And Hell Followed With Him - Part III

[legoline]

After eight days spent mostly in bed and Layla dropping by every morning to change his bandages, Sam said it would be fine if Dean got up now. The burns and cuts were healing, and Dean gazed in amazement at the sore skin that was slowly beginning to mend. He'd not seen his body heal in a long, long time as such things were not allowed in Hell. He stared in wonder, disbelieving that after the endless time of being ripped apart and being put back together his body would still possess the will to mend.

The skin that grew was scarred white in places and rough, but it was skin--not open flesh. There was no blood. No innards or bone to be seen. Dean ran his fingers over it, almost afraid to touch it.

Layla smiled at him and carefully squeezed his arm. “See? You'll be back on your feet in no time.”

Dean returned the smile, not knowing what to say. Words didn't come easily to him. He'd spent most of his time in Hell screaming his lungs out or suffering in complete stillness. Nobody had talked to him in an eternity, and he didn't quite know how to carry on a conversation, how to properly respond to things. He'd found out that smiling made other people smile too. So Dean did it, even though the corners of his mouth that were still covered in black scab, pierced every time he pulled them upwards.

Sometimes he tried to talk. Sam asked a lot of questions that Dean couldn't answer, and so he told him. Not in so many words, but he did try.

After eight days of healing and Lilith not showing up to pull him away again, Dean decided that it might be okay to very carefully believe that maybe this wasn't Hell anymore after all. He was tired of being scared all the time, scared that he was going to be taken to the fires again soon, scared that he’d be dragged back to the racks. Maybe this was Hell, but if he believed it wasn't, then maybe that would get him a day or two without so much fear.

He never saw much of Sam. He was out all day, doing camp stuff, he said. Dean didn't know quite what this camp stuff was, and he never asked. As far as he understood, Sam was in charge around here. There were demons everywhere around, but this place was safe. Refugees sought sanctuary in this place, and there were many of them. And most of the people Dean had left behind four years ago were dead now.

He didn't quite understand it all, and he wasn't quite sure he really wanted to either.
Sam checked on him around lunch, usually, before he went off again. He asked if Dean was good, if he needed anything. When he returned for the night, he was too tired to talk much. He put on his night shirt, washed his face and eased onto the bed of blankets.

Two or three times, when Sam lay awake and couldn't sleep, he started talking. Asking about Hell, mostly. Once, he gave Dean another update about who hadn’t made it and who had. They'd left the Impala at Bobby's house; Sam didn't know whether the car was still there. In these rare moments, Sam spoke a lot about the war and duty. These were the moments when Dean wished that all of this was really just another part of Hell that Lilith had created.

Sam never said anything about those four years that lay between them now, not really. He gave Dean a broad overview, filled him in on the bigger picture. He never said whether he'd been scared, how it had felt to fight Lucifer. Never mentioned friends, never mentioned things that weren't mere facts.

The guy whose quarters Dean occupied looked like Sam, but he felt unfamiliar to Dean, like a stranger.

“I think you should probably stay within the church,” Sam said after Layla had confirmed Dean was well enough to leave bed and go out for a while. “Just for now. Please.”

Dean nodded obediently.

He wasn't sure he wanted to go further than the entrance of the church for now. It was all so different. After what Dean had seen from his short trip outside, the tents and refugees, the execution of that woman—a vampire, Bobby had told Dean later, but still, the image of Sam ruthlessly chopping off her head just wouldn't go away—Dean didn't want to go back there again. Actually, he would have been perfectly fine staying in Sam's quarters for the rest of his life.

“I could take a walk with you,” Layla offered. “Show you around.”

Again, Dean nodded. Miraculously, Layla was just like he remembered her. Kind and with that great inner strength, so perceptive Dean had wondered whether she could read minds.

“Thanks, Layla,” Sam thanked her instead of Dean. He turned to Dean. “It'll be good for you to get out of here for a bit” Sam went on.

Dean glanced at him helplessly. This world makes no sense, he would have liked to say. But then again, Sam probably already knew that.

“Put on your shoes,” Layla said. Sam stood next to her, arms crossed over his chest.

Dean pursed his lips and could feel heat shooting into his cheeks. With their eyes on him he fixed his gaze on the floor.

“What's wrong?” Sam asked.

“I...don't have. Shoes.”

“What?” Sam glanced down at Dean's feet as if to check that Dean wasn't lying. Dean wiggled his feet. They were wrapped in socks that Michael had given him. But there were no shoes.

“Shit,” Sam muttered and went outside.



Dean slipped his feet into the shoes and lifted them carefully. The weight of the leather and rubber sole pulled his foot down. He wasn't used to the additional weight anymore. Sam pulled the left corner of his mouth up a bit, looking at Dean encouragingly. His arms were crossed over his chest. He wouldn't say where he'd gotten the shoes.

“Do they fit?” He almost—almost--sounded as excited as the boy Dean had watched grow up. Most of his memories had faded over time or been pushed back into the part of his mind where Lilith couldn't rip them out to play with them. A lot of what Dean knew he should remember had reduced to faint shadows and blurs. But he remembered Sammy. Taking care of him. The way Sammy used to look at him, anxious for Dean's approval. He was like that now, in this moment, staring at Dean and biting his bottom lip as if everything depended on whether the shoes fitted.

Dean moved forward on the mattress, and as he put weight on his feet, they slipped further into the shoes. They were a little too big.

Dean nodded.

Sam smiled. “Then Layla can show you around now. I can't come, sorry. I'm needed in the infirmary.”

“Yes,” Dean forced himself to say. Maybe he could start saying “yes” instead of just nodding. Maybe he could do that.

He pushed himself up, and a second later Layla's fingers wrapped around his arm. He wavered on his feet, and she helped him to keep his balance.

“There. Let's take it easy for today, shall we?”

Dean nodded, forgetting that he'd wanted to say “yes” from now on. Sam gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder, and Dean, whose wounds were still healing, winced and—not expecting the gesture—almost lost his balance. He stumbled forward, his face heading for the stone tiles, when another hand grabbed his arm and kept him on his feet just in time.

It was Sam.

“Are you all right?” His brows were furrowed and his lips pressed together. He sounded worried, like the knowledge that he was the leader of this camp had slipped his mind for a moment, and he was just Sam, Dean’s brother, again.

Dean nodded quickly, catching his breath. Remembering his resolution, he added a wheezed, “Yes.”
“Okay. See you later then.”

The leader of the camp left the quarters, Dean and Layla behind.

“You should know,” Layla said slowly, “that the people here have heard of you. You're famous, and they're very confused because you're back and no one's ever returned from Hell before. So they might be staring at you but just ignore it, okay? Once they've seen you around a few times they'll focus their attention on someone else.” She paused. Dean liked her hair. It was yellow, like the sun. As Dean's mind began to wander, she continued speaking, drawing his attention back to her words. “What I'm trying to say is, don't let it bother you.”

“Yes,” Dean said.

The curtain closed behind them, falling back into big folds, and for a moment, the noises died down, as if someone had put a cheese cover over the place. The laughter ebbed away, and the conversations turned into hushed whispers. Everyone was staring at him. Eyes from all corners watched him. People whispered his name. Children pointed their fingers at him. For a moment, life in the church stopped. Everyone was holding their breath.

The skin on Dean's neck prickled. He lowered his eyes, focusing on the stone tiles. He felt ashamed, incredibly aware of how horrible he had look. He wanted to run back to Sam's quarters and never come out again.

Layla squeezed his hand and gently urged him to continue walking.

He knew that they were only walking a short round, taking a quick tour through the church and then returning to the safe place. But as Dean lifted his feet, the shoes heavy and all the people staring at him, it seemed like the aisle was rapidly growing wider and longer. There was a cross at the end, and it too was getting smaller, withdrawing quickly. Dean stopped, shrugging uncomfortably. They were looking, men with one eye, women with scars all over their cheeks and children with one leg. Their whispers resounded in the cathedral like bells tolling.
His heart throbbed in his chest, going faster and faster. He couldn't. He didn't want to. He shook his head.

“Dean, please,” Layla said.

Dean shook his head again frantically. He wanted to tell her that he didn't want this, but the words got confused in his mind and he couldn't remember which ones to say. He took a step backwards.

“Look who's back on his feet,” another voice chimed in. Bobby's voice. Low, gruff, and delighted. Dean glanced up at him and pursed his lips.

Bobby was smiling, his head slightly tilted. “Layla showing you around?”

Dean nodded abruptly. Sometimes the nods came too fast, other times too slowly. He couldn't even get that much right anymore.

“Yes,” he answered. He inhaled as if to add something else, but the words got lost on him halfway. Dean shut his mouth and averted his eyes.

“Mind if I accompany you guys?” Bobby asked.

Dean shrugged, then shook his head.

He was framed by bodies now, Bobby to his right and Layla to his left. They moved on slowly, adjusting to Dean's clumsy steps.

Getting to the end of the aisle took forever, and by the time they reached the big wooden cross Dean was panting. All of it scared him. He vaguely recalled following Sam outside once—the image of Sam executing the vampire had been forever burned into his mind—but actually getting to the site he couldn't remember. This place, this world frightened him. He didn't know the rules. He didn't want to learn them either. He wanted to stay in Sam's quarters and sleep, where he could try to dream of better times. Times when Sam had still known how to make jokes and laugh. Times when Bobby had called them idjits and they'd camped out at his house. Times when Lucas had been alive and Asher, Ellen and Jo.

Bobby patted him on the shoulder lightly when they stopped in front of the cross. He gestured over to a heavy wooden door to the right. The wood was so old that over the centuries, it had adapted a shade of brown so dark that it looked black. “There's where we keep the meds. Only very few people have access. And below our feet, in the crypt, there's the food storage room. Again, very few people have access to that either.”

Dean listened obediently then felt it was only polite to nod. It didn't really concern him, did it? He had no use for weapons or food. After all, there’d been no food in Hell. He still found it a luxury that it existed up here.

They took a right, and Dean found to his surprise that they made a turn into yet another aisle. There were two of them. Living quarters lined the walls of the church, and there were a couple in the middle, right in between the aisles. Maybe that way more people could fit into the church. The quarters had to be very small. Dean had learned to endure time in very small places.

They walked on, heads still popping out of doors and from behind curtains, eyeing Dean. Dean kept his head down. His feet hurt. His legs got tired. Bobby's hand on Dean's shoulder gently pushed him forward. Bobby and Layla kept chatting, but Dean didn't pay attention whether or not the conversation was directed at him. His eyes were focused on the floor, his gaze lifting only ever so often towards the big doors at the end of the aisle and the big great beyond. Somewhere out there Sam was giving orders.

Sam was outside, and Dean wasn't.



“Kim says the demons knew they were gonna be there,” Angela said. She crossed her arms over her chest and shot Sam and expectant look. On the cot, Kim was resting. A bandage covered the socket where her right eye should have been. She'd lost it last night. The drugs were keeping her asleep, which was about as much as their medics could do for her. Treat her with antibiotics, clean the wound, shoot her up with drugs and hope that she'd pull through. Sam had been in that position more than once. Most of the hunters that went patrolling had.

“You think we have a mole,” Sam said. It was not a question.

“Yes.”

Angela did not have room in her life for friendships or relationships. She didn't make the room, filling herself with duties and missions instead. She kept her distance and never dared to let acquaintances take a greater significance than that. She made herself invulnerable to pain, to grief, to loss. Of all the people in camp, Kim was probably the one that Angela would have considered as a friend if pushed to name one. Still, that was mostly down to Kim, as she'd set her mind to becoming a friend to Angela.

Angela had opened herself up just a little, and now her only friend was lying in the infirmary possibly dying. Angela's teeth were clenched and her eyes narrowed.

“How do we find it?”

“Do we have to?” Angela replied, voice cold. “Do we actually have to find it? Don't we already know who the mole is?”

“If you're suggesting...”

“I'm not suggesting. I'm certain of it.”

Sam tried to keep his voice cool. Even though he still didn't quite believe that the man Bobby and Michael had found was really Dean, Angela's words made him angry. The fact that it made him angry only made him angrier.

“We don't know anything for sure.”

“Oh, come on, Sam.” Angela raised her hands. “This guy shows up. At the same time the demons start attacking us again, and they seem to know exactly where our patrols will be. Either Dean's a fraud sent by Lilith or your brother is working for Lilith. Whatever the case may be, he is on the demons' side. He's a traitor, and you know it. You're just protecting him because it's Dean. But that's not fair, Sam. You're putting all the people here at risk because you're too afraid--”

“Angela, shut up!” Sam barked. Exploded. He couldn't control it. Suddenly, the words were just out there. The vein behind his temple pulsated. For a moment, Angela's face went blank and she paled.

“Look, I'm sorry,” Sam hastened to say, lowering his voice. He needed a moment before he continued to speak. He exhaled then slowly said, “But the point still stands. It could all be circumstantial. Just because it's the easiest solution it doesn't mean he actually is the mole. I'm not going to have someone executed without evidential proof. Is that understood? No one.”

Angela pushed a strand of hair out of her face. She locked her eyes with Sam's, studying him for a moment.

“What if we find proof that it is Dean?”

Sam released a breath he'd not realised he'd been holding. “The punishment for treason is death. No exceptions made.”

Angela tilted her head then nodded. She seemed satisfied.

“We need to act quickly,” Sam said, rubbing his temple. “It's like the demons are planning something. Something's going on. The sooner we find the mole, the better.”



The human, Dean Winchester, took a walk in the church. Castiel, the collar of his coat up and face half-hidden beneath, watched him from the aisle. He pretended to be an idle bystander, but his gaze was fixed on the human. He'd never seen him from this close. He wanted to see the man who could have decided mankind's fate, who could have stopped Lilith. He wanted to see the one person who he should not have failed and who he had failed in more ways than were fathomable.

Dean Winchester was tall but looked smaller than Castiel had expected. He had heard the rumours and stories about the hunter, fearless and brave, upstanding and with a pure heart. Castiel had never doubted the man's specialness. The Lord Himself had ordered Castiel to save Dean Winchester from Hell. And Castiel had hesitated, for the first time in his life, wondering how a mere human would be able to change history so much. It'd been a brief moment of weakness, of doubt, but it had turned the world into war, into a darkness that could not be lifted.

The human stumbled, wavering on his feet. Layla and Bobby Singer were guiding the hunter on both sides, as if to make sure he wouldn't get lost.

Castiel had heard the stories about Dean Winchester. But, now the broken human being was tottering around the church like a toddler taking his first steps, shoulders pulled up and eyes on the ground, as if wanted to shrink in size. Watching him, it was hard for Castiel to see the man that the Lord had wanted to Castiel to save. The man looked scared, always keeping an inch behind Layla and Bobby.

And Castiel knew that it was him who had done this to Dean, who'd let him suffer in Hell because of his own flaws. It had not been in his place to doubt and question his orders, and he'd paid dearly. But most of all, Dean Winchester had paid for Castiel's mistake. Hell had broken him. There was no way to make that one right.

In his head, Castiel tried to imagine what it would be like if he approached Dean and asked for his forgiveness. Humans were forgiving, just like the Lord was. Castiel had witnessed it many times. Angels couldn't forgive; it wasn't part of who they were. Even if Dean had found it in himself to forgive Castiel what difference would it have made? Castiel couldn't appreciate kindness.

He envied the humans for their emotions. For being able to hope and share comfort, to find strength in relationships and love.

Dean walked on, and as he did, Castiel noticed how Bobby Singer put his hand on Dean's shoulders reassuringly. He saw Dean relax his body ever so little. If Hell had not managed to burn all humanity out of Dean Winchester—if he could still feel love and comfort--then maybe all hope wasn't lost for him. Maybe he could heal.

One of the men gathering in the aisle shot Castiel a curious look. It was one of them who inhabited quarters inside the church. Castiel turned around and made for the door outside. He had no business here, and he couldn't risk drawing anyone's attention upon himself.



Dean was barely able to slip out of the shoes when he returned to Sam's quarters. He sunk to his makeshift bed, pulled a blanket up to his chin and lay down, closing his eyes. The noises around him grew louder, but Dean tried to ignore them. He wasn't sure he'd ever venture out again. There was nothing out there that he longed to see. Maybe, though, if he could have gone with Sam, he’d consider going back out. But he wasn't entirely sure that he wanted to see Sam doing whatever he was doing.

The quarters were nice. Safe. Small enough so that Dean couldn't get lost. Shielded from curious glances. Open only to the very few people Dean didn't mind to see. Sam, Bobby, Michael and Layla.

His legs felt like solid lead. He hadn't wandered around in a long time, and it was strange walking around just for the heck of it. All Dean remembered was being herded from one corner of Hell to the next, and then running, lots of running. Running from monsters, running to false sanctuaries. Blood running from his temples, from his hands. They hit him and kicked him and their yells echoed in his ears.

He dreamed about Hell, about Lilith and being cut into pieces. She was laughing at him, his blood covering her hands and clothes. She whispered things about Sam, about how he was going to be of great importance for Lucifer.

It was like coming back home. When Dean woke, his breath was loud and shallow and his heart was drumming in his chest. He kept his eyes shut tightly while he thought for a moment that he had returned there. Back home. Back in Hell. It was only after the ringing screams in his ears faded away and the murmurs of the old church made it through to his mind that Dean realised he was back in...wherever. Wherever this new Hell was.

He sat up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. The muscles in his shoulders and neck were hard and sore. The shirt stuck to his torso. He shuddered as a breeze caressed the damp skin on his neck.

Sam's bed was still empty. Judging from the dim light that floated in through the tall windows, it was only afternoon, not even evening yet. Dean considered sinking back into the pillow and closing his eyes, but the nightmare he'd just escaped still held him in a bubble of fear. He didn't want to go back to sleep and dream again.

He wrapped his arms around his knees and breathed evenly to calm himself down, before he grabbed an old sweater that Sam had given him the other day. It was red and worn; had been sewn and patched up several times. The print had long come off. Sam had explained that it had been of his old sweaters, one that he had purchased during his time at Stanford. Dean pulled it over his head and rested his forehead on his knees. He felt better now, warmer.

The fear ebbed away, but he remained uneasy. He was wide awake now, more aware of the noises and rumbling going on around him than he'd ever been before. He'd felt safe in Sam's quarters, but now all of a sudden he felt vulnerable and exposed. Like everybody around the quarters, the planks of wood and walls of curtains, was closing in on him. There was nobody here that could protect him. Layla and Bobby, Sam and Michael, they'd gone someplace else and left him behind. Left him here to be taken away, back to Hell.

Dean pushed himself up and stood wavering on his feet until he found his balance. The sweater fell around his body like an oversized bag. Dean liked that it was so big. A lot of fabric to protect his body. Make him look less emaciated than he was. He'd noticed the looks. Not just the refugees' looks, but Sam's and Bobby's and Layla's glances too. He was thinner than them. He saw the difference, but he didn't understand why that worried them so much. Food was of no importance. Lilith had taught him that. Sam and Bobby and Layla made him eat food, but he never understood why.

He hesitated before the closed curtain, even though he couldn't stay here on his own. Alone. He needed to find someone he knew. Someone that would try to make sure nobody would snatch him away. He pulled the curtain aside and stepped outside.

The aisle wasn't any less crowded than in the morning. Heads turned around as the residents of the church noticed the mystery person leaving Sam's quarters. Whispers and murmurs emerged. They crushed over him like a hurricane.

He reached for the wall to support himself, suddenly finding it very hard to keep on his feet. The world began to spin around him. Dean blinked, closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Bobby, Layla, Sam...they had to be around here somewhere. Only Dean had no idea where. They might have told him, but Dean couldn't remember now. He took a few hesitant steps into the aisle, reluctantly letting go of the wall behind him.

He saw their glances, saw them quickly turning their heads away when he caught them. Others stared more openly. But nobody spoke to him.

Dean went on. He was reminded of the time when Lilith had abandoned him in some old, rotting part of Hell for fun, and he'd spent the next month wandering around, followed by the glares of demons chained to the bleeding walls.

He moved slowly now, because he couldn't remember what it was like to take long, steady steps.
He tried to listen for Bobby's or Layla's voices while craning his neck and trying to spot Sam. But none of them seemed to be inside the church. Dean's heart doubled its pace. What if they weren't here anymore? What if Lilith had decided...no. He shook his head. This wasn't Hell. Chances were that this wasn't Hell. They were around here somewhere. Dean turned around and bumped into Michael.

“Dean,” Michael said. He had a rifle shouldered and looked as if he was on patrol. Upon looking at Michael, the first thought that rushed through Dean’s mind was that Asher was dead.

Dean cleared his throat. His voice was rough when he replied, “Hello.”

“Good to see you up and about.” Michael gave him a lopsided smile. He pushed the rifle strap back on his shoulder. “Where are the others? You looking for someone?”

“Bobby,” Dean said quietly. He opened his mouth to add Sam and Layla, but Michael beat him to it.

“Bobby's in the armoury. At least I saw him there.” He pointed to the right side of the church, and Dean recalled Bobby telling him about the storage room.

“Thank you,” Dean replied.

Michael smiled at him, almost pitiful. “You're welcome.”

Dean moved on. A boy and a girl who were playing in the aisle respectfully stepped aside when Dean passed them, only to whisper hectically as soon as Dean had walked by. He wanted Sam to tell them to shut up, but Sam was nowhere to be seen. He was all alone.

Dean slowly made his way down the aisle. There were old men who were playing cards and barely lifted their heads as Dean walked past. There were two young women, one with a nasty scar across her face and the other one with her hair cut so short it looked like she was bald. One of them gave Dean a faint smile, but he just quickly turned his head away and kept his eyes to the floor. Why couldn't they all just leave him alone?

When he finally reached the door to the armoury, his neck was damp and pearls of sweat glistened on his forehead. His heart raced in his chest, and he fought the urge to drop to the ground and rest for a while. Every muscle in his arms and legs was tense. He was exposed out here, an easy target for everyone--most of all Lilith's demons. If this really wasn't Hell, then Dean had no idea why She'd let him go. Something was coming, and he knew that he wasn't the only one who felt it. He'd seen it in Sam's face. The worry that drew lines across his face, the moments when his gaze was distant and anxious. It'd been a long time since Dean had had the time to study Sam's features, but he was slowly beginning to learn how to read his brother again. One thing that Dean knew for sure was that this camp here didn't do Sam any good.

Dean knocked at the armoury’s door, his mouth producing a hollow, “Bobby?” There was no answer from inside. Dean wrapped his hand around the door knob and turned it. The door opened without resistance. Dean pushed it open gently, just enough he could squeeze himself through.

“Bobby?” he asked again. Inside was dark, barely lit enough by the daylight falling in from the gap of the opened door that Dean could make out the shape of the shelves and boxes stuffed in the room. Bobby wasn't in here. Dean sighed. Where could he be? He let his gaze drift across the shelves. Weapons, ammunition. He vaguely remembered handling those. Taking rifles apart in motel rooms, cleaning the barrel of a shotgun while Sam was seated on the other bed, typing on his computer. Someone had given his first gun to him. A man, older than him. Gruff voice. He'd said, “Happy birthday, son.” And then Dean realised it had been Dad.

He couldn't recall Dad's face or the clothes he'd worn. But sometimes bits of memories hit him in the weirdest moments. Pieces of conversations, smells, something that Sam said that Dad would have said too. Things Dean knew that Dad had taught him once upon a time. He couldn't remember Dad. He didn't notice his absence like he did when Sam or Bobby weren't around. He knew that he'd once had a father and a mother. But their absence didn't gorge a hole inside of him.

Closing his eyes and nodding to himself briefly, Dean stepped outside again and almost bumped into a girl.

She was blonde with her hair in a pony tail, clad in some kind of army clothes and had her arms crossed over her chest. Her head was slightly tilted, her face a mask of no emotion. She stared at Dean as if she could will him to dissolve into thin air.

Dean stopped and averted his eyes. He glanced at the floor and noticed her boots. They were covered in mud.

“What are you doing in there?” she asked. Her voice was cold as metal. Colder than a demon's voice. Dean shuddered. He didn't like it.

“Bobby,” he muttered. The word came out so quiet. He was trying to talk louder but every time he opened his mouth, he made the same weak sounds.

“That door is always locked. You have no business inside.”

Dean shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “'Twas open,” he said. He wanted to look up and meet her glare, but he couldn't. Her voice...it sounded like Lilith's but different. She was accusing him, he knew it, even though she didn't say it in so many words.

She laughed, high-pitched and taunting. “Liar. That door is always locked. Always. How did you get inside?” She took a step towards him. “What were you doing in there?”

Dean felt the hair on his neck stand up. “Looking for Bobby,” he repeated.

“I don't know if you're really Dean or just pretending to be him,” she whispered, resting her hand on the holster. “But I know that you're a traitor. Nobody's released from Hell just like that. And even if you're Sam's brother, you're going to pay for whatever deal you struck down in the pit.”

Dean kept his head down, trying to arrange her words in an order that made sense to him. She thought that Dean had made a deal with Lilith to release him from Hell. The thing was, even though Dean couldn't remember having struck a deal with Lilith...how sure could he be that he really hadn't? There was a lot he didn't remember. His mind was an odd place these days, built on nightmares, flashes of memory and what little Hell had left of him. Things confused him. Words confused him. Gestures confused him. He forgot things and had to ask, had to learn anew. Remembering had turned into an effort. He couldn't blame the girl for pointing her finger at him.

She didn't wait for an answer. She turned around and marched off. As she did Dean finally looked up and watched her figure walk away, heavy boots on the stone floor, steps that resounded loudly even in the noisy church.

He stumbled back, until he met the cool wall behind him. The rough texture rubbed through his shirt, against his shoulder blades. The noise grew louder. The ruckus unbearable. He looked right and left, and there were people. Suddenly he couldn't remember which way he'd come or which way would take him back. He was lost.

Bobby wasn't here and Sam wasn't here and neither were Layla or Michael. His legs gave in, and Dean sunk to the floor. He pulled his legs up wrapped his arms around them and rested his head on his knees, closing his eyes. Everything was so loud, so confusing.

He hadn't betrayed Sam. He wouldn't have.

He began to hum a tune. He couldn't say where it came from, or where he'd heard it first, but it helped clearing his foggy mind. He started rocking back and forward, still humming the tune, and all that he could think was that he would never had betrayed his brother like that. Never. But what if he had?

The tune got louder, his humming more intense. It drowned out the other noises, the murmurs and laughing. He had to go away, yes. Away. Somehow.

Dean covered his ears with his hands and shook his head.

“Dean?” Sam's voice pushed through. He sounded concerned. Dean stopped rocking, but he didn't look up. Sam's hand found Dean's shoulder.

“Angela said you were here. By the armoury.”

Dean nodded. Angela had to be the girl's name. She was pointing at him. Saying he was a demon. Demons betrayed their brothers. He knew she was.

“She said you were inside when she got here. She wanted to get ammo for her gun and there you were.”

Again Dean nodded. “Door was open,” he muttered.

“What were you doing here in the first place?”

His questions were hesitant. Distant. Like an interrogation.

“Bobby.” Dean shrugged. Then he looked up.

Sam was squatted beside him; he was staring ahead and not looking at Dean. A muscle in his cheek moved, but other than that his face was a mask, expressionless. Dead.

“Are you all right?” he asked, but it didn't sound genuine. His voice trembled.

Dean shrugged again. “The door was open,” he said. He wanted to say something else, wanted to explain that he'd only been looking for Bobby, but the words never made it that far. They were in his head, laid out like cloth unfolded, but when he attempted to say them, all that he could do was repeat that one statement. The door had already been open.

“That door is never open,” Sam replied, coolly.

Dean nodded. That door was never open. But it had been. But that door was never open.

Sam cleared his throat. “Did you open the door, Dean?”

Dean shook his head, forgetting that he'd vowed he'd try to use words again.

“So you say it was open when you got here?”

Dean nodded yes quickly then rested his forehead on his knees again. Fatigue washed over him, his head buzzed. He wanted to lie down, just lie down here and fall asleep. Never wake up again. Dissolve into the darkness that was reaching out its fingers for him every day.

Sam didn't speak for a while. Dean took a deep breath and released it. The floor was getting cold. And by now he was at least somehow aware that that was a bad thing.

Something warm dropped out of his nose and landed on the back of his hand. Warm and liquid. The buzzing in his head got louder. Traitor, traitor, doors were closed, not opened, traitor, traitor...

“Shit, Dean.”

Sam's fingers suddenly closed around his upper arm, squeezing. Dean's head snapped up, and as he whipped his eyes open he saw red drops spread across his hand and jeans. Sam's hand reached out to his chin, lifting it up a bit.

“You've got a nosebleed,” Sam said.

Dean glanced at him curiously. A nosebleed. So? He'd bled worse. But Sam was worried. He reached into the pocket of his pants and pulled out a piece of cloth. He pressed it under Dean's nose, his brows drawn together in a deep frown. Dean let it all happen obediently. He was busy figuring out why Sam seemed so worried.

After a moment, Sam pulled Dean to his feet, and he guided Dean back to his quarters, putting an arm around Dean's shoulders. Dean leaned in against him, hiding from the stares of the other refugees in Sam's half embrace.

“We'll talk about it later,” Sam told him as he helped Dean lowering onto his own bed. His voice had an odd soft tone, unlike anything Dean had heard since he'd come to the camp. It was weird. “You should get some rest. I'll go find Angela, and talk to her again.”

Dean nodded. “Thank you,” he forced out.

Sam didn't answer to that. He dropped to his own bed and kept his eyes on Dean in an unreadable expression until Dean fell asleep.



He did not hear her as she drew closer. He had been lost in thought, staring at the big cross that was the only reminder of his Lord, so when she suddenly stood next to him he startled, flinched away like he had watched humans do countless times. It was an odd moment, Castiel realised, to have such a human reaction to something.

Had she come to him any other time, he would have been excited or at least curious. But then she had sought him out in front of the cross and after the initial moment of surprise he was certain that she had found him out. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his coat and lowered his eyes. He did not dare to speak first. He needed to hear her words to evaluate the situation. Maybe she would not ask a price too high for her silence. But even then, that would only allow him a slightly longer timeframe to gather his things and leave. For once the truth came out, there would be no way to keep it a secret. The walls had eyes and ears. A word spoken out loud once would inevitably find another pair of ears to hear it.

Her name was Layla; he had heard Bobby Singer refer to her with the name once. He knew that she had tried to help Dean and still dropped by Sam's quarters once a day to help him and offer her support. She gently tried to tempt Dean out of the shell he had retreated to. He also knew that she always tended to the injured soldiers and the sick refugees. She was a good person.

Castiel did not need anyone to tell him. He had watched her long enough to know, even though he had never once talked to her. She probably would not sell him out, he reckoned, but still...as soon as she said the word, he would have to leave. Sooner rather than later.

She was standing next to him, staring up at the cross in admiration. For the first time in a long time, Castiel witnessed a human looking at the cross with kindness and love in her face. This love for the cross where the son of his Lord had sacrificed himself for the humans. These days, the only times humans came here, they sneered, cursed, and accused. Why had the Lord let this happen? Why, if He was that almighty, had He allowed his creation to be wrecked like that? Castiel had no answers, though he had wondered about the same questions many times. But Layla stood and gazed, and in her eyes he found wonder. Love. He was not entirely sure what emotion it caused within him, since he still could not place all the emotions he faced every day, but it was not an unpleasant one. Appreciation, perhaps. Or knowing that not all was lost yet.

She turned her head and smiled. “I see you come here often.” Her voice was gentle. “So you're still a believer?”

Castiel glanced up. “I don't know,” he replied truthfully. So much had changed. He could not say whether or not he was still supposed to believe. Whether his Lord had or had not deserted them. Whether or not everything that had defined him for thousands of years had in the end turned out to be a lie, something not worth it.

“Yes.” She smiled.

“Do you still believe?” Castiel was gaining hope. Maybe she was not here at all to let him know that she was aware of his true self. Maybe she had, indeed, only come to pray.

“I try,” she said. She tilted her head back and gazed up to the roof. Long ago, an eternity ago it seemed, beautiful paintings had covered the ceiling. Now the paintings were gone, and black soot had taken over their place. Suddenly her eyes locked with Castiel's. “I told Dean a long time ago that you have to have faith when the miracles don't happen. So I try.”

“You knew him a long time ago?” Castiel could not hide his surprise. At least that emotion he had learned to recognise even if he had not learned to suppress it.

Layla smiled again. “He and Sam...we met once. I was very ill back then and desperate for a miracle. Dean gave me one, whether he knew it or not. I only learned about it later.”

“So...you knew him before...”

“Before he went to Hell you mean?” she finished his sentence.

Castiel nodded, and she sighed. The memory seemed to dampen her spirits. Her voice sounded tired as she spoke. “I did. He was nothing like he is now, of course. It is hard to see him like this but I think that...somehow, he is going to be fine. Maybe it's another miracle I’m hoping for but....I refuse to believe that the Dean I knew is gone completely. He doesn't deserve that, and neither does Sam. Sam's been--” She stopped in mid-sentence, glanced at Castiel for a moment before she gave a short, quiet laugh. “Why am I telling you this? I don't even know you. I'm sorry. I was just thrilled to see I wasn't the only one who seemed to appreciate it.” She nodded towards the cross.

She really seemed to have no idea about who he really was. Sensing that he was in no immediate danger, Castiel relaxed a little.

“I don't mind,” he said.

“I see you sometimes,” Layla continued. “But you never talk to anyone. Not that you're unfriendly but you just don't seem to have many friends around here.”

“I've never had friends.”

“Really? Never?”

Castiel shook his head. He found it oddly easy to be honest with her. “I'm not very good with people. I have lived among them for a long time, but...”

He stopped when he realised his awkward choice of words, but Layla either hadn't noticed or didn't think that it meant anything. Castiel released a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. This was why he had to be careful. Another slip of tongue like that and someone would be selling him out to the demons, to Lilith. He could not risk it. So far he had only managed to stay undetected because he had kept to himself.

“Don't you ever get lonely?” Layla asked.

Castiel considered the question for a moment. Did he? Feel lonely? Feeling and all the concepts that came along with it were still new and fresh, but there were some that had, from the beginning, been very easy to recognise. Fear was the most profound, the most overwhelming of them. But loneliness? Sometimes he wandered and he saw the humans, forming friendships and families, and he thought of his brothers and sisters that he had lost. He wished that they could be here, that they could talk, that he could be among his own kind. It would have been nice to not have to put up an act for a while, to just say certain things knowing they'd be understood. There were days when he spent hours reminiscing the days when he had fought as part of a whole garrison, and it had felt like they could win against Lucifer. Was that the loneliness Layla was talking about?

“I suppose a little.” Castiel averted his gaze and focused on the cross. This place here, this last reminder of that bigger thing that he once had been a part of calmed him down. Comforted him, he mused, even though he was not quite sure what comfort felt like.

Hia brothers and sisters had left him alone, everyone killed or in hiding. With no orders to follow and his bare life at stake, the emotions had begun to wash over him like the poison rain that had flooded most of what once had been Europe. With no orders to follow, decisions and choices had been for Castiel to make. With that, fear had showed up by his side. Fear of making the wrong decisions, of being found out, of being not strong enough to survive on his own. After that box had been opened once, all other emotions had floated out as well.

Thousands of years in the army of the Lord, but it was feelings and emotions that turned out to be the things that would possibly cost him his life.

He expected Layla to answer, but she did not say a word.

Castiel did not like the silence that followed. He felt urged to say something, but he was not very good at conversation and small talk, as the humans called it. He was not quite sure which kind of questions and themes would have been appropriate and which not. So he remained silent, hoping that Layla would pick up the conversation again soon.

He would have liked to know more about Dean and Sam Winchester before catastrophe had stepped in their way. At times, when he watched Sam from afar or listened to conversations from three tents over, he thought he caught a glimpse of who Sam Winchester really was. Not as cold as he acted, not that strong leader that the refugees of the camp had created. Maybe Sam himself believed that he had become that man who decided who was to live and who was to die, believed that cooling down and numbing down was the only way to survive out here. Castiel did not blame him. Maybe in order to save all these people's lives, it was the only way to go.

But Castiel doubted that it was Sam's true self. It was a facade, something to wear like armour in battle to protect the vulnerable body inside. Sometimes, Castiel saw it. Sam was tired, empty and most of all, still grieving. The blood spilling got to him more than he would show. Knowing that his brother was trapped down in Hell and tortured, after seeing what Hell on Earth was like, nearly made him lose his mind. It was what happened when kind souls were confronted with unspeakable crimes. And Castiel wondered what Dean had been like before Hell. He had heard stories of course, but those were just exactly that. Stories. The truth, Castiel mused, was probably lost forever.

“What's your name?” she asked out of the blue.

Castiel almost told her his real name. His lips had already parted when he noticed his mistake.

“Chris,” he said quickly, a little too quickly perhaps. It was the name he had gone by ever since he had arrived at the camp. He had only had to use it a few times though. Most of the people knew his face from passing by, but nobody knew or asked for his name. Castiel preferred it that way. He was not drawing attention upon him, but the humans were aware that he belonged to the camp. After today, though, he would finally have to stop seeking out the cross. It was obviously too dangerous. But where else could he go? It was the only place where he could ask for forgiveness.

“I'm Layla.” She offered him her hand with a smile, and Castiel hesitantly reached out for it and shook it. A wave of warm emotion rushed through him as his skin touched hers. He had not touched a human in a very long time. Was this what it felt like to be lonely? Why humans sought companionship? Because in comparison everything else just remained cold?

“I know.” He too offered a smile now. It came naturally. “I have seen you around. You are always helping those in need here.”

She seemed embarrassed, tilting her head as if to say that it was no big deal at all.

“I just try to help where I can,” she replied, waving her hand dismissively. She dropped her gaze to the floor, before she glanced up at him curiously. “So, what do you do around here?”

The question took Castiel with so much surprise that his calm, composed self blurted out, “Me?”

“Yeah. I mean, most around here are soldiers or join the patrol for rounds and, others are responsible for gathering food or working on the moat and keeping all the symbols intact, or looking out for the sick and wounded. Almost everyone has got place to fill. So what is yours? I haven't seen you doing anything.”

Even though he had not meant it he must have shot her an offended look, because she suddenly bit her lip and hastened to add, “Not that I think you're lazy. I just mean...I haven't seen you do whatever you do around here.”

Castiel tried to think of a lie an excuse, something that made sense and would sound legitimate, but in the end, his mind remained blank. He had kept out of everybody's business because he did not want to be found out for what he was, but he could not tell her that.

In the end, he settled for something that came as close to the truth as possible. “I'm not very good with people,” he said. She tilted her head again and narrowed her eyes, as if to consider his words. He felt exposed under her eyes. His palms became sweaty. He feared her actions, feared that she would see through his lies.

In the end, for whatever reason, she did not. Maybe it was because she was one of the few people left who chose to believe in the good of humanity.

“You can help me,” she said. And Castiel's heart skipped a beat.



Angela was furious. Furious enough that she would have made Lilith step aside and decide to try her luck with taking over the rest of mankind another day. She stood in the tent, shaking with anger, her hands curled to fists so tightly that small drops of blood fell to the ground. Her hair messily tumbled into her face, a face so lined with fury that it almost looked demonic. Around her, papers and mugs were spread next to the table that she had kicked over. She was glaring at Sam as if that could turn back time and change everything.

“You let him go?” she barked.

“Angela...” Sam started off, rubbing his temples. He wasn't in the mood to fight, to argue. The throbbing behind his forehead was driving him insane, and every bit of his body wanted to just lie down somewhere and rest.

It had been a long day. Dean was in his quarters, tucked in a blanket and fast asleep. Sam was beginning to think of him as Dean more and more, and it scared him. He shouldn't have his judgment clouded like that. He should keep his head clear and decide in the interests of everybody. There were more important things at stake here. Even if his brother had miraculously returned from Hell, that was Sam’s own business and it couldn't affect the fate of the camp.
Unless Dean wasn't really Dean or he'd come here to harm them in which case, the camp had to be Sam’s first priority. It was that simple, clear and easy. No blurred lines, no shades of grey.

“He was in the armoury, Sam. In the armoury,” Angela spat. “Where we keep everything that keeps us alive here. Weapons and medication. That door is never unlocked, you know it, and he was inside claiming the door was just open?! Sam, he's lying and you're not doing anything!”

Sam ran a hand over his face, not knowing what to say. Part of him, the important part, agreed with her. The part that looked after the safety of the camp, the part that was their leader and aware of the responsibility on his shoulders. A smaller, but no less voiced, part of him screamed that it was Dean and that no matter the odds, Dean would never have betrayed them.

“Sam, do something!” Angela put her hands on her hips and glared at him demandingly. She was forgetting her position, but Sam let it slide because he was forgetting his own, too. He should have made a quick, steady decision about the matter. That was what the camp needed. Instead he kept fumbling his way through the situation like a blind man looking for a needle in a haystack.

“You have no proof,” Sam said finally.

Angela's eyebrows shot upward. “Excuse me?”

“Did anybody actually see him using a key or breaking into that room?” Sam asked. His voice gained strength. Under this tone, Angela visibly shrunk in size. She pulled her shoulders up and shook her head.

“No. But--”

“I won't accuse anybody of treason and sentence him for whatever punishment if there is no proof, Angela.”

“That door is never unlocked,” she insisted.

Sam nodded thoughtfully. “So maybe we should find the person who left it open.”

“It was him.”

“Then find something to prove it.”

He stormed out of the tent, feeling like he was about to suffocate. Everything was closing in around him, he could sense it. Something was coming, something bad, and with every day that passed their chances of survival faded a little more.

He shouldn't have defended Dean like that. It had been emotional, anything but rational. Angela had every right to be mad at him. She followed him outside a moment later, her shoulder brushing his arm as she walked past him. She didn't look at him, but he saw her mouth was so stretched in anger that it was only a thin line. A few people nearby looked up, studying them curiously. They knew that Sam and his second in command had fought, and Sam had no doubt the news of that would travel fast. Shit. It was never a good thing to cause anxiety among people like this. Soon there would be rumours. Everybody was constantly on the tip of their toes anyway, ready to run.

“Had a fight?”

Sam turned his head, and there was Bobby. He was carrying a bucket with water, and the baseball cap was drawn deep over his face, casting a shadow over his eyes.

“Dean was in the armoury today,” Sam told him. He wanted to make it sound like bad news, but his voice refused to transfer any kind of emotion. “He said that he went looking for you and that the door was already open. Angela thinks he's lying and that I should at least drive him out of camp since I don't have enough proof to sentence him for treason and to death but...”
Bobby put the bucket to the ground, and the water splashed over his feet. He didn't notice.

“What do you think?”

“I don't know. And it doesn't matter anyway. I need to keep everyone here safe. That's my first priority.”

“So...did you? Drive him out of camp?” Bobby's voice was tense. Trembling ever so little but just enough for Sam to realise that Bobby was scared shitless that Sam actually might have.

Sam sighed.

“No. Couldn't do it.”

The lines in Bobby's face shaped to an expression of relief.

“I told Angela she should find proof first,” Sam went on. He kicked some stones out of his way. Dammit. Fuck. Shit. Crap.

“Thank God.”

“God has nothing to do with it,” Sam snorted bitterly. “It was just me going easy on him because he might be my brother. Probably just what Lilith expected. He's going to have us all killed, and it will be all my fault because I wasn't man enough to treat him like everybody else.”

He wanted to move on, check out the moat at the back of the church where hardly anyone ever went because it was near to the woods, so he could be alone, but Bobby grabbed his arm.
“He's not like everybody else,” he said slowly. Sam tried to jerk his arm away, but Bobby's grip was too tight. “He's your brother. He practically raised you. He went to Hell for you. That should make things different for you.”

Sam lowered his gaze. Bobby's words oddly embarrassed him. He wasn't supposed to be like that. He was supposed to be stronger than that, freed of ties. Not dependent on other people.

“I can't risk the safety of the refugees.” Sam wanted to believe Bobby's words. More than anything. Wanted him to take that burden from his shoulders and let him rest just for a little bit. But that wasn't going to happen. Nobody was going to do that for him.

“So you're going to sentence a man without proof of his guilt?” Bobby asked.

Sam didn't look up. He felt ashamed. Bobby was right.

Then Bobby's voice dropped to something a barely louder than a whisper. He put his hand on Sam's shoulder and squeezed it. “I don't envy you for your part in this, Sam. And I know you're doing the best you can. But don't let them push you into something. You've got to allow yourself time to consider things. They might expect you to know the answer to everything, but you're just human. You can't know everything. Okay?”

Suddenly, Sam found himself nodding. His shoulders started shaking. Suck it up, Winchester, he told himself. Suck it up. Nobody likes a cry-baby.

“As for Dean,” Bobby continued, “I'd rather live in the knowledge that you don't judge people hastily around here. He might have been at the wrong place at the wrong time. I'd rather know a man isn't guilty around here just because of a couple of weird coincidences.”

Sam swallowed. “What if it's not just a coincidence?”

“Dean would never consciously hurt you,” Bobby replied vaguely.

A pause followed. Sam inspected his shoes, watching from the corner of his eye how Bobby greeted a woman by tipping his cap.

They parted in silence.

Michael was standing outside his quarters when Sam approached it. As always, he had a rifle shouldered. He probably even took that thing to bed with him at night, Sam thought bitterly. Michael was bored, Sam could see that, staring at his own feet absent-mindedly, but when he recognised Sam's steps his head whipped up and he squared his shoulders.

“Angela told me to keep an eye on him,” he explained with an apologetic smile.

Sam nodded. It was just as well. What harm could it do? At least that way, Dean wouldn't get lost anymore.

“You're supposed to tail him?”

Michael shrugged. The strap of the rifle slid from his shoulder, but Michael's fingers were closed around the handle, and so it didn't fall to the ground. He pushed the strap back.

“More or less.”

“Yeah, fine.”

Sam pulled the curtain aside, stepping into his quarters, but Michael showed no intention of moving. That's what you got for training soldiers, for forming hunters. Sam popped his head back out, and said, “Go to your quarters and take the rest of the day off, okay?”

Michael frowned, but he didn't object.

“See you in the morning,” he muttered.

Sam closed the curtain behind him.

Dean was curled up on the ground, as always. The blanket gathered around his knees; he'd probably kicked it back in his sleep. His face was tightened into a frown. He looked like he was in pain. Sam considered waking him up, but the thought of having to talk to Dean again, about Hell and everything, about him being a potential traitor, scared him too much. At least as long as he was asleep Sam could pretend everything was fine.

Bobby and Layla had been making sure that Dean was eating, but the blanket still fell in big folds around his body, and his arms stuck out of the sleeves of his shirt like sticks. He was healing, slowly, thanks to the care of Layla. She kept looking after Dean, tending to his injuries and encouraging him to walk outside and gather strength as if she was in his debt and tried to return the favour. This thought, however, wasn't entirely fair, as Layla always suddenly appeared when help was needed like some sort of guardian angel. But with Dean it seemed slightly different. Or maybe that was just what Sam saw. All these thoughts pushed aside though, Dean was still too thin. Maybe Sam could cook something up. He still had a can or two of ravioli that he could heat up on his camping cooker. He'd been saving them, just in case.
He'd lost most of his appetite and ate more out of duty than because he felt hungry. Reason told him he needed food to keep up his strength.

Sam opened the trunk by his bed. The lid slid up with a creak, and Sam reached inside. There was cloth, some old clothes, a few things here and there. What few memorabilia he'd managed to save from destruction. Then, his fingers touched metal. Cans. Sam pulled one out.

Dean frowned and blinked as the ravioli was already steaming and spreading the scent of tomato sauce. Sam stirred it with a fork, offering a smile as Dean met his gaze. Dean's brows creased in confusion. He glanced at the steaming pot, sniffing briefly.

“Ravioli?” Dean asked. He almost, almost sounded like Sam remembered him.

“Yeah. I figured you might be hungry.”

Dean put his flat hand on his stomach as if to protect it, and then he shook his head. “No.”

Sam stopped stirring and put the fork on the table. “You're not hungry?”

Shyly, Dean shook his head again. He glanced up at Sam, only to avert his eyes quickly when Sam's met his.

“Dean, you have to eat. You're too thin.”

“I'm fine.” He was getting agitated. He pulled his legs up and wrapped his arms around them.
“Come one,” Sam said. He didn't get it. What was wrong now? Dean had to be hungry. Shit, Dean used to be hungry even when he wasn't half starved. Now, Dean's stomach rumbled, loud and clear. Dean flinched at the sound, pulling his shoulders up.

“I heated it just for you,” Sam added helplessly. He didn't like that tone in his voice, but he couldn't do anything against it. He needed to make Dean eat, but he didn't know how if Dean kept refusing. How the heck did Layla and Bobby do it?

“Don't admit hunger,” Dean muttered. It was a sound barely audible, something that Dean repeated just for himself like a mantra. Don't admit hunger. Sam's stomach did a somersault, then cramped. That must have stuck with Dean from Hell. Don't admit you're hungry.

“Look,” Sam began. His voice shook. He brushed some strands of hair out of his view. Whether or not this was Dean, that glimpse of what it must have been like down there in Hell...Sam swallowed, attempting to collect himself. Suck it up Winchester, he repeated for his own mantra. You're doing no one a favour if you start acting like a sissy. “Just. The food's there. All right? You can...I mean, just grab it if you like. I mean, a man can eat without being hungry, right?”

Dean looked up and squared his shoulders every so little. He opened his mouth a bit as if to say something, but after a moment of consideration he settled for a nod instead. Sam grabbed a bowl, poured some of the ravioli in, and handed both the bowl and a spoon to Dean. Dean grabbed the bowl with both hands. His thin fingers stretched around the bowl. Sam had to force himself not to stare. Dean placed the bowl on his lap. The heat didn't seem to bother him. Tentatively, he began to eat the meal. One bite after another. His shoulder blades drew lines under his t-shirt. Sam would make Dean have regular meals. He'd scavenge up more food somehow, maybe give Dean some of his own share. He could—Sam bit his lip--he couldn't think like that. He couldn't let his emotions take over. He had to stay rational.

It took Dean a while until he finished the meal, but Sam didn't push him. He wouldn't get much rest tonight. A troop was supposed to return from patrolling, and with the state of things being as they were right now—tense and on the edge—he wanted to be there. This right here was as calm and quiet as this day was going to get.

“You'll be okay on your own?” Sam asked. Dean looked up from the bowl and wiped his mouth clean with his arm. A pale, red frame of tomato sauce lingered around his lips though. It made Sam smile.

“Yes,” Dean replied.

“I can ask Bobby to stay here for the night, or Layla.” He put the camping cooker back on the floor, next to the bed. “It's no big deal.”

Dean shrugged with one shoulder, a gesture that could have meant anything. Sam sighed. He'd ask Bobby to check on Dean. After all Dean had ventured out to find the man this morning, so he seemed to feel safe in Bobby's presence. At least that part of Dean was still inside. Sometimes Sam wondered whether he'd ever fully understand just how much of the brother he'd known Hell had robbed from him. Then he reminded himself that this might not be Dean at all. But he did that less and less. The more time he spent with Dean, the more he witnessed how quirks and gestures so typical Dean surfaced, and the harder it became to think of him as someone else. It should have made things easier, but it only made them worse.

An awkward silence formed. A silence that Sam found impossible to break. He had no things to say, no comfort to offer. So in the end, he decided for the easy way out.

“Dean, I'm going to lie down for a while, all right?”

“Okay.”

Sam's heart leapt at the choice of Dean's words. He'd said okay, not yes.

He didn't bother to change, just rested his head on a pillow and pulled the blanket up to his chin. From the corner of his eye, he watched Dean crawl over, sitting up so that his back was against the mattress. Like he was keeping watch. The knobs of his spine pressed through the fabric of his shirt. Sam shifted his gaze to the profile of Dean's face. It was all he could see, but from this angle, Dean's face—all stern and thoughtful—looked like those past four years had never happened.

Maybe Hell hadn't taken everything.

Part IV