did not need to know what had happened tonight.

“Hey, you ok?” he asked.

Jack was pacing the room, obviously still too agitated to sit. Sam grimaced when he saw the blood spatter on Jack’s shirt. Maybe he’d let the kid have first shower. Mutely, Jack shook his head. “You—you almost died tonight, Sam.” His voice was shaky. “I’ve never healed anyone before. And—and you’re my family. But you almost died. Again. Why did you step in front of me? I would have been fine. But you—why?” The longer he spoke, the more hysterical he became.

Finally, Sam pulled him into a tight hug. “I’m ok, thanks to you, and I’m not going anywhere if I can help it. All right?” He closed his eyes. “Besides, I thought you were mad at me. You’ve been avoiding me since we got back.”

Jack’s arms squeezed Sam tighter. “Thought it would hurt less. If something happened again.” He shrugged helplessly. “I was wrong.”

Sam huffed a small laugh. “I’ve been there. Sorry. I promise to,” he paused, thinking, “to at least try to be more careful. But I’m not going to stop trying to protect you. Like you said, we’re family.”

Dean was furious when Jack told him on the phone that night, too fast for Sam to stop him. Sam left out the werewolf. No need to make all of Dean’s nightmares come true. It was bad enough his concerns had been justified. Sam wasn’t going to hear the end of this for a long time.

 In the morning they made their way back to the festival to find a good place to watch the parade. It was already packed, no surprise since Sam had heard on the news that morning that they were expecting over 1,000,000 people to be in attendance.

They both wore their spoils from the day before—Sam in his pan tank and Jack wearing an aro flag draped around his shoulders. He’d picked up ace and aro wristbands, too. Sam still wasn’t sure if their bags had escaped unscathed last night by sheer luck or if Jack and his grace had something to do with it.

The weather was already hot and muggy though, despite a decent breeze, and Sam had pulled his hair into a small ponytail. What he could, anyhow. It was better than nothing. The massive crush of people made the heat worse, but it didn’t matter. Nothing could diminish the air of excitement around them.

Like yesterday, there were rainbows everywhere, in every color pattern Sam knew and several he hadn’t seen before. He watched friends connect and find each other from across the crowd, some obviously having not seen each other in a long time. This was what it was about. This event, bringing people together.

He pushed through the crowd to stand next to Sam. “Sam!” he shouted, trying to be heard over the din.

Sam looked around, and his look of confusion told Cass when he’d been spotted. “Who are you?” Sam asked.

Cass hesitated. This Sam was an unknown to him. Dean was nowhere in sight, so it was entirely possible this memory was from Sam’s time at school. It wasn’t a period the Winchesters talked about, and Castiel knew enough to assume it was associated with painful memories. Still, one thing he could count on was that the brothers would do anything for each other. He hoped that had always been as true as it was now.

Finally, he spoke. “I’m a friend of Dean’s.” True enough, in any case. Sam could always tell when he was lying.

Sam looked him over, appraising. “Okay,” he said slowly. “So why are you here?”

The suspicion in his voice hurt, but Castiel reminded himself that Sam didn’t know him. He didn’t remember their relationship, their history. “I need your help.”

“Ask Dean and Dad. You’re a hunter, right? I don’t do that anymore. Can’t help you.” He turned back to the music.

Castiel frowned. “I cannot ask them to help me.”

Sam quirked an eyebrow.

“Dean requested my help first.” Also true, if a tad misleading. Castiel could still hear the desperation in Dean’s aborted prayers, knowing Castiel was too far away to help.

Sam was immediately on alert. “What about Dad? Are they ok?”

Castiel rushed to reassure him. “Dean is uninjured. Though I have never met your father, I am sure he is fine as well.” That was stretching the truth so thin he was sure Sam would call him on it, considering John Winchester was dead. Still, he was enjoying his heaven, and that was, in many ways, doing fine. The direct approach had failed multiple times now, however, and at least this version of Sam was still engaging him.

“You’ve never met him? Is Dean hunting on his own? Where the hell is Dad?” Sam was becoming agitated, something Castiel was not prepared for. He had understood Sam’s relationship with his father to be tumultuous at best, outright hostile at its worst. He was not ready to discuss John’s whereabouts, especially because they were not in the least relevant to the situation.

“Dean was hunting, but he was not alone. There was a witch.” Cass saw Sam open his mouth to ask more questions or protest further and hurried to cut him off. “She cast a spell on his hunting partner. Neither Dean nor your father were affected by the spell.”

“And Dean asked you for help.” Sam nodded, seeming to accept this abbreviated version of events. “That doesn’t really explain what you’re doing here.”

Castiel took a steadying breath. Hurdle one cleared. “That is more complicated. Perhaps we can go somewhere quieter?” On command, the concert melted around them, and a forest took its place. He swallowed hard. He hadn’t expected his request to be met so readily, and he feared he’d entered another new memory. Luckily, Sam was still next to him and appeared to be unchanged. Perhaps it would work this time.

 48 Hours Earlier

The witch finished her spell as Dean pulled the trigger, and he watched helplessly as power pulsed from her hand just before red blossomed on her chest. One of his worst memories repeated itself when he turned to check on Sam just in time to watch his brother crash to the ground.

“Sam!” Dean yelled, falling to his knees by Sam’s side. Bad, this was bad.

He hadn’t been paying attention to what the witch had been saying. The spell could have been anything. It had obviously knocked Sam out. Except his hand, which had instinctively gripped tight to Sam’s shirt, wasn’t moving.

“No, no, no, no,” he muttered.

The bottom dropped out of his stomach as he fumbled to feel a pulse in Sam’s neck. Nothing. Dean’s eyes burned. He pressed a hand over Sam’s heart and willed it to beat, to no avail.

“Come on, man. Don’t do this,” he said, as tears blurred his vision. The knowledge settled heavily in his mind. Sam was gone. His mind automatically turned to Cass, but he shut that down fast. They were hours away, and Cass hadn’t had the power for a resurrection in years.

 Castiel had just begun a new episode of The Good Place when he felt it. A tug on his grace almost like a prayer, then sharp, blinding pain. He gasped as it subsided, and he barely caught the tail end of a prayer from Dean. Something had happened to Sam. He pulled out his phone and dialed. He wasn’t really expecting an answer, but he’d hoped. It went straight to voicemail. So did Sam’s. He tried not to worry. The Winchesters were excellent at taking care of each other.

 Hours later, Dean’s phone rang again, for probably the twentieth time. He glanced at the caller ID before answering. “Cass.”

“What happened?”

He couldn’t do this, not over the phone, not with Cass. Except he didn’t have much choice, did he? Still, the words wouldn’t come. Finally, he managed to croak, “Sam.”

Apparently that was enough for Cass to interpret. After a moment he heard Cass say, “How?” His voice sounded rougher than usual.

“Spell,” Dean replied.

A pause. “Is the witch dead?”

Dean breathed, trying to steady himself. The hope in Cass’s voice almost broke him. “Yeah, she is. Sorry.” No chance the spell would break with her death. No hope this was a mistake. “I’m on my way back.”

Cass didn’t quite managed to stifle the wounded sound that escaped from him. “What can I do? Should I contact Rowena?”

God, no. Anything but her. “No. Just—Can you call my mom? You don’t have to tell her. Just get her to come back.”

“And Jack?”

Shit. Dean hadn’t really thought about Jack and how he would take this. What with Jack’s recent return to life and having lost—and regained—Sam himself less than a year ago, he guessed it was going to be bad. No way was he going to understand why Dean was letting Sam go, how he knew this time was for keeps.

“Up to you,” Dean said. “I can tell him if you want.”

“No. I will tell him.” There was strength in Cass’s voice this time. “Be safe.”

 Sam looked at the trees critically. “We were just at a concert. What the hell is going on?”

Castiel recognized this as the best time to come clean. “We are in your memories. You, Sam, were the one hit by the spell.”

“I don’t hunt,” he said, shaking his head in denial, but Castiel could see recognition growing in his expression. “I know you.” He squinted, looking to the side as he poked at his memories. “Your name is…Cass. You hate me.” He frowned, as though the statement didn’t taste quite right.

Castiel flinched. “That could not be further from the truth. I care for you very much.”

“You said my voice was grating.”

Castiel grimaced. Sam had remembered a particularly embarrassing memory for the angel.

“You called me an abomination!” Sam said.

Cass tilted his head in acknowledgement. There were no excuses for that. “The beginning of our relationship was difficult. It has…gotten better.”

Sam turned away, brow furrowed. “What’s with the trees?”

“I’m not sure. You have told me several stories that involve forests, but I would expect to see another version of yourself if we had entered a memory such as the last one.” Cass looked up. Sun filtered through the trees and warmed his face. Sam had only told him one kind of story with a calm, beautiful forest like this.

 Dean drove fourteen hours straight, only stopping for gas. Sam was lying in the backseat, and Dean didn’t want to leave for the time it would take to get food. He wasn’t hungry anyway. He just wanted to be home.

By the time he arrived at the bunker he knew he was running on fumes, but he couldn’t feel it. He didn’t feel tired or hungry, just numb. It didn’t matter. He had to finish taking care of Sam, get him cleaned up.

“Let me help.” Cass’s voice startled Dean so much he almost dropped Sam as he was pulling him from the backseat.

He should let Cass help. He knew it, he did, but it wasn’t in him to pass this job to anyone else. Not even Cass.

 Castiel watched Dean disappear into the bunker, struggling under Sam’s weight. He knew he wouldn’t be allowed to help, but it stung. If he’d still had wings, if he’d kept the power that had allowed him to revive Bobby once upon a time, this wouldn’t be happening. Mary wouldn’t be grieving her son; Jack wouldn’t be short a father. He wouldn’t—No. Self-pity served no purpose here.

Mary was on her way and would be arriving any time. Jody and the girls would be arriving tomorrow. He would start building the pyre, as Sam had once done for him, then perhaps the humans would send him out to run errands. Jody had said she would spread the word through the hunter community, and Mary and Bobby were contacting the people from Apocalypse World, recalling them to the bunker. There would be many people, and as he had learned so painfully, humans needed to eat. Himself, he needed to keep busy, especially since Jack had refused to speak to him for the last twelve hours.

He popped the trunk and rummaged until he found an axe. This, at least, he could do.

 “I believe you come to this forest when you are near death,” Castiel said. “This spell is killing you, and we are running out of time.”

“Then what are we waiting for? What do we have to do?” Sam turned back to face Cass, his eyes wide and his forehead wrinkled in concern.

Cass looked away. “If I understood the spell correctly, it involves accepting the worst of yourself.”

“Ok, great, I accept it. Now what?” Sam flung his arms out in frustration. “If I’m dying, why the runaround earlier?”

“I’m sorry. This was not my first attempt to help you. Previous attempts have gone rather poorly,” Cass said. Sam quirked an eyebrow, obviously waiting for further explanation. “You have to actually remember the worst of yourself in order to accept it.”

Sam groaned in understanding. “And, of course, I barely remember anything. That the spell too?”

“I believe so, but that is only part of the problem. The you I met in more recent memories, a version of you capable of remembering, was not ready to accept this solution.”

“When you say the ‘worst of me,’ what exactly are you talking about?” Sam asked.

“If I am correct, then it means accepting the worst of your memories, the worst things that have happened to you. Taking them back into yourself.” Castiel met Sam’s eyes. “You don’t understand what that means. You barely even remember me, and we are—“Cass stopped. They had never formally defined what they were to each other. More than friends, than family. More than simply lovers.

“We’re what, Cass?” Sam asked softly. Before his eyes, Sam melted and changed, and gone was the twenty year old with shaggy hair and a bright smile. Instead Cass faced his Sam, complete with worry lines and stray gray hairs.

Castiel swallowed the lump in his throat. He took a deep breath and said, “Everything.”

“Show me, one more time? Help me remember?” Sam said, so softly Cass barely caught it. Then the world blurred, and they were in a bar.

 Some time later, Dean wasn’t sure how long, Sam was clean and dressed. Dean sat a vigil by his bed, still unwilling to leave his side. It was Mary that got him to move.

“You should come eat something,” she said. “Let others say their goodbyes.”

It was hard, but he let her tug him to his feet and led him out to the common rooms. They were, inexplicably, filled with people. His shock must have shown because she said, “After Castiel called me I had him call Jody. Word spread fast. We should,” her voice faltered a moment. “We should talk about the funeral. I thought tomorrow morning would be good, but I didn’t— Not without your input.”

Dean grunted. “That’s fine. These—They’re all here for Sam?” He recognized some as the hunters from Apocalypse World, others as hunters he and Sam knew. Others looked familiar, but he couldn’t place them, and many more were totally unfamiliar. People were everywhere, talking, eating, laughing. How could they laugh? Sam was dead. Dean’s world had ended, and his home was full of laughing people.

Anger bubbled up until he heard Sam’s name. He listened, eavesdropping without making any conscious decision to do so.

“And then he blasted the ghoul to pieces! Never even broke a sweat. I’m telling you, it was epic.”

“Did I ever tell you about the time Sam and Dean helped me with a demon up in Syracuse?”

“Sam saved my ass from—”

“He was amazing. He saved—”

“I’ll never forget—”

Snippets of conversation floated around him. They were all sharing stories about Sam, about how his little brother had touched their lives. And it—Sam—was making them happy. His eyes burned. His pain had in no way diminished, but he suddenly understood why people held wakes. It felt good to know Sam would be remembered.

Eventually, someone recognized that he had joined the crowd. Before he knew what was happening, Donna was smothering him in a hug. Then Jody and the girls appeared. Someone pushed Dean into a chair, and someone else brought him food. Jody ordered him to eat, her eyes shining. Dean pushed the plate away, claiming he wasn’t hungry.

“When was the last time you ate?” Alex asked.

He thought about it. “Breakfast,” he said.

“This morning?” She narrowed her eyes at him.

He shook his head. He may not be sure how long it had been, but it had been long enough to know it wasn’t the same day. “Before.” He waved his hand to indicate, just, everything. He couldn’t say it yet. They were burning Sam in the morning, and he couldn’t say that Sam was—that Sam was dead.

“Dean, that was two days ago. You need to eat, even if you aren’t hungry,” Jody said. She sighed. “Believe me, I get it, but,” she hesitated, “Sam would want you to take care of yourself.”

“Where’s Cass?” he asked.

Claire spoke up. “Pretty sure I saw him in the kitchen with Jack.”

Dean nodded. “I should go check on them.”

Alex pushed him back into the chair. “Eat. I’ll go grab them for you.”

 Sam and Cass looked around the bar as the music on the jukebox changed to a new song. “Do you remember this night?” Cass asked.

Sam took a moment, then replied, “Our first dance. Our first kiss.”

Cass slid his hand into Sam’s palm and led them to the dance floor. Everything around them lost focus. Even the potent smell of alcohol and sweat seemed diminished. It felt like they were the only ones left in the world. “I’m afraid I have a confession to make.”

They danced; Sam made a small noise in acknowledgement.

“I am not really Castiel. At least, not all of him.” When Sam started to pull away he hurried to explain. “Several years ago, you asked me to possess you, just for a moment, so that you would always carry a piece of my grace with you. After everything you have experienced, I could think of no higher honor, so I agreed to do it. To know that you trust me so completely—” He shook his head. “I am that piece of grace. I’ve done my best to keep you safe over the years, given you healing when I could. But I was always connected to my larger self. The spell has cut me off from that completely. I suppose, in a way, I am now your grace, and no one else’s.”

Sam frowned as they swayed to the music. “Why are you telling me this?”

Cass sighed. “Because I believe I also contain your worst memories.”

“Hell,” Sam said simply.

“It drove you mad, nearly killed you once already,” Cass said.

“I didn’t have you then,” Sam answered, tracing Cass’s jaw.

Cass leaned into Sam’s touch. “I may not be able to protect you.”

Sam leaned forward, resting his forehead against Castiel’s. “I know,” he swallowed and clenched his jaw, “but I trust you. And I’m ready. Can we have one more dance first though?”

 Dean stood quietly in the doorway to Sam’s room, roll of linen in hand. It was time, and he wasn’t sure he was going to be able to go through with this part. He swallowed, licked his lips and ducked his head. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath and stepped forward. “I’m sorry, man. You know, I never really thought we’d get here. Me, doing this for you. Always figured it’d be the other way around. And sorry I’m not letting Cass help. I know it’s hurting him, too, seeing you like this. I—I just need to be the one to do this. After all those other times—” He worked his jaw as a tear finally escaped, sliding down his face. “Right. Let’s do this.”

He gently unrolled the shroud and laid it over Sam’s still form. Taking the ties he’d brought, he started tucking the ends of the shroud under his brother’s feet and tying it tight.

 They danced to another three songs, in fact, before Sam really felt ready. Cass gently cradled Sam’s cheek, taking one last look at this marvelous boy he’d fallen in love with. Sam’s eyes were closed, his body tense as he braced himself for the pain of Hell to come flooding back. Cass leaned forward, brushing his lips against Sam’s before pressing in firmly, deepening the kiss. He let go of the essence of himself, pushed all that he was into Sam’s being. The bad, yes, but also the grace. Maybe, just maybe, he would be able to protect Sam’s soul this way.

 Sam took a huge gasping breath and sat up straight. He flailed under a sheet, coughing the stagnant air out of his lungs. He panicked a little when he realized his legs were restrained and struggled to free them. Then he felt hands on his shoulders, exploring his face, his head, his sides. He looked up, found himself staring into Dean’s shocked green eyes.

“Sam?”

God, Dean sounded broken. Sam remembered his time in the woods with Cass, mostly, and before that the witch. He knew something had happened. It must have been a close one. “Hey,” he said, not sure how else to respond.

In another moment, Dean had him in a near stranglehold, muttering, “Don’t you ever do that again.”

Sam held on and murmured reassurance that he’d do his best. When Dean finally pulled back, Sam managed to get a glimpse of what was tangled up around his feet, and he realized this one had been much closer than he’d thought. “Dean? What--?”

Dean followed Sam’s gaze and immediately started untying his legs and pulling the shroud away. “Yeah, sorry. I—Sam.” Words had evidently failed Dean. “What the hell happened?”

“I could ask you the same question,” Sam said. “But from my end, I was, uh, swimming around in my memories, I think. Kind of lost. Cass saved me.”

“Cass?”

Sam gave Dean the short version of what he remembered, leaving out the part about regaining everything involved with Hell. He would tell Dean, later, when he hadn’t just come back from the dead. Right now, he just wanted to see Cass. Luckily, Dean had entered full mother hen mode, and was busying himself with gathering the supplies he’d brought in and talking about grabbing Sam a plate of food, seeing as how he hadn’t eaten for the last three days. After a minute, Dean was out the door.

A moment later, Cass’s face appeared in the doorway. When he spotted Sam sitting up, his head dropped to the side in confusion.

Seeing Cass again felt like seeing a miracle. Sam grinned, and he knew his dimples were out in full force. He wasn’t sure exactly what had happened after that kiss, but he couldn’t feel Cass’s grace inside him anymore. He’d never noticed it before, when it was present, but now there was a palpable loss that ached. Being in the same room as Cass made that ache vanish.

“Sam.” Cass’s face was unreadable, but Sam could feel confusion, awe, and most of all, love radiating off him.

He flew to him and crouched by Sam’s head, healing damage as quickly as he could, but Sam was already dying. Cursing silently Castiel lifted Sam’s head, gently tipping the grace into his mouth. 

He could tell when the grace took hold; his healing efforts were suddenly useless. Sam’s eyes opened, and they glowed a brilliant blue before a wave of power lit up the area, throwing Castiel back.

“Sam!” Dean screamed as his brother landed with a sickening crack and fell limp. Nausea threatened Dean’s composure, a dangerous prospect with Raphael just five feet in front of him. But Sam was dead or dying, Dean was sure of it, and he needed to go to him. Wouldn’t do anyone any good if he got himself vaporized though. Raphael smirked and lazily waved in Dean’s direction.

As he tumbled to the ground on his own flight path he caught sight of Cas crouching by Sam. His stomach lurched; Sam should be moving by now if Cas healed him. He tried to have faith—in Cas, in Sam—but his gut was sure the angel had been too late. Grief welled up, numbing him to the world. The world Sam had died for twice, now. Dean staggered to his feet, clenching his angel blade. He wasn’t going to let Sam die in vain. Before he could close the distance to Raphael, though, a surge of power flattened him to the ground.

When Dean raised his head, he saw Sam, wings glowing grace blue and on full display. Thunder rumbled, and Dean would have sworn the earth shook under his hands. He felt power rippling out from his brother. Even though he knew this was exactly what they had been aiming for, Dean felt his stomach flip-flop at seeing Sam look so obviously other.

Raphael snarled, then vanished. The battle was on. Dean couldn’t follow most of it—Sam and Raphael flying all over the cemetery in an attempt to gain an advantage. They flung power at each other that whizzed over Dean’s head and exploded gravestones when it landed. The air smelled of ozone, and the temperature had climbed noticeably in the last minute. He and Bobby were going to cook if Sam didn’t end this soon.

Raphael, apparently, had other plans. Dean had lost Cas and Bobby in the scuffle, but as the flurry of wings came to an abrupt halt, he realized the archangel was holding Castiel at knifepoint. Sam looked on, grim determination on his face. He wasn’t faster than Raphael. That much was obvious.

 Sam watched Raphael press the tip of his blade into Cas’s throat. A pinprick of grace leaked out, and Sam struggled to keep from reacting. He was exhausted, but his mind was running on overtime, trying to figure out Raphael’s angle here. His chest tightened when he figured it out. He might only match the archangel in speed, but he’d been winning. If he was nearing the limits of his powers, then Raphael must be on his last legs. It didn’t make this situation easier, but it might give them an opportunity. Sam was careful to keep from looking at Dean and Bobby—both positioned behind Raphael, though not close enough to do anything without alerting the angel. Frantically, he tried to come up with a plan. He rifled through their code words for one made for a situation like this. Not Funky Town. Definitely not Poughkeepsie, much as he wanted Dean and Bobby gone and safe. Dancing Queen would work if he could get Dean close. They didn’t have on for “I’m about to use my power on you,” but he’d wager they would going forward. Assuming they survived today.

Sam wasn’t sure he could use his power on Dean without alerting Raphael, but he didn’t see any other options. If it worked, if he could fill Dean in, they might have a shot at this.

Ignoring the spiraling fear he had for Dean and Cas with this plan, he cleared his throat. Raphael had been monologuing about lost causes while Sam thought, and he tuned back into the conversation.

“—think you could beat an archangel? You are nothing more than a filthy half-breed, and I would have killed you already if your stolen grace weren’t necessary to retrieve my brothers.”

“No offense, but I’m not going to let my Brain Stew on that.” Come on, Dean. Pay attention. I’ve got a plan. “I’m you’re so convinced you can take me, let’s dance. I’m a regular Dancing Queen these days.” He saw Dean shift his weight out of the corner of his eye. Good. Message received.

Sam reached for his power, trusting it would do as asked if it could, and bent space around Dean until he was right behind Raphael. It happened in an instant, and Sam saw Raphael’s eyes widening in surprise as Dean punched him in the face. It didn’t hurt anyone but Dean, but it drew just enough attention that Sam could fly into close quarters and pulse his power through the archangel. Sam felt it manifest itself in his hand as an angel blade—outwardly similar to all the others he’d seen, but when he tightened his grip, it sang. This blade was his, and only his.

He stabbed upward, catching Raphael in the back under his ribs. Power shot through the blade, and before the angel’s eyes started to glow he knew he’d done it.

The three of them stumbled away and closed their eyes against the supernova. When it was over, Raphael lay sprawled in the grass, wings still sparking as they turned to ash.

 Sam hastily checked over Cas, who was essentially uninjured, before turning to Dean. He was holding his hand to his abdomen, radiating pain. Broken ribs or hand, possibly both, if Sam knew anything about his brother.

“Let me see,” he said, reaching for Dean’s rapidly swelling hand.

“I’m fine, Sam. Where’s Bobby?”

“I’ll find him,” said Cas, who promptly vanished.

That left Sam and Dean alone, which made Sam unexpectedly nervous. He pushed it away, opting to continue his little brother duties of nagging Dean until he let Sam check his injuries.

Finally, with a loud sigh and an epic eye roll, Dean acquiesced. Sam gingerly held the broken hand and reached for his power, then stopped. “Can I? Or would you rather Cas healed it?” he asked.

Dean looked surprised. “You can?”

Sam nodded. He’d never done it before, but he knew he could. He could feel the broken bones, knew where they needed to reconnect. It was dizzying. Or maybe he was just tired. Maybe he shouldn’t. He’d probably freaked Dean enough for one day.

“Do it,” Dean said, a little breathless.

“Sam searched his face, looking for uncertainty. It was there, but under something that looked a lot like love. His power trickled out, and the broken hand and bruised ribs were healed in moments. Dean sucked in a breath, but when he released it the tension coiled in his body left too.

It hadn’t taken much to heal Dean, but Sam was apparently already running on fumes from the fight, and his adrenaline high was starting to wear off. He wobbled, caught himself, then distantly heard Dean’s concerned “Sam?” as his knees gave out.

 He blinked and lost time. He was on his back, looking up at Dean. His head was pillowed on Dean’s lap, which frankly felt too close to cuddling to be acceptable in Dean’s world. Still, Dean grinned down at him and said, “Hey there, Sleeping Beauty. How about next time, you don’t use up the last of your power healing me like a dumbass. Cas could have done that. He can’t heal you though.”

“What?” Sam asked. “I mean, I wasn’t hurt, but—”

Dean’s happy grin transformed into a glower. “Try again. That tumble you took just about did you in, and we all know it.”

“I was fine. The grace—”

“Was still trying to heal you while you were flinging power everywhere. Even super-powered little brothers have a limit, and you hit yours.”

“Sorry,” Sam said, though he really wasn’t. He didn’t like his grace much, but he liked being able to heal Dean, being able to protect everyone from psychos like Raphael. He liked how it buffered the rest of his mind from his time spent in Hell.

Awkwardly, he cleared his throat. He felt ok—none of the lingering pain or nausea he belatedly realized had dogged him throughout the fight. Still, he didn’t really want to move. Dean’s lap was comfortable, and he was looking at Sam with a fondness he hadn’t seen in weeks. Not since they left Lisa’s. He hardly dared to hope.

The moment was broken when Dean gently shoved at Sam and said, “Come on, Sasquatch. Let’s go home.”

 The four of them reappeared in Bobby’s kitchen, and Bobby promptly abandoned the group, muttering about a drink and some sleep.

Dean shifted nervously. He didn’t want to talk about this, but there were things that had to be said. Sam might figure it out without the chick flick moment, but Cas wouldn’t. “Look,” he said, not sure where the rest of that sentence went. He felt their eyes on him. Man up, Winchester, he thought. “When we were in Sam’s head. We saw…things.” He glanced at Sam to gauge his brother’s mood—tense, scared. “Cas, you’ve made it clear how you feel about Sam.”

The angel nodded, expression serious, though his eyes were smiling.

Sam had turned bright red, probably remembering their impromptu make-out session.

“Right. My turn.” He closed the distance to Sam, gripped his brother’s shirt and tugged him in for a brief but heated kiss. They broke apart, panting a little, but stayed in each other’s space. “I’m game if you are.”

Sam choked. “For which part?” he spluttered.

“All of it,” he said simply. “I’ve lost count of how many close calls we’ve had this week, Sam. I’m done avoiding this. And I don’t mind sharing if Cas makes you happy. That work for the two of you?”

Cas hummed in answer and pressed himself along Sam’s back.

Sam looked lost, like he couldn’t believe this was happening. “Are you sure? I mean, I’m not—” He swallowed. “I’m not exactly human anymore.”

Dean smirked. “Yeah, well, you’re still my pain-in-the-ass brother, and nothing changes that. I’m sure, Sam.”

Dean thought it might not matter. Since every other opening to the Cage had been on Earth, he reasoned this one would be too. All they needed to do was show up wherever he was and take Sam’s grace back. In the meantime, Dean wanted to try something to get Sam vertical again. If Cas could get him into Sam’s head, then maybe he could help Sam piece enough of himself together to wake up. Cas thought returning the grace to Sam would be enough to “fix” him and having him present when they took it back from Raphael would make the whole process a lot faster. There was also the small matter of defeating Raphael once and for all, which Cas was apparently convinced Sam could do. Dean wasn’t sure what gave him that idea, but if it was true, then it begged the question: had Raphael targeted Sam because he needed the grace to open the Cage or just because he saw Sam as a threat?

Either way, they needed to get Sam walking.

Dean posed the question to Cas the next time he appeared. “Can you get me in there?” he asked. Cas said nothing, just narrowed his eyes at Dean, so Dean explained his reasoning.

Cas hesitated. “I can. You may not like what you see. His experience in Hell was likely very different from yours.”

Dean stared right back at the angel. “I don’t care.”

With no time to delay beyond getting Dean settled on a cot of his own, they began immediately. Cas pressed his palm against Dean’s forehead, then reached for Sam’s shoulder. The panic room melted away, and Dean found himself in…a porn video?

He looked around. They appeared to be in a motel room, familiar in the way they all were, but it didn’t ring any specific bells for him. On the bed were three large, naked men. After he got over the initial shock of being confronted with three guys having some very athletic sex, he realized it was him, Sam, and Cas. Sam was being spit-roasted, with Dean taking him from behind while Cas was doing an admirable job of fucking Sammy’s face. Sam, for his part, seemed to be enjoying himself, judging by the obscene noises he was making and the way his impressive erection bobbed with every thrust. They finished simultaneously, and the scene morphed around them. Different motel room, similar scenario. This time, Cas was flat on his back while Sam rode his cock. As they watched, dream-Dean approached from behind and worked himself into Sam alongside Cas. Sam was flushed and groaning, clearly enjoying himself.

“Damn, Sammy. Been holding out on me,” Dean breathed. He was achingly hard himself, just from watching for the last minute.

Cas’s strangled voice startled him out of his reverie. “This is a…pleasurable situation?”

Dean glanced at the angel and snickered. He’d never seen Cas so flustered before. “Yeah. This is a pleasurable situation so long as everyone agreed to it.”

Another glance told Dean the angel still had questions. “Dude, no. I am not getting into the protocols of kinky sex with you right now. Ask Sam when this is all over.” He checked the room again. “Speaking of Sam, what are we doing in his spank bank?”

Cas frowned. “The damage has made Sam’s mind difficult to navigate. This was the most coherent section I could find.”

Dean attempted to parse that into something resembling English. “You mean we found him? That,” he pointed to the Sam currently pounding dream-Cas into the bed while dream-Dean jacked off in the chair watching them, “is really Sam? He’s been having wet dreams while I was out there worrying he was dying?”

Cas glared at Dean. “Most likely, he has retreated here because the rest of his mind has become a hellscape.”

Dean considered that, then returned his gaze to the scene. He sighed. He hated interrupting a good sex dream, but he needed to get Sam conscious ASAP. If they were lucky, maybe he’d be able to make it up to him later.

“Sam. Hey, man, I need you to wake up.”

Sam didn’t respond. Dean wasn’t sure if he was just ignoring him or if the fractured state of his mind was preventing Dean from interacting with him. Either way, Dean moved closer to the bed, placing himself in Sam’s eyeline. Reaching out, he gripped Sam’s shoulder. Sam startled and stared at Dean, before his eyes began to glaze over and he lost himself to the rhythm again.

“Hey, no. Come on, Sam. Stay with me,” Dean said, twisting Sam’s shoulders around to face him. “This isn’t real.”

Sam laughed darkly. “Of course it’s not real. You think my brother would ever want to do this with me after what I’ve done? Or that Castiel would? Me, Lucifer’s vessel, Ender of the World?” He snorted derisively.

Dean blinked in surprise. “Ok, there is so much wrong with that statement I don’t even know where to start. But the point is that you’re going to die if you don’t wake up.”

Sam shrugged. “At least I’ll die happy,” Sam said.

Dean rolled his eyes. “Oh for the love of—Sam, I’m real. That Cas, over there, is real. I can tell you for a fact that you can have at least some of this fantasy in real life if you’d just wake up.”

“My brother thinks I’m a freak. But now that the grace is gone, I’m human again. It’s better this way.”

“The hell it is.” Dean thought he might be sick. Was this what Sam thought of him? Of them?

Sam refocused on Dean and wrinkled his forehead. The naked bodies dissipated, though the motel room remained. Dean tried to hold onto hope. This was progress, right?

“Sam, I just—just—got you back. Is this whole situation bizarre? Yes. Of course it is. Even by our standards it’s weird knowing my brother is some sort of half-angel now. But you know what? I don’t care. I would rather have you alive and by my side than—” Dean spread his hands. “Than anything. You name it.”

Sam watched him give his speech, then sadly looked out the door. “I can’t go out there.”

Dean looked from Sam to the door and back again. “Why? Because your memories of Hell are out there?”

Sam gave him a tight nod.

“Sam, I’ve been to Hell. I know you can do this.” He smiled. “You were always the stronger one of us.”

Sam scoffed. “Yeah, you’ve been to Hell. Dean, that was just the rack.” Dean was taken aback by the pitiless look on Sam’s face, but then his expression softened a little. “Sorry. I know how horrible that was for you. So, please, try to understand this: I looked forward to the days he put me on the rack and just cut. Those were my good days.”

Dean felt nauseous remembering his time in Hell. He couldn’t imagine something worse, much less what would be so much worse that the rack was the preferable option. He’d been willing to torture souls, to do anything, really, to escape that pain. He thought he could, maybe, face that again if he had to, but there weren’t words for what he was asking of Sam. He swallowed hard, realizing there was nothing he could say that could convince Sam. He was going to lose him. The knowledge hit him in the gut, and he thought he might throw up. He turned to Cas, who had been quiet till now. A silent conversation passed between them, then Cas spoke.

“I am sorry that we are asking this of you, Sam.” His voice was rough. “However, you must understand. Raphael will use your grace as a conduit to reach Michael and Lucifer. They will find new vessels, and then they will fight. You know best what that will look like for Earth.”

Sam shook his head. “So go get the grace. What do you need me for?”

Castiel hesitated. “To defeat Raphael.”

Sam started to laugh, the looked at Castiel’s serious face. Dean couldn’t meet his eyes. “I can’t.”

Dean cringed. “You can. You tossed him across the yard the first time you fought him, and you did that injured and without training. Now? I know you can kick his ass.”

Sam’s eyes were wild, panicked. “Then bring me the grace after you take it back from Raphael. We all know that even if I wake up right now I’ll be useless without it.”

Castiel shook his head. “That is too risky.” He continued speaking over Sam’s spluttered protests. “If Raphael escapes, it will be impossible to track him. He will not let his presence be known, and if he ambushes you again he will not be so foolish as to let you live. Bringing you to this fight as you are is dangerous, exceedingly so. However, this is a risk we must take if we hope to succeed. You need to be ready to accept your grace as soon as we have it, thus you must leave this room and face your memories. We cannot do this without you, Sam.”

After a long pause where Dean thought Sam was going to continue to argue, Sam gave a small nod. Dean tried not to notice how pale his little brother looked as he turned to face the door. He spared a glance at Cas while Sam steeled himself, then he clapped a reassuring hand on Sam’s shoulder.

“We’ll see you on the other side,” Dean said, offering Sam his best proud brother expression.

He thought Sam looked marginally less queasy as he swallowed hard and muttered, “Yeah. See you.”

Dean wished he could do this for Sam, wished it didn’t need to be done. He didn’t bother wishing Sam had never gone to Hell in the first place. It was done. He couldn’t change the past; he’d tried. But this, yeah, he wished there was a viable alternative to making Sam suffer for them again. It didn’t change the fact that he was damn proud of Sam as he pulled open the door and walked into Hell, head held high.

 Sam wasn’t sure where he was. Or when. Or who. He thought he was Sam, but he might be Lucifer. Only that didn’t make sense. He hurt. Angels didn’t hurt, right?

Or, or maybe they did. He thought he remembered screaming. Or heard screaming. Not human screaming. Was it him? Or just a memory? He felt so lost, and he just wanted his Dean. Or Cas. If this was Hell, maybe Cas would come to lead him out again.

Wait. Again. Sam latched onto that life raft of a word like a drowning man. He could remember getting out of Hell. Slowly, he managed to piece together enough of his shattered consciousness to realize he was probably awake and in Bobby’s panic room.

The panic room had been a particular favorite in Hell thanks to Sam’s bad memories of detoxing in there, so he wasn’t 100% sure this wasn’t one of Lucifer’s illusions. The tumbler of whiskey on the table that suggested Dean had been here recently helped, but the otherwise empty room didn’t. Maybe Dean had just stepped out. Everyone needed to pee eventually.

Momentarily buoyed by this thought, Sam levered himself to sitting with a groan. He wondered how long he’d been out. Obviously not long enough to justify a hospital, but with an angel for a friend, that didn’t mean much. His body was stiff, more than usual for a morning after a hard sleep. As he worked to organize his thoughts, he realized half of his discomfort was simple thirst and hunger. Easy enough to fix, and maybe he’d find Dean. He had a bad feeling that Dean should have been back by now.

The world tilted dangerously as Sam stood, but steadied after a moment. He carefully shuffled to the door and was relieved to find it unlocked. Not punishment, just safety. For a moment, panic spiked through his brain. What if he was alone because everyone else was gone? They’d been attacked while he slept, safe in the warding of the panic room. Pain bloomed in his chest as he struggled for air, and darkness ate at the edges of his vision.

Suddenly, hands landed on his shoulders, manhandling him into whatever position they wanted. Lucifer, his mind supplied. Sam fought back with all the strength he could muster, but it wasn’t enough. There was shouting, then a cool breeze and the smell of thunderstorms, then blackness.

The next time Sam woke, he was not alone. Dean and Cas were both there, carefully watching him. It was embarrassing, but Sam had to admit he was grateful. The world felt more solid this time around.

“Easy, Sammy.” Dean spoke as Sam slowly shifted himself upright on the cot. His hand on Sam’s back felt warm and reassuring.

“What happened?” Sam asked, realizing he still wasn’t sure what was real and what had been dream.

Dean and Cas shared a glance, then Dean asked, “What do you remember?”

Tough question, when reality felt disturbingly shaky. He remembered a lot, most of it bad. He shoved away the memories of his time in Hell for the moment. Most recent was…Lucifer? He wasn’t sure about that one and didn’t want to ask, so he opted for the most recent memory he had any confidence in. “Raphael jumped me in our motel room.”

Another shared look between Dean and Cas, and Sam was starting to get annoyed by that. This time, Cas broke the silence. “How are you feeling, Sam?”

“Hungry, thirsty. Not bad, considering.” He hoped that trend was going to continue, but he wasn’t optimistic enough to expect it. “How long was I out?”

“Two days,” Dean said, then he went over the plan to take on Raphael. Sam cringed inwardly as he realized he hadn’t imagined Dean and Cas’s visit in his mental landscape.

“You guys were really in my head,” he said flatly. “I didn’t—You w—” He stopped, swallowing both confession and apology. They weren’t supposed to know about those fantasies. Even if Dean had felt something once, or even still did, Cas had never been part of that equation. Besides, Sam was all too aware of how the angel felt about him. Still, he couldn’t apologize for loving them. He sighed, head hanging.

“Sam,” Castiel said, voice full of emotion that Sam couldn’t begin to parse out, “What do you remember about how you escaped Hell?”

“Noth—" The denial died on his lips. He did remember, possibly always had if he’d just looked close enough. It was easier to remember without the grace, though the memories of Lucifer’s torture were constantly threatening to drown him. “You pulled me out.”

“Do you know why?” Cas said, kneeling in front of Sam and gently tilting his head until their eyes met.

Sam managed to maintain eye contact as he shook his head.

“I did it because I could not bear the thought of this world without you in it. I am sorry that I took so long to reach you, that I have been distant lately.”

Sam was speechless. That sounded like—but no. That wasn’t possible. “Cas?” he asked, annoyed at how breathless he sounded.

The angel’s piercing blue gaze never wavered.

Sam glanced at Dean, but his brother’s expression was unreadable. He didn’t look surprised though, so the two of them must have talked while Sam was out. Tentatively, Castiel’s hand came up to cup Sam’s cheek. Sam would have been ashamed of how he leaned into the touch if he could think clearly, but his mind was a fog of disbelief and quavering hope.

“May I?” Cas asked, eyes flicking down to Sam’s mouth.

Sam nodded, and Castiel surged up to press their lips together. Sam’s arms wrapped around the angel while Cas’s hands buried themselves in Sam’s hair. Sam lost himself in the feeling of Cas surrounding him, his grace like a gentle breeze pushing against the madness lurking at the edges of Sam’s mind. He reveled in it, hardly daring to believe that this one thing he thought impossible was really happening.

Dean loudly cleared his throat, and they broke apart, panting. Sam managed to tear his eyes away from Cas long enough to check on Dean and caught him adjusting himself in his pants. Huh. That was not something Sam had been expecting. He felt light-headed, realizing he might actually get a chance at having it all, every last thing he wanted. It felt too good to be true.

With that thought, a wave of cold terror washed over him as his mind happily supplied dozens of scenarios Lucifer had manipulated him with in Hell. Scenarios in which Dean or Cas had saved him. Scenarios in which he was happy, loved and safe until Lucifer threw back the curtain and revealed the lie for what it was. Son of a bitch. He’d thought for sure this time. He’d thought he’d gotten past this stupid, weak, pathetic hope. Dean might have loved him enough once, but not since Sam started the Apocalypse. Cas—well, Castiel had never been subtle about his opinion of Sam. No way this was real, which meant—Sam felt his chest tighten as he struggled for air.

 Watching Sam and Cas making out had been unexpectedly hot, as had the lust blown look Sam had leveled at him when he spotted Dean’s erection. The arousal in the air had only lasted a moment though, as Dean watched Sam’s expression falter. He felt his own eyebrows gather in concern that swiftly transformed into alarm as Sam doubled over, hyperventilating.

“Sam?” he said, moving to his brother’s side. “Sam! Cas, what the hell is going on?”

The angel looked stricken where he crouched between Sam’s knees, but he didn’t answer.

Ignoring him, Dean pulled Sam closer, trying to get Sam to make eye contact with him. With Sam pressed to his chest he could hear his little brother muttering nonsense about Lucifer and Hell and how nothing was real. Christ, the kid couldn’t be awake for five minutes without having a panic attack. This was a stupid plan that was going to get them all killed. Cas brushed his fingers against Sam’s forehead, and Sam slumped into Dean’s hold. Dean closed his eyes and clung to his brother while he addressed Cas.

“This isn’t going to work. He can’t fight like this.”

He didn’t look, but he could feel Cas’s resignation in the air. “He needs his grace.”

“We don’t know that’ll help.” Dean frowned, reluctant to voice the fears chasing around his head but needing to know the angel’s contingency plan. “What if—”

“It will work. It must.” Cas’s voice was hard, and Dean wondered if that was how he sometimes sounded to other people. Cas was right, of course. Getting Sam’s grace back to him had to work. The alternative didn’t bear thinking about. Still, they obviously needed to revise their plan to make sure Sam didn’t get killed before they had a chance to get his grace back to him.

 Hours later, Dean shook Sam’s shoulder to rouse him. He looked adorable asleep, but it was time. They finally had a lead on Raphael and they couldn’t afford to wait. Dean saw when Sam’s mind fully clicked back online, the fuzziness from angel-induced sleep clearing as he recognized where he was. Dean didn’t say anything at first, not wanting to provoke another meltdown. He could see the question on Sam’s face, but he wasn’t sure if it was “what happened” or “is this real,” and Dean didn’t want to know. Probably would make the world seem more fake if he addressed the issue, and his goal at the moment was to get Sam upstairs with the others without needing an angel intervention.

Annoyed with how off-kilter he felt, he shoved a glass of water at Sam and half-growled, “We’re good to go, sleepyhead. You coming?” He watched Sam think, trying to decipher the context behind the question. Dean realized his misstep almost immediately. Sam’s mind was a minefield, making him navigate it was just asking for trouble, so he added, “Time to throw down with Raphael, get your mojo back.” To his relief, the confusion in Sam’s expression cleared, replaced with determination.

They met the others upstairs, and before the atmosphere could get too tense and awkward, Cas zapped them to a cemetery. Dean wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but this wasn’t it. He recognized this place even though he’d only been here once, nearly two years ago. Stull. He swallowed. Cas was right about one thing at least. This was ending today.

Raphael had an altar set up and covered in spell ingredients. Dean couldn’t see the vial of Sam’s grace, but he was sure it was there. The group split, Bobby dragging Sam behind cover while Dean and Cas faced down the archangel. Half a dozen angels flanked Raphael. Dean steeled himself. Outnumbered didn’t begin to cover this scenario. He just hoped Cas could piss Raphael off enough that he went for pain and not the instant kill Dean knew he was capable of.

He shouldn’t have worried. Castiel vanished, reappearing above Raphael. “Hey, assbutt,” he said, dropping a holy oil Molotov on yet another archangel. It was becoming his signature move. That should buy them some time, at least. Dean tried to run to the table—the grace was definitely there, Cas wouldn’t have risked torching it if he didn’t have eyes on it—but he was stopped by two of the angels. They clashed, and it took all of Dean’s attention to stay alive. Getting to that altar was not going to happen, not before Raphael pulled himself together enough to atomize them.

 Sam tried to tune out the sound of fighting behind him, but it was impossible. He knew what was happening, but his memories of Michael and Lucifer’s futile clashes in those early years were causing such a visceral reaction that all he could do was rock in place and hum. He hated it. He was not this broken thing, hiding while his family fought for him. Maybe died for him. That—that was unacceptable. He became aware of Bobby next to him, tangling with an angel that had decided the two of them were easy prey.

Sam took a deep breath and surged to his feet. He could do this. He—he needed an angel blade. Cas had already downed two angels, bringing the numbers more in their favor. Sam could see their swords glittering in the dry grass beside their vessels’ bodies.

He lurched over, tuning out a phantom Michael whispering how useless he was. He knew he could do this. He could fight with Dean, protect the people he loved. He didn’t need to be whole to do that. With each step he regained confidence and strength, finally plunging his blade into an angel that had been trying to stab Dean in the back while he finished off another.

Sam grinned at his brother, emotions soaring with the rush of adrenaline. Lucifer whispered, “I broke you,” but it was so easy to ignore in this moment. These were the people that put him back together. The sound of wings and a look of horror on Dean’s face broke the moment.

Sam didn’t register flying across the cemetery, just the pain that exploded through his head and back as he collided with a gravestone. The world spun, and stars erupted across his vision when he tried to move. Breathing hurt, moving hurt. Even sitting still hurt so much he struggled to keep from vomiting. Dimly, he recognized the cold numbness spreading through his lower half as a very bad thing, but it was difficult to remember why. The liquid iron dripping from his mouth was also bad, and contributing to his nausea, but he couldn’t do anything about it. Continuing to draw shaky, painful breathes was taking every ounce of his concentration. Darkness crowded his vision, and the only clear thought he recognized in his muddled brain was, Not yet.

Ben piped up. “But he saved me! He protected me, Mom!”

Finally, Sam spoke. “Your mom is right. I’m the reason you were in danger in the first place.” To Lisa he said, “It’s ok. I’ll go. Just let me go grab my bag.”

She nodded tightly, chewing her lip, and Sam hurried up the stairs. Dean couldn’t believe it. It felt like his world was falling down around his ears. The argument in the kitchen had been one thing, and he’d understood where she was coming from. This. This was something else entirely. He still understood, even if he didn’t want to admit it. Sam wasn’t human. He wasn’t human, and he’d hidden it from all of them. It was the demon blood all over again. They were going to have to have words about this one.

That didn’t mean he was prepared to just let Sam waltz out of his life.

“You don’t have to go, Dean. This isn’t about you,” she said, quietly, already knowing what his answer was going to be.

“He’s my brother, Lisa. I can’t—I just got him back. And now something is gunning for him. I’m not saying you’re wrong. We’re putting you in danger, and we’ll leave, but I can’t let him deal with this on his own.”

“Where will you go?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Maybe Bobby’s. Maybe not. We’ll figure it out.”

 They were on the road less than an hour later. Sam looked pissed that Dean had insisted on leaving too, but Dean couldn’t figure out who he was pissed at. With the rumble of the Impala soothing the worry in his bones and the roar of the road under her tires, Dean felt happier than he had in a long time. He could argue with Sam later. For now, he just wanted to enjoy being back on the road with his brother.

Dean drove vaguely north, vaguely west. They would end up near Sioux Falls eventually, and then they would stop and see how Bobby was. He didn’t broach the subject of what had happened that morning until after they’d stopped for gas and food and were back on the road, Indiana in their rearview mirror.

“So, Sam, you want to tell me what the hell happened?”

Sam didn’t look at him, just kept staring at the road. “Got my ass kicked by an archangel.”

Dean glanced at Sam. He hadn’t known that was another fucking archangel. Briefly biting his tongue before he spoke to try to keep this civil for as long as possible, he felt the anger bubbling up now that they were safe. Safe enough, at least. “Care to elaborate on that? For example, how are you even breathing right now? Or let’s try: when did you get wings? Speaking of your wings, what happened to them?”

Sam sighed tiredly. “I brought grace with me out of the Cage. Not—not either of them. Just bits and pieces. Cas said it was basically harmless. The wings are new.”

Dean’s jaw worked. “You didn’t think this was information to share with the class?”

“And do what? Drag you out of retirement earlier? I wasn’t using it. I wasn’t—” He looked down at his hands and swallowed hard. “I thought it wouldn’t matter as long as I didn’t use it.” Dean looked over at his brother. Sam’s eyes were wet, and he kept opening his mouth like he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words.

“You still should have told me.”

This time Sam did look at him. His voice was edged with anger when he said, “That’s really easy for you to say. You aren’t the freak in this family.”

 Later, when they stopped for the night, Dean sent Sam out for food. They’d been sniping at each other all afternoon, and Dean knew they needed a break before they came to blows. Besides, he needed to have a word with Cas. He perched himself on the edge of the bed, closed his eyes, and prayed.

“Castiel, you feathered asshole, I’ve got questions for you. For starters, why the hell is a winged arch-dick coming after Sam? Second, how did Sam—”

“Where is Sam?”

Dean opened his eyes and found Castiel standing far too close. The angel looked haggard, but his eyes were bright with concern. “Where have you been?” he asked instead of answering the question.

“I am fighting a civil war. One which Raphael apparently has decided to make personal. Now. Where is Sam?” Power radiated off the angel. It was impossible to mistake the overt hostility in his voice.

“Grabbing food. What the hell are you talking about?” He managed to resist stepping back from the angel.

“You said Sam was threatened. He shouldn’t be out alone. Raphael may be able to find him through his grace, despite the warding imprinted on his ribs.” Castiel shifted his weight, seeming uncharacteristically nervous.

“His grace. Right. About that. How did he end up running around with freaking grace? Or better yet, can you get rid of it?”

Castiel whirled, staring at Dean until the hunter awkwardly broke eye contact. “Why would I want to do that?”

Dean rolled his eyes. “I don’t know, Cas, maybe because Raphael definitely can use it to track him. Has, actually. He wasn’t threatened; he was attacked. So being able to keep a low profile would be nice. That a good enough reason for you?”

Castiel’s eyes widened and his voice dropped even lower. “He was attacked? What happened?”

Geez. Dean could tell he wasn’t going to get anything useful out of the angel until he filled him in. He did, just giving the broadest strokes, then asked again, “Can you get rid of the grace?”

Castiel shook him head. “I’m afraid that’s not possible.”

Dean frowned. “Why the hell not?”

Castiel spoke slowly, as if trying to explain a difficult concept to a child. “His grace is deeply entwined with his soul, likely more so now that he has used it and manifested wings. Removing it could cause irreparable damage.” He gazed steadily at Dean. “It may kill him.”

Dean blew out a breath and ran a hand through his hair. “How did he even end up like this?”

“I don’t know. Given the way it is threaded through his soul, I would say that he did it to himself while he was in the Cage. Has he discussed his time in Hell with you?”

Dean shook his head. “No. I haven’t pushed. He seems to be dealing ok.”

“You know how long he was there. With the damage he sustained, to be functional now—” Castiel pursed his lips. “The grace is likely dulling the memories, protecting his mind from the damage his soul sustained. I believe his soul gathered scraps of Michael’s and Lucifer’s grace as a means of defending itself, but I can’t be sure without a closer look.”

Dean tried to understand. “What, like—like some civilian that finds themselves in a warzone and picks up some dead soldier’s gun they don’t know how to use because it’s better than nothing?”

Castiel tilted his head to the side. “That seems excessively dangerous.”

Dean rolled his eyes and made a “that’s my point” gesture.

After a moment, the analogy seemed to click for Cas. “Yes. That is…an accurate assessment of what I believe has happened.”

“My soul is being held together by grace?” Sam asked from the doorway.

Cas nodded, apparently unperturbed by Sam’s stealth entrance. His freaky angel hearing had probably heard the giant come in.

“So there’s nothing we can do about it,” Sam said definitively. “I just have to learn to deal with this.”

“Sam,” Dean said, then stopped. Dean’s heart ached for his little brother. He still had nightmares of listening to Sam detox from the demon blood. Still remembered the hopelessness on Sam’s face when he talked about what Azazel had done to him as a baby. He hated that Sam had hidden this from him too, but the way Sam had called himself a freak earlier had raised his big brother protective instincts.

Still. Maybe this could be useful. Cas’s powers had helped them out of tight situations plenty.   Dean couldn’t complain about some healing mojo instead of stitches or hospitals. He may not like that Sam was one step further from human—ok, he hated that part—but it was a damn helpful set of tools if Sam could use them. Dean looked from Sam to Cas. “In that case, I guess Sam could use some flying lessons. What do you say?”

Sam had protested, but with Dean on board it was hard to argue against Sam learning how to use his new abilities now that Raphael had painted a target on the younger Winchester. Castiel, for his part, had readily agreed to teach Sam what he could, but he’d been called away that first night before anything could be taught.

 “Stop trying to force your grace to function, Sam,” Cas said with exasperation in his voice.

“I am. Or I’m trying to. This isn’t exactly easy for me.” They’d been working for an hour in Bobby’s junkyard, and so far, Sam had managed little more than manifesting his wings once.

Castiel frowned. Sam’s grace glowed brightly, but it seemed to shrink every time Sam attempted to use it. “It would be easier if you were not fighting with yourself.”

Sam threw his hands up. “Sorry. I don’t have much Zen today.” His unspoken desire to not do this at all was clear even to Castiel.

Castiel tried not to be offended. He knew both Winchesters valued their humanity, and this was a difficult adjustment for Sam. His affection for the younger brother aside, he had been pleased when they asked him for help with Sam’s powers. It just seemed that he was not a very good teacher. How does one teach what has been instinct since the day they were born?

He opened his mouth to speak when he received a summons from Rachel. Raphael had attacked another flight—the third attack this week to interrupt a lesson with Sam. He growled in frustration and looked to Sam. “Rachel is calling. I’m sorry. Keep practicing, and I will be back when I am able. Possibly not for a day or two.”

 Sam understood Cas was fighting a war. He did. He tried to practice on his own, moving things, stalking Dean to be there to heal any minor injury his brother managed to accrue while working on a car in Bobby’s garage. His results were sporadic at best. Healing his own injuries happened without thought, but he had yet to successfully heal anyone else. He even tried flying once or twice—terrifying, when he wasn’t doing it on instinct. He’d ended up across town the first time, and halfway across the state the second. After that, he had decided he wasn’t practicing flight again until Cas had a chance to give him a real lesson, lest he end up in Norway with no way back into the US.

Besides, his heart wasn’t really in it. Even though Dean was on board, apparently, a little voice in Sam’s head kept whispering Freak! Freak! Freak! anytime he reached for his power. Cas showed up when he could, but their lessons were erratic as Raphael stepped up his aggression. None of them were sure what it meant, but Cas had received word that Raphael may be making moves to reopen the Cage. No details on how that was going to happen, but they all knew enough to be wary. Sam had opened the Cage from this side not once but twice, and he was the only one to also somehow escape from the inside. If Raphael was looking for a way in, Sam was a target.

Sam knew Dean feared another attack on them, and that plus the added stress of trying to master powers he’d rather ignore was starting to wear on him.

“I’m just frustrated, man,” Sam said, throwing a shirt into his duffel. Sitting still at Bobby’s for weeks was making everything worse, no matter how much they loved their foster father. Dean had finally agreed to hit the road that morning. No hunts, just driving. It would feel good for both of them to be on the road again.

Dean raised his eyebrows. “I thought you said you understood. You afraid he’s just not that into you, Sammy?” He chuckled at his own joke, stifling the laugh a little when he caught Sam’s glare. “Come on, untwist your panties. He’s doing his best.”

Sam swallowed hard. He was not about to tell Dean about his crush on the angel. “I just feel like I’m not making any progress, you know? I know he’s trying, but—”

“You think Raphael’s going to come after you again?”

Sam shrugged and continued packing his bag for a moment. “You don’t?”

Dean hummed noncommittally.

Sam didn’t say anything. He was worried about Cas, with Raphael’s increasingly frequent attacks. And yes, he was worried Raphael was going to attack them before he had a handle on his abilities. Right now, his powers were unreliable at best, and Dean, while an incredible hunter, was just a man. An archangel on a mission would squash them both like bugs. Sure, they’d survived encounters with archangels before, but never an archangel that wanted them dead.

 Dean cautiously watched his brother packing. Sam was struggling, and Dean was keenly aware that Sam hadn’t denied his implied feelings for Cas. Whatever Dean had thought might be happening between them had stalled out after Raphael’s attack, and Dean could be the bigger man. Regardless of his own feelings toward Sam, he knew the role he had to play here: tease Sam mercilessly like the big brother he was, then help his little brother out by being the best damn wingman he could be.

He could bide his time, though, and did. Two days later as Sam was brushing his teeth before bed, Dean decided it was the perfect moment for a little ribbing. “So, is it Cas’s ass that does it for you?”

He was rewarded by Sam choking on his toothpaste and turning bright red. Dean grinned, pleased with himself. When Sam could finally breathe again, he managed a strangled, “What?”

Dean plastered an innocent look on his face. “I mean, I suppose it makes sense. He’s an angel. You’re kind of like an angel now. Hey, can you see his wings?”

He turned to face Sam and found him staring at Dean openmouthed. “Is that why?” Sam asked.

“Why what?” Dean said, shooting his brother a genuine look of confusion.

Sam shuffled and stared down at his feet, suddenly nervous. “Why we—Why you’ve been sleeping alone.”

Panic threatened to flood Dean’s senses. They didn’t talk about this. Regardless of what they might or might not have been willing to do, this was not a topic of conversation Dean had ever been prepared to discuss.

Sam sighed. “I—Sorry. I know. I figured with the grace—” He paused, trying to compose himself. “I figured you didn’t want that, anymore. Whatever it was we were doing at Lisa’s. But if—if it’s because you think Cas—” Sam closed his eyes, missing Dean’s very loud thoughts telling him to shut the fuck up already, and barreled on. “I do. I want—what we were. But if you—”

“Dude, stop,” Dean choked out. “I can practically feel myself growing a vagina.”

There was Sam’s trusty bitch face. Dean beamed at him. “So, not Cas?”

Sam blushed. Dean raised his eyebrows. Finally, almost so quietly Dean missed it, he managed to say, “Not just Cas.”

Ah. Now that was interesting. Dean thought for half a second before deciding he’d be game for pretty much anything Sam could throw his way. Break one major taboo and the rest just didn’t seem so bad in comparison. “Kinky.” The word was out of his mouth before he even really thought about saying it, but he wasn’t going to backtrack. It was kinky, and if Sam interpreted it as Dean’s interest, then he wasn’t about to dissuade him. Dean grinned suggestively, and Sam blushed harder. He chuckled. Flustering Sam was going to be his new favorite pastime.

After that, they started enjoying their time just being brothers on the road so much that they were completely blindsided when one day Raphael appeared behind Sam, angel blade held to his throat. Dean had no time to react before the archangel had gripped a chunk of Sam’s hair, tilted his head back, and used the blade to slice a wound in Sam’s neck. The wound glowed blue, and Dean was horrified when he realized Sam’s grace was leaking out, right into a small vial Raphael held to the wound. The angel shoved Sam’s limp body forward with a wicked grin. Dean was already screaming for Cas as the arch-dick disappeared as quickly as he’d arrived.

Dean caught Sam, clamping a hand across the wound in his neck. It now bled only red and looked shallow enough that it might not be fatal. He levered Sam to the ground and realized that though Sam hadn’t really lost much blood yet, the attack had left him dull and glassy-eyed. Dean remembered Cas’s warnings about irreversible damage and prayed to a God he didn’t believe in that Cas was wrong.

Sam had occupied this room for a month, and it still didn’t look like he’d moved in at all. The bedspread was a floral pattern Lisa had obviously picked out, the walls were still painted lavender, various boxes of their junk were still piled in the corner. The only indication that Sam spent time in here was the pile of books on his nightstand. He wasn’t sure if Sam was waiting to be kicked out or if he just didn’t know how to make a room his own, but Dean resolved to help him settle in more that weekend.

“Can’t sleep?” Dean asked, closing the door behind him.

Sam shrugged noncommittally. “Nightmares again?”

Dean shook his head and scoffed. “I always check the house at two in the morning. Saw your light on.”

Sam huffed a laugh and nodded. “Yeah, well, sleep isn’t really my friend lately. Pass the time with me?”

Dean crawled onto the bed, which was not nearly big enough for two Winchesters, and settled against the headboard, brushing shoulders with Sam. The contact was reassuring in a way Dean couldn’t explain, and though they talked for over an hour, he felt sleep beginning to tug at him almost immediately. They woke in a tangle of limbs the next morning as light spilled through the curtains and the door to Sam’s room clicked quietly shut.

 Sam worried, but Lisa never said anything, not even when it kept happening, first once a week, then twice, until nearly every night found Dean crawling into Sam’s bed at some point. They never did anything besides talk and sleep, but here, in this house, it felt like a breach in protocol. A line they shouldn’t be crossing, and nowhere close to the line Sam wished they could cross.

Sam didn’t try to stop it, though. Wrapping himself around Dean helped ground the hum of power under his skin and let him sleep more than two hours a night. Breach or not, Sam couldn’t, wouldn’t, turn Dean away.

One day, as spring was just starting to melt the piles of Indiana winter snow, Sam blinked back to consciousness and found Dean’s morning wood pressed firmly against his ass. This wasn’t unusual in and of itself, especially lately, but judging from the soft moans and minute thrusts, Dean was in the middle of a very interesting dream.

The little brother in Sam told him to wake Dean up, thus ruining the climax, as it were. Logic and self-preservation told him to sneak out of bed and leave Dean to finish his dream alone. That was what he should do. He knew it, tried to talk himself into making that first move, but there was a third part—a leaking, achingly hard part—that wanted to pretend he was still asleep and enjoy wherever this might go. He gritted his teeth. That would be wrong. It would be taking advantage of Dean, for starters, and beyond that would be crossing a line he wasn’t prepared to cross in Lisa’s house. Not when he knew for a fact Dean and Lisa were still involved. They were frequently very enthusiastic about their involvement after they went to bed, even if Dean did end up laying next to Sam, asleep, a few hours later.

Even as Sam palmed himself and stifled a moan, he knew he was going to be sneaking out of bed and into the shower to take care of things in private. He carefully shifted toward the edge of the bed, freezing when Dean’s arms tugged him back.

Dean’s sleep-rough voice grumbled, “Five more minutes.”

Sam held his breath. After a minute, Dean’s breathing deepened, and his hips resumed their small movements. Sam silently groaned. Only Dean would be able to resume a sex dream after falling back asleep. Sam’s traitorous cock was fully interested in staying in bed, and it was rewarded when one of Dean’s hands slid down Sam’s belly to within grazing distance. Not close enough, damn it.

Sam squeezed his eyes shut in frustration. Lisa was right down the hall. Want or not, he was only here—they­ were only here—because she allowed it. Never mind how Sam had sworn up and down that he wasn’t going to destroy Dean’s life by coming here.

Sam whimpered when a particularly enthusiastic hip thrust shifted Dean’s hand enough to brush Sam’s hard dick. Dean didn’t seem to react, though, so Sam deemed him still asleep and took the opportunity to slip out of bed. This time, Dean let him go.

He breathed a sigh of relief and gathered his things for a shower. He briefly considered going for a run, but he didn’t relish the thought of trying to will his erection into submission lest the neighbors see. He glared at it for a moment, feeling like a horny teenager, then stealthily made his way to the shower, managing to avoid anyone else in the house.

Under the hot spray he palmed himself while mentally shuffling through his spank bank. Sure, he could probably get himself off in five minutes or less just reliving what had happened in his bed that morning, but he was looking for a distraction. Something to get him thinking about Dean and his penis less. Maybe Castiel instead. Sam had harbored a harmless crush on the angel practically from the moment they met, and it was easy to call up fantasies of that deep voice calling him a good boy. He stroked himself with one hand, lightly fingered himself with the other. He imagined Castiel pressing into him from behind, superhumanly strong arms holding Sam up as he thrust into him. Good. Yes. He was close, stroking himself faster, chasing the release. Dean on his knees, Cas feeding Sam’s cock to him. Oh. As he imagined fucking his brother’s face to the rhythm of Castiel’s thrusts, Sam came so hard he whited out for a moment and had to reach out a hand to catch himself on the shower wall.

So much for a distraction from Dean.

 After Sam crawled out of bed, Dean cracked open his eyes. That had been his imagination, right? He hadn’t actually felt Sam’s hard-on a minute ago, had he? He pressed both palms to his eyes until stars exploded behind his eyelids. No, that hadn’t been part of the dream in which he was pounding his brother into the bed. This was getting out of hand.

Lisa was already in the kitchen, and he could tell this was not going to be a good day. She looked determined, and he’d learned ages ago that a determined Lisa got her way. She didn’t even give him a chance to warm up his brain with coffee before she started talking. “We need to talk about Sam.”

Dean groaned. In truth, he’d been waiting for her to kick them out. It was weird, he knew it was weird. And great sex or not, Lisa’s patience with him could only be expected to extend so far. He hadn’t pushed, hadn’t asked, hadn’t wanted to rock the boat. Sam said he was dealing, but Dean knew he was barely sleeping. Knew the kid hardly slept more than an hour or two unless Dean was in bed too. Dean wasn’t sure if it was nightmares or memories or what, but they both slept better the way they did things now. Dean briefly wondered if that was part of why she had tolerated it for as long as she did. He hadn’t woken the house up shouting in weeks.

She set her jaw and continued, undeterred by his lack of verbal response. “I know I’m the one that offered him a place to stay, but it’s time he got his own place, don’t you think?”

Dean narrowed his eyes. She wanted just Sam gone? “What, you think he isn’t pulling his weight or something?”

She sighed. “Of course not. He’s been great. And if you want me to list the ways I will, but that’s not the point.”

“Then what is the point? He’s a great guy, just got done being tortured in Hell for saving the world and is still somehow managing to be a functional member of society, but, yeah, he definitely needs to hit the road.” Dean let a touch of his anger filter into his voice, edging his sarcasm harder.

She turned away from Dean. “You know why, Dean. I didn’t want to bring it up, but this thing between you is—It’s not what siblings do. And I’m not judging. The two of you saved the world. I’d be an idiot to be anything other than grateful. But I don’t know that there’s space for me and Ben in this tangled up mess with you and Sam. I thought if—never mind. The point is that I know it’s not like that between you.”

Dean struggled not to roll his eyes. If she only knew.

But she wasn’t done.

“Except for how it is. Maybe not yet, but it will be. I’m not blind. I see how you watch each other. So, yeah, Sam has to go. If you want to stay—”

The sound of the front door closing hard—not quite slamming shut—shut them both up. Dean winced. Son of a bitch.

 Sam sat down hard on the front porch. He’d known this wasn’t going to last. He just hadn’t expected it to hurt so much when it ended. It was ok, though. He’d leave after work, find a motel for the night, then get a place of his own. And he wasn’t going to drag Dean along with him. Dean would put up a fight (Sam refused to think about how one-sided the conversation he’d just heard was), but it was better this way. Dean got to keep his family, and Sam could stay close.

He stood, dusting off his pants as he prepared himself to go inside and grab some food before he and Dean left for work. Ben opened the door, stepping outside and barely glancing at Sam before starting across the lawn, heading for his bus stop. Sam checked the time—later than he’d thought.

With barely a flutter of wings preceding his arrival, an angel appeared on the lawn between Sam and Ben. Sam could hardly see the vessel past the sight of the grace. It was blinding and with a sickening roll of his stomach he realized it reminded him of Michael and Lucifer. It had to be the last archangel, Raphael.

He saw Ben pause and turn back when the angel appeared. Not good. He tried to subtly catch the kid’s eye and warn him to run, hopefully around back to get Dean, but Sam would be happy with anything involving “away.” Sam tried to think. He had no weapons, hadn’t carried one in weeks. All their sharp-edged tools were locked away in the garage, just like everything in Baby’s trunk, so no way to slice his hand and banish Raphael. He could call Cas, but his memories of Lucifer vaporizing the angel stopped him. There was no plan. Just stall until Dean realized there was something going on and banished the archangel himself.

Raphael had a darkly pleased look on his face that made Sam’s blood run cold. He flicked his wrist, and Ben flew across the yard to slam into the siding where he hovered two feet off the ground. Sam flinched and glanced over at him. No bleeding. He looked scared but not painful. Small mercies.

Sam steeled himself. “What do you want?”

Raphael sneered. “I want to hurt Castiel, and I’ve heard you’re his pet. Do I need to spell out the rest, or have my brothers taught you how we think?”

Sam blanched. No, Raphael did not need to elaborate. He was here to hurt Sam, badly, judging from the look on his face. “I’m not that important. Your plan isn’t going to work.”

Raphael laughed deeply, and Sam could see his wings flutter in amusement. “Oh, you think so? Perhaps I just wanted to hurt you. Hurting Castiel is a bonus.”

“Why?”

“Why? Because you ruined everything, you vile, useless earthworm. You took my Father’s script, and you destroyed it. You think you know better than God? Than the angels? You are pathetic, and I will personally crush you for your insolence. Then, I will release my brothers, and we can have a proper Apocalypse.”

Sam felt cold fear wash down his spine. “I won’t say yes again.”

Raphael tilted his head with a look that could almost be mistaken for pity. “Don’t worry, vessel. You won’t have to.”

That sounded ominous. Sam tried to respond, do anything to keep distracting and stalling, but he abruptly found that he couldn’t. His eyes widened, and then Raphael smirked. Sam felt the snap crackle of his grace lighting up under his skin and willed it away. It might be useful if he knew what he was doing, but as it stood, he was just as likely to hurt Ben or an innocent passerby as do anything useful.

“Oh sorry, did I not mention? I’m tired of listening to your attempts to understand things obviously beyond your comprehension. It’s time I finished what I came here for.” With that, he idly waved his hand and threw Sam across the yard.

Sam landed hard on his left shoulder and felt something give way before pain flared bright from the joint. Dislocated, probably. He groaned and tried to push himself to his feet, only to be slammed back into the ground by an invisible heavy weight pressing into his back. He struggled to turn his head enough to keep breathing and winced as he felt his ribs creaking under the strain. The angel was toying with him. He cracked open his eyes just in time to see Raphael fly across the yard to deliver a hard kick to Sam’s abdomen. He followed it with two more and a kick to Sam’s head that left him stunned. Something had broken internally, he knew, and he gagged as blood started to well up in the back of his throat. The kicks had flipped him onto his back, and now he was in danger of choking on his own bodily fluids. Maybe. Maybe if he could roll over again. Could he use the blood to make a banishing sigil? No. Grass. He was laying on the grass. He needed a flatter surface.

Idly, he wondered if any of the neighbors had called the police. He hoped not. He didn’t especially want to see vaporized police officers this morning. Sam was aware enough to realize just how fuzzy his brain was. Concussion, he thought. He barely felt the next several blows Raphael rained down on him. At this rate, he wasn’t going to last until Dean made it out here to rescue him. As if on cue, he felt a surge from his grace. Still dangerous. Still likely to end up hurting Ben or someone else, but he was out of time. If he knew that Raphael would leave once Sam was dead, then he would just wait and take the damage, but he didn’t. Rather, he suspected that he was just the first person Raphael was going to hurt here. He didn’t matter that much to Cas. Dean did. Hurting Lisa or Ben would hurt Dean. Hurting Dean would hurt Cas. And, of course, Dean had failed his duties as vessel too. No, Raphael wasn’t going to leave once he was done with Sam. Sam needed to end this, if he could.

He reached for his grace, dormant for months now, and pulled. He felt the rush of power, already starting to heal his wounds. He gritted his teeth to keep from screaming as his shoulder popped back into joint. Healing was good, but not what he needed at this moment. It could wait until after the psychotic archangel was gone. He tried again, reaching for his power and then pushing, trying to focus it at Raphael, who was gearing up for another round of blows. This time it worked, and Raphael went flying. He landed near Ben.

As the angel laughed—never a good sign—and reached up, twisting his arm and clenching his hand into a fist. Ben screamed, and Sam suddenly felt the weird, omnipresent itch between his shoulder blades explode outward. In a blink, he was across the yard and reaching for Raphael. Tossing the angel away, again, he stood in front of Ben protectively. Something was coming out of his back, and he was trying not to think about it too much, but a glow caught the corner of his eye. Wings. Honest to God wings, made from the same glowing grace Raphael’s were made of.

Slowly, he lowered them, keeping an eye on the angel as he checked to see how badly Ben had been hurt. Honestly, the kid looked ok. He was standing under his own power now, watching Sam with something akin to awe. Sam tried to smile reassuringly, keenly aware that he probably looked like a wreck with blood dripping down his face.

 Dean heard a commotion and stumbled outside just in time to see a winged dick start pummeling his brother. He ducked back inside for a weapon—preferably an angel blade, if he could remember where the heck he’d stashed his. No, that would take too long, it was in the Impala. He grabbed the knife he kept stashed in the living room, slashing his hand as he went back outside. Sam wasn’t on the ground anymore, he was by Ben, kneeling on the ground. Dean was alarmed by the glowing wings he could clearly see erupting from Sam’s back, but he didn’t have time to dwell on it as he hastily drew an angel banishing sigil on the wall beside him. He could see angel dude when he stood up and an angel blade dropped into his hand. Dean worked faster, pumping his hand to keep the blood flowing. The angel teleported himself directly behind Sam and drew his arm back to stab his blade into Sam’s back as Dean slammed his bloody palm onto the finished sigil. Immediately, bright light flooded the area and he had to raise his arm to block the glare from burning his eyes.

He panted, trying to catch his breath until he realized he could hear Sam yelling. He blinked, trying to focus on what was going on in the yard. As his vision cleared, the only thing he was able to think about was Sam laying on the ground, curled into a ball and screaming in pain. Shit shit shit. Dean rushed over, trying to assess Sam’s injuries. His face was covered in blood, especially around his mouth which was concerning. Dean ran his hands down Sam’s back, looking for a stab wound. He’d thought he’d hit the sigil in time, but he couldn’t be sure. He fought down the panic threatening to overwhelm him. He was not going to lose Sam again. Not now, not ever. Less than a minute later, Dean was still trying to figure out how badly Sam was hurt, but Sam had gone quiet and limp. As soon as he realized, Dean frantically felt for a pulse, heaving a relieved sigh when he found one, strong and steady. He held on, tipping his forehead against Sam’s. They were going to be ok. He barely registered Ben running back to the house or Lisa standing in the doorway, silently watching the scene.