AND HELL FOLLOW ED WITH HIM

Dean comes back from hell and into an apocalyptic world. Sam doesnt know what to makes of it.

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SU PER N ATU R AL AN D H ELL FOLLO W ED W I TH HI M

BY LEGOLINE
Dean opened his eyes to the sound of rain. He parted his parched and bloody lips to catch the water falling down from the black night sky. The rain tasted bitter and unlike anything Dean had ever drunk before. Almost as if the rain was drenched in sulphur. Dean closed his eyes again, and he let the rain cool his face. Every inch of his body hurt, felt like it'd been ripped apart and then put back together again the wrong way. His skin was burning, his lungs screaming, his mouth dry as if he'd been dead for years. His head felt sore as if all the hair had been pulled out, but when Dean very carefully and very slowly brought his bleeding fingertips to the back of his head, he found the hair was still there. Parts of his body that Dean didn't even know existed pulsated with pain. His ears were ringing with screams so unearthly that Dean couldn't have described them to anyone had he tried. Dean didn't move for a while; he was oblivious to the rain that kept pouring down on him. He kept very still, afraid to stir, and took in the smell of tar and dirt, a scent that he was fairly sure had been familiar to him once upon a time. The ground beneath him was hard, his back straightened out on it. With his hands resting at his sides, he curled his fingers into the ground, testing it, feeling it. With the flex of muscles, the ability to move them, he noticed there were no more shackles of fire around his wrists. had left behind burns that still sent white flashes of agony through his body. With the shackles gone, Dean decided to open his eyes one more time. He was lying on a black stream, under a black sky, with black creatures reaching for the skies. Dean blinked and frowned, wondering what part of Hell he had gotten himself into. He'd been to so many areas that after endless months and years, after burning fires and seas of acid, of months of flogging and more months of being torn into pieces, he had lost count of all the corners of Hell. He never was quite sure whether he'd already been to the place or not. This though was unlike anything Dean had seen in Hell. Lifting his head from the cool ground, Dean looked up to examine the place. A breeze caressed his cheek, but like the rain it too carried the smell of sulphur. Dean narrowed his eyes. What kind of torture was this supposed to be? Where had they sent him this time? As the screams in his ears slowly ebbed away, he noticed the quiet. Apart from the soft whispers of the wind, nothing stirred in the dark. Dean lowered his cheek back to the ground again. It was cool and wet, it felt vaguely familiar. Dean waited for the torture to begin.

But no torture ever came. There was wind. There was rain, and there was darkness. After a while, Dean opened his eyes once more. The sky had adapted a very deep grey instead of the complete black, and it was now lined with shapes that looked like clouds. The black stream was still there, leading into the vast distance. As Dean squinted, he realised the stream was a road. He was lying on a road. And the creatures he had seen earlier reaching into the sky were actually leafless trees. Dean's heart leaped; he didnt know his heart could still do that. What was going on? What sort of agony was this going to bring? Eventually, Dean rolled over and onto his knees. He bit his lip hard to suppress a cry as the pain shot through him like a thunderbolt. Tiny stones pierced into Dean's sore palms. He pushed himself up, surprised that his aching legs supported his weight. For a moment, he stood unsteadily, allowing himself to regain his sense of balance and feeling the cool tar under his bare feet. Dean turned around. There was nothing here. Just barren wasteland. A road was covered in deep, fringed holes. There were cracks everywhere. Cracks in the road. Cracks in the earth around him. In the distance, Dean spotted the ruins of what once might have been a small town. The sky was dark as in early dawn. No bird broke the silence. No rumbling of a cars engine in the distance. Not a sound was to be heard. The world looked as if it'd been wrecked by a war. Shivering, Dean pulled the remains of his shirt closer. His torso screamed as the rough fabric touched the sore skin. Dean ignored it. With pain such as this, so small and insignificant in comparison to everything else he had suffered, he had learned to ignore it. Ignore and endure. Biting his lip again, Dean put one foot before the other to test the road. To test his feet. To test whether he was bound to the spot or whether he could leave it. He could. Dean took another step and another, until he found himself walking in unsteady, stiff steps. He passed street signs fallen over and ripped from the earth. He saw remains of rotting cattle. Cars had been abandoned by the side of the road. Exposed to the weather, they were rusting and coming undone. Houses with empty windows examined Dean as he walked past. Not once did he encounter a single living thing, or a sign that not everything in this world was dead yet. After a few minutes, his knees began to buckle. Dean caught himself and pushed himself back up, but his legs were trembling, losing strength rapidly. His chest seemed to explode under the drumming of his heart. Black dots began to dance in front of his eyes. His body formed one beaten and aching entity. The throbbing behind his forehead resounded in the stillness around him. Dean held his head, wincing as the sudden movement caused another wave of sharp pain to flare up. He was alone. He wouldn't find anybody. There was nothing here. In that moment, Dean

understood why the demons, why Lilith, had sent him to this place. They must have saved the worst part of Hell for him for last. He wondered briefly if they'd send him somewhere else after this, but he had a feeling he'd reached his final destination. Alone in a burned, dead wasteland. Dean's mouth formed a bitter smile. Then something caught his attention. In the distance, in between the creature-shaped trees, Dean thought he saw some lights. As if coming from a house, or some inhibited place at least, there were a few of them, sending a beacon out into the dark. Dean mustered up his last strength, and dragged himself forward. He managed to get near enough to have a better look at the place that was sending out the lights. Like a fortress of stone, the front of what once must have been a big cathedral rose up into the sky. From its windows, a warm golden light shone out into the dark. Planks were covering the spot that once must have been a colourful glass window above the entrance. Dean frowned. His breath came in laboured rasps now, as his heart was asking for more air than he could give. He sunk to his knees, his hands crawling in the soil beneath him. A foul smell rose up to him. Dean grimaced but didn't have the strength to get back on his feet. The reek floated into his nostrils. An all too familiar smell. His stomach cramped, but there was nothing in it that Dean could have thrown up. He glanced up to the lights once more. They promised warmth and rest. Maybe, Dean thought before he closed his eyes and collapsed to the muddy ground, this part of Hell was exactly about that. Never reaching the safe harbour. Always being doomed to reach but never touch. The rain and mud had drenched what remained of his clothes. He began to shiver with cold. He thought of the lights, and the darkness took him.

Bobby, the boy said, crossing his arms before his chest. Bobby glanced up from the rifles he'd taken apart to clean. He still thought of him as a boy, Bobby realised, even though Michael was quite past that by now. Like all children who'd come to see these times, Michael had had to grow up into a young man fast. The hair that had once reached to his chin was cut short. A scar drew itself over his chin. He had a rifle shouldered, and he was looking at Bobby expectantly. Yeah? Bobby said. One of the guards thought they saw something. I offered to check it out. You gonna come? Bobby sighed and rubbed his temple. The expression on Michael's face was too hard, too old for his age. He looked like everybody in camp did: worn and tired of war. Bobby glanced at him and tried to find the cheeky boy Dean had told him about once upon a time, but the boy inside was gone. Hed been gone for a long time now. Sure. Bobby put his tools aside, grabbed his shotgun and rose. They squeezed through the narrow aisle, moved around boxes with blankets and tools,

greeted three men that were sitting around an open fire melting silver into bullets, and stepped outside. A soft wind was blowing, stirring up the smell of decay and death. Gazing up to the sky, Bobby thought that for one brief moment, he saw a star shining through the thick storm clouds. He smiled. At least the stars were still there, even though they rarely saw them all the way down here. Somehow, that was a comforting thought, knowing that the stars hadnt died alongside everything else. They made their way through the camp and crossed the small bridge. When they'd reached the other side, Bobby stopped and turned to Michael. Where did the guard see it? Michael frowned and gestured to a group of dead trees a little distance away. Over there. Right. Let's go then. Be on your guard. The way would have taken them only a few minutes, but since they had to be on the lookout for an ambush and place their steps with care, they reached the trees in nearly triple the normal amount of time. A few yards from the trees they halted and listened for crackling, suspicious rustling or the weird metal sound that arose these days every time a demon neared. When everything kept perfectly quiet, Bobby narrowed his eyes and scanned the area around the trees. They hadn't carried leaves or even seeds in a very long time, and their trunks were ashen. Bobby looked, but he couldn't spot any movement. Beside him, Michael made a step forward. He squinted his eyes. Do you see that? He waved his hand, gesturing, and stretched his neck. What? Bobby asked. All he could see was dark soil and dark trees. Nothing that would have suggested that someone or something was hiding in the dark. I don't know exactly, Michael replied. He made another careful step and brought his hand to his forehead to see better. But I definitely think there is something. Bobby caught up to him and looked again. Long. Focused. Then he saw it too. There was a figure curled up on the ground. Not much more than a shadow caught in a shadow. But it was there. Another refugee, you think? Michael asked. The tone in his voice, the lack of compassion, made Bobby wince. The war had taken its toll on all of them. And some of them had seen it all even before they were old enough to hold a rifle. Can't say, Bobby replied. Could be a trap too. We must be careful. As they approached, the figure took the shape of a human lying on the ground. It was a man, Bobby noticed, with all his clothes torn to shreds and splattered in blood. There were nasty red and blue bruises, cuts and rashes on every bit of skin that Bobby could see.

He didn't look much different than most of the refugees Bobby had seen in his time. The guy must have come a long way, Bobby guessed. Maybe he'd heard of the camp, and his strength had expired just before he could reach safety. Bobby nodded to Michael and took a deep breath. As he knelt down beside the man to check for life signs, Michael lifted his rifle and moved his index finger to the trigger. In the dark, his face was all lines and the deep shadows. Bobby brought his hand to the man's shoulder and turned him onto his back. The mans face became visible in the twilight, and Bobby gasped, flinched and lost his balance. He landed on his back, just to be on his knees a heartbeat later. Despite all the training, Michael lowered his rifle and stared. Disbelief painted his eyes. Oh no, he whispered. It cant be. Bobby just shook his head, blinking. It was impossible. Dean Winchester lay by his knees. Beaten, bloody, wounded and clothed in rags, but Bobby would have recognised the boy's face in whatever state. His heart jumped against his chest. A trap. It had to be a trap. It's not him...is it? For the first time in a very long time, Michael sounded his age. Just another confused and scared boy in this big, wide world. Bobby pulled up his shoulders. I don't know, kid. It's gotta be a trap, Michael continued. I mean, it has to be. With a nod, Bobby pulled a bottle of Holy Water from the pocket of his jacket. He poured some of it in his hand and sprinkled it over Dean's face and torso. Every muscle in his body was tense, every heartbeat expecting for Dean to open black, lifeless eyes. He'd long ago stopped wondering at the sick kind of tricks that demons loved to play on them. He wouldn't walk into this one blindly. After all, they'd buried Dean Winchester four years ago. When Dean didn't stir at the touch of the Holy Water, Bobby spoke some incantations that commanded demons to reveal themselves. Again nothing happened. Bobby's heart leapt again--this time into his mouth. His hand trembled as he grabbed the silver knife and cut Dean's arman arm covered in scars and rashes and burnshalf expecting to find Dean's fingers around his throat the next moment. But Dean showed no reaction. A frown ghosted over his face, indicating for just a moment that there was still life in him. But it wasn't a demonic response to the silver; it was just a natural reaction to pain. The knife still in his hand, Bobby stared. Tried to grab one of the thoughts swirling in his mind and hold it tight. He couldn't. There were a million things going through his mind at the same time. And still his head felt void of any words. It made no sense. It couldn't be.

What does that mean? Michael's voice cut through the fog of thoughts. I think, Bobby replied slowly, this might be really Dean. Bobby lifted Dean's limp body to his shoulder to carry him to the camp. Michael, eyes flickering nervously in the dark, kept his finger on the trigger of his gun. He walked behind Bobby, who wouldn't be able to reach for a weapon in the case of an attack. They were exposed and vulnerable, as they were three men of which only one could react quickly if demons should come over them. Michael's face showed no emotion, just tension. They hastened back as quickly as the additional weight on Bobby's shoulders would allow him. Bobby could feel the hair in his neck standing up. He heard a rustle, and Michael, hearing it too, whipped around. He gazed into the darkness for a moment, as if he could see through it by sheer force of will. He shook his head briefly when he couldn't detect any danger, and the men moved on. Still, Bobby couldn't shake the feeling they were being watched. They only slowed down after they'd crossed the bridge. Dozens of curious eyes examined them, focused on the unconscious man over Bobby's broad shoulders. No one asked, and neither Bobby nor Michael stopped to explain. As they stepped into the church, Bobby released a deep sigh, before he gestured to Michael with a nod to follow him to Sam's quarters. The small roomif one could call it room without a roof and a curtain as a substitute door was empty as they entered. Sam was out, doing a patrol with other hunters. His bed was unmade, an empty plate still on the nightstand that also functioned as a table. Clothes, ripped and mended as everyone's clothes were, hung over the only chair. The trunk by the end of the bed held Sam's possessions, which were a few clothes and memorabilia he'd managed to save. Bobby lowered Dean onto the bed. Dean didn't wake. Michael brought a candle for some light. In the flickering shadows, Dean's face was nothing but sharp lines and angles. It looked like it was patched up of blue and black bruises, and red cuts that formed a ghastly spider-web across his cheeks. Bobby swallowed hard. He didn't even have to look at the rest of Dean's body to know that the healing process would take long. He didn't even want to think about what kind of endless tortures the broken body before him must have endured. When his stomach cramped and turned over, Bobby muttered something about getting the medicine kit and ordered Michael to stay with Dean. Michael eased down on the chair, lips tight and eyes on Dean. He shook his head as if he couldn't believe that this was the same guy who had once saved his brother.

There was a heavy lock on the door to the storage room, and only very few people including Bobby--had a key. Medicine had quickly become the currency to get around. More than once they'd bought information from travellers and moles for a few painkillers. More than once refugees had bought passage over the bridge even though the safe part of camp was already too crowded. Sam had ordered that medication was only to be used in an absolute emergency a while ago. They were running short on the stuff, especially on painkillers and antibiotics, and they needed it to patch up the hunters and, in bad cases, new refugees. Bobby decided that Dean's state qualified as an emergency. He needed morphine, fast, and something for the fever. Food would probably be helpful as well. But they'd take care of that later. Water would have to do for now. The storage room had once been the room where the priest would get dressed for mass. It was one of the few rooms that could be locked, and it functioned simultaneously as the storage room for medication and the storage room for weapons. The food was kept in the former crypt beneath the ground, where it was cool and the air smelled less rotten. Bobby and the others had painted the walls with devil's traps and symbols, and filled up the windows with bricks and concrete. Iron pipes ran along the skirting. This room was not quite as safe as the panic room in Bobby's old house, but it came close. Boxes and boxes filled the shelves and sat on the ground in piles reaching to the ceiling. So far their supplies looked good, but the factories didn't produce any more pills and tinctures, and so the stocks in this room formed all the medicine they would have on hand in the years to come. Bobby reached for a bottle and shook out some antibiotic pills in his palm. Then he grabbed a syringe with morphine. He locked the door and shook the doorknob to make sure no one could get in. When he returned, a small group of spectators had assembled around Sams quarters. To his relief, Bobby found that the red curtain was drawn close, making looking inside impossible. He heard their muttered words and whispers as they tried to give educated guesses and passed on rumours of what was going on. Of course Bobby and Michael's find had raised suspicion. It wasnt that they'd brought in another wounded survivor. It was that they'd brought him into Sam's room. Bobby doubted though that any of them suspected the refugee to be Dean Winchester. They probably thought it was friend of Sam's, a hunter or an important spy returning from a mission gone badly. The people stopped talking and turned to Bobby as he moved through the group. Who is it? a woman asked. Bobby glanced up into her scarred face and shrugged. Nobody of importance. Then why did you bring him in here? said a man with just one leg and leaning on a crutch. Bobby did not reply. Sam should find out first. Then they'd decide how to deal with the situation.

He spotted a blonde woman with her hair cut short standing by the entrance of the church. Watching the group of people closely, she ran a hand through her hair, and upon seeing Bobby she greeted him with a small nod. Bobby gestured for her to come over. There was a limp in her walk as she approached. Layla, Bobby said. I'll need your help. Layla smiled. Bobby didn't know how, after all she'd been through, she still managed to put on a warm smile like that. Sure, she replied. They lifted the curtain up just enough to slide through, before Bobby let it go and tied it back to the iron ring in the stone tiles. The group behind Bobby moved like one big, living being as they tried to catch a glimpse of what was going on behind closed curtains. A disappointed mutter went through the crowd when Bobby blocked their sight just long enough until the curtain was drawn back safe. He turned around and saw Layla standing in front of the bed, hands folded and her face a mixture of pity and disbelief. Layla, Bobby began, fumbling for words. She looked at him, frowning. Is this...? Bobby glanced past her at Michael, who was still sitting on the chair with the rifle resting against his leg. We don't know. It might be. We've run all the tests, but none of them said it was a demon. From all we know, it's...him. Layla, who had never lost her faith in miracles, nodded. She sunk to her knees, sliding closer until she could reach Dean's hand. Gently, she took his bruised hand into her own. What did they do to you? she asked. Her voice was void of surprise at the extent of Dean's injuries. Then, addressing Bobby and suddenly sounding quite different, she asked, What can I do? Layla had quickly adapted the role of the nurse in campshe'd never been trained to do it, nor officially been appointed the job. But she was always there when there was need of a helping hand, of kind words or gentle comfort. Her mother hadn't survived the first year of war, and it sometimes felt like Layla was trying to fill her loneliness and mend the pain by easing that of others. Help me give him the medicine and make him drink some water. Michael-- Michael, apparently lost in thought, whipped his head around. Michael, make sure nobody gets in here, all right? With a nod, Michael rose to his feet and shuffled over to the curtain. Leaning against the planks and slabs that built the wooden wall, he tilted his head back and closed his eyes. Dean fought the pills like they were poison, and who knew, Bobby thought, what he'd been through at that unspeakable place. Maybe it'd been a lesson well-learned. When Bobby got the syringe ready and pricked the needle into Dean's arm, Dean's eyes fluttered open. His gaze flickered from the ceiling to the walls to Layla until it finally fixed on Bobby.

Recognition surfaced through Dean's clouded eyes. A frown furrowed his brows. Bobby smiled, but Dean just stared, hair damp and skin clammy with cold sweat, before he sunk into oblivion. Layla grabbed a blanket from Sam's trunk and tucked Dean in. He looked horrible. Bandaging all the wounds would take a while. It would also require a lot of antiseptic and bandages. Is Angela around? Bobby asked. She went on patrol with Sam, Layla replied, shaking her head. Angela was Sam's second in command. Shortly after theyd found the church, she'd shown up on the doorstep one day, a blonde girl barely seventeen or eighteen years of age. Shed been bleeding, dirt on her face and her hair wild, a blanket around her shoulders. She'd never talked about her past, but she'd learned fast how to handle weapons, how to interrogate moles, how to run a camp. She was as tough as Michael was, with little compassion to share and revenge and thirst for blood in her heart. No one must know Dean's here, Bobby said, looking from Layla to Michael. They both nodded.

The hunters returned to the church in one piece, so as far as Sam was concerned, the patrol had been a successful one. Georgia was limping, but it was an old injury and something she would keep for the rest of her life. She'd escaped a werewolf's fangs two years ago by jumping off a rooftop and into a stinking river, and she had wrecked her knee that day. Hunters had patched her up as best as they could, and she'd been very lucky to keep the leg at all. Get some rest, all of you, Sam said as the group passed him by. Susannah, Jones, Rick, and Georgia. They all looked equally beaten, the rifles too big in their hands. None of them had been a hunter before the war; only Susannah, a former police officer, had known how to use a weapon. Sam saw a few nods. They moved on, each to their quarters. An assortment of all shapes and sizes of tents spread around the church like a little village. Back to back, the tents pressed together, filling out almost every free inch of ground within the safe zone. The little paths between the tents were barely wide enough for a grown man to sneak through. Just as Sam reached the entrance to the church, Angela caught up with him. Her hair was bound in a tight pony tail. A necklace with a devil's trap hung from her neck. She wore a man's jacket that was two sizes too big for her. As always, dirt covered her cheeks. Things have been quiet, she said, not waiting for a greeting.

Sam wiped his forehead with his arm. Yeah. It's like they're waiting for something. Like the quiet before the storm. Sam didn't know whether to agree or not. All Angela ever talked about was the war, the next battle, about attacks and traps and demons. There wasn't much to life besides that these days, but the way she embraced her life as a soldier sometimes left him uneasy. Maybe because it reminded him of Dean. Sam didn't always want to talk about these things. He hated how everybody looked at him as if he had the answers to each and every peril. He looked around and all that he saw was misery, blood and death. When he saw it. Mostly though, he didn't even anymore. He was tired, though, of all of this. He wanted to go somewhere; he wanted to leave all this behind and have a moment for himself. But there was nowhere to go. The world beyond the walls offered nothing but ashes and death. This here, this sanctuary, was one of the few places left where a person could feel relatively safe, close their eyes for a moment and not fear that they'd be skinned alive by a demon the next second. Suck it up, Winchester, Sam told himself. This is not the place or time to be a sissy. You should be thankful that youre still alive. Angela waited for an answer, as if whatever Sam would have to say on the matter would decide its true colour. Sam rubbed his temple and shrugged. Yeah, maybe. To be honest he did think that the quiet was suspicious, but for once he just wanted to keep that idea to himself. As soon as he said something out loud, the news spread, turned to rumours and whispers, and even more, it forced him to act on the matter. Everybody expected him to do something, even when Sam had no idea what needed to be done. You think we should send out more patrols? Reinforce our defences? She sounded so fucking eager. Her voice sent little waves of pain through his forehead. His legs seemed leaden, and his back was aching. He needed a round of sleep. Maybe things would look less grim then. That was it. He just needed a nap. Let's talk about this later, Angela. The lines in her face formed an expression of disappointment. She opened her mouth as if to protest, before she accepted Sam's words with a nod. She brushed past him with a smirk and wandered off to her quarters. She'd been one of the first refugees to join the camp, back when they'd been a group of no more than six or seven hunters. As a result, her quarters were inside the church. She shared it with another refugee, a woman her age named Kim who only had one eye. Sam watched Angela vanish in between makeshift walls of planks and boards, trunks and

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people who stood in the narrow aisles to have a conversation. They were talking in muttered voices. Every now and then, one would notice Sam standing by the entrance. A moment later, heads would turn and glances would be exchanged before they brought their heads together again. Sam sighed and felt the throbbing behind his eyes worsening. Break. He needed a break, just for a few hours. Chances were someone would wake him in less than two hours anyway for a report of dead bodies that had been found, for an inspection, or to settle a minor quarrel between the refugees. He wondered what Dean would have had to say if he'd seen his little brother like this. The leader of a resistance, ordering patrols and troops as if he himself was a goddamn soldier. But he was, wasn't he? Nothing else was left of him. Every other piece of humanity stripped away. Christ, Winchester, stop the crap. He shook his head as if to lose the thoughts that were spinning in his head, and he made for his quarters. He barely managed to lift his feet off the ground. His bones felt like they were rotting away under his skin. Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. Enough. Sleep. His quarters were the first on the left side, right behind that free space where they kept trunks of spare blankets and spare clothing. He didn't have to share his quarters with anybody, and at least that was something. Not that he ever spent much time in here anyway. He pulled the curtain aside. Rather, he tried to pull it aside. It was tied to the wall from the inside, which meant that someone was in his quarters. Rolling his eyes and with anger boiling up his insides, Sam lifted the curtainonly to find that it was tied to the ground as welland squeezed past it. Damn these fucking morons, couldn't they ever respect his privacy He rose to full height and saw that it was Michael inside his room. Michael was sitting by the bedside, rifle leaning against his leg as if he was keeping watch. He looked dumbfounded to see Sam entering. Faintly, Sam heard Bobby call his name. Then he saw the person on the bed, and his stomach flopped upside down. It was Dean. A beaten to Hell, broken and feverish version of Dean. No, it couldn't be Dean, Sam quickly ordered himself to reason. Dean was dead. Had been for four years. Dean was burning in Hell. This wasn't Dean. His surprise turned into rage within the blink of an eye. Suddenly, a white flash of mindless hatred flared up in his body, piercing every last fibre of his being. He curled his fists to knuckles, until his fingernails left bleeding cuts in his palms. Blood pounded in his head. The only thought left in his head yelled at him, how could he let that creature live pretending to be his brother? How did it dare to come here looking like Dean? Sam never quite remembered what happened after he'd finished that thought. One moment he was staring at the thing, the next he found himself placing his hands around its throat and squeezing.

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He heard himself yelling, Traitor! Liar! How dare you? He heard someone call his name. Bobby? Bobby sounded frightened. Sam squeezed harder, and the creature's eyes widened in shock, green eyes just like Dean's. It was croaking and choking, making pathetic sounds that only made Sam tighten his grip more. The thing's hand yanked up to touch Sam's wrist, but Sam just smiled, and then barked again, You son of a bitch! I'm going to kill you! Tears welling up and heat rushing through his body, Sam shouted and squeezed. He felt the creatures pulse hammering against his palms and its breathing becoming fainter. He'd kill it. He'd show it how to suffer. He'd fucking kill the bastard. Suddenly, strong arms wrapped around his chest and pulled him away. His hands slipped from the creature's throat, and it sunk back into the pillow, gasping for air. Sam struggled against the grip, yelled to get the fuck off him, and saw Michael rushing to the creature's side to check on it. Kill it! Sam screamed. Kill it! Then a fist crashed against his chin. Sam tumbled backwards, and the voices in his head fell silent for a moment. Instead, he heard Bobby's voice. Sam! Bobby must have been talking to him for quite a while, but Sam hadn't heard it. It was Bobby's arms that had pulled him off, Bobby's voice that called him to calm down. What are you doing? Sam breathed. He stopped trying to wriggle himself out of the grip, and the hold loosened a little even if Bobby didn't withdraw his arms completely. What the fuck are you doing? Why did you bring that thing in? Sam yelled. His voice sounded different. So different that for a moment Sam thought somebody else was talking. Sam, Bobby said in that quiet tone of his. Michaels eyes were now fixed on Sam; the kid was chewing his lip nervously. As if he was waiting for a bomb to drop. Sam, we think it might be really Dean. That's why we brought him here. Don't be ridiculous, Sam replied, catching his breath. He avoided looking at the thing in his bed. He couldn't bear seeing his brother's face on a goddamn shapeshifter. He wanted to burst out of Bobby's grip and finish the son of a bitch off for good. Sam-- Dean's dead, Sam snarled. You know it. You were there. Yes. Bobby's voice had gone very soft, and instantly Sam felt sorry for bringing that

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memory up. He remembered Bobby cradling Dean in his arms, crying as if he'd lost a son. It was one of the last memories Sam had kept from before Hell had broken loose. Yes, Bobby repeated, with more emphasis this time. But Michael and I have run every possible test that we could think off. And what it comes down to is thiseither that's your brother, or all our incantations and protective spells don't work. Personally, I'd risk giving version one a shot. Slowly, Sam lifted his eyes from the ground to look at the person lying in his bed. He saw an emaciated body, seemingly made of bruises and rashes. A leg that seemed to have been broken and not fixed right. A gaunt, pale face glistening with sweat. Scared and glassy eyes glancing at him. Faint freckles splattered across his face. Hair covered in so much dirt it had turned black. Wounds everywhere. But underneath that... Sams legs turned into a wobbly mass as the realisation settled in that maybe, just perhaps, it really was Dean he was seeing before him. His big brother who'd died and gone to Hell four years prior to this day. It can't be, Sam whispered. Bobby placed his hand on Sam's back, between the shoulder blades. I guess it can, Bobby said. But... Sam was lost for words. He wanted to ask questions, to bring up reasons why it couldn't be Dean, wanted to argue his way out of the situation, but he couldn't. He felt like he was strung up in the air, with words swirling around him that he just couldn't reach, let alone hold on to. The world began to keel over. Sam tripped, but Bobby's handsone still on his back, the other now gripping Sam's arm--kept him on his feet. Sam shook his head. It makes no sense. Even if his soul could escape Hell, he'd have no body. I know, Bobby nodded. Only a demon can do that. I know that too. Sam glanced atwas it really Dean? Could it be? His heart skipped a beat. So where does that leave us? Sam asked, voice low. It was one of the few times in a long while that he felt he was able to ask a question without receiving an odd glance from someone. He figured that it was because Bobby never expected Sam to know the answers to

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everything. Bobby was the only one left who knew that Sam was not a saviour, not a born leader. Bobby was the only person in the entire wasted world who had watched Sam grow up, who remembered him as the geeky little kid with no intention of ever becoming a hunter. But Bobby too was getting older, his reflexes slower and his health worse. The other winter, he'd caught the flu and the cough had never really gone away. When Bobby died, Sam once realised, there'd be no one from his life before. Except perhaps Dean. If it really was Dean. I have no idea, kid, Bobby replied. Somehow, that felt reassuring.

He'd heard bits and pieces of the whispered conversation through the thick brick wall and three rows of tents. Dean Winchester was alive, they'd said. Only a demon could have brought his rotten body back, they'd said. That was true. Lilith had made sure that none of the souls in her keep could make it out of the Gates, even though they now stood wide open. He shifted on the mattress and pretended to be asleep. He didn't need sleep, but he couldn't risk anyone finding out. Least of all the two men he was sharing the tent with. The question wasn't whether Dean Winchester was back, but why.

The floor was hard and cold, but Sam had learned to endure it. The big stone squares didn't save any warmth, not even in summer. Not that there'd been much of a summer for the past four years. Sam stretched, leaning his back against the wooden frame of his bed. The frame poked in between his shoulder blades, but Sam barely noticed it. His arms crossed before his chest and his legs stretched out so that they almost touched the wooden wall, Sam waited. Listened. Dean had fallen back asleep quickly after Sam had almost choked him to death. Sam still refused to think of the person as his brother, but for lack of a better word he referred to him as Dean for now. Whatever the case, Dean was sleeping, his low breath rattling in the relative stillness of the camp. Sam closed his eyes, and his chin sunk to his chest.

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It couldn't be Dean, Sam told himself. Because Dean didn't exist in this newfound world that Sam had come to see. A world in which demons formed armies, werewolves founded settlements in villages and vampires took entire districts, packs of hellhounds howled in the night and Lilith was their queen, reigning over them all. A world shaped by a war so horrible that God had sent his army, too, angels and archangels. But their side had lost, and it'd been a loss with bloodbaths among the humans and angels alike. The reign of the demons had wiped out most of the population within a few months. Sam had heard of more refugee camps than this one, and he'd also heard stories about how demons and werewolves had ambushed them at night. No seals and symbols could hold them off. All that Sam could hope was that their defence would hold, once it came down to it. And an ambush would happen. They all knew it. Every survivor had seen what the war had done, as most of them had suffered at the demons' hands. The angels too were gone. Lilith's army had slaughtered them, and they set a price on the last few remaining angels that might have made it out alive. The demons hated the angels more than they hated the humans. Sam stretched his legs a bit more, and the joints crackled. Dean couldn't be back. It was all just a question of finding out what was going on, and then doing something about it. The pattern in Dean's breathing changed, quickened. Sheets rustled. Sam's eyes snapped open, and he turned his head to find Dean awake and looking at him. A frown drew lines across his pale face. He seemed just as confused as Sam. Sam swallowed a lump in his throat. Hello, he said. He didn't know what else to say, and he didn't know whether to be friendly with this man that looked like Dean or not. Because what if it was Dean after all? But it wasn't. It couldn't be. Dean's frown deepened. His hand made a movement as if it was reaching for something instinctively, maybe a weapon, but all it gripped was thin air. When Dean realised this, his hand sunk back on the blanket. He looked so beaten, so weak that the lump in Sam's throat returned regardless of whether this was or wasn't his brother. No one deserved to go through whatever this man had been through. It seemed as if there wasn't an inch of the man's body that wasn't injured somehow. Violet bruises stood out against black scabs and red rashes. Some of the wounds were infected, some of them barely healed. Sam understood that Bobby had given Dean painkillers, but he marvelled at how the man did not scream and howl in pain. The pills probably didn't do much besides taking the edge off the pain, and the agony that remained had to be agony beyond everything Sam could imagine. But Dean didn't whimper, didn't groan or scream. He remained silent, biting his lip, as if he didn't even notice his body was aching anymore. He looked at Sam with his hands in fists and his knuckles white. He seemed terrified. Absolutely terrified.

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Deciding that silence wouldn't get them anywhere, Sam cleared his throat. You, uhneed anything? Fuck, this was weird. Just when hed thought the world couldn't possibly get any freakier. Dean stared, face frozen. Sam rolled his shoulders and straightened his back. Are you in pain? Sorry about that but I really can't give you more painkillers, they're rationed and... More confusion. Sam's voice trailed off, and he cleared his throat again. Underneath his shirt, Dean's old amulet suddenly felt heavy around his neck. The string cutting into his flesh, Sam unconsciously grabbed the cord to ease the pain. When he glanced back at Dean, there was a curious expression in Dean's eyes. Sam let go of the amulet. He damn sure wasn't giving his most treasured possession to this man, whoever he was. Dean's features immediately shifted back to the blank expression from before. Shit, he looked like he shouldn't even be alive anymore. Sam opened his mouth to add that Dean should get some more sleep, when Michael popped his head in. Sam? Sam's head whipped around. There's been another attack. They slaughtered one of our patrols. Michael averted his eyes from Sam and glanced at Dean. His eyes narrowed just enough to suggest that he wasn't fully convinced this was Dean either. Sam nodded towards Dean. Right. Can you get Layla? Sam nodded towards Dean. We can't leave him alone. Yeah, sure. Michael's head disappeared behind the curtain again. Sam turned to Dean with an apologetic shrug. Sorry buddy, work calls. Sam could have sworn that if Dean's eyes asked what the fuck was going on. His brows in a deep frown, his teeth clenched, he seemed to be preparing himself to jump the fence. He reminded Sam of a cornered animal. Shit. He didn't have time for this. As Layla entered his quarters, Sam rose and tried to straighten his t-shirt a bit. Not that it really mattered. All Sam's clothes were old, had been torn and patched back together multiple times. Old blood splatters decorated the area around his neck. His jeans had been hastily stitched back together again so much that they looked like a creature from Frankenstein's lab. Sam ran a hand through his hair, his fingertips gently rubbing over the fresh scar. He'd fallen,

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hard, a couple of months ago. The head wound hadn't been too extensive, and Sam faintly remembered Bobby filling him up with liquor while Layla performed the surgery. The injury was healing fine. He didn't look back as he left his quarters. He'd learned to never look back.

Sam was late, but they couldn't start a meeting without him. A tent near the entrance of the church served as the headquarters as well as the conference room. The wind had picked up, and a breeze shot over Sam's head as he stepped outside the church. The green fabric of the headquarters tent sighed under the upcoming storm. Everywhere, refugees were trying to tighten the ropes of their tents and gather their belongings to bring them inside. Mothers called for their children to come home and join them in the relative safety of the tent. Sam rubbed his chin and glanced up to the sky. Sometimes he could tell if it was going to be a bad storm; he could smell it. Today, he couldn't. He entered the tent and tied the flap of a door closed behind him. The inside was dark but for the old oil-lamp drowning the tent in sickly, yellow light. Bobby, Angela and Monica were only shapes and shadows. Ghost faces in the dark. Sam shoved his hands into his pockets. Angela and Monica looked at him expectantly. So... Sam started off, since nobody was going to do it for him. Michael tells me that demons attacked another patrol? At least one patrol was always out there. After all, dozens or even hundreds of survivors, hurt and frightened, still wandered across these wastelands, hiding in abandoned towns. Sam wanted them all to be found, if they were near at least. By now, most survivors only travelled to reach one of the refugee camps. When they reached the nearby ghost towns, after thousands of miles of walking, they usually broke down of starvation and thirst to rest there. Some of them never found the strength again to move on, and they let death take them. The patrols main task was to find these potential new refugees before it was too late. Sometimes nobody came for months, and then it was a dozen of people within two weeks. The patrol's second task was to check for any change, any possible sign that an attack was to be expected. Task number three was checking the traps. Monica, a woman a bit younger than Bobby with her red curls cut short, nodded. Yes. They were ambushed by a bunch of vampires two miles west of here. Survivors? Three. They've been taken to the infirmary and are closely monitored for signs of transformation. Looks like the quiet has ended. Angela shot Sam a meaningful glance, but Sam ignored it.

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How many vampires? Twenty at least. Fuck. Those hordes were getting bigger and bigger too. Did our people kill any? Only three or four. What do you suppose that means? Angela squared her shoulders. In the dim light, the features on her face seemed harder than ever. Could be nothing. Sam crossed his arms over his chest, stroking his chin with his left hand. But if it was something? Angela asked. Sometimes Sam wondered whether it could be arranged for Angela to be stripped of her weapons and duties for a while. Her attitude couldn't be healthy, that eagerness for war and strategy and the need to hear all the answers coming from Sam's mouth. At times, it felt like she didn't really have a mind of her own. He couldn't imagine what she must have been like before the war. He tried to picture her as a college student and failed. They've been so very quiet, Angela prompted. I don't think those vampires just attacked for the heck of it. Something must have happened. Maybe the quiet is over. Sam and Bobby exchanged a quick glance. It didn't go by unnoticed. Monica's gaze went from Sam to Bobby. What? A muscle in Sam's cheek twitched. It brought Angela on track. It's about that mystery person in your quarters, right? Sam said nothing. He didn't want to say, not until he knew what was going on. But he couldn't not tell his best people, since they deserved to know exactly as much as Sam did if they wanted to keep the camp safe together. It's my brother Dean. The guy they brought to my quarters. They stared at him, speechless and eyes wide. Only Bobby was not lost to the shock, as he gave Sam a look as if he wasn't sure telling Angela and Monica was a good idea. When Sam returned the look, Bobby averted his eyes and brought his fist to his chin, as if lost in thought. Monica's jaw dropped an inch. She glanced at Angela, who raised her chin and placed her hands on her hip.

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I thought your brother was dead? He is. Sam scratched the back of his head, trying to catch a glimpse at Bobby's face for support. But Bobby avoided his look. I don't know what's going on. I expect you two to keep this a secret until we know more. There are enough rumours going around as it is. He paused and unconsciously lowered his voice a little. Michael and Bobby found him just outside of camp. How convenient. There was a challenge in Angela's voice. Sam squared his shoulders. You got something to say, Angela? She seemed to shrink in size under Sam's tone, and she shrugged. Just, its obviously not your brother. I'm aware of that. Bobby looked up, his brows furrowed, but he said nothing. Then why are you helping him? Sam ran a hand over his face. The fatigue had returnedor was it ever gone?--and he longed to be in his bed, to be asleep. To find out, Angela. He sighed. Angela pursed her lips. She didn't look entirely convinced, but she was smart enough to remain silent. Silence draped a cloak of awkwardness over them. Bobby shuffled his feet, moving closer to the entrance of the tent. Outside the storm was getting stronger, howling around the corners of the tents and the church. Planks creaked under the force of the wind. The camp was in for a hard night. All they could do now was hope that the storm wouldn't rage too much and that all damages would be repairable. Collecting wood that could be used to build walls and roof was getting more difficult by the day. Most of what could be used they'd already gathered from the surrounding villages, while the rest was either broken or rotting away. Chopping the ashen trees would only gain some firewood, not supply them with material to secure the camp. What if it is your brother? Monica's words, though very quiet, cut into the stillness like thunder. Sam couldn't help but wince. Bobby lifted his gaze. He's not, Sam said. Yeah, but what if--

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I said he's not, Sam repeated, almost barked. His voice lingered in the air for a second, before it ebbed away. Angela looked shocked. Monica stared at him for a moment, before she nodded slowly. Heat rushed up Sam's spine and into his cheeks, and he averted his eyes. Sorry, Monica. It's been a long day. He cleared his throat and added, Keep an eye on the victims in the infirmary. As soon as they show signs of transformation, bring them to the cells. We'll keep them there until the storm's quieted, before we execute them. Give order for everyone to stay inside tonight and barricade themselves as best as they can. Both Angela and Monica nodded. Right. Sam twitched the corner of his mouth. After all this time he still felt uncomfortable during these meetings. Maybe because he could always feel himself turning into John Winchester. He adapted the tone and posture, and he marvelled at how easy giving orders came to him. He almost said, Dismissed but caught himself just in time. Instead he muttered something about a good night and seeing them tomorrow, before he stepped outside again. The wind, now cold and sharp like the blade of a knife, rushed past his ears and into the gap between his shirt and neck. Sam shivered and stopped. A sudden lump blocked his throat, and Sam swallowed eagerly to lose it. Meeting was over; everybody was going to lock themselves in for the night, including Sam. He'd have to head back to his quarters now, where a perfect copy of his big brother was occupying the bed. A copy so perfect that he even looked like he'd just pulled himself out of Hell. Of all the tricks that demons had ever played at Sam, including apparitions of Dad and dreams in which his mother spoke to him, this was by far the cruellest. He turned around when he heard Bobby's heavy steps behind him. Bobby's hair was white like the eyes of Lilith and quickly receding. The war had made him age fast. But then, the war had done that to everybody. Michael was talking war, handling guns and acting like he was twice his age. Michael had been a boy before the war, and he might have been a boy still. But, Asher was dead. The demons had hunted him to death only two months after Lilith had broken all Devil's Gates. Michael was never the same after that. He held onto his weapons as if he had nothing else to hold onto. He seemed desperate to keep everyone in the camp safe. Sam, Bobby said, adjusting his baseball cap. Sam had found that particular one on a scavenger hunt a few months ago, and Bobby wore it daily. Storm's going to be a son of a bitch, Sam said. When Bobby was caught up, Sam started walking again. The paths were mostly empty now, except for the people who were still trying to prepare their tents for the storm. A few people respectfully greeted Sam with a nod as he passed them by. Others whispered. No doubt they'd heard about the mystery man in Sam's

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quarters. Sam, it could be Dean, you know. Sam shook his head. The knuckles on his hand went white. Why not? Because, Sam replied, shoving a strand of hair out of his face, If it was Dean, then that means he must be in on it with the demons and Lilith. She's secured Hell; not even Dean could escape it. If the guy you found really was Dean, that would mean he struck a deal with Lilith. So... Sam rubbed his temples and sighed. It can't be Dean. Dean's dead.

Angela and Monica hadnt told a soul, but the camp had ears and eyes everywhere. The rumour of Dean's return spread so fast that by evening, everyone Bobby encountered was asking about Sam Winchester's brother. For many, the stories about Dean Winchester had turned into some sort of myth, mostly because they had never seen or known him. All they knew was that Dean had gone to Hell to save Sam's, their leader's, life. Is it true? they kept asking when Bobby went out to fetch some food from the storage room below. Bobby didn't reply. It only fuelled the rumours, but confirming them would be Sam's call.

The thunder woke him. Dean's eyes whipped open, and he stared into darkness. Black Hell, he thought. They've put me back into Black Hell. It was the part of Hell so deep down that no glimmer of light ever made it down there, and torches died out as soon as they were brought into Black Hell. A darkness so complete that it sucked out the light of everything. Dean had spent an eternity down there, surrounded by thunder and deafening screams, and bound to a pole with stakes through his wrists and sharp teeth of creatures he couldn't see biting into his flesh. Christ, he was back. Dean closed his eyes, and he waited for the teeth to come and torture him. Tears welled up beneath his eyelids, and he bit his lip until he tasted copper. His hands reached out, found cloth beneath him. Dean grabbed it, even though the fabric rubbed against his sore palms. He choked down a scream and tried to brace himself for what was to come. Then Dean heard the voices. Faintly at first, then growing louder as their sound pulled him

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from the edge of sleep. Muttered words, mumbled conversations poured down on him. Dean opened his eyes again slowly. As he gave them more time to adjust, he saw that there was light. Not much, but enough light that the world around him turned into a place of blue shadows. He saw walls, the blanket tucked around him, and above him, arches of a ceiling. The ceiling of a church. And Dean remembered. Bits and pieces of memories fluttered by his mind. Church. He'd seen a church. As if in a blur, he thought he'd remembered Sam being there, Bobby, and other familiar faces he couldn't quite place. Pain. Pain had been there, but pain was always there, like a steady companion that never left Dean's side. He didnt know what would happen if the pain ever went away. The agony was all that let him believe he wasn't quite gone yet. Without the pain, he would have been stripped naked. Defenceless in the dark. The pain was everything that he had kept for himself in Hell. Dean turned his head a little and blinked. A shoulder appeared in his vision, and Dean lowered his gaze to the floor. His throat dried up. Sam. It was Sam. Using a bundle of clothes as a pillow, he was spread out on a blanket. Another blanket was pulled up to his chest. He was asleep, his forehead in a frown even now. He looked much, much older than Dean remembered him. For a while, he couldn't take his gaze off. He watched Sam sleep, drawing in deep breaths, and he thought of all the times that the demons had told him that Sam was dead. Had died in a war that Dean hadn't given a damn about since Sam was dead. He shouldn't have believed them but... No, this was probably a trick. Sam was dead, and this was just another part of Hell in which Sam was alive. And soon enough, they'd tear Dean away from it and laugh at him because for one stupid moment he'd believed that there was still some good in the world. That he had, somehow, magically escaped his fate. They'd be coming for him soon. As soon as he believed this part of Hell to be real. Dean pressed his lips together hard so they wouldn't see him cry. This wasn't real, but Dean didn't care. At least he'd had a chance to see Sammy again. It was more than he had ever dared to hope for. He opened his eyes. Sam was looking at him. Maybe the rustling of the sheets had woken him, or the hiss of agony that had flown from Dean's lips when he'd shifted his position.

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Sam looked at him with a blank expression, and Dean looked back not knowing what to say. Not knowing if he wanted to say something at all. If someone would have offered it to him, Dean would gladly have spent the rest of his lifeor his time in Hellhere in the dark, while Sam was sleeping next to him on the floor. Shit, he would have taken the floor. But it seemed so right, him and his brother sharing a room again, like in old times, that every fibre of Dean's tormented body screamed, This isn't real. He studied Sam's face, expecting it to transform into a demonic grimace with nine-inch fangs and bear-like claws. Nothing happened. After a while, Sam said, Get back to sleep. His voice was low and gruff. Dean shivered. He didn't want to sleep. He wanted to keep his eyes open for as long as he could. Who knew how long this would last. Chances were that if he closed his eyes, he would wake up in a different part of Hell where there was no Sam. It was bound to happen, and Dean wasn't going to waste any of his time here in the realm of sleep. His heart beating against his chest violently, Dean stared back. Out of nowhere, the sound of a cannonball exploded right next to him. The room suddenly lit up in bright white, turning Sam's face into nothing but white and dark lines. Wailing, unearthly howling of demons took him. Dean jerked and brought his hands to his ears. Flashes of images squeezed through his shut eyes: burned skin and blood, machetes and fangs, torture and laughter. Prisons made of flesh and bone. He was back. He was back. God, he was back. He was back... He tried to breathe. He couldn't. He was back. She'd taken him back. He wanted to suck in air. His lungs refused. He was back. He clung to the fabric under his fingers, and bit his lip until his teeth reached the flesh. His head screamed. His stomach revolted against the water hed drunk earlier. He was back, he was back... Sam's voice reached out to him, loud and demanding. Dean couldn't make out single words. As he opened his eyes he saw Sam's lips moving, as if in slow-motion, but the words were too faint under the rushing of blood in his ears. Sam's hand was on Dean's shoulder. He felt the pressure. He felt the pain too, but pain was always there. Sam. Sam was here. Lilith hadn't taken Dean back yet. The rushing grew quieter, and Sam's words finally made it through to Dean.

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Just a storm..., Sam said. He sounded half bewildered, half scared. His eyes stared into Dean's, willing Dean to look back and not pass out. It was like an anchor Dean could hold onto. Just a storm. You're safe. Dean didn't really care about the words. He wasn't back. Sam was still here. Another cannonball and Dean screamed. It was a weak and rough sound. Hell. Hell was coming. Did you hear me? Sam asked. Dean struggled for air. His lungs demanded more, but he couldn't breathe quickly enough. Dean. And that drowned everything else out, all explosions and fires. The world around him slowed down. Suddenly, breathing became easier. Sam nodded at him. Just a storm, okay? Just a storm. The words settled in, filled with meaning. Thunder. Thunder wouldn't hurt him. Cannonballs did. With a final, light squeeze of Dean's shoulder, Sam slid back an inch. He looked so wrong. There was a small scar over his left brow that Dean only noticed now. His eyes were hollow. Like demon eyes. Dean didn't mean to fall asleep. But when his lids dragged down like solid lead, Dean decided to rest them just for a moment. Sleep took him instantly.

Someone whispered, and Dean cracked his eyes open just enough that the world came into focus. A girl popped her head into the room, saying something about, She was turned. Sam got up from his bed quietly, and he put on the shirt he'd used as a pillow. He followed her outside. He didn't look back at Dean. Opening his eyes fully, the first thing Dean noticed was that grey shadows had replaced the blue ones. Instinctively, he knew it was early dawn. Everything had turned to quiet. The thunder was gone, and so was the muttering and mumbling. The only sound that Dean heard made him flinch and tremble. He thought it sounded like one of Lilith's torture devices, before he realised it was just the sound of rain lashing against the windows.

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Otherwise, the world was silent. No sounds that suggested Hell's torture chambers were at work. Dean sat up. He winced at the sudden sting of agony piercing into his back, but he didn't wait until it ebbed away. Swinging his legs over the mattress, his bare feet touched the stone floor. It was cold, Dean could tell as much, but he'd forgotten whether that was a good or a bad thing. Pushing himself up, he rose to full height. His legs wavered under his weight, but they carried it nonetheless. Dean stepped forward, feeling his way along the wall. Fingers trembling, he reached for the curtain and pulled it aside. Most likely this was just another part of Hell. It was a one in a million chance that this was the world outside the pit. Either way, Dean had to find out what was going on and where he was at. His instincts urged him to not let Sam out of his sight. Following him wasn't even a conscious decision; it just happened. Sam had gone outside. Dean would go wherever Sam went. It couldn't have been any simpler. Dean stopped as the curtain fell close behind him. His chest tightened. His pulse doubled. Dean took a deep breath. He glanced back at the curtain, the safety that the tiny room behind it offered. So far, those quarters were all Dean had seen. That and dark skies and creatures stretching into the clouds. His legs shook. He had no idea what was out here, or what would happen if he decided to leave the room. But Sam was somewhere around here. To the left, makeshift quarters after makeshift quarters formed a small aisle. Some walls were made of wood, others entirely of curtains, others were made of paper cardboard. All curtains and makeshift doors were closed. A weird sound sent waves of goose bumps across Deans skin, until he realised it was someone snoring. Here and there, an oil lamp or a candle shared some light. To the right, a few yards away, there was a huge entrance. One of the doors stood open. Behind it Dean spotted grey skies and rain pouring down. Sam must have gone there. Dean moved on. Hair standing up on his neck, he placed one foot before the other. He felt like sleepwalking. His feet moved on their own. He went outside. Rain was pouring down on him, soaking his clothes and turning them into a heavy burden hanging from Dean's body. The rain fell onto his head and face, cooling his rashes and bruises. He hadn't felt rain that wasn't pure acid in a very, very long time. But the reek of sulphur remained. There were hundreds of colourful hats and boxes all spread around the church. It seemed that not an inch of the ground beneath them was left. Some of the hats bent in the wind that ruffled Dean's hair. The boxes moaned under the last sighs of the storm. Here and there, a woman or man would hastily vanish inside a box or hat. It was then Dean noticed it wasn't hats and boxes, but tents and tiny cabins, made of trash and

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planks and whatever had been useful to build a home. Some of them were bigger than others. A narrow, muddy path between them led down a slight slope. Dean's feet moved on. They took him towards a bridge that wasn't more than six feet long and about as wide as a door. Actually, it quite looked like an old door that now served the bridge to get across the trench. The moat wound itself around the grounds of the church, as far as Dean could tell. Craning his neck, he spotted water. He crossed the bridge. The wood creaked under his steps. More tents and cabins spread out before him. It was like a village made of makeshift quarters. Dean frowned. What was so bad about houses? And towns? Why were the people all here? A little to the right, Sam's tall figured popped up between the tents. Dean followed him. His legs only lifted slowly, his bare feet sinking into the muddy ground. His toes needed some time to adjust until they were sure they'd found hold on the slippery ground beneath. Every time Dean lifted his legs, curled his toes or placed his feet, another shower of agony exploded in his body. He wanted to go faster, but he couldn't. Eventually, the rows of tents opened into a wide field. The grass had been cut down. Black squares covered with iron bars were etched into the soil beneath. Like oversized manhole covers. It was weird. Really weird. Then Dean spotted Sam. He and a small group of people stood around one of the black squares. They all looked down into the hole as if they were waiting. A girl with a blonde ponytail carried some sort of sword, while the others carried rifles. Dean's mouth twitched. He drew a little closer. Suddenly, the blonde girl and another woman with short red hair heaved the cover up, and a woman with black hair to her shoulders climbed up. A cell. It was a cell dug into the ground. Dean had spent months in those too, only the cells had been dug into raw flesh, into walls of skin and bone. There, the demons had executed him again day after day. His stomach flopped upside down. The rain kept lashing down, blurring Dean's vision. Water dripped from his hair onto his cheeks and nose. He didn't notice. His eyes were fixed on Sam. The prisoner said something, and Sam shook his head. He towered above all members of the group. The prisoner spoke again, and Sam pushed her hard. She fell to the ground on her knees. The blonde girl handed Sam the sword. He grabbed it easily, as if he was used to handling its weight and length. The woman on her knees glanced up. Sam raised the sword.

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The woman said something. The sword came down, a gruesome sound of flesh being cut hissed through the air. With a thud, the woman's head fell to the ground, her dead eyes staring directly at Dean. Her torso fell over into a puddle. Water splashed. Sam wiped the blood from the blade, and he returned the sword back to the girl. Dean stared. His insides cramped. His stomach revolted. He couldn't take his gaze off Sam and the dead woman. It had to be Hell. A part of Hell in which Sam had turned into a cold-blooded hunter. It wasn't Sam. Couldn't be Sam, not his brother. Sam didn't kill like that, matter-of-fact like and without compassion. He didn't execute people. Dean wanted to run, but he was frozen, like his feet were glued to the ground. Of all parts of Hell that he had been to, this was the worst. Lilith really had saved the worst for last, just like she'd promised. Then Sam noticed him. As he looked up from the dead body before him, his gaze brushed over Dean. Sam stiffened, straightened. Dean just stared. His eyes burned. His mouth tasted bitter. His knees buckled. The other members of the group spotted him too. The blonde girl instinctively reached for her rifle, but Sam stretched his arm before her, blocking her. He turned around, spoke to the others, and then began walking over to Dean. The rest stayed behind. Sam shuffled his feet over the muddy ground, hands in his pockets. Like when he'd been younger and busted sneaking out of the house. Dean attempted to meet him on the way, but still his feet wouldn't move. He couldn't understand. He didn't want to. His mind played the image of Sam beheading that woman on her knees over and over again. The blank expression on Sam's face. The way he'd casually cleaned the sword and returned to daily business. A lump the size of a football blocked Dean's throat. When Sam finally reached him, Dean averted his eyes. You shouldn't be out here, Sam greeted him. His tone was tense. A little awkward. Dean stared at his bare feet. Apparently, Sam did too, because next thing Dean heard was the sound of Sam sucking in a breath sharply. Shit, man. You can't go outside with no shoes on. Your toes are gonna freeze off. Dean examined Sam's feet.

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Shoes. He'd had a pair of those. Once upon a time. Are you even listening? Now Sam sounded annoyed. Worried, too. Dean glanced back at his feet. He wiggled his toes. Mud got stuck in the gap between the ball of his food and the curled toes. It hurt. Dean repeated the action. Dean. Silver blade. Blood splattered all across. The woman's still eyes staring at him. She was angry. Sam had killed her. Then he'd wiped the blade. Dean had reached his final destination. He'd stay here. He'd have to watch Sam being not Sam for the rest of time and beyond. The thought hit him so hard that his knees finally caved in. He sunk towards the ground, but Sam's arms caught him before he hit it. They pulled him to his feet. Dean glanced at his feet. In most parts of Hell, he didn't need them. Feet. Shit, are you okay? Dean? Hell, and here he needed feet and Sam cut women's heads off. Fuck, man, look at me! Dean turned his head, inch by inch. He raised his chin to meet Sam's gaze. The lines on Sam's face formed an expression of utter terror. He was freaked. Dean wanted to avert his eyes again, but Sam didn't let him. I'll take you back inside, okay? We'll get you dried up. All right? Dean couldn't say yes or no. All he could do was look at Sam's face and hope that maybe, Hell still held a place even worse that Dean would, eventually, be taken to.

As Sam took Dean back to his quarters, the camp began to wake up. Women with baskets passed them by to fetch water from the catch basin or the water pump. Men crossed the bridge and then made for the back of the church to take a piss. Some women and men stood in front of their tents and huts, estimating the damage the storm had done. Some tents were ripped open at the sides or the roof; loose fabric fluttered in the breeze. Sam put his hand on Dean's back, and urged him forward. Many curious glances followed them, but the refugees were too busy doing morning chores to ask questions.

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Dean walked slowly, like on autopilot. With his eyes fixed on the ground he took one step after another, not glancing up once. Sam felt Dean's muscles harden under his hand. He was tense and alert, but not responding. Sam's chest tightened as he remembered the way Dean had looked at him out near the execution spot. Eyes wide, unbelieving. Horror-stricken. He'd stared at Sam like a madman. As if he'd witnessed an unspeakable crime. It shouldn't have bothered Sam; after all, this guy here wasn't his brother. Just some trick to get him off his guard. But it did bother him. That look. That horrified look, as if he'd spotted a monster, not Sam. A hot flash of guilt rushed down his spine. It couldn't be Dean. But the look was the same. If Dean had been here, watching him, he'd probably have looked just like that. Talking and quiet laughter received them as they stepped into the church. Most people in here were now up and running about. The clanging of tin plates and cans was mixed with thuds of boxes and chairs being moved. Sam closed the curtain behind him and tied it to the wall. Sit down, he said, nudging Dean into the direction of the bed. Dean obeyed silently. He eased down carefully, as if in great pain, but his face showed no emotion whatsoever. It reminded Sam of a mask. Dean kept his eyes on the ground. His hands were folded in his lap. Are you hungry? Deanthe manremained in the same position, not even indication yes or no with a nod. Sam wondered whether he could hear him at all, but then again, he had followed Sam's order to sit down. Sam glanced down at his hands, and then shoved them into his pockets. He cleared his throat. He tried to come up with something to say. But there wasn't anything. He shifted his gaze to Dean again. Shit, he looked so much like Dean. He looked exactly like Dean, underneath the burns and bruises, the infected cuts and welts around his wrists. More than that, he carried himself the same way. Sam recognised small gestures and brief facial expressions, all so perfectly Dean that it became constantly harder to remind himself that this wasn't, in fact, his brother. But if this was a copy of Dean in Hell...shit, he didn't want to know what Dean was going through in Hell. For him. For Sammy. The amounts of pain and torture, for eternity. Sam's stomach keeled over, and he brought a hand to his mouth, gagging. I'm going to get Bobby, Sam said, turning around. Fresh air, he needed fresh air.

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Dean didn't answer.

Sam's got a lot on his plate, It sounded like an apology, and it was accompanied by a shrug. Dean glanced up as Bobby pulled the chair closer to the bed. Dean sat on the mattress, his back against the wall behind him. He'd pulled up his knees and wrapped his arms around them because it made him feel safer. Sitting like this shot bolts of agony through his body, as flashes of memories of being bound into little packages by burning ropes drifted back into his head. Dean squeezed his eyes shut. Months. It'd felt like months. Dean? Worry. Dean opened his eyes. Bobby was bent forward a little, kind of like he wasn't sure whether or not to reach out. Dean attempted to square his shoulders. He hissed through his teeth when that too did nothing but hurt. Sam told me you followed him outside this morning. Dean couldn't read the tone. He slid on the sheets, uneasy. Bobby's gnarled hand brushed Dean's leg. Dean flinched. Bobby placed his hand on Dean's. You have no idea about what's going on, right? Dean's gaze flickered up. He looked at Bobby whose eyes were fixed on Dean. Dean hadn't noticed until now, but Bobby had grown old. Wrinkles and sharp edges shaped his face. A muscle in Bobby's cheek twitched. He nodded. Thought so. He sighed, took his cap off, scratched his forehead and put it back on. Dean tilted his head a little. He remembered Bobby doing that a lot. In the time before. Don't be mad at Sam, Dean. He's...things aren't easy for him. Bobby paused, as if to brace himself for the things he had to say next. Look, Dean. Four months after you died, Lilith broke the Devil's Gates and seals. All of them. She wanted to free Lucifer. A war came over the world where it was demons against humans and angels. The demons...they won. And they wiped out most of mankind. Storms and earthquakes wrecked the land. It was Hell on earth, Dean. It still is. Bobby cleared his throat. Lucifer needed a vessel. It was supposed to be Sam. He's got demon blood inside of him, Dean. That's why Azazel came to your house in

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1983. Everybody expected Sam to cave. Hell, that bitch Ruby urged him to use his powers over and over again. Sam was tempted. Everyone could see it. She wanted to make it easier for Lucifer to claim him. But your brotherhe fought. He stuck to the promise he gave you. He managed to kill Lucifer when Lucifer tried to possess him...that's right, your brother killed Lucifer. Lucifer was vulnerable in that moment. It almost killed Sam, too. I have no idea what would have happened if Lucifer would have won that battle. But Lilith was smart enough to keep out of Sam's way. She's reigning over the demons now. Vampires and werewolves and thousands of demons are everywhere. There are only very few humans left, Dean. And those that the demons don't use as vessels have gone into hiding. This is a refugee camp. The church groundsit's hallowed ground. The moat that you've seen is filled with holy water. This is as safe as it gets. And your brother....he never wanted to be a leader, but after Lucifer, the people just began to gather around him. They treat him as their saviour. I'm fairly sure Sam hates it, but what is he supposed to do? Give up fighting? Bobby paused again, running a hand over his face. His eyes glistened suspiciously. He was an old man. Dean licked his lips and tried to arrange the words in his head so that they made sense. It wouldn't quite work. This here, Deanthis is it. There are only a few refugee camps, but we've only heard about them, so we don't know for sure other camps really exist. There are rumours that thousands of men and women have been taken underground as slaves but we don't know that for sure either. We are trying to hold our own, but people get attacked and ambushed, and the world is a mess. The sun hasn't come out in four years. Most of the food is rotten. Nothing will grow in the poisoned earth. I don't even know if there are still animals somewhere. We live on canned food. We are almost out on ammo and medicine. I don't know what's going to happen once our supplies come to an end. Dean stared at him wearily. He wished he could be back in that part of Hell where they cut him open and ripped out his insides over and over again. Lilith is smart. She knows she can't face Sam on her own, so she sends her troops. The demons. They ambush us and decimate our numbers. They try to wear our spirits down. They want us dead. This here is our last defence. Some of our spies have informed us that Lilith has found a way to share her power with the minor demons. They're all connected. And Lilith wants Sam dead at every cost. His voice was thick now, like he was choking down tears. Dean averted his eyes and glanced at his knees. Steps hurried past the curtains. Suddenly, the muttered conversations around him seemed deafening. Every thud of a footstep a thunder. A lump grew in his throat. Unconsciously, he shook his head. His head was spinning. A headache throbbed against his temple, and Dean, who'd suffered through pain much worse, winced. The other pain, it was just physical stuff. His body hurting. He could endure all of it. But now, his mind began hurting too... Dean wrapped his arms around his head, and rested his forehead on his knees. His shoulders started shaking. His whole body shivered.

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Bobby cupped his hand around Dean's shoulder. Dean flinched back, but the hand remained where it was. Dean, stay with me. Dean lifted his head to meet Bobby's gaze, but he kept his arms over his head. Steps on the ground. It sounded like marching drums. Screams. They were screaming at him. Laughter. Demons laughing at him. Why, why couldn't he back in that part of Hell where it at least looked like Hell? At least there, Dean had always known what to expect. Pain. The kind of pain that shredded his heart and tore his flesh apart. Countless, endless rounds of torture, of being burned and buried alive, of being beaten and bitten, poisoned and choked. Voices, laughter, sneers. It'd been safe. The end of one torture just promised the beginning of another.This here...Dean had no idea what to expect, what to prepare for. Anything could happen. Anytime. He was naked and exposed to whatever decided to take its toll on him. It was the worst kind of Hell. Suddenly, Bobby was sitting beside Dean. He didn't smell like motor oil like he used to. Dean told himself to stop, but his shoulders and legs continued to shiver violently. Very carefully, Bobby wrapped an arm around Dean's shoulders. Dean's heart slowed down. The laughter grew quieter. Everything eased to a less hectic pace. Dean, do you know why you're here? Dean turned his head. The question surprised him. He was here because he'd sold his soul and gone to Hell. He was here because She enjoyed to see him suffer. Dean hugged his legs again and rested his chin on his knees so that his face was half-hidden behind his arm. He shot Bobby a helpless glance. He didn't know the answer. Do you remember how you got out of Hell? Dean frowned. Out of Hell his ass. That's what they wanted him to believe. Bobby sighed. He took off his cap again, placed it on the nightstand, and then he rubbed his forehead with his flat hand. Dark circles shadowed his eyes. He sounded tired as he spoke. Dean...do you know who I am? Dean lifted his chin a little and studied Bobby's face. The eyes that used to twinkle, the beard that had scratched Dean's face as a kid when Bobby had hugged him. The same lines, only deeper. Slowly, Dean nodded yes. It was like a wave of bright light washed over Bobby's face. His features softened, and his lips broke into a wide smile. Dean couldn't remember the last time someone had smiled at him. He only recalled sneers and howling laughter. His heart leapt.

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And you remember Sam? Again, Dean nodded slowly. So, no need to be scared, Dean. We're both around. We won't let anything happen to you. Dean would have laughed if he'd recalled how. Instead, he just stared at Bobby, his mind empty of thoughts. The right thing would have been to nod, but Dean couldn't bring himself to. He wanted to believe Bobby...wanted to believe him more than anything else. But experience had taught him too well. There existed no place that was both safe and free of pain. Except perhaps the world outside. The world that was not Hell. But this couldn't be it. She'd promised him he'd stay in Hellfire until the end of all time. She never broke her promises. Bobby patted his shoulder. Just don't wander off, all right? Stay inside the church. You might get lost outside. Pain rushed through Dean's body as Bobby touched his shoulder. Dean took a deep breath and released it slowly. Pain he could handle. Pain was good. Pain was the constant that everything else revolved around. For as long as the pain remained, everything was fine.

He'd stood and watched from the distance as Dean Winchester dragged himself outside and across the small bridge. As he followed his brother even though he couldn't see him, like Sam's presence was enough to draw Dean to him. He'd watched as Dean Winchester witnessed the execution of a camp member that had been turned into a vampire. Dean Winchester, who'd feared no evil and slew demon after demon, stared at the scenery before him as if he could not understand. Hell had broken him. It had been Castiel's order to save Dean Winchester from Hell. But he'd failed. He'd waited too long. Just a day too long. A day that had decided the world's fate. His brothers, as far as he knew, were dead. He couldn't hear them speak. Maybe they were hiding. Most likely Lilith's servants had killed them. Castiel gazed at the big wooden cross. The altar and tabernacle were gone to make room and to serve as firewood, but the cross had remained. Maybe as a beacon of hope, Castiel mused. The church served as the resistance head quarters because it was situated on hallowed ground that only very few demonsonly the most powerful--could pass. The cross rose up above the refugees' heads as a warning to the demons. Castiel closed his eyes. He couldn't linger here for too long. It would raise suspicion amongst the humans.

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No doubt the demons had their spies. To think otherwise would have been foolish. Rumours spread fast. As soon as someone found out about what he really was, the news would travel from man to man, woman to woman. The demons would demand his head, and the people would be eager to turn him over. They could not risk harbouring an angel. It would have instantly ended the relative quiet that had blessed the refugees for the past few weeks. With one last glance, Castiel averted his eyes. If only he'd been faster, if only he had not waited. The world had fallen into the hands of evil on his account. He was too young to carry the weight, and his youth had caused foolish decisions. He wasn't yet as wise or strong as Uriel, who'd seen the Lord and knew so much more than Castiel did. But Uriel too was dead. Castiel had survived because he was a coward and had spent the past four years pretending to be a human. He wasn't even worth pretending to be one of them. He couldn't ever possibly share friendship and love. He couldn't offer words of support and be a comfort to others. He didn't know how to. He pretended. Someday, the humans would find out. His days were numbered. Castiel just did not know the number of days left.

Sam was counting bullets when Bobby entered the armoury. He stood by the shelves, his fingers brushing the contents of small boxes and his lips moving as he counted. He furrowed his brows, sighed and scribbled down a number on a block of paper. His posture didn't change as Bobby entered, but Bobby knew Sam had noticed him nonetheless. How are we doing on ammo? Bobby asked. Sam shrugged and rubbed his temple. We've done better. We always do, I suppose. Sam nodded. Yeah. Bobby stepped closer. The room smelled of gunpowder, copper, and paint. Every last inch of the room was covered in protective symbols. Thick salt lines were spread before the barricaded windows. Shelf after shelf lined the wall, building a labyrinth of weapons, crossbows, bandages and medication. Bobby hated this room. It stood for everything that went fucking wrong in this world.

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You should talk to him. Sam didn't stop counting. Who? Your brother. Sam released a short, bitter laugh. He's not my brother. You don't know that. Yeah, I do. Drumming on the paper block with his pen, Sam turned his head to face Bobby. No way this is Dean. Something's going on, and we need to find out what. He's terrified, Sam. It's an act. Sam, Bobby spoke slowly, deliberately. He's terrified. He's lost. Whether or not this is your brother, the guy is scared and confused. He needs a friend. Send Layla to talk to him, then. Sam sounded like a petulant five-year old. Bobby knew the tone. Dammit, Sam, he barked, grabbing Sam by the shoulders. His thumbs pressed into Sam's flesh. Sam's eyes widened in surprise. Dammit Sam. Bobby shook Sam's arm. He realised how he sounded more defeated this time. Give this guy a chance. Talk to him. How are you going to find out what's going on if you refuse to spend more than five minutes in the same room with him? Sam opened his eyes to reply, but he seemed to have forgotten what he'd meant to say. He closed his mouth, shifted his gaze to the floor and nodded. All right. Bobby turned to leave. Bobby. Christ, the tone. The tone reserved for the rare moments when Sam let his guard off and became the lost orphan who missed his brother more than he could put into words. Bobby closed his eyes briefly, before he turned around. Sam was glancing up at him shyly, eyes glistening and wide, biting his lip. He looked so much like a scared little boy that Bobby had to fight the urge to just pull the kid into a hug. Bobby, if it should be Dean...you know what that means, right? Bobby didn't answer, the silence prompting Sam to continue.

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If it is Dean, then that means he's fighting on Lilith's side. She wouldn't have let him go out of the goodness of her heart. If it is Dean, then he's a traitor. He paused to let the words sink in. They filled the room with a threat. Traitors were executed. Bobby licked his lips. You don't know that, Sam. In that case, I can't let him go unpunished just because he's my brother. Sam's mouth formed a thin line. Bobby could see Sam was chewing on the insides of his cheek so he wouldn't cry. Sam. Bobby scratched the back of his head. We don't know anything yet. You said so yourself. Maybe if you talked to him...he's scared, Sam. He's been through four years of Hell. I'm not even sure he has realised he's not in Hell anymore. Sam tilted his head back and released a deep sigh. His lower lip wobbled. It can't be Dean. You're the only person who can find out. Bobby let his eyes drift to the ceiling. A devil's trap stretched from the door to the sealed windows. Shit. He was an old man, he'd had a life before. But Sam...the kid wasn't meant to live like this. Wasn't meant to make decisions like that. When Sam looked back at Bobby, the moment was gone and Sam's face had found its all too familiar emotionless mask again. He nodded and muttered something about finishing doing inventory first. Dean wasn't the only one scared shitless, and Sam wasn't any better at hiding it.

She took his hand and put a white cotton cloth around his palm. The rough fabric rubbed against his sore flesh. Dean flinched and jerked his hand back. Layla curled her fingers around his wrist and with gentle force pulled his hand back. I'm sorry if it hurts, she said. Her voice embraced Dean like a cloak of warmth. But it's going to infect if we don't treat it. She tightened the bandage, and Dean winced. She'd explained to him that they couldn't take care of all injuries, as bandages and disinfectants were rare. She'd washed his wounds, on his back and on his arms and legs, and Dean had shivered and trembled under every touch. All touches that he knew inflicted pain. Layla was trying to ease the pain. In his head it made sense, but not in his heart.

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The bandage looked as if it had been used before and cleaned afterwards. Dean stared at his hand and wondered how often Layla had already used it to patch up hurt soldiers. Judging by how skilfully she wrapped the cotton around Dean's hand, it must have been many times. Oddly, now that most of his cuts and rashes had been treatedeven if only cleanedthe pain hadnt faded away, but instead had turned into a violent throbbing that tormented every fibre of Dean's body. He shifted on the mattress and grimaced. It's gonna get better, Layla said softly. I promise. Dean glanced at her. The short hair made her look different than back in...where had it been? He frowned. He vaguely remembered Sam dragging his ass to see that fake healer. Nebraska. In Nebraska. But she'd been terminally ill back then, a tumour eating into her brain. She couldn't be alive. So, was this the trick? The giveaway. Maybe Lilith had filled this part of Hell with people who were actually dead. Maybe this Hell worked that way or maybe She wanted to make it more painful for him when She finally tore him away from here. Layla must have recognised the expression on his face. She smiled shyly. I know what you think. The tumour, right? Dean's gaze flickered to the ground briefly before it met Layla's eyes again. I couldn't make sense of it at first, she continued, while putting another bandage around a particularly deep cut on Dean's arm. The fringe had been yellow with puss, but Layla had washed it clean with warm water. Roy LeGrange couldn't help me, right? The tumour didn't go away, I wasn't healed. You were there. But the next time I went to see the doctor, he told me that the tumour had miraculously shrunk in size, making it operable. So, in the end, I was healed after all. Dean's eyebrows shot upwards. She gave him a half amused, half grateful smile. Sam explained it to me. He told me what you did that night, how the Reaper almost killed you so I could live. Sam thinks that maybe, before he stopped Sue-Ann, the Reaper transferred some of your life essence to me. I mean, I did feel that something happened, I just didn't feel healed. But it makes sense, doesn't it? She paused, averted her eyes and lowered her voice. You saved my life. Thank you for that. Dean didn't know what to think. It sounded too perfect. It sounded like a trick. As soon as he started to believe this crap, Lilith would send him back to the fire pits. Dean licked his scabbed lips. His head was buzzing. Of all the people he knew he would never have expected to see Layla again. He'd thought about her often after Nebraska and wondered if she'd found her miracle. Shit, he'd hoped that she had. And now she was sitting here, and tending to his bruises, and telling him that hed saved her. No, it couldn't be real. Somewhere beneath the surface, Hell was lurking. Like the stage of a theatre ready to break. The planks were already creaking under his weight.

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She fell silent, as she used her last bandage to cover a nasty cut that Dean had received when he'd followed Sam outside. He must have stepped onto a stone, Layla had said. Dean hadn't even noticed the fresh pain, and nobody had cared to look closer at his feet. Layla had noticed the smeared blood on the ground and the dry, black layer on the ball of Deans food. Her fingers on his feet tickled. Dean's toes twitched. As she continued to adjust the bandage and her fingers ran lightly across his foot, Dean burst into a short laugh. It rang in his ears loudly. An odd sound that Dean hadn't heard in a while. The walls threw it back at him. Instinctively, Dean jerked back and pressed his lips together. Layla looked up and her mouth opened a little before it formed a smile. So, you're ticklish, huh? Dean heard the affection in her voice. Like she was worried for him and relieved at the same time. He remembered Mom's voice sounding like that when he was little. He remembered Bobby using that tone too. Layla tried to take care of him. That part Dean understood. It didn't quite feel like Hell. Hell was real in more ways than Dean had words to describe. The pain was sharper, amplified, and unlike pain on earth could ever be. The mind didn't pass out, the body did not exhaust, and souls were awake all the time, through everything. The illusions were always a little blurry around the edges though, a little off. Dean had become good at noticing these things; he could tell when he was wrapped in an illusion. Something always tipped him off. This time he couldn't find anything, and he kept looking hard. Sure this world was strange and more horrible than Hell could ever be, but it didn't feel like an illusion. Either Lilith had gotten way better at creating her illusions or... Dean's squeezed his eyes shut and bit his lips. No, he mustn't think that. As soon as he did, She'd have won. All your injuries, Layla suddenly said, and Dean heard the effort in her voice to sound as casual as possible about it. They will take time to heal. You should probably stay here and get a lot of rest. There's nothing you can do out there anyway. Your brother is a good leader, Dean. He tries so hard to keep us safe. If it weren't for him, we'd all be dead by now. And would that really be so bad, Dean thought. Would it be so bad to die if the only alternative was this life right here?

The people kept suspiciously near to Sam's quarters, but no one dared to peek inside. They were probably afraid that Dean would tell Sam, and if Sam got wind of people ignoring his orders, he'd get really pissed. Everybody was afraid of getting kicked out of the camp, and

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everybody knew Sam had no use for people who disobeyed orders and brought danger to the camp. A group of men was gathered just across the entrance to Sam's room, chatting and muttering while predictably trying to catch a glimpse inside as Sam pulled the curtain back and slipped through. He put himself between the men and his quarters, shot the men an angry glareat which they hastily turned their faces awayand tied the curtain shut. Then he whipped around and almost stumbled over Dean. The man who might be his brother was curled up on the stone floor. He'd placed the blankets Sam had used the other night on Sam's bed, and he was using an old flannel shirt that Sam recognised to be Bobby's as a blanket. Sam noticed a few bandages, one around Dean's palm and one around his arm. All his wounds seemed to have been cleaned. Without the dirt smeared across his face, the injuries only stood out more. Like red paint in a black and white drawing. But without the dirt, he also looked the most like Dean ever since Bobby had picked him up outside of camp. The chin pointier, the cheeks hollow. All features appeared so much like Dean that Sam quickly had to remind himself to be on his guard. Still, the sight of the broken man on the stone floor made Sam's stomach cramp. It was exactly what Dean would have done. Taking the floor so that Sam could have the bed. Sam moved forward and around the sleeping man, and then eased on the bed slowly. The mattress creaked as it sagged under Sam's weight, and Dean frowned. His breath was coming in shallow, hectic rasps. Muscles in his face twitched. His hand, the bandaged hand that had to hurt like a bitch, curled to a fist until the knuckles went white. It was no peaceful slumber, that much Sam could tell. Hey. Sam gently nudged Dean with his foot. Dean blinked, then jerked away and rolled over on his side. His eyes wide and his face clammy with sweat, he stared at Sam like a wild animal ready to defend itself, breathing heavily. There was madness in his face. Deep, uncontrollable madness. For a moment, Sam thought Dean didn't recognise him. Then Dean's features relaxed, and he formed an expression of confusion and exhaustion. Bad dream? Sam asked. Dean didn't reply. Very slowly, almost as if he wasn't quite sure it was the right thing to do, he sat up. His baggy socks slid a bit down as he did, and Sam caught glimpse of more bandages. Inwardly, Sam shook his head. How this guy was still running around and not going completely insane with pain was beyond him. Why didn't you use the bed? Dean averted his eyes, firmly focusing on Sam's feet, and shrugged. At least that was some kind of response. You can have it until you're feeling better or we find another place for you to stay. Dean glanced up, and his lip twitched. Sam couldn't say whether it was supposed to be an okay or a whatever or whether it didn't mean anything at all. It kind of felt like when Sam had been younger and he spent hours watching Dean closely and trying to learn what

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each gesture, each brief glance, had meant. He'd studied Dean for so long until he knew how to read him like nobody else did. Then four years apart had turned that knowledge into a big fat nothing, and Sam had had to start anew. He had never quite gotten his drive back. Did Layla tend to your injuries? Apparently, after four years of Hell on earth, Sam had completely forgotten how to make conversation as well. Dean looked at him for a moment then hinted at a nod. It seemed obvious that he didnt' trust Sam. He didnt seem to trust any of this. Well, that made two of them. Sam slid down on the ground, leaning against the frame of his bed. Dean skid backwards a bit. Every remaining muscle in his body was tense. He didn't take his eyes off Sam once. He was wearing a flannel shirt different from the one he'd used as a blanket, but it too must've been Bobby's. It fell around Dean's body in big folds, softly wrapping around shoulder blades that protruded underneath the fabric and thin arms that looked like they couldn't belong to a grown man. Sam looked at Dean and his stomach flipped, which hadn't happened in a while. No matter what the demons did to refugees, how badly they mutilated corpses and tortured women and children, Sam had seen it all. Even though it made him angry and he felt sympathy for the victims, he hadn't been truly shocked like this in a long while. Maybe because the guy looked so much like Dean. Maybe because even with his body broken to Hell, he refused to let on anything about the agony he must be in. Maybe it just felt so much like this was Dean sitting in front of him. But it couldn't be him. Sam had to prove it. Though, that wasn't going to be easy. As far as he could tell, the guy hadn't said a word since he'd gotten here. Sam tapped his feet as if he was listening to a song. As if he could hear music somewhere. Music. He couldn't really remember music. Couldn't recall a single song he'd heard at Stanford or with Jess or on the radio studying. He couldn't recall a single video from MTV or the cover of any album he'd ever owned. The tunes Dean had played to him in the Impala came back to him though. Black Sabbath, Led Zeppelin, Metallica. Like true friends, they'd lasted through time. I don't know about you, Sam suddenly said, But I could really listen to some Led Zeppelin now. That album you used to play...Physical Graffiti? That one. I always liked that one. I never told you, but I thought it was brilliant. I just thought that if I ever told you, you'd stop playing it and torture me with something else. I-- The words caught up in his mouth when Sam realised what he was doing. Shit, he was talking to this guy like it was really Dean. He couldn't do that. It was what Lilith probably wanted, what she'd sent the guy here for. Sam cleared his throat. Dean was staring at him with a curious expression on his face, lines

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as deep as the Grand Canyon furrowing his forehead. Well, if he wanted him to talk, Sam would have to play along for a while. As long as he didn't forget that this wasn't Dean, there would be no harm in it. Do you remember how you got out? Sam asked. He forced himself to sound casual and ended up asking the question as if he was enquiring how the trip to the outhouse had been. Dean glanced at him, tilting his head as if to estimate whether there was any harm in telling Sam. Then, he shook his head. Do you remember anything else? Dean's face froze. His eyes adapted the size of Lake Michigan before the drought. His shoulders began to tremble. He pulled up his knees, wrapped his arms around them, hid his head behind his arms and made a pathetic sound. Shit. Shit. What a fucking stupid question. I'mI'm sorry, Dean..., Sam muttered, feeling that words probably weren't going to help much. Shit, fuck, crap. Way to go, Sam. He didn't know what to do, didn't know how to help this man sitting just across the floor, shaking as if the apocalypse was upon them again. Sams feet itched to run to Bobby or Layla and ask for help. He couldn't do this. He couldn't do the talk thing anymore. Times had changed. He had changed. In the end, he decided that running out and getting Bobby now would have attracted too many curious eyes. So Sam slowly moved over until he sat next to Dean. He picked up the flannel that Dean had used as a blanket and wrapped it around Dean's shoulders. Dean looked up, surprised. For a while, Sam didn't speak. Dean was slowly calming down, the tremors fading away until he sat next to Sam completely unmoving. He stared ahead, like there was something on the wall Sam couldn't see. Ellen's dead. The words came on their own; Sam just moved his lips. Beside him, Dean winced, but Sam could tell he was listening. So is Jo. So is Rufus. The demons went after the hunters first, and they almost got all of them. Lucas and Andrea were here for a while you remember them? She was badly hurt, and she didn't make it. Lucas...he just stopped everything after that, not just speaking. He faded away. He died two years ago. The flu got him. Sam paused, and ran his hand over his eyes. Fuck, he was so tired. He just wanted to close his eyes and not wake up again. He was so sick of this, of fighting and losing over and over again. If it hadn't been for the people here, he would have put a gun to his mouth and pulled the trigger long ago. I've heard a rumour that Joshua's still alive, so that's something I guess. Layla you've seen. She made it. I can't believe it. Michael's alive, you've met him too. Asher's dead. Michael never quite got over that. We don't know where their mother is, so for now we assume she's dead too. Sam tilted his head back and bit his lip. A headache the size of China was punching him

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against the temple. Sam released a sigh. Now this. He needed a break. Shit, they all needed a break. Suddenly, very small and very rough like it hadn't been properly used in an eternity, a voice piped up beside him. Ben? The word was stretched and awkward, as if Dean had forgotten what it was like to speak. Sam's heart skipped a beat at the sound. He didn't dare to turn his head to face Dean, afraid of what he might find. Of all the things Dean might have asked, Sam was not prepared to hear this. Sam had expected this man who had to be a fraud to sneak in questions about the camp, about defences and patrol rounds. Not to fall into a complete Dean moment and ask about Ben. Sam quickly cleared his throat. He's here. In camp. He shares his tent with an older woman and a girl around Michael's age. Lisa's...she didn't make it. Dean just nodded and kept silent. Because it felt the right thing to say, Sam added, I'm sorry. Another brief shake of the head. He spoke so very little. Dean or not Dean, the quiet that seemed to wrap this man up made Sam uneasy. It didn't fit here, in the camp where people lived in chaos, and talking and chatting were the only things that brought a hint of normalcy into their lives. A weak imitation of what once had been. Sometimes Sam thought that the people had never talked as much as they did nowthere wasn't much else to do really. Chatting helped in repressing just how many of them had been lost in the war; it took their minds off the loneliness for a while. The danger wasn't any less present, but at least they could share their fear. Sam released another sigh and stared at his boots. Sam had taken them off a dead man a year ago. Even though he tried to be careful and not wear them out too much, they were already coming undone. He'd have to try and get new ones eventually. A hot wave of guilt rushed down his spine. He'd have to take them off another man's feet again. He'd done it twice before, and in all practicability he'd not hesitated, had never felt bad about it. Times were hard, and there was no room for shame or pride. But right now, sitting in this man's presence who was so much like Dean, Sam suddenly averted his eyes. Sometimes he had stopped to think what had become of himself, and what he saw usually frightened him so much he quickly dropped the matter. Do you..., Sam's voice trailed off, the words suddenly gone. He fumbled for them like feeling for his way in complete darkness. Do you...I don't know, need anything? Dean hesitated a moment, then shook his head. He stretched his legs and pushed his shoulders back. He hissed briefly at the movement, the only indication that every time Dean did as much as twitch a muscle another shot of agony hit him. You should rest. On the bed. You shouldn't be lying on the stone floor where it's cold and hard, I mean, you really need time to heal and... Sam's words froze in his mouth. Shit, Winchester, this wasn't Dean. This was some guy that Lilith had sent to spy on them--or worse. And yes, he looked like he'd been someones chewing toy down in Hell, and it was okay to feel sympathy. Who knew what Lilith had threatened to do to him if he didn't cooperate. But it wasn't Dean, so there was no need for

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that overprotective crap. He mustn't forget that this wasn't his brother. But... Sam lifted his chin to look at him. He wished that it was really him. So much that he felt like his chest was going to burst into a million tiny pieces. So much that walking back to his quarters he'd considered, just for a moment, to throw all care aside and willingly walk into Lilith's trap. To shove all doubts away and believe, actually believe that the guy here was his brother. There was nothing he wanted more. There was nothing he wanted less. Part of him didn't want Dean to see him like this. A soldier with blood on his hands, whose only talent was killing and warfare. Part of him would have willingly given his own life if it had meant that Dean wouldnt have struck a deal with Lilith to be released from Hell. It was a selfish thought. He didn't want his memories of Dean be spoiled by the taste of treason. Didnt want the memories tainted by the knowledge that in the end, his hero brother had broken under the fires of Hell and struck a deal with evil. Sam couldn't have blamed Dean. But he treasured his memories like nothing else. If the war managed to taint them, then there was truly nothing left for Sam. And somehow, he knew that Dean would have understood. So, it had to be a trick. But the doubts kept bouncing back at Sam, whispering that maybe it really was Dean, and every time they did, they broke a brick off that wall that Sam had drawn around him. There was Deans fear, for one. A kind of fear that constantly bordered at panic. There was no way you could learn to act that way. Sam had met all sorts of con men in his life. Heck, he was one of them. And what he saw in Dean's eyes, the fright and the confusion and the faint hope that flickered up every now and then, that was beyond acting. That was true. Too, there was also the way Deanthe Dean he'd knowntended to surface every once in a while. Sometimes it was a glance or a movement of the hand, a frown at something Sam said that Dean too would have frowned at. So many tiny things that made it incredibly hard to stick to the idea that it wasn't Dean. Couldn't be him. If you...you know, need more pain killers or anything... Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. Beside him, Dean shifted uncomfortably. Well, I can't promise you, because we're really short on the stuff but you probably really need the pills so just...tell me. Great. Could you be more awkward, Sam? He used to be better with words. Used to be better at this. There'd been a time when he'd always known what to say. Dean seemed to consider the offer for a moment, before he shook his head. Sam pursed his lips. His mind was empty. He couldn't come up with anything to say. He didn't know how to find out whether this Dean was real or not. He had no idea what Bobby wanted him to do. After a while, after they'd sat side by side for maybe an hour or so, Sam could feel himself

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calming down. The noises from the church and camp, the thuds and clangs, the chattering and yelling faded away, and stillness unfurled around Sam. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. For a moment, he even forgot that the apocalypse had turned the world into a place of rotting darkness, and it almost felt like he was back to sharing a motel room with his brother, drinking beer and watching football games on a dusted black and white television set. Maybe...maybe he could try and trust this Dean just a little. Not all the way. But maybe he could at least think about the possibility that his brother had returned from Hell. A lump grew in Sam's throat. If it was Dean...and the way he looked...shit. So... Sam said quietly. Beside him, Dean jerked at the sudden sound. You...you want me to believe you're my brother, huh? It came out more uncertain, weaker than Sam had intended. Like he needed Dean to tell him what he was supposed to do. Well actually, that wasn't quite so far from the truth. Dean turned his head to look at him. His eyes shone bright green, almost feverish. I...don't know, he croaked.

Another patrol returned to camp with more people dead than alive. Those that still could talk and walk muttered something about an ambush. A group of demons had attacked them while they'd been checking one of the deserted towns for more refugees. Of the three hunters that made it back home, one died in the night that followed. It was like they were waiting for us. They knew that we were coming, Georgia wheezed before she coughed up blood. Beside her, Michael rubbed her back and whispered something that Sam couldnt catch but sounded comforting all the same. Angela raised her eyebrow at Sam, and he knew what she was saying. There was a mole in camp. He also knew who she was suspecting. Sam's stomach tied into a million tiny knots. 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.

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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 hed 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 hadnt 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.

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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 womana vampire, Bobby had told Dean later, but still, the image of Sam ruthlessly chopping off her head just wouldn't go awayDean 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 almostalmost--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

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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 andnot expecting the gesturealmost 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, Deans 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

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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 oncethe image of Sam executing the vampire had been forever burned into his mindbut 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

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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, thered 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

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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

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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 Winchesterif he could still feel love and comfort--then maybe all hope wasn't lost for him. Maybe he could heal.

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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, hed 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

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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 Deans mind was that Asher was

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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 armourys 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

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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

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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.

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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.

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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

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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 Im 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

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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

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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.

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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 Sams 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 Sams 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!

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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

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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

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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.

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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

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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

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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 couldSam 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 nowtense and on the edgehe 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?

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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 faceall stern and thoughtfullooked like those past four years had never happened. Maybe Hell hadn't taken everything. 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?

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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 Sams 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.

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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.

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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.

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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 Sams 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

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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

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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.

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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 Castiels 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.

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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 safes 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.

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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.

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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 its 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

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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.

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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

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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 Deanthen itd be better if he left anyway.

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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 actuallyand 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. Recoveringand 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.

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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.

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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. Lately, he couldn't even take a shower properly without someone popping their head in to ask him for a favour or keep him up-to-date with news. He didn't care that people saw him naked anymore. Although the shower wasn't really a shower--more a box with a roof and a bucket with cold water to pour over your head--it qualified as private time. Private time that Sam barely got. It was Angela who ignored his privacy that morning. He half suspected that she had chosen this time when Sam was defenceless to talk about Dean, to urge Sam to send him away, to threaten that shed take matters into her own hands otherwise, and that she had the support of the camp. Yet, as Sam grabbed the towel from the hook and turned to look at her, he realised something was wrong. He could tell by the way there was no defiance in her eyes, no condescending twitch of her lip, and she didn't say I told you so either. In fact, she looked

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like she'd just witnessed another apocalypse. Her face was white. Her eyes wide like plates. Her hands were shaking. Sam, she said. You better come. Quick. The tone of her voice scared him, and he didnt ask for details, judging by her tone it had to be big and very bad. He nodded, she stepped outside, and Sam put his clothes on as fast as he could. When he went outside, daylight hit him. He put his hand to his forehead like a shield so he could see better. The camp was suspiciously quiet, but it wasn't empty. In fact, everyone was outside, standing in small crowds in front of their tents. Daughters were pressed against mothers. Fathers had their arms wrapped around their sons. All faces were seemingly carved into stone. Sam looked up to the skies, which had turned darker than ever, almost black. The smell of sulphur had intensified, like all of a sudden the camp had been moved to the opening gates of Hell. A lightning bolt shook the sky. The darkness wasnt complete though. It seemed to be announcing that this was it, that the time had come. With the sky adapting such a colour, it could only mean one thing. His stomach doing an unpleasant turn, Sam attempted to see past the campgrounds. But he couldn't see much, as the distance was too great. He started walking. Refugees turned towards him, their eyes eating up their faces. Some people were crying. Some shielded their children's eyes. Sam swallowed past a lump in his throat and ignored the fearful bumping of his heart. Where was Dean anyway? Finally, he saw what had caused the darkness and lightning, and as he did, he stopped frozen. Lilith. Lilith had come. She was standing in front of the area the bridge would have led over the moat with an army of at least hundred demons at her side. Now that Hell was seeping into this world, she didn't need to possess a body anymore either. Unlike the lower demons, she took a form that was more than black smoke. She was a woman of terrifying beauty. Coal black hair floated freely around her hips. Blood red lips and white skin. Eyes dark like the nights of the apocalypse. She was dressed in a blue dress, and her fingernails were claws. As Sam drew closer, he realised that she was taller them him. Her hands were placed at her hips, and she grinned at Sam almost cockily. As far as he could tell, the demons hadnt yet harmed the people that lived outside the campgrounds. Some of the refugees seemed to have reacted quickly enough to make it through the moat on safer ground. A group of forty or maybe fifty people were huddled up close to Lilith though, guarded by demons. Children were sobbing. Someone begged. The hostages appeared okay from what Sam could see, but he knew it wasnt going to stay that way. All he could do was buy them time. Then he spotted Dean. He was kneeling before her on the ground. His head was bowed, and his face was focused at

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her feet in a gesture of utmost devotion. Sam briefly wondered how Dean had gotten there, on the other side of the moat into Liliths hold, until fear hit him and the realisation that Dean was in danger. His heart skipped a beat; his breath got stuck in his throat. From the Sams side, Michael approached him. He looked shocked, like Angela had, but there was a different quality about his expression. His jaw was set tight. His face was that of grave determination. As if some other mind was taking control over him and deciding in his interest, Sam handed Michael the key to the safe in the armoury, not taking his eyes off Lilith and Dean. Go get the Colt, Sam said. Michael took the key with a short nod, and Sam moved closer. A crowd had gathered down by the moat. Everyone kept their heads low, bowed as if to a queen. A single word rushed through Sams mind: cowards. He halted again as he reached the edge of the moat and raised his chin ever so little. He tried to find Bobby in the crowd but couldn't. Angela had to be somewhere here too. Someone had possessed the readiness of mind to pull the bridge in. At least all the training had been useful for something. Sam Winchester, Lilith greeted him, and the demons around her mockingly bowed their heads. How very fortunate we meet again. Spare me the speech, Sam snarled. What do you want? The grin faded from her face. I'm giving you one last chance to surrender. She raised her voice so that everyone could hear her. I'm giving you all one last chance to surrender. If you pass this chance by, I will have no mercy when I take over your silly little camp. Behind Sam, some people muttered. They were discussing Lilith's offer. Your promises mean nothing, Sam replied. Dean was still kneeling before her, unmoving. Blood rushed through Sams ears. You wouldn't let anyone go. Ever. Lilith nodded then granted him a smirk. She lifted her left leg, and softly nudged Dean's body with her foot. Dean flinched under the touch, but he did not protest, didn't do anything really but allow it. The anger inside Sam spiked. I suppose you're talking about this one here. She paused, giving everyone the chance to take the words in. Yes. He was very useful indeed. Finally, Sam understood, and his whole body went numb. Dean was the traitor, after all. He was with his queen again now, bowing to her, and shed used him and hed played them all. Sold them out to Lilith. Sam had imagined a million times what the moment would feel like when he would be confronted with the certainty that Dean had betrayed. He'd gone over all possible scenarios. He'd expected to be angry, to be furious. Now that it was happening, Sam felt nothing but empty. Like the only thing that had kept him upright had been ripped away from him, and he didnt know how to go on, what to say or do.

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Lilith nudged Dean with her foot again, this time with more brutal force. She kicked him, and Dean fell over with a groan. And despite everything, despite the treason that Dean had committed, Sam's first urge still was to throw all care aside and jump into the moat, march through the water and check on him. Instead, he remained where he was. So you turned him into a traitor? Sam asked coldly. He felt like he heard himself ask the question, like it was someone elses voice and words. Did you actually believe that Hell wouldn't break your brother? Lilith sighed. You really have no idea what is down there, do you? You'd be surprised at the extent of the things that I can do. And each and every one of you miserable souls will end up there. Children first. The murmur grew louder. A wave of icy cold ran down Sam's spine. They were considering taking up the offer. The people had seen what Hell had done to Dean, and Sam couldn't really blame them. Still, if Lilith could have crossed the moat she would have done so by now. Most likely, she was going to provoke Sam into leaving the safe grounds. Maybe kill some of her hostages orSams throat closed up at the thought. Sam raised his chin. Is this all you got, Lilith? The same threats you were already tossing around four years ago? Im getting tired of them. Play a different record, will you? Behind him, the people held their breaths. Sam knew right then that he shouldnt have challenged her, should not have provoked her into harming the refugees or Dean, but he was so tired of all this, of uttering threats and promises that never meant anything. If it was going to end, he wanted it to end now. But Lilith only laughed. You nave, pathetic, little idiot. From the corner of his eye, Sam saw Michael approach, holding the Colt in both his hands. I still can kill you, Sam said. Michael stopped next to him. He was pale and kept staring at Dean's figure on the ground. His hands shook, his fingers curled around the barrel tightly. His face was a mask, deprived of all emotion. Ah yes, the Colt. Lilith made a broad gesture. That has actually been taken care of. So it really had been Dean. Dean in the armoury. Dean had done something. It still made no sense. Give me the Colt, Michael, Sam said, feeling numb. Michael looked at him first then at Lilith. His lip trembling, he shook his head slowly. He stood, back straight, like a tin soldier. I'm sorry, he said. His voice was hollow. There were tears in his eyes and suddenly Sam realised. Michael, no-- Sam began, but it was already too late. Michael tossed the Colt right before Lilith's feet. She didn't bother to pick it up. It was a gesture of her power. She didn't have to fear that

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anyone else would shoot her. Sam glanced at Dean, but he was still curled up on the ground and made no attempts of reaching for the gun. It was you, then, Sam said. He heard his own voice, and it sounded nothing like him at all. In fact, he was. He should've felt anger, but instead a strange calmness overtook his body. Everything fell into place that moment. Even though the world had shifted completely, everything made sense. Sam wasn't going to kill Lilith. Ever. The refugees would join her, too afraid for their lives. The battle had been lost before it had begun. Michael did not dare to look at Sam. His eyes were focused on the muddy ground, and Sam could see his cheeks were flushed in shame. Michael. Michael of all people. He'd trusted him with his life; he'd trusted him almost as much as he'd trusted Bobby. Michael found my deals were hard to resist, Lilith said. Still Michael did not look up. Only when Sam addressed him by his name did the boy reluctantly lifted his chin. She promised no more children would have to die, Michael said, sounding like a child himself. Like a small, frightened boy. Children like Asher. She said...if there was no more war, then she would harm no more children. She promised me, Sam. She said she would send someone. I didnt think it was going to be Dean. His eyes were a question, begging for forgiveness that he knew he would not receive, knowing that his life was forfeit. She said she was bound to her word, Michael added more pleadingly. I didn't want any more children to die. Or anyone to die. This here...it's only killing people. And we're losing anyway. Better to stop it now. Did she also promise none of her demons would hurt the children? Sam asked. Michael paled. His lips parted in a silent gasp. From across the moat, Lilith laughed. You humans! she cried. You're so easily tempted into promises! Sam nodded, focusing his attention back on the demon queen. Behind him, the murmurs had quieted in shock of the turn of events. What about Dean? How did you make him agree to your terms? Oh, but I didn't. She squatted and grabbed Dean's chin with thumb and index finger, forcing Dean to look up. I released him from Hell for fun. No strings attached. The joke was on you, Sam. I knew you'd be too preoccupied with angsting over your brother that you wouldn't focus enough on finding the spy in the camp. Of course, Michael did his best to make everybody think Dean was the spy. And it only seemed the natural choice, didn't it? So no, Dean wasn't in on any ploy. In fact, I didn't even tell him I was going to set him free from Hell. It was just more fun that way. Except of course that he is broken, and still listens to my voice when I call him. Since I released him from Hell, his soul still technically belongs to me, you might say. That moment Dean turned his head just a little, his eyes searching for something. When they found Sam, Dean looked at him for a heartbeat, looked at him as if he was willing Sam to do something. A memory of the old Dean, the Dean he used to know flared up then, and Sam

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remembered the times when they'd been able to communicate without words, could guess the other's thoughts just by catching a glimpse of their faces. As he remembered this, he understood. Dean was trying to tell him to keep it cool. That things were being taken care of. And then the strangest thing happened: Sam trusted him. You can prance around all you want, Lilith, Sam said. He cleared his throat and hoped that everybody heard him. I'm still not going to let you take these people. You won't win this war, Lilith. I won't let it happen. I beg to differ, Lilith said with a smile. Then everything happened very fast. Within a split-second, the Colt that had been lying idly on the ground flew into her hands. The smile on her face widened, and she aimed. Sam stood frozen, his mind telling him to throw himself aside, to run for cover. His mind told him to, but his body refused to obey. He was too stunned, thought that it couldnt happen. After all, Dean had told him that it would be fine. She pulled the trigger, and Sam waited for the shot that never came. Lilith stood there, pulling the trigger again and again. Nothing happened. A shot should have shattered the air, but the only sound that the wind carried was the clicking of the trigger as it snapped back into its old position. Lilith's eyes darkened. You, she hissed, looking down at Dean. And then a shot did shatter the air. But it didn't come from Lilith's Colt, and as all heads whipped around to find out where the shot had originated, they saw Angela. Her hair was wild, her lips thin. She stood like a statue, glaring at a spot next to Sam. A beat later, Michael collapsed. He fell to the ground with a moan, panting. On his chest a red spot was spreading and soaking the shirt. Colour was rapidly receding from his face. Sam wanted to say something, wanted to yell, No! and get the crowd around him to help Michael, even though he wasn't sure they would haveafter all Michael was a traitor, beyond any doubt. But it never got that far, because in the next moment, Lilith was standing bent over Dean and grabbing his collar. You filthy bastard, she said. I wonder how you'll like being back in Hell. Dean whimpered then screamed. Sam had never heard his brother scream like that. His hands jerked up to grab her wrists, to free himself from her grip. He struggled, attempted to wriggle himself out of his shirt, but it wouldnt help. Sam heard himself scream that she should stop it, that hed fucking kill her if she harmed Dean. He surged forward, but Monica and another woman whose name Sam didnt know held him back. Lilith laughed, and from her hands, a white stream floated into Dean's mouth, like a hand reaching in. Dean convulsed as the stream forced itself into his body, wailed as if his body was being ripped apart. She was taking his soul. She couldnt take the body shed given him or maybe she had no use for it in Hell. All the same, she wanted his soul.

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Sam, fighting the womens hold, stumbled forward to wade through the water and reach his brother, but someone beat him to it. Chris, who had saved Dean from the angry mob, jumped into the knee-high water and climbed out on the other side. He yelled something, and Liliths face went blank then hardened in terror, as he hastened forward and flung himself on the ground, his hand reaching for Dean's arm. The moment he touched Dean's skin, two things happened simultaneously: Lilith screamedan outraged, furious cryand a pair of black wings, like shadows, appeared on the man's back. Sam felt the world around him spin as he realised that Chris was one of the few remaining angels. He was an angel, and he was fighting for Dean's soul. On the ground beside Sam, Michael's moans were growing fainter. Dean was still screaming in agony. Lilith was still screaming in fury. Then, a hand touched Sam's shoulder. Sam turned around and looked into Bobby's face. Sam's hand closed around the wooden handle of a rifle. Sam glanced down and recognised the Colt. Do it, Sam, Bobby said. Now's the time. And Sam nodded. Lilith didn't pay attention to him; she seemed to have forgotten about him completely. She was battling with the angel and trying to claim Dean's soul. Only when the trigger clicked and the shot exploded did she glance up. Her eyes widened in surprise as for a brief moment she saw Sam standing there with the Colt aimed at her and she heard the bullet whistling through the air. Then the bullet hit her, and everything collapsed. Her scream reached another level as the bullet hit her heart, as it was burning her up alive. She had no real physical body to leave behind, and so she was burning, burning in white flames and black smoke. Her screams drilled themselves in Sams mind, and still years later he would wake up in the night and hear them ringing in his ears. Lilith stumbled backwards, and the demons parted, watching in terror as they saw their queen burn. Finally she collapsed to the ground, a shivering form still screaming until she grew smaller, and then she was gone, leaving nothing but a pitch black spot on the earth. It was over at last. Lilith was dead. As Liliths hold on him vanished, Dean gasped and rolled over to his side, clutching his chest. The angel was breathing heavily, his wings fading away into thin air. Almost timidly, he let go of Deans arm. Among Lilith's army of demons, panic rose. Their queen, the one theyd thought to be invincible was dead. Without her strength, their forms dissolved into black clouds, clouds too weak to even possess a human. The clouds whirled through the air, hundreds of them, rushing into each other, without any sense of orientation, panicking, until at last they formed one big entity and rose into the sky. A sound as if something exploded thundered down on the people below. Then the demons

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were gone. Before the people there was nothing but burned earth and an endless cloud-hung sky. No demons. No demons at all. Sam saw the angel helping Dean into a sitting position and noticed Bobby kneeling down beside him. Michael's lids were drooping. His breath was coming out in shallow rasps. His shirt was entirely red now, and his skin was so white that each and every vein stood out against the pale skin. He'd lost too much blood. In another time in another world, a transfusion might have saved him. Not here. Sam dropped to his knees. I'm sorry, Michael whispered. His lips were blue. Each scratch that he had received over the past few weeks stood out unnaturally red. His fingers fumbled for Sam's shirt, but the grip was without force. I'm sorry. He coughed up a gush of blood. Ignoring the blood, Sam put his hand on Michael's arm. I know. Around them a crowd had gathered. Nobody spoke. Michael was struggling for air, his lungs not giving what his body needed. Shes not going to harm any more children, Sam added with a lump in his throat. Michael nodded, his features relaxing at last. He closed his eyes, and he never opened them again.

Later, once the dust had settled, they learned the angel's real name was Castiel. He wouldn't have mentioned it if Bobby had not asked. Dean was propped up against the wall with a pillow and a blanket, and Sam was seated next to him, unable to stop asking questions. What had just happened? How had they known about the Colt? Dean, still shaken up and still of few words, let Bobby explain. Following Liliths death, they'd helped Dean back into Sam's quarters and were now gathered around him in half a circle, except for Sam who was sitting next to his brother. All of them being Bobby, Castiel and Layla. They'd carried Michael's body back to his old tent and would burn his body in the morning. Angela wasn't around. It just occurred to me that Lilith never would have sent Dean to spy on you, Bobby explained. She hated you, but she knew you would be suspicious. So I gathered that it was all just a ploy of hers, something to distract you from the real matter at hand. The spy had to be someone else, and I didn't know who it was gonna be until Michael stepped forward and refused to turn over the Colt to you. For the longest time my bet was on Angela, given how hard she tried to blame Dean. He paused, adjusting his cap. I figured Lilith would want the Colt. Not that she actually needed it, but she was proud that way. She needed it to be taken

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away from you. So I asked Dean to snatch your keys. Sam whipped his head around to look at Dean. You? And then he remembered. The look on Dean's face as Sam had asked whether he really knew nothing about Lilith's plans. Dean had known then, if only it had been because of Bobby's assumption, and he'd felt bad for lying to Sam. Dean nodded. Yes. He paused, fumbled for more words. I'm sorry, Sam. Why couldn't you guys tell me? Because I didn't know who the mole was, Bobby explained. I knew it had to be someone close to you and chances were you would have told them. The fewer people that knew, the better. So I made Dean steal the keys, and I switched the Colts. But... Sam glanced at Dean again, his mind spinning. Lilith's voice...she said she'd called you... Dean nodded slowly. She did. He paused for a brief moment, as if to collect his thoughts and put his words in order. It was still an effort to him, but slowly, he was making progress and his speech was becoming more fluent. Her voice was in my head. But I wasn't as scared anymore as she thought I was. I had to pretend that I was, so she wouldn't notice. And then Dean smiled, and it didnt matter that his words were still too fast and too abrupt when he spoke. A cheeky grin emerged on his face, and Sam's heart leaped into his mouth. He couldn't help but smile as well. He turned to Castiel, who'd remained quiet during the conversation. Thank you, Sam said. He'd spoken to a few angels before, but it never felt any less strange. I know you took a great risk by exposing your true self. Thank you for saving him. The angel offered a slight bow as a response. I hope you know that you'll be safe here now if you wish to stay, Sam continued. Damn angels. Talking to them was like pulling teeth. Nobody will be a threat to you now. You've saved Dean's life. Everyone will remember that. And Lilith's dead. There'll be no more fear of harbouring an angel. I would like that. Castiel shot Dean a glance, as if he wanted to say something else, but remained quiet in the end. Sam wondered if he would ever find out what Castiel had been meaning to say.

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Before Liliths death, nobody in the camp had paid attention to him or even bothered to greet him, and Castiel had welcomed it. Now, as he walked past, everyone turned their heads and all eyes were on him. Castiel attempted to ignore it, to not be irritated by it too much, but in the end he sought out the cross in the church for solace. Nobody came here. Not even after what had just happened. He sat down on the small step that led up to where the altar once had been, and glanced at the cross. He tried to process the events in his head, but it wouldnt quite work. Sam had killed Lilith, and Dean, whod been to Hell and back, had not bowed under her hold. Perhaps not everything was lost just yet, perhaps there still was something bigger at work here, something so much bigger than Castiel would ever be able to fathom. The thought filled him with hope. Still, as he looked around and saw the people sitting together and talking about what just had happened, some of them looking over to him every once in a while, Castiel felt out of place like he seldom had before. He had no business here anymore. He wasnt one of them, never would be. Hed be alone for the rest of his immortal life. He wished to stay, he really did. But he was quite certain that the people of the camp werent quite as welcoming as Sam thought theyd be. Prejudices lasted beyond rhyme or reason. Suddenly, Layla stood beside him. Too lost in thought, he had not noticed her approaching. He looked up and she granted him a warm smile, before she sat down on the stairs beside him. I thought I might find you here, she said. Castiel did not answer. For a while, neither of them spoke until Layla said, What you did was very brave. That surprised him. He turned his head to face her, to see if he could detect falsehood in her eyes. He couldnt. Im quite the opposite. Im anything but brave, Castiel replied calmly. If only she knew. If any of them knew. She shook her head as if that could make his words not true. It was a brave thing, still. If things had turned out the other way, if Lilith had livedyoud be dead by now. Or worse. She said it with such sincerity that Castiel almost believed her, almost dared to think of himself as she did. He averted his eyes. Can I ask you a question? she asked. Castiel shrugged, a smile tugging at his lips as he recognised the human gesture. Angels did not shrug. There had never been any uncertainties or things that didnt matter. Why she paused and cleared her throat before she picked the sentence up again. Why did you come to this camp in the first place?

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Castiel glanced up, looked straight into her eyes. He decided that she deserved to know the truth. I came here for redemption. And for someones forgiveness. She nodded, seemed to consider the answer. Did you get it? I did not have the heart to ask for it. No one could ever forgive me for what Ive done. I think youd be surprised at the strength to forgive that people find in themselves sometimes. She offered him another smile. Castiel expected her to ask more questions, about what he had done that was so unspeakable it could not be forgiven, but she didnt. He gave her a weak smile, realising too late that it probably looked sad rather than encouraging. So, youll be staying in the camp with us? Layla asked suddenly. For a while, Castiel answered vaguely. Do you think youll ever be able to ask for that forgiveness? He did not reply at once but let the question sink in for a moment, considering it. I dont know, he finally said. I might. And that, at least, was the truth.

Where do you think the demons are? Sam asked. It was dark, the camp quiet. He was spread on the ground, using the blankets as a mattress. Tomorrow they would try to find a second bed, and then Dean would have a proper place to sleep. Right now he was occupying Sam's bed again. After all, he was the one who'd almost had his soul ripped away by Lilith. Hell, Dean answered. He was still using too short sentences, but Sam didn't mind. Eventually, things would get better. They only needed time. Now, at long last, they had plenty of that. They're still going to try and come after us. They're still wanting to fight us. They still want

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to wipe us out and rule over this world. Yes. A moment passed before Dean added, But we're gonna win. The statement made Sam smile. Dean sounded so certain that it allowed no doubt. It felt good. It felt good to listen to Dean's words and believe and know that everything would turn out fine. Why's that? With a smile still on his lips, Dean said, You got me now. And Sam couldn't argue with that. He rolled over onto his side and closed his eyes. Tonight, he would sleep. You're right, Sam replied, and to his surprise, he meant it. Dean was back from Hell, and that meant everything. And like it had always been, Sam rested in the certainty that as long as Dean was with him, the impossible would be possible. Then Sam remembered something. He reached for the necklace hidden under his shirt and pulled it over his head. Sitting up, he weighed the amulet in his hand one last time. When he turned to his brother, Deans eyes were closed and his breath was coming in steady, long draws. Gently, Sam reached over and put the necklace in Deans palm, curling his fingers around it. -end-