And Hell Followed With Him - Part IV

[legoline]

“Maybe it's time,” Bobby said. He looked across the moat towards the woods. The dark, burned the trees kept watching them, like skeletons of another time. Sam was walking beside him. They were doing their round as they did every morning, checking the moat and making sure that neither did it run dry nor did its walls give in. It was everything that kept the demons out, that and the hallowed ground the camp was built on. Although the hallowed ground might have worked on its own, no one wanted to put it to the test.

“Time for what?” Sam squatted and narrowed his eyes. There was one part of the moat that was always in danger of collapsing, of earth just slipping in, and Sam had made a habit of giving it an extra long look during morning patrol.

“To figure out where Dean's going to stay,” Bobby said. After a short pause, he added, “You know, in the long run. He can't sleep on the floor forever, though I'm sure he wouldn't mind. And if he's going to stay permanently, you should figure out whether you guys want to share your quarters or whether you're going to put him somewhere else. Space is lacking, I know, but still, you need to be very careful whom you'd put him with. There's rumours going around of Dean being on the demons' side and not everybody likes being around him.”

“Yeah. I heard about the rumours.”

Sam knocked against the soil with the knuckles of his hand. It was soaked. Shit. Well, it would just have to hold.

“So?”

Sam straightened and wiped his fingers on his pants. “First we'd have to be sure that it really is Dean and that he's on our side.”

Bobby's jaw dropped ever so little. In Bobby lingo, that qualified as an outburst of emotion.
“You don't actually still believe that it's not Dean, right?”

“Well, I don't know. I can't be sure.”

“You can't or you just don't want to?”

Those words hit home. Sam glanced--glared really--at Bobby, briefly.

“So you're a hundred percent sure it's Dean?” Sam couldn't hide the sneer. What did Bobby know? Nothing. Fucking nothing.

But Bobby didn't even comment on Sam’s look of disgust. “Yes, I am,” he answered calmly.
“And how have you come to that conclusion?”

“I just know. And so do you, Sam. I think you know that the man sleeping on the floor of your quarters really is your brother.”

Sam studied his face for a good moment. Blood rushed through his ears. Heat rose to his cheeks. He didn't know why Bobby's words upset him that much, but they did. Fucking know-it-all. He had no clue.

“Well, you're wrong,” Sam said.

Bobby looked at him, cocking his head a little. After a moment he nodded, but it wasn't an honest admission. More something that he did as if to satisfy a petulant child.

“I don't have time for this shit, Bobby.” He'd need more planks to secure the moat here, or it would collapse soon. “If you want to figure out where the guy is going to stay, be my guest. I have more important things to do.”

Turning around, Sam began to head back to the tents, leaving Bobby behind. He didn't look back, but he was pretty sure that Bobby was staring after him with a concerned frown on his forehead.



They didn't find out who had left the door to the armoury open. All the same, the news spread fast, and it didn't take long until the refugees were beginning to point fingers at Dean.
Dean never went out much. He was scared to go outside, and he only dared to take a short walk when someone he trusted was with him. Sam never accompanied him. He had no time for that. Too, he couldn't bear the looks Dean received, even though he still wasn't entirely sure that they weren't well-deserved.

Dean put some weight on, though. The edges in his face softened, and the folds of his shirts shrunk. He struggled with talking and coherent sentences, but Sam noticed a bigger variety in words. A part of him got excited at the thought. Another part warned him to be careful and to trust. And then there was a third part that couldn't stop wondering what was going on in Dean's mind when he saw Sam like this, acting as the leader of the last resistance of mankind. Sam had changed; he'd had to change. But he couldn't stop wondering whether Dean understood or not.

Whether he approved or not, a voice in his head whispered. Whether he still recognised his little brother. Whether he could ever forgive him.



They came at them unexpectedly. They always did. No matter how many training rounds you survived, demons always surprised you. It was hard to anticipate them because they seemed to materialise out of thin air.

Lately though, the demons had been expecting the humans. They showed up everywhere and hardly a patrol went by without at least one demon coming at them. Michael had come out of the attacks alive, but more than enough hunters hadn't.

Now, yet on another hunt, the demons appeared in front of him, and Michael stopped. His heart leaped against his chest. The other four hunters drew their weapons, but Michael knew that they'd be of no use. The demons were stronger now. Lilith had shared her power with them. They were all connected, and ever since the Devil's Gates had been opened and Hell had seeped into the world above, the demons didn't need any bodies to possess anymore. They still could and they sometimes still did, for fun or to sneak into refugee camps, but usually these days they showed up as they were. Vaguely human shapes of black smoke with claws and fangs, red eyes piercing into the dark. Stronger than they'd ever been before. Iron still repelled them, holy water held them off if there was enough of it.

Michael put his hand on his holster slowly, feeling the gun tucked in. It wouldn't do any good, but it was comforting to know it was still there.

The demons grinned, exposing their fangs that shone eerily white in the dim light. One of the demons sniffed like a wild animal, then bared its teeth. It was probably one of the lower demons. A tortured soul that had been in Hell long enough to be turned into a demon, but not long enough to pass by the feral state. Some of them remained like this for the rest of their immortal lives, if they weren't killed first by their own kin or hunters.

Weapons couldn't harm them much, but they might be enough to hold the demons off for a while. Maybe give the rest of the patrol enough time to escape. The camp was about a ten minute walk from here. Michael had counted the seconds in his head, because his wristwatch hadn't worked in four years.

The other demons closed in. The smell of sulphur wrapped them up, a reek so mind numbing that it almost blew Michael off his feet. He swayed, tripped backwards but found his balance just in time to see the demons leap.

Next to him, Caitlin grabbed her gun. He watched her pull the trigger, but it wouldn't go off. There should have been a sound, a gun shot blasting through the air, but the gun produced nothing but a deafening quiet. There should have been other rifles going off as well, but there were no shots. No demons tumbling back. No frustrated screams as iron rounds pierced the demonic bodies. Just silence. Then the sound of the demons gnarling.

He watched his fellow hunters go down one by one. He flung his arm over his eyes so he wouldn't have to watch, but he heard their screams and smelled their blood as it seeped into the burned earth. Some of the demons made sounds that sounded like a pack of wild wolves devouring a deer. Others produced screams so unearthly, so shrill that Michael pressed his free hand against his ear and felt warm liquid against his palm. Rocks and cobble stones were piercing into his back. None of the demons touched him though. He rolled over and threw up.

The last whines and hollers ebbed away, turned to echoes of something already gone. He felt the demons draw back a little, wind brushing his cheek as they walked past him. The smell of sulphur made him throw up again. He gagged, vomited, then rolled back onto his back again. He opened his eyes a crack, barely enough to see the world around him.

He saw an arm torn off lying next to him. Something that must have been a torso was a few feet's distance away. His stomach flipped upside down again, but there were no contents left inside that he could have choked up. A pair of red eyes appeared before him, caught in a face all black smoke and fangs.

It curved its mouth in what must have been an imitation of a smile.

“Go tell them about the rifles,” it whispered. The reek that came out of its mouth nearly knocked Michael out. “Go tell them about how they wouldn't work.”



Angela stared at him, and Sam couldn't help but think that he deserved it. She'd warned him, she would say and she'd be right. The weapons had been messed with, someone had sabotaged them. The rifles had not fired, and Michael had been the only one left alive. Pale and shivering, he'd crawled back to the camp, not able to say much more besides that everybody was dead and that the rifles had not worked. That, since the demons had known about it, it meant there had to be a mole in camp somewhere. He'd not said more, had just sat there, arms wrapped around himself, and stared into the distance. Sam had sent him to bed and asked Layla to keep an eye on him. Sam didn't even want to think about what Michael might have witnessed out there.

“Do you believe me now?” Angela snapped at him. This time, Sam let it slide. She had every reason to be mad at him. The weapons had been messed with and as far as they knew the only person who'd been in the armoury without permission had been Dean. If anyone could have done it...Sam squeezed his eyes shut for a second to chase away the nasty cramp in his stomach. Well, it wasn't Dean then. Or not the Dean who'd once been his brother. Now Sam had proof.
“Let's not get over our heads,” Bobby said slowly.

Angela shot him a look like a hungry mountain lion.

“It was Dean,” she said. Her voice sounded like poison. Like ice. It trembled with fury. “It was him, and you all know it.”

The world around Sam started spinning. Angela's voice made it through to him, somehow, and even though he heard the words he wasn't really listening. If Dean was the traitor, what did that mean? Could he really sentence him to death? Could he do that? Rules were rules, and exceptions were never made. He couldn't start now. And he'd called it from the start, hadn't he? He'd known something was up, but Bobby had refused to believe him.

He thought about Dean curled up on the floor. Helpless. He thought about Dean keeping watch over Sam’s sleep as best as he could. He tried to imagine Dean as a traitor who sold them out to demons. It didn't match.

“Do we really know it was Dean?” Bobby said. Sam realised he should be talking, but somehow his mouth remained closed. It was bad enough that the thoughts in his mind made no sense.

“Do we?” Bobby repeated, a challenge in his tone. “Has anyone actually seen Dean messing with the weapons? Have you found any real proof that it was really Dean? Do you have more than just a bad coincidence to justify your accusations?”

Unconsciously, Sam nodded, but Angela didn't see it. She was too busy glaring at Bobby like her peace of mind depended on it.

“First he appears on our doorstep, surfaces from Hell and nobody knows why. Then he's being caught in the armoury, an armoury that is always kept locked as you may remember, and now the rifles have been sabotaged and four of our people killed. And the demons knew about it. That would be one Hell of a coincidence.”

Again, Sam nodded. It all made sense. They were both right. But the decision would be up to him. In the end, he would decide Dean's fate. If he let him go, he would lose credibility. If he chose punishment...then he would kill a possibly innocent man. Worse than that, he would murder his own brother.

“But it might be one,” Bobby countered. “You have no proof that it's more than a coincidence. A weird one, yes, but still...”

“How many more people have to die before you'll realise Dean is a danger to this camp? To the people? Before you'll believe he's here at Lilith's service?”

She was screaming now. Her cheeks flushed. Her eyes glistened with anger. She stared at Sam, demanding an answer. Sam to know. Expecting Sam to act. What was it going to be, Winchester? What was it going to be?

His throat was dry, his lips parched. He licked them, but it didn't help. He had to say something. They were staring. He didn't know. He had to know.

Suddenly, the entrance to the tent opened and Layla popped her head in. Hair was falling into her face untidily, and, she looked like she was in a hurry. She scanned the tent briefly before she locked her eyes with Sam.

“Sam,” she breathed. She'd been running. “Everybody knows about the faulty weapons. They're blaming Dean. They've beaten him up.”

Layla filled him in with the details she knew while they ran up the short distance to where a crowd of people had gathered, everyone with their heads down to look at something on the ground.

Dean had been out of Sam's quarters for just a moment, to go to the makeshift restrooms of the camp. Some of the people had spotted him, and they'd attacked him on his way back. Layla and a guy named Chris had heard the ruckus outside and come to check what was going on. Chris had stepped in and stopped the people for now, but Layla said she didn't know how long he could hold them off.

Sam was running. Bobby was running. Angela followed close behind.

Sam pushed through the circle of people gathered around Dean, jostling men and women aside. Some of them complained loudly, some stepped away respectfully. Sam didn't care about either. He marched inside and there was Dean.

He was on the ground, his shirt torn and his jeans covered in blood. His face was a collage of red bruises and gashes. He was lying on his back, eyes almost swollen shut, panting. Beside him, a man that Sam had seen in passing a few times who had to be Chris, was kneeling down. To the people who had gathered to watch and beat Dean up, Chris was shooting glances so cold they even made Sam flinch.

“Dean.” Sam dropped to his knees. Dean attempted to sit up, but he fell back to the ground with a groan. His hand kept fumbling for something to hold on to, then it found Sam's arm and squeezed. His gaze was unfocused, his eyes going back and forth under the swollen lids, not finding Sam. He lifted his head, gasping, then his body went limp. Sam caught the back of Dean's head just before it hit the ground.

Sam looked up, looked into each and every of the faces that surrounded him. Some glanced away, some appeared ashamed. Some seemed satisfied, and others like they were being eaten up by hunger. Like they wanted more. Sam narrowed his eyes. He slipped his hands under Dean's arms and knees and lifted his brother up. He weighed next to nothing. Quietly, the people stepped aside and the crowd opened to an aisle.

As he carried Dean to his quarters, he passed by Angela. She shook her head as his glance brushed her.

The camp remained in silence that day. Nobody dared to raise their voice above a whisper. In Sam's quarters, nobody spoke either.

He let Layla handle the bandaging and disinfecting. She did it in quiet, and Dean let it happen in silence. He stirred awake shortly after Sam had lowered him on his bed, surfacing to consciousness every now and then. Sam felt like he'd gone back in time, like he'd done a somersault to the day when Dean had first come here to the camp. He was less famished, his body less emaciated, but his skin, just barely healed, had cracked and bruised under the beating. Blood seeped from the corner of Dean's mouth. Dean coughed, convulsed, and spit out red liquid.
Sam brought a hand to his mouth and watched in silence. Bobby stood by the entrance daring anyone brave enough to face him to come near Dean. The guy who'd defended Dean, Chris, stood at the foot of the bed and didn't speak. He had a half-curious, half-bewildered expression on his face like he found the whole situation hard to understand.

The next time Dean woke up, Layla made him drink some water. Dean swallowed reluctantly, wincing in pain as the water poured down his throat. Sam was biting his nails, his forehead furrowed so deep that it gave him a headache.

Shit, Dean. He could barely look at him. He should've protected him. He should've protected the camp too. Everything was falling apart. Even if Sam decided that Dean wasn't a traitor, even if that was true, then Dean would never be safe here.

Dean pressed his lips together firmly, and Layla put the water aside.

“I'm so sorry that happened, Dean,” she said very quietly.

Everything in Sam urged to move forward, to tell Dean that he was safe now and that Sam would take care of him and that nothing like that would ever happen again. But he remained where he stood, frozen, his mouth shut. He couldn't lie. Didn't want to lie to Dean like that.

Suddenly, Dean's eyes set on Chris for a heartbeat and widened. Dean gasped, almost terrified, before the moment was gone and his gaze lost focus. He closed his eyes, and a deep sigh escaped his lungs. Chris stared at the floor as if he was ashamed. It was an odd moment, but Sam didn't ask.

“I should go now,” the man said. Sam nodded. The man turned, hands in the pockets of his jacket, and left. Sam should have wondered about what had just passed between Dean and Chris, and any other day he'd have found the guy suspicious. But in that moment all he could think and care about was that he'd failed Dean. In every possible way. Because even if Dean had returned at Lilith's command, even if Hell had broken him enough to join the demons, then it was still Sam's fault. He'd promised to save Dean from the deal, to find a way to break Dean from Hell. But he'd failed him. Whatever had become of Dean, his brother, it was all Sam's fault.

Sam stumbled two steps back until he felt a hand against his back. He turned around and saw Bobby. He seemed to be reading his mind.

“Don't do that to yourself, Sam,” he said.

But Sam just brushed past him, into the aisle. Angela was waiting outside. She instantly squared her shoulders when she spotted Sam and opened her mouth to say something.

“Don't,” Sam cut her off. “Just don't.”



Castiel couldn't remember the last time he had longed for somebody's forgiveness. Angels followed commands. What happened was always the Lord's will and never the angels' fault. They never needed forgiveness until they began to make their own choices, and men like Dean got caught in the crossfire.

Nobody had told him why Dean needed to be free from Hell, and so Castiel had hesitated. After all, Dean had consciously made a deal with a demon. That was a sin. Yet, a day castile had waited and made Dean Winchester go through four years of torture. Castiel hadn't known much about humans back then, and he'd had no compassion for them. Now things were different.

As he had watched the mob gathering around Dean, beating and kicking him like that could reverse the apocalypse, and Dean Winchester curled up on the ground, not even attempting to fight back...Castiel realised that was his doing. Then the woman, Layla, had dragged him inside Sam's quarters to witness. He had not wanted to come, but he found it impossible to decline her urging. Everything else would've been too obvious, and Castiel had had to play along.

It was the first time he'd seen Dean Winchester up close. Both out there while Layla went to get help and Castiel willed the humans not to come closer, and afterwards while she tended to the human's injuries. The pain and fear that washed over Dean were Castiel’s fault. He wanted to ask for forgiveness, but he knew he could never ask.

There was the moment when Dean stirred awake and saw Castiel, his brows raised for a moment in surprise and his lips had parted ever so little to form a silent 'o'. Castiel couldn't be sure, but he had a feeling that Dean had seen through his human form in that moment.

Castiel kept a little aside, by the entrance to the church. Outside it had started to rain, bitter rain that never made anything grow. The refugees received most of their water from a pump by the old brick wall. A small canopy made of what planks had been available marked it as an important spot that--should push come to shove--needed to be defended. They used the ground water, but every bucket of water needed to be blessed and freed of demonic traces before it was fit for use. Even children learned how to say the rosary before they learned to read or write. The water, in his basic form, was poison.

Standing in the rain for a few minutes did not lead to death. Drinking too much of the water, however, did.

The rain poured on a field of green and brown tents, mingled in between were blue and yellow and red ones, along with the occasional cabin. Most of the refugees were huddled inside, waiting for the shower to stop. There was no point in waiting for sunshine. The sun had not shone in a very long time.

Sam's angry voice made Castiel turn his head around. The Winchester had stepped out of his quarters and brushed off his second in command harshly. The girl, Angela, seemed positively hurt when Sam refused to talk to her and marched off into the direction of the armoury. She watched him walk away, took a few steps as if to follow him but decided to stay where she was in the end.

Castiel focused on the matter at hand. Had Dean Winchester truly seen Castiel for what he was? Had he known? If so, would he tell anybody?

He kept telling himself that leaving soon was essential. If he wanted to stay undetected and alive in this human body, he needed to leave camp quietly, maybe try to find a different one. Somehow, he always found himself postponing that to the next day, and then the next.
Another camp would be safer, yes. But this was the camp where Sam Winchester resided; this was where Dean Winchester was trying to heal. These were the humans upon whose shoulders fate rested, whether they were aware of it or not. This here was where maybe, just maybe, Castiel would be given the chance to make up for what he'd done.

The fear was overwhelming, paralysing. It numbed his mind, affected his actions. He did not know how to handle fear. But this here...this was where he could help. Where he might be needed. This was the only place where he could hope for forgiveness.



When Sam was upset and he everything felt like he couldn't bear it anymore, when he thought that he would just finally put that gun into his mouth and be done with this, with everything, he went to the armoury, locked the door and checked to see if it was still there.

Hidden behind a variety of shelves and boxes stood a small safe, surrounded by devil's traps, symbols, three lines of salt and bottles of holy water nearby. Sam was the only one who had the key to open the safe’s door, and still he came here on a regular basis to make sure that it hadn't somehow evaporated into thin air.

The door opened silently, the only audible thing being the click sound as the lock snapped open. Sam reached inside, feeling his way in the black box until he found what he'd come here for. Cool wooden handle, cool iron barrel. Sam grabbed the Colt and weighed it in his hand.
The Colt. Their only defence against Lilith.

He pressed the gun against his chest protectively. The weight of it, the smell of it cleared his mind, calmed his pounding heart. It was still here. There was still hope. One day, he would aim this gun at Lilith and end it once and for all.

There were a couple of things they'd learned about Lilith. She had divided her powers among her followers, which were the lesser demons. It made them strong enough to walk on Earth without a human body, and since they weren't trapped inside a form and forced to use some of their strength to pass by the human laws of physics, they were more dangerous than ever. Lilith was their leader, their queen, the strongest of all. All her followers were linked to her, bound to her by the strength Lilith had granted them. Lilith was the one that needed to die. But she had become careful.

The last time Sam had seen her, it'd been that day when Lucifer had attempted to claim Sam's body. She'd stood and watched in glee, laughing and applauding as if it was all one big circus act to her. But when Sam had defeated Lucifer, her face had frozen, and she'd stared at Sam as if she wasn't quite sure she'd ended up in the Hell for demons. Sam remembered he'd tried to go after her, but the battle against Lucifer had cost him all his strength, and he'd barely been able to keep on his feet. He'd wanted to go after her, had started walking towards her with his mind aching like someone had drilled in a hole in it and put a stick in, with his legs seemingly unattached to his body. He remembered the terrified look on her face, before the world had turned black and Sam had passed out. Lilith hadn't showed up again after that. Sam didn't know how to find her. But he had the gun, and one day he would use it.

Locked away in the armoury and surrounded by what kept them all alive, he stayed in that position for a while, until breathing got easier and he felt that he could return and be who the refugees thought he was again. His fingers traced the shaped of the barrel one last time, before Sam placed the Colt back in the safe and locked it. He made sure that the symbols and salt lines were still intact, before he put the key back on the chain at his belt. One day, he would face Lilith, and he would make her pay.

The people of the camp stopped speaking when Sam moved them by, only to pick up their conversations in hushed whispers the moment Sam was past them. He felt for the key chain nervously. He wished he could end all of this. The size of the camp was getting out of hand. They were running out of food. Slowly but surely. It didn't do people good when they were forced to live huddled together like this. Something had to happen, but Sam had no idea what.

He stopped before his quarters and drew a deep breath. He'd pushed the thoughts about Dean away for the time he'd been in the armoury and on his way back, but now he stood here and the events of earlier in the day hit him with full force. The thoughts that he'd just organised so neatly whirled through his mind. Sam bit his lip and curled his fingers to fists. Shit. Well, fuck.
At least Angela was no longer keeping watch outside the quarters.

When Sam finally entered his quarters, Layla was gone and Michael was sitting by Dean's bedside. He turned around to see who had come in, and his face was set in stone, not a muscle moving.

“Didn't I send you to bed?” Sam asked. Dean was asleep, curled up with his knees almost tucked in under his chin. Sam's stomach flipped.

“I couldn't sleep, so...I heard about what happened and I wanted to check on him. Layla had to do some errands, so she asked me to keep an eye on him for a while.” Michael pulled up one corner of his mouth into a fake smile. He was still shook up by what he'd seen out there, and there were a couple of scratches on his face that Sam thought needed to be looked at. But Layla had probably already suggested the same, and Michael politely declined the offer. Sometimes, Michael reminded him of Dean so much that it physically hurt.

“He seems fine,” Michael continued, voice quiet and gravely. “Been sleepin' mostly. I think he's gonna be okay. They beat him up bad, but most of the injuries are superficial. They hurt but...you know...” His voice trailed off, and when Sam didn't answer Michael focused on Dean again.

Sam stood and watched, his hands in his pockets and his feet itching to run away. Dean's chest was rising and sinking, his arms and face were patched up with bandages. It was so hard to imagine that he could be on Lilith's side. That he had struck a deal that meant sacrificing human lives to be freed from Hell. It didn't match, made even less sense, but could he risk it?
“Can I ask you something?” Sam asked. The unsure tone of his words surprised him. He stepped a little closer.

Michael shrugged, not looking at him. “Sure.”

“Do you...” Sam cleared his throat. “I mean, do you believe he did it?”

Michael didn't reply for a long moment and when he did, he sounded thoughtful. “I don't know. People are capable of all kinds of things, when the gain is high enough.”

“So you think he did it?”

“I really don't know.” Michael shifted on the chair. “I can't picture it. Normally I'd say no, never. But we don't know how bad Hell really is, right? So no, I don't know.”

“What do you think I should do?” He couldn't be asking this. Michael was so much younger than him, a close friend, yes, and one of his most trusted people in camp, but he really shouldn't put this weight on the kid's shoulders. Besides, he couldn't show doubt or weakness. But he was running out of options so fast, and he needed to hear second opinions...

But Michael just shrugged again. “It's not my place to say, and it’s not a decision I would want to make.” He rose from the chair. “Now that you're here to watch out for him, I think I might try to catch some sleep after all.”

Sam nodded. “Yeah, sure.”

Michael left quietly, grabbing his rifle and putting the strap over his shoulder. Sam didn't know if Layla would be back or where Bobby was. The only thing he knew was that he would have to come up with a solution to all of this fast. Stepping over the pile of blankets and pillows that was usually Dean's bed, he eased down onto the chair that Michael had occupied. Just a short while ago, Bobby had been asking whether they shouldn't think about giving Dean a permanent home somewhere, either here or sharing a tent with someone else. Now, that seemed ages ago and the most burning question was whether Dean could stay at all. Whether Dean would live at all.

The fact that Sam was getting attached to this man, who might not be Dean after all, kept bugging Sam. And when he was out, having meetings with Angela or Monica or Michael, he put reason first and it was all easy to make rational decisions, to put the camp first. But then he returned and there was Dean, asleep or sitting on Sam's bed, and he became Sam's brother and all Sam could think about was that, shit, Dean had return from Hell. All he could think about then was that he'd failed, that he was ashamed of what he'd become, and he just wanted to make sure that Dean could heal, and he just wanted to run and never have to face Dean again.

Sam sat watching Dean sleep. He thought that he had been done seeing him wounded and almost dying. This was as far from healing as it could possibly get.

On one hand, he missed being able to talk to Dean like he used to. Another part of him was grateful for it. At least Dean didn't ask questions that Sam would rather not have answered.
Dean frowned in his sleep then stirred. With a muffled groan, his eyes fluttered. They flickered to the ceiling and to the side until they finally locked with Sam's.

“Hey,” Sam said. His voice was thick. He couldn't help it. He couldn't bear Dean looking like that again. Swollen eye, cracked lip, bruised cheeks. The bruises had turned blue and green by now, contrasting with his already existing red rashes and purple bruises, as if Dean had taken a dive into a pool full of colours.

Dean attempted a smile, wincing at the movement.

“Do you want anything?” Sam asked. “How're you feeling?”

Dean stared at him blankly. He didn't seem to understand.

“What...happened?” Dean asked timidly.

“Don't you remember?” Sam inwardly crossed his fingers. If there was a God up there, He wouldn't let Dean remember.

Dean shook his head. “I mean...what's happened...now?”

So he did remember. Screw you, God. Sam blinked. Dean didn't make any sense. “What do you mean?”

Dean licked his lips nervously. “You look...worried.”

“I'm--” Sam stopped mid-sentence as he suddenly realised how Dean just didn't understand. He didn't understand that being beaten was wrong. He took the pain like it was the most natural of all emotions, and he just didn't understand why Sam was worried about it. “Nothing.” Sam forced a smile. Dean raised an eyebrow at him like he didn't quite believe that. Sam ran the back of his hand over his eyes. Sleep. He could've done with sleep.

“Are you in much pain?” Sam asked.

Again the suspicious Raise of Eyebrow. “Why?”

“I could give you more pain killers.”

The comment earned him a blank stare. Sam rubbed his temples. He couldn't deal with this shit now, with Dean and his fucked-up misconception of pain and how you were supposed to react to it.

“Just get back to sleep, Dean.”

Dean nodded and closed his eyes obediently. It didn't take long until his breath evened out, and the frown on his face softened. Sam used Dean's bed that night, even though all he did was lie awake and wonder what the Hell he was going to do.



Sam got food last. He always had. It didn't feel right to be served first, as that would have been like abusing his position. Instead he kept an eye on the distribution of the canned goods and what little vegetables grew in the spoiled earth. It always took a while until the long row of people was all set, even if they did get their food in groups. Rations had to last for three days. Ergo there were three groups, and only one was provided with food every day. Rations were small, and they kept getting smaller. The refugees were getting edgy, and Sam couldn't blame them. Rumours spread faster than usual, and neighbours were being watched more closely than before. The relative quiet of the past months, of what now seemed like an interlude in which both demons and humans had caught their breath, was now over. The war, everyone felt, was nearing its final stage, and the odds were against the human side.

There were a few people who greeted Sam with a warm smile, a woman even quickly squeezed his hand and whispered that she didn't believe that Dean had actually sold them out. Most people kept their heads down and pretended like Sam wasn't there. They were upset, but the camp was as safe as the world would get, and nobody wanted to risk getting on Sam's bad side. A few men and women though possessed the courage to tell Sam to his face that he was harbouring a traitor and that Dean had only received what he'd deserved--or less than he'd deserved, even. Sam found the strength not to reply to their words. Instead, he handed them a can of beans, their share of today's ration. They didn't thank him.

Judy, the girl who'd been in charge of distributing food for seven months now--ever since Jack had died of pneumonia--tried hard not to look at Sam. She focused on the people as she handed out cans and the smallest potatoes Sam had seen in his entire life. She gave the refugees a smile, dropped her gaze to the rations spread out on the table, before she turned to the next customer. Occasionally, her gaze flickered over, as if to check whether Sam was still there. She didn't want to talk to him, but at least she had the courtesy to pretend that she didn't mind him being there, even if she was the worst liar Sam had ever encountered.

If the people didn't trust him anymore, they would either leave and try to find a different camp or try to pinpoint a new leader. At the second thought, Sam's stomach cramped and did an unpleasant drop.

He hated being the chosen leader, to have all responsibility dropped on his shoulders and be blamed for everything. But without all that what would he be? Who would he be? What would he do if they took that away from him, because then there would be nothing between him and the barrel of a gun?

He saw Ben that morning. Ben had grown into a gangly kid, arms and legs the obvious effects of a large growth. So far, he hadn't come to visit Dean because he couldn't bear to look at Dean as someone different. He wanted to remember Dean as the man from his birthday party who ate cake and taught him how to defend himself against bullies. He wanted to remember Dean as he had been, Bobby had said. Sometimes, Sam envied Ben.

Ben was eager to be trained as a hunter but being that he was twelve going on thirteen, he was too young. Training started at fourteen. Of course all the kids picked up tricks here and there before that, and every kid knew how to protect themselves with salt or a devil's trap. Their parents taught them these survival strategies as soon as the children were old enough to memorise such things. But the actual weapon training, the Marine Corps style fight training, the art of surviving a demon attack was something that the kids learned when they hit the fourteen mark. All kids had to undergo that training, regardless of whether or not they wanted to join the patrol later. Ben had once told Sam that he had been counting the days for the past two years until he'd be allowed to help them fight the demons.

“Is he okay?” Ben had asked shyly that morning. With his shoulders pulled up, he looked absurd with his long arms dangling at his sides.

Sam nodded. “He'll be fine.”

Ben gave a nod then, and Sam couldn't say whether Ben had asked because he was worried, curious or just being polite. But at least someone had asked.

Now, once Sam distributed the last of the cans among the people still lining up, he returned to his quarters. He had about an hour before the morning reports would come in, and he had to go to the headquarters and pretend that Angela wasn't trying to stare him to death. After that the weekly inventory would follow, which included food supplies and ammo and medication. Then another meeting would be up next in which they'd discuss who they'd send out on the patrol that night. Discussions of what the Hell was going on and what the demons were planning would most likely ensue as well. In between he'd have to deal with whatever people would put on his plate. Disputes between tent mates and neighbours that needed to be settled, reports that they were running out of firewood or that the moat was about to give in.

Sam scratched the back of his head and sighed. Decisions. Nothing but decisions.

He'd have to send Dean away. He'd been a fool for thinking that there was another way out of this.

The demons were coming. Something was going to happen. He needed the people in camp united and at his back; he needed them to trust him and his decisions. He needed them to build a front or else doubt would sneak in--doubt and demons. More moles would come and infiltrate and that couldn't happen. It was bad enough that there was already one, whether it was Dean or not. He had to put the camp and the people first. If the guy in his quarters was truly Dean, then he'd understand. If he wasn't Dean—then it’d be better if he left anyway.

In war, everyone had to make sacrifices.

He'd tell Dean. He'd tell him that he could stay until he was back on his feet. After that, he'd have to leave the camp.

Maybe this was going to be over soon, one way or another. If Sam crawled out alive of what lay ahead, maybe he could try to find Dean out there. And maybe he really would find him.

Only when Sam returned to his quarters, stepped through the curtain and drew a deep breath to tell Dean he had to talk to him, he found the tiny room empty. The bed was made--both beds actually—and Dean's new shoes were gone.

Sam frowned, and his stomach did an instant flip. Maybe Dean had just decided to take a leak. Sam told himself to not be alarmed just yet. That was easier said than done when ninety percent of the camp was set on lynching Dean. Sam hoped that at least Dean hadn't decided to be an idiot and go out on his own. He needed protection from the other refugees.

Sam eased down on his bed, the mattress sagging under his weight. Springs creaked. He put a hand down on the blanket to feel the fabric. It was soaked with memories now that Sam greedily took in. Dean healing, Dean listening to Sam's speeches about duty and war. Dean attempting to take care of Sam again. At long last, Sam had new memories of Dean.

The voice that liked to point out that the man wasn't really Dean piped up, but Sam wasn't even listening anymore.

The curtain slid back, and Dean appeared in the doorway.

“Sammy?” he said, raising an eyebrow. He seemed surprised to see Sam there, but Sam barely noticed because Dean had called him by his old nickname. No one had done that...well, since Dean had gone to Hell, really. Sam swallowed.

He could give Dean his planned speech later.

“Where you've been?” Sam asked. Dean entered the room completely, moving slowly and calculatedly, placing his steps with care. His right cheek still stood out in a blue colour against his pale skin. The crack on his lip was now black, and a light green framed his left eye. When he moved towards the bed on the floor to sit down, Sam quickly slid to the side a little and gestured Dean to come over.

“Outside,” Dean answered, sitting down next to his brother. He managed to hold eye contact for a few seconds, before he finally averted his gaze. In Sam's new world, that set a new record. Dean was getting better. Recovering—and not just physically.

“Alone? You know it's dangerous for you...”

Dean hadn't asked why the people had beat him up like that, not once. He'd just accepted the random burst of violence as if it was the most natural thing to happen. He got beaten beyond reason, but that just happened, and it didn't bother him. Dean didn't have to talk about what Hell had been like. Sam saw it every time when something like this happened.

Dean shrugged, staring on his feet. He kicked off the shoes and exposed a pair of socks with holes as big as the crater in what had once been Philadelphia.

“Bobby was there,” he replied quietly.

“Why did you go outside?”

Again Dean shrugged. “Bored.”

Sam swallowed past a lump the size of the holes in Dean's socks.

“Dean,” Sam began slowly. He licked his lips. Suddenly his throat had gone all scratchy. “Do you really not know anything about Lilith's plans?”

Dean eyed him for a brief moment. “No.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing.” For a split-second, shame clouded Dean's eyes.

Sam couldn't shake the feeling that he was lying.



Sam had fallen asleep, and Dean had been watching him for a while. Sam looked different, and Dean couldn't get used to it. In Hell when She'd shown him images of his brother dying, suffering, or not caring at all, he'd always looked like he did from Dean's memory. That's how Dean had always known that it was fake, that had been the glitch. But Sam here looked like...nothing like Sam. He was much thinner, and his hair was kind of different and there were scars that Dean didn't remember. He wore different clothes, too. He looked like a real hunter, like Caleb or Pastor Jim. Even those men Dean remembered more vividly than Dad.

He sat on the floor, knees pulled up and chin resting on his knees. His gaze was fixed on the rising of Sam's chest. He was fast asleep. That was good. It could only be done when Sam was really fast asleep. He'd been told that explicitly.

Dean didn't like to do it, didn't like to steal, especially not from Sam. He understood why it had to be done, and he understood that it was for his own good and how Sam would not find out unless it came down to it.

He did not like it, but he had no choice.

He watched Sam for another moment, before he tilted forward until he was on all fours. He crawled just a little closer, enough so that he could reach the chain of keys on Sam's belt. His fingers trembled as he reached out to touch them. They glistened in the dim light of the lamp. Glistened like balls on a Christmas tree. Dean remembered Christmas trees. At least enough that the sight made him smile for a brief moment before he returned to the matter at hand.

It was important that he got the key. It was his job to get the key. Dean nodded to himself to calm his nerves. It had to be done. The sooner he snatched it, the better.

There was a moment when Sam suddenly frowned and stirred, and Dean was sure Sam was going to whip his eyes open and catch Dean in the act. Sam moaned quietly, whispered words Dean couldn't understand, and dozed off again. Dean proceeded.

He hadn't stolen something from someone in a long time. In Hell, he'd sometimes had to fight for a less reeking, less dark and painful spot with other souls. He'd run for his life, endured months and months of torture. He'd fought off demons and tried to hide in the dark. But he'd not stolen, and he'd lost his skills of sneaking things in and out of pockets. His hands were shaking so badly he thought it would wake Sam.

In the end, he got the key without disturbing Sam. He weighed the key in his hand for a moment, amazed by the thought that this little object held the power to change their fate. It had been explained to him, what was going to happen, and he didn't like it. But he came from a place where it didn't matter what he liked and what he didn't, and sometimes it was hard to imagine that here, that was different. So, he didn't like the idea.

“You got it?” a voice behind him asked.

Dean nodded and handed the key over without looking. The key was taken from his hand, rattling quietly as it changed bearers. The muffled sound as the curtain fell close again made Dean flinch. Hopefully Sam wouldn't wake up before the key to the armoury was back with him again.

Part V