Let Me See the Mark Death Made for mariahlee

[summergen-mod.livejournal.com]

Title: Let Me See the Mark Death Made
Author: downjune
Recipient: mariahlee
Rating: pg-13/light r for language and blood
Warnings: Hell-related violence
Summary: After forty years, he doesn't remember pizza or Latin or even what it means to be an older brother, but he at least thinks he knows Sam. A re-imagining of "Lazarus Rising."

Notes: Thank you to H for the awesome beta! It was a pleasure to work with you and I hope we can again some time! Also, thank you mods for putting all this together!





/Step into the light, poor Lazarus

Don't lie alone behind the window shade

Let me see the mark death made/
-Gillian Welch

The holy water in his face is such a shock that he stumbles back, throws his hands up for protection. The glare of the sun through the windows, the hot ache behind his eyes, the swollen pressure in his joints—it all hurts, but not as much as it should. None of this is right.

There is no holy water in Hell, no salt or iron. But this man – Bobbysinger, his brain supplies – has all of them. Dean recognizes their sting but not how they can be here.

The only thing that feels right is folding down into the chair when Bobbysinger pushes him. This, he knows, and welcomes because he knows it. Bobbysinger binds him with rope soaked in holy water and crusted with salt, ties him tight, and Dean waits for the real thing to finally start.

But the pain still isn't what it should be. It's barely more than an irritation, a burning itch under his skin, down in the parts of him that are usually flayed open, spilled.

Bobbysinger talks at him, yells at him, in a language he used to know. The words itch, too, like the edges of a scab, like they're prying at something. Dean grips the arms of his chair and hangs on. He closes his eyes and tries to put himself back where he was, with the last soul he had on the rack. He digs himself into the memory of popping knuckles out of joint, dislocating shoulders and jaws, cutting off the hands of a serial rapist.

And then a blistering grip on his shoulder and then this—this too-bright place with its muted pain and distantly familiar faces.

If Bobbysinger really does have holy water, salt, and iron, then Dean is out. If Dean is out, then he's in Bobbysinger's house. He's been here before; he knows this house. Tipping his head back, he looks up to find something drawn on the ceiling, a circle and star pattern that presses in at the edges of his memory.

He stares up at it and when he roles his neck and shoulders, finds that darkness has replaced the glaring light from outside. Tensing, he casts quickly around and finds Bobbysinger slumped on the couch with his eyes closed. Sleeping? His chest moves, so he isn't dead. Dean doesn't remember the feel of sleep, though he can spot weakness and vulnerability like a flashing sign. Sleep is just a word for that.

He doesn't remember Bobbysinger going over to the couch and sitting, or the light changing. Time is skipping around, or maybe Dean just took his first nap in decades. He tests the strength of the knots holding him and they still don't give. He twists his wrists harder and grits his teeth at the pain of his thumb about to pop out of joint when he hears someone on the porch. He recognizes Sam before he even gets through the door, knows him instantly, instinctively.

And Sam, out of everything in the whole damn room, is in focus. Sam is enormous and furious and, when Dean blinks, right in front of him. Sam hits him hard, snaps his head to the side. Dean's lip splits open on his teeth and he grins.

The pain roots him in his skin, settles him back in where, until now, he's felt just barely attached, like he's only holding on by his fingernails. Sam hits him again and again until Dean's face feels raw, until Sam sinks to his knees and lays himself on Dean's legs. He's crying and gasping in that language that Dean can't quite remember and the itch is back.

Dean sets his teeth against it, waits it out. But he doesn't feel as vulnerable as when Bobbysinger said the same things. With Sam's weight heavy across his knees, they're mostly just words scratching at his skin and fading. When Sam finishes, they both breathe out together and Dean lets his head fall back, traces the pattern on the ceiling until he hears the 'snick' of a blade and then the cool sting of it slicing his skin. The sensation is so familiar that he groans in relief. The blade is much sharper than the one's he's used to, but it still anchors him in himself.

When nothing happens after that first cut, he tips his head forward and finds Sam staring at the blood on a silver knife. Dean knows that look and it's so jarring on Sam's face that his voice finally works itself out of his throat to speak. "Sammy?" Sam tears his eyes away from the knife and looks up at Dean, terrified. "Sammy, it's okay."

Then Sam is frantically undoing the ropes, pulling Dean out of the chair and down onto his knees. Dean expects more pain, something new maybe, but finds himself held tight against Sam's chest. He freezes when Sam's fingers slot between his ribs and hang on in a grip so tight he can barely breathe.

This is familiar, too, like that language, only it's a step to the left of what Dean knows and understands.

This is what he knows: Hell is not a lake of fire or an open pit filled with demons and tormented souls. It is isolation, terror, and agony without end, without respite. Down is up. Front is back. Pain is comfort, and torture is routine.

Hell does not have this: Sam on his knees in a t-shirt that smells like stale sweat and booze with tears on his face and bloody knuckles. Hell doesn't have this.

"Jesus fuck, it's really you," Sam says, moans.

Dean doesn't know what he's supposed to do with his hands so he touches Sam, reminds himself of the texture of his hair, the width of his shoulders, the threadbare softness of his shirt.

And he remembers.

"Dude—did you just try to exorcise me?"

Sam leans away from him, stares like he's waiting for Dean's head to spin or his eyes to go black. "Yeah, sorry. Bobby said...." He glances over at where Bobby stands in the doorway. He's not sleeping anymore. He's glaring right at Dean. Dean stares back until Bobby looks away.

"I want to go," he says, keeping his voice low, just for Sam. "Let's go."

Sam nods. "Sure, Dean, but—don't you wanna talk first? Tell us how you got out? What you remember?"

Dean's not taking his eyes off Bobby again; he tries not to even close them when he blinks. Bobby keeps moving when Dean doesn't notice, and that scares him. "Later, Sammy. Let's go."

Sam shoots Bobby another glance, then turns back to Dean. "Yeah, okay—we'll go." Sam pushes himself to his feet and Dean follows, rubbing his wrists where he can still feel the ropes. "We'll, uh, we'll be in touch, okay, Bobby? Thanks for—"

"Yeah, yeah," Bobby grunts, shrugging then looking away. "You boys call me when you land. Don't go too far—we need to figure out what pulled Dean outta the pit."

"It's not a pit," Dean corrects under his breath. But Sam hears him and darts a sharp look at him. "Let's go, Sam," he says again. It's all he can think about now.

Dean doesn't recognize the car until he's sitting in it. And there's nothing specific about the car, exactly—more the feel of sitting in that small space with Sam. "We were here... before," he tries, and that makes Sam smile. At least he thinks it's a smile—it looks nothing like what he'd come to associate with 'smile' in Hell, which is a start.

"Yeah, Dean. This is the closest thing we got to a house."

The rumble of the engine sounds familiar, he supposes. Looking around again, he catches sight of the plastic green army man in the ashtray and feels his throat close. Yeah, he knows where they are now. Gripping his knees a little tighter, he faces front. "There are cars in Hell," he says, words spilling out of his mouth now he remembers how to make them. The vocabulary is coming back to him quickly—the names of colors and things that weren't in Hell taking shape once he sees them. Green. Plastic. Army man.

"Yeah?" Sam pulls out of the driveway and Dean is glad to put Singer Salvage behind them.

"But none of them work. I tried—I tried to fix one up" for ten years "but I could never...." Something always came for him in just that moment when he thought the engine might actually turn over, dragging him away with hooks in his flesh.

"Did you, um, hotwire a car to get to Bobby's? You must've, right? No way you could walk from Illinois."

Dean thinks about that, but can't quite penetrate the haze that descended once he was snatched out of Hell and didn't lift until Sam walked through the door. "I don't know. My knees and ankles are killin' me."

Sam looks over at him and then his eyes widen in horror. "Holy shit, Dean, did Bobby give you anything to drink or eat?"

As if in answer, his stomach rumbles with hunger cramps and he notices that he can't really swallow. He offers Sam a shrug.

"What is wrong with him?" Sam grumbles, pulling the car over once they're in town and parking in front of a small cafe. This is a town, Dean reminds himself, where people cohabit. If he gets out of the car and follows Sam, he'll get food and drink from the people who own the cafe.

He doesn't get out of the car. Sam, already on the sidewalk, realizes and turns, hesitates. "It's okay, dude, I'll get it to go. Just wait there. Anything in particular you want?"

"Water," he says right away. "Like a gallon of water." He can't think about what food he wants because he can't remember wanting food. "And whatever you're having," he says. Sam doesn't seem to like that answer, but nods anyway, his face tight.

Dean watches him go into the cafe, watches him walk up to the counter and talk to the kid behind it. Sam is 'placing his order,' he thinks. He watches Sam hand over paper that is currency and then shuffle from foot to foot while he waits. This is the service industry. These are the shitty jobs that don't pay enough or offer benefits, but the cool kids like the coffee shops so they're maybe a step above diners and definitely better than fast food.

Dean looks at each of the customers and, after only a few moments of observation, sees everything important about them – cheating on her boyfriend, bully, jealous of younger sister, future wife-beater, future hermit. And Sam. Sam is different in some important way, but Dean can't quite name it like he can for the others. Probably just freaked over Dean's abrupt reappearance topside.

Dean feels himself stretching inside his body, filling himself back out to his fingertips, to his full height. He doesn't know where the fuck he is, but he can at least see what's coming.

When Sam gets back with a bag of food, he hands Dean bottled water first before he puts the car in gear and pulls out of the parking space. "Drink it slow," he warns. "If your system's not used to it, you could make yourself sick."

Nodding but not really hearing, Dean chugs clean cold water until his belly feels full and sloshy with it.

"Where do you wanna go?" Sam asks at a stoplight.

"North," Dean answers without thinking. "Somewhere we can swim."

"Makes sense," Sam says quietly and Dean's glad he doesn't have to spell it out. He's sweat out his body weight in Hell twenty times over with no way to slake his thirst. "Let's eat first, okay?" Sam asks.

"Sure," he agrees, feeling like he can take on whatever this strange easy place can throw at him. They pull off at an interstate rest stop on 29, and Sam unwraps sandwiches for them at a picnic table. Dean spreads his legs out in the shade and puts his elbows on the rough old wood, holds another open bottle of water ready in his hand.

When Sam puts the sandwich in front of him, Dean's mouth waters and his stomach aches in anticipation. Grinning up at Sam, he grabs the sandwich in two hands and sinks his teeth in. His eyes close and he moans at the taste and texture of fresh bread – rye, his taste buds tell him – crisp lettuce, onion, and tomato, and the bite of swiss cheese. "Holy fuck," he says with his mouth full.

"Good?" Sam says, almost laughing, eyebrows lifted. "This was always my favorite."

Dean nods and swallows, takes another enthusiastic bite and then freezes.

He can feel it in his mouth, between his teeth—the chewy stringy texture of flesh. He chews once more just to be sure and then gags, turning away from Sam to spit into the grass. Stomach heaving, he hunches his shoulders and swallows hard. His guts are on fire and his skin prickles with heat, face flushing. Sam's already beside him, one big hand on his back. His insides heave again and he regrets all the water he drank, but dammit, he doesn't want to give it back, doesn't want to waste it. He doesn't want to throw up; he hates throwing up.

"It's okay, Dean. You'll feel better," Sam says.

So Dean pukes in the grass behind their picnic table—his two bites of sandwich and three bottles of water. He vomits until his stomach aches with the effort and he's out of breath. His hands shake until Sam hauls him up and steers him to the next table. "I'm okay," Dean grunts. "Get rid of the meat and I can finish the rest."

"You sure?" Sam asks, worried.

"Hell, yeah," Dean says, voice still wet and gross. "Not wasting my first meal."

"… Okay," Sam says uneasily, heading back to their table and skirting the puddle of puke.

It's not even that bad, Dean thinks—just water and a little chewed food. Nothing like what came out of him on the rack. Nothing at all like that. None of this is like that—which makes it either some particularly cruel torture or the lucky break of a lifetime.

He's starting to believe the latter because, as creative as Alistair could be in his methods, he never wanted Dean to believe he was anywhere other than Hell.

He doesn't watch Sam pick out the ham from his sandwich and throw it away in a nearby trashcan, so the rest of the meal goes off without a hitch. Without the ham on the sandwich, Dean can still taste the salt and smoke flavor, which is actually kind of nice. "Next time," he says between bites, "order the ham sandwich and then you can take the extra meat."

Sam's back to watching him like a wild animal again. "Sure, Dean. So it's not the taste, it's the texture that's the problem?"

Dean nods and smirks around a mouthful of food because Sam would be writing this down if he had pen and paper.

They don't make it far enough north to find a state park and a lake until well after dark, but Dean remembers walking with Sam mostly after dark back when they hunted together, so tramping through the woods down to the water by starlight feels familiar. The air is crisp and clear, completely lacking the oppressive humidity of Hell, which was all humidity and no rain. He doesn't know the date, but when he finally tests the water it's warm, so he thinks it must be late summer.

Stripping down to their underwear, they wade out into the lake and when the water comes up over his crotch and belly, Dean feels years younger. He shudders out a laugh, shivers, and dunks himself. Sweat and dirt lift from his skin and he stays under as long as his lungs will let him. His ears fill up and everything goes quiet until Sam swims to him and pulls him up by the arm.

They break the surface gasping and Sam keeps a hand on him. "You okay? You were down—"

"Yeah, Sammy," he says, grinning. His eyes have adjusted to the dark so he sees Sam return the smile, white teeth shining wet just before Dean dunks him. They go under together and Dean has a brilliant flash from years (decades) ago, spending a summer at some mountain cabin and practically living in the water, Sam's skin tanned brown and his own freckled and still pale. He doesn't remember the cabin or why they were there, but he knows Sam was just into high school and swimming was about the only thing that made him happy.

They grapple underwater and the feel of his brother's smooth healthy skin slipping along his is like absolution.

After, Dean dozes in the backseat, curled up with one of Sam's hoodies under his head. It smells like wood smoke and harsh detergent and Sam's armpits and Dean rubs his face on it like a cat.

Sam checks them into a motel just after dawn and they both stumble into their respective beds, leaving clothes trailed around the room. Dean might remember this part, but he absolutely knows the sound of Sam's breathing from the next bed, the way he folds one hand across his chest and pushes the other up under the pillow, curled behind his head.

The dreams come for him when he finally goes under—relentless pursuit, choking fear, and the certainty that you will never be safe, wherever you might hide, I will find you and drag you home. His burnt-out shell of a house and yard with the car broken down in the driveway, the cracked pavement, and the smell of burning fuel and sun-cooked dog shit—it chokes and nauseates him. But it's nothing compared to the inevitability of being found every day, no matter what scheme he devises to hide himself. So matter where he goes, they'll find him. If they have to shrink down the world so he's easier to corner, they'll find him.

Hell was dreamlike in that what made it nightmarish was literally the stuff of dreams—there was nothing ordinary about Hell. The running and hiding, the hands on the back of his shirt or wrapped around his ankle, the stretched and gruesome bodies of demons—it was unearthly.

Thank god.

Because waking up alone in the motel room would have been nightmarish if it weren't for the note and the doughnuts and coffee on the table. Dean sits in the chair with ripped upholstery and sips lukewarm coffee. He gets powdered sugar on his nose and knows he's not in Hell.

The note reads: "Gone out for supplies. Eat some breakfast, and I'll be back in an hour."

He wouldn't have woken up at all, might have slept through till afternoon now that he knows it's not time slipping, just his body resting. But the air feels charged with ozone and even though he keeps eating, he's waiting. Sam left him a pearl-handled gun, a jug of holy water, and a knife that looks familiar on the nightstand. When the whole building starts to shake, Dean stands and goes to pick them up. He checks the magazine, pulls back the slide, and tenses as the lights flicker, then spark, then burn out.

It feels like a demon approaching, and he eyes the salt lines—they're still solid.

Then the TV clicks on to static and so does the clock radio and he has a disorienting moment of deja vu. No sooner does he recognize that he's done this before than the motel door bursts inward and, standing in the glare of the afternoon sun is a small man in a trench coat. He walks in like he owns the place and looks at Dean with cold curious blue eyes.

"Hello, Dean," he says. "You look better."

Dean puts down the gun and picks up the knife instead. The knife feels better. "Who the hell are you?"

The man comes another few steps closer until he's well within range, close enough that he has to look up to meet Dean's eyes. "I tried to talk to you before, but was unsuccessful." At that, Dean vaguely remembers shattering windows and whining radios before he'd made it to Bobby's. "I'm the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition."

Snorting a laugh, Dean eyes him sidelong. That's the most poetic line of garbage he's ever heard. "Bullshit."

The man reaches for him, gets a hand on Dean's shoulder, and the burn scar he'd forgotten was there hurts like an electric shock. He cringes away and reacts on pure instinct, stabbing the knife into the vulnerable space under the guy's outstretched arm. A memory bursts open—his Dad showing him how to find the heart with a blade. Go for the soft parts, son. In a tight spot, you're likely to get caught on the ribs and lose your weapon. The man doesn't even blink when Dean stumbles away, just pulls out the knife and hands it back to him, hilt first.

"What are you?" Dean asks. "That knife—I remember—"

The man's mouth presses into a line and his eyebrows twitch up. He looks bemused and self-righteous all at once. Dean grabs for his gun again just to wipe that expression off his face, but the man looks down the barrel without the least bit of worry.

"I'm Castiel," he says, "an angel of the Lord."

Shaking his head, Dean says the only thing that makes sense. "Angels aren't real."

Light flashes from nowhere, the building rumbles again, and a pair of wings made of shadow unfold from Castiel's back, arcing over them both.

Dean gets his back to the wall and decides to put off this paradigm shift for as long as possible, at least until he can be sure he's not going back to Hell. He wonders if he should kneel, if he's expected to, if it will increase his chances of surviving this. He wonders when the fuck Sam is getting back.

"You don't have to kneel before me, Dean. And, as I just saved you, I have very little reason to do you harm. Sam will return momentarily. When he does, you should ask him where he's been."

"The fuck?" Dean manages. He can feel himself retreating, curling back inside like a child waiting out whatever's going to happen. The sharpness of Castiel's face blurs and his words get a bit muffled. There's no escaping, no point fighting, so he hunkers down inside himself.

"You've been called back for a higher purpose, Dean. You have work to do."

"What work?" he mumbles.

"You'll know when we call upon you. First you must prove yourself worthy."

He blinks at that, and Castiel and the motel room come back into focus. Eyes narrowing, he asks, "Why'd you pull me out if I wasn't good enough for the job?"

Castiel shifts, actually looks uneasy. "When you died for you brother," he starts, "there was no one more worthy. Now, we are not as certain. We need to be sure."

Castiel watches him carefully, like he wants Dean to jump in and reassure him. But Dean has nothing to say on the subject of his own worth, certainly nothing that would earn his continuing existence topside. "What do I have to do?" he asks, wary of bargains struck with creatures offering a way out.

Castiel's face is serene again, like he knows the answer to this one and he's been waiting to share. "What we all have to do, Dean—be just and fair and righteous. Act with clarity and conviction."

"Oh, is that all?" he says, distracted by the roar of the Impala in the parking lot. He almost sags against the wall in relief.

"It is no small undertaking. We'll be in touch, Dean."

And just as the Impala's engine shuts off, the man – angel, or whatever – vanishes with the rustling sound of invisible feathers. Sinking down onto the bed, Dean puts his head between his knees as the adrenalin wears off and everything starts to shake.

He doesn't even have a moment to recover before Sam bursts in, eyes wild. When he spots Dean on the bed, he crosses the room in two strides to kneel at his feet. "Dean! Dean, what the hell happened—it looks like an earthquake came through."

When Dean can't answer straight away, Sam gets a hand on his arm and pushes him upright, holds him steady. "Dean? You okay?"

Shaking his head, Dean shrugs away from Sam's hand. "I'm fine, just—where'd you go, man? Why didn't you—"

Sam's eyes slant away. "Yeah, sorry, I didn't want to wake you. You were out and I thought you should sleep." His voice is a little too steady for how freaked out he was a second ago, like he's been practicing that excuse.

"Where were you?" Dean asks again, voice quiet.

Sam sucks in a breath and looks him in the eye again. "I went out for supplies, like I said in the note."

"What'd you get?"

"More salt. Scrap iron. And some socks and underwear for you. Some food we can make in the room."

"Why?"

"Well, 'cause I think we should stay here for a bit until you're feeling better, until we figure out what got you outta Hell."

Dean almost laughs at the words 'feeling better,' as though that's something he can pull together over the course of a few days hunkered down in a motel room.

"So are you gonna tell me what happened here?" Sam asks again.

Dean shakes his head, leans forward over his knees again. "I don't know what I saw. I don't know what it was."

Sam touches him again, seems to need to keep touching him. "Are you hurt? Did it hurt you? Come on, Dean, talk to me." Sam's fingers tighten around Dean's bicep, digging deep into the muscle, and the pain pulls him out of his daze, puts him back in his skin in this shitty motel room with his brother.

When he next meets Sam's eyes, he's got his head on straight and he can see clear as day that Sam's lying to him. His deceit clings to him like an oil slick. "I can't tell you what I don't know, Sam," he manages through the sour taste in his mouth. His brother's lying easy as any demon. "It busted through the salt lines and devil's trap under the carpet and told me I have work to do, that I was brought back for a reason. And then it left."

He takes a deep breath, feels his and Sam's future hanging on what comes next. "It told me to ask where you went."

"I told you where I went, Dean," he says, a smile stuck on as fake as any Dean saw in Hell. It hangs off him like ill-fitting skin. Gut sinking, Dean tries to have the energy for this, tries to be the big brother he knows he was but can't quite remember.

"You're lyin' to me, Sammy. You think I don't know a liar when I see one, after all that time downstairs?" Sam's expression wavers like it's about to break so Dean pushes a little harder. "Whatever it is, you can tell me. You can trust me. I'll help you if I know how." Maybe some of that's even true, he thinks, as the words come out.

Sam looks down and nods, unfolds from the floor and sits next to Dean on the bed. "Okay," he starts. "Don't be mad at me, but... truth is, there's a hunt close by—a few demons I've been tracking. They were up close to where you were buried, Dean, and now—they're following us, following you."

Mouth gone dry as the pipes in his house in Hell, Dean nods for Sam to continue.

"I—I thought I'd get'em to tell me how or why you were out, but then I wasn't sure if they even knew you were out. No sense bringin' trouble down on us, you know?"

The knot Dean's stomach had tied itself into eases at that. "Yeah, Sam, I think that was a good call," he says, voice rough with relief. Everything Sam has said is naked with honesty and just the sound of those words makes Dean think this might turn out okay.

"But, Dean, they've got a girl – a human girl, I think – who knows what they are."

Dean's spine snaps straight. "What d'you mean, 'knows what they are?'"

"I think she can see that they're demons, like you could before you...."

"You think she's got a deal comin' due?" That kind of fear he remembers, bright and sharp as broken glass.

Sam shrugs. "I dunno, man, she looked scared out of her mind. They had her tied up."

Frowning, Dean pushes himself to his feet, scrubs a hand over his face. "That's not right. If your deal's up, there's nothin' can stop a Hellhound from collecting. There'd be no reason to tie her up."

"I think she had a few screws loose, actually. She was yellin' her head off about angels."

Lifting his eyes to the ceiling, there's no neon sign blinking anywhere telling him, 'you must do this,' so he exhales a whispered 'son of a bitch' and turns to face his brother. Maybe this is what Castiel meant by 'acting with conviction.' "All right, Sam," he says, clapping his hands together, "time to get back in the saddle. Puttin' it off ain't gonna make it any easier, right? Let's go save ourselves a crazy girl."

Standing quickly, Sam is already shaking his head. "No way, Dean."

"Sam—"

"You just got out of Hell, first off. You were catatonic until I showed up at Bobby's, and that was just yesterday. So don't tell me you're all of a sudden ready to go up against a pack of demons. Second, they're demons. From Hell. They could be looking to drag you back. We gotta keep you safe until we're sure you're here for good. I'm not losin' you again—not after I just got you back."

Hands on his hips and fingers stuck in his belt loops, Dean calls up his best older brother impression, fits his face into something he thinks Sam will recognize. "Look, Sam. You think it was four months I was down there—it was more like four decades, all right? It might seem like I'm the same but there's not much of this—" He gestures around the room, careful not to include Sam in the sweep of his hand. "—that I remember. Demons, I remember."

Sam pulls out the big guns for a revelation of that size—the kicked puppy look. That look can topple empires, Dean is pretty sure. It definitely topples Winchesters. "It's okay," he says by reflex, stretching his arm out to awkwardly touch Sam's shoulder. "It's okay, Sam, but let's just go. If I can—if I can get a look at these guys, I can tell you how high up the food chain they are."

"I don't know...." Sam says, frowning.

"You live with'em for forty years, they get a little less intimidating. Or at least it's easier to pick out the ones who've earned their reputation." He touches Sam's arm again and it feels a bit more natural this time. "Trust me on this one, and let's go. Okay?"

Dialing back the kicked puppy look a bit, Sam still trails behind Dean like he's lost.

The car ride is uncomfortable, to say the least. From the passenger seat, Dean tries to get his head in the game, to be prepared for what he's about to see, but Sam keeps shooting him sidelong glances. Dean doesn't want to talk but he can feel it building between them. And finally Sam says in a voice that still sounds small over the noise of open windows and the engine, "Forty years, Dean. Jesus Christ."

Dean watches the blur of green out the window and doesn't respond.

"How are you even upright? How do you even know me? You were down there longer than we've been brothers."

Rolling his head against the rest, Dean finally looks over at Sam—really looks at him. "You're bigger, for starters," he says. "I don't remember you being this large. And your hair's longer. You're all lit up from the inside, like you can't wait to show me your report card. But you're scared of somethin', too, worried I'll be mad. Well, Sammy, let me ease your mind. I may not remember the details of my life before I went to Hell, and I may not remember what exactly it means to be your big brother, but I sure as hell remember you. There's nothing else in the world I know better than you. And whatever you're scared of – whatever you think I'm gonna judge you for – give it a rest. There's nothing you can do that's worse than what I've seen and done."

Sam is looking at him with a strange twitching expression, like he doesn't know whether to be horrified or hopeful, or to laugh out loud. Which rings true for pretty much everything Dean knows about their lives. Finally, Sam snorts something like a laugh and puts his eyes back on the road.

"Hell made you honest, Dean. That's weird."

"Hell made me a good enough liar that you can't tell the difference."

Sam slides him a grin. "But since you're telling me that, I'm right on at least some level."

Dean nods and feels the best he has yet reaching across the seat to thump Sam's chest with his palm, fisting the worn fabric of his shirt between his fingers. "Never did like lyin' to you, Sammy."

Sam smirks at the windshield. "You weren't ever that good at it, Dean."

Within another few minutes, they pull into the long driveway leading up to a big old farmhouse with a few vehicles parked out front. There are buzzards circling in the surrounding fields and Dean breathes in the sicksweet smell of putrefied flesh. He doesn't have to investigate to know the cattle are all dead.

Stepping out of the car, Dean wonders if the heavy feeling in his gut is fear or anticipation. Rolling his shoulders and neck, he flexes his fingers in and out of fists and jumps, startled when Sam hands him the knife. There's demon tongue etched into the blade that he can read easier than English. He remembers this knife, now. Closing his hand around the hilt, he looks up at Sam. "What about you?"

"Don't worry about me," he answers, not looking at Dean. "Are you sure you wanna do this?"

Nodding with more confidence than he feels, he wonders if he still knows how to handle himself, if his physical body will respond to violence in the same way his soul did in Hell. Facing off with that Castiel guy had made him almost blank with fear. "More curious than anything," he says.

"Yeah, and you're gonna tell me why once we get the girl and put this place behind us."

"Sure thing, bitch," he says and grins when Sam shoots him a surprised look.

'The girl' is a woman probably about Dean's age, and judging by the uncomfortable way she's folded down on the kitchen chair, she's tall and slim. She's got long dark red hair that looks like it's out of a bottle tangled down her back and skin that's flushed with fear and adrenalin. Her eyes are dark brown and staring right at Dean through the window he's looking into, watching him like he's way more important than the demons standing over her arguing with each other. She gives him a wide, slightly cracked smile and then closes her eyes as though there's nothing left to worry about now he's here.

He counts four demons and is relieved to see that none of them are too far up Hell's pecking order. Their souls were twisted and broken after centuries of torture, and all they got out of it was the compulsion for more of the same.

Dean can't see their true form like he could when his deal came due, or like in Hell where they walked free, but he knows them the same way he knows the sins of those he tortured on the rack. For these four it's greed, murder, betrayal, and more greed.

He watches them bicker over what to do with the human and Dean realizes he's not afraid. "In and out," he says. "No chatting, all right?"

Next to him, Sam nods. "Don't you do anything stupid, either. No heroics."

He doesn't have time to be insulted by that, or to assure Sam that heroics are entirely outside his purview, because a fifth demon gets the drop on them, appearing from around the side of the house, shiv drawn back to slice open their throats. Dean sees serial killer all over him a second before he ducks out of the way and Sam tackles the demon to the ground.

It's wearing a kid, probably one of the farm kids, but they don't have time for an exorcism, so Dean sticks him in the back when Sam rolls him. Then they have to haul ass into the house before the element of surprise is totally lost.

The demons recognize him the second they see him and he's almost proud of that.

"Damn—the girl who hears angels and Alistair's delinquent protege all in one kitchen?" the demon wearing the mom sneers. "You've just made my year."

Hearing that name aloud makes Dean shiver with all kinds of complicated garbage, but he hides it behind a sneer of his own. After ten years of ripping up souls – souls just like these – he doesn't need a refresher course for this part.

The demons wearing the kids for their meat suits are quicker than the parents and Dean separates the brats from the other two, draws them off for himself.

He feels entirely different from when Castiel jumped him in the motel room. He feels awake and ready, almost comfortable facing the creatures he helped to create. He's slicing lines across their bellies before he remembers that pain is not the point here—that he just has to win.

The fight is very short after that. He brings down the one wearing a skinny girl with straw-colored hair with the bar of his forearm across her throat and the knife slotted between her ribs in her heart. The other he manages to catch hold of by the collar and trip up over his leg, sending the thing sprawling. With a vicious jab to the throat, the demon sparks, crackles, and dies. Nothing like a demon blade to kill a demon.

He straightens to check on Sam and finds him cornered, barely holding off the other two, but before Dean can help him, the girl shouts, "Dean!" and he whirls to see another damn demon cutting her free and dragging her up out of her chair toward the exit.

"How many of you punks are there?" he grunts, freezing when the demon puts his shiv to the girl's throat. Darting another look at Sam, he weighs helping his brother over saving the girl who might be able to tell him what the angels have planned for him.

But it's no question, really. Turning away, he goes for the closer of the two demons pounding his brother, but gets caught up short there, too.

Because Sam doesn't need his help anymore.

He's on the ground, holding his hand palm out as if that's gonna stop anything, and it actually seems to be working. The demons are backing away, holding their hands over their mouths like they're about to hurl. Their shoulders hunch and heave and then, with a slow curl of his fist, Sam seems to draw the smoke right out of them. It floods from their mouths and puddles on the floor, burning a nasty stinking circle into the linoleum. Sam's got blood on his mouth and he looks at the two slumped bodies with a mean kind of satisfaction.

Then he looks up at Dean and his eyes get big a second before the last demon grabs Dean, spins him around, and punches him. Leaning away from the hit, it goes wide, but it's only when Dean feels something punch into his shoulder that he realizes the demon had the shiv between his knuckles. He stumbles back, blade still stuck in him, as both Sam and the girl shout his name.

She flings herself at the demon, grabs it by the arm, and throws her whole weight behind the elbow she jams in its throat. "Knife," she says, voice strangely cold and blank, and Dean tosses her the blade. She switches her grip on it, easy as you please, and puts it between the demon's ribs. After it falls, she sways back, looks at the blood on her hand and blinks owlishly at Dean where he stands cradling his arm against his chest.

She looks shell-shocked and confused and Dean gives her a lopsided shrug before turning to Sam who's scrubbing at the blood on his mouth and pushing himself to his feet. Dean watches him approach and makes himself stay still, even though he wants to back the fuck away. He wants to keep Sam at arm's length and stare at him for awhile, figure out how he could have missed something so big as New Psychic Demon Powers in his previous assessments.

Sam puts his hand over the knife sticking in Dean's shoulder. "We'll pull this out at the car when I've got the first aid kit handy. You'll bleed everywhere, otherwise."

Sam's fingers come away red and, for the second time, he stares in confusion at the blood on his hands. Dean looks hard at the rusty smudges on Sam's mouth. When Sam brings his fingers to his lips and tastes them – licks them actually, from first to third joint – Dean has his moment of realization in the same second Sam does.

"You're drinking demon blood!"

"You've got demon blood!" they say in unison.

*

The woman's name is Anna and, even though she can hear angels' voices buzzing in her head like a radio on the fritz, she takes an instant liking to Dean—Dean who, according to both her and Sam, has just enough of the demonic about him to make him taste good to Sam and a little off to angels.

She's staring at him now the way he looks at souls—like there's nothing hidden that can't be found with a little patience.

"You've got them worried," she finally says, leaning forward with her elbows on the table in their new dumpy motel room. "The angels," she clarifies, though he hadn't asked.

"Why's that?" He doesn't look at her, watches out the window for Sam—Sam who's been slurping demon blood for the extra juice it gives him.

Dean should have seen it, should have made the connection the second Sam eyed his blood like it was candy back at Bobby's.

"Because you were meant for the angels, Dean."

"If I was meant for them, why did I go to Hell for forty years?"

"They haven't explained that, though the one named Castiel is curious."

Dean glances at her, finds her head tilted to the side as though listening. "They're worried that you're no longer fit for your calling, that your soul has formed into something not quite human."

"Yeah, so I gathered," he mutters, pressing a hand lightly over his bandaged shoulder.

"But I think they're wrong about what makes a person human," she says, reaching across the table and putting her hand over his. Her dark eyes fixed on him, he can feel her looking past his skin, right to the parts of him that came back wrong.

"What do you see?" he asks, terrified and curious all at once.

She smiles and all Dean can find in her is kindness, righteousness, and something infinitely patient and old. He has the urge to touch more of her to try and get at it, take some of it for himself.

"I see something new," she says after a moment. "The Dean Winchester that was raised from Hell may not be the same one who fell into it, but you're not what they fear you are, what they claim Sam already is. You and Sam are going to save the world—keep the seals from breaking and keep Lucifer from walking the earth."

Dean's eyebrows shoot up and then sink into a frown. He lets out a slow breath and says, "So you're hearin' those rumors, too. I was hopin' it was just demons shootin' their mouths off."

"Oh, it's more than just a rumor. The angel garrisons have mobilized. The forces of Hell are bent on breaking the seals that will set Lucifer free."

"And Sammy's the one that's gonna do it, right? Break the last one?"

Anna shrugs. "That's what they say. But it hasn't happened yet and I don't believe in destiny."

Nodding, Dean thinks that's a pretty good attitude to take. "Damn, I wish demons lied half as often as they're supposed to."

"It's strange," Anna starts, withdrawing her hand from Dean's and looking at her open palm, "I've never seen one before today, and yet I feel as if I've always known exactly what they look like. When they showed up at the hospital to take me away, I was frightened by their appearance, but I—I knew them."

"Yeah, and then you shanked that one like a pro. It was wicked," he says with an admiring grin.

A smile flickers across her face and disappears. "I don't know how I knew to do that." She clenches her fingers into fists and then opens them. "Sometimes I think I might be something new—like you, but different. One foot in this world, one in another."

Frowning, Dean glances down at his own hands. There's still blood in the creases of his knuckles. "Gotta say, I'm jealous of your other foot." Looking out the window again, he finally sees Sam roll in with the Impala and, hopefully, pizza. He can't wait to remember what pizza tastes like.

*

Anna takes the queen farthest from the door so Dean and Sam share the other, not bothering to undress, just sprawling on top of the bedspread. Dean knows what's waiting for him when he sleeps so he traces the edges of stains on the ceiling and listens to Anna and Sam breathe. At about two in the morning, Sam rolls over and pushes himself up onto one elbow.

"You sleep yet?" he asks, voice fuzzy and low.

"Nah. I'll doze in the car tomorrow." If he doesn't go the whole way under, the dreams can't quite grab hold of him.

Taking a slow deep breath, Sam shifts onto his stomach and braces himself on both arms. When he speaks, he looks at the pillow instead of Dean. "I know you don't want to, but we need to talk about all this."

Hands resting on his stomach, Dean watches them jump as he snorts a laugh. "Which bit—the part where I came back wrong, or the part where you're doin' your level best to head right where I went?"

"I can go first if it'll make you feel better. I didn't think twice about any of it," he says, voice flat, hard, and honest. Dean doesn't doubt him for a moment. "If Lilith was the most powerful demon in Hell, then she was the one I needed to get you out. When you died, I wasn't strong enough to even touch her so I did what I had to to get myself there."

"And if you couldn't convince her to let me out?"

"Then I figured I'd follow her all the way down until I found you."

Dean rolls his head on his pillow to see Sam's profile. "As rescue operations go, that one sucks."

"Yeah. Well. You were always the planner."

Dean's mouth quirks up. "I was?"

Turning to look at him, Sam's eyebrows scrunch up with worry. "Yeah, Dean. You don't remember?"

Not answering that, he redirects his attention to the ceiling. "I just didn't want this for you, Sam. That's all. And I'm—I'm a little pissed that you went there anyway."

"Seriously." From the corner of his eye, Dean can see Sam shake his head and he can picture that bitchy sardonic smile like it's right in front of him. "So, what, you were just bullshitting me with the 'I'm in no position to judge' line? That was one of those lies that sounded so much like truth I couldn't tell the difference? Because, wow, I gotta tell ya, I bought it. That was a really convincing performance."

"No. Sam, no. It's not—I meant what I said."

"Then what the fuck, Dean?"

"I don't want you to end up like me!" he said, barely remembering to keep his voice down. "Sam, I went—I went...."

"You went to Hell for me. Which was so stupid and selfless and messed up that I—I can't even talk about it with you, yet. But Dean, I'm not doing this to make what you did meaningless. I'm doing it because you're all I've ever wanted to be like. I'm doing it because I know that if I'd gone to Hell for you instead of the other way around, there's nothing you wouldn't have done to get me back."

That shuts him up for a minute. Staring at the ceiling, he lets the weight of Sam's words press down on him. In the forty years he'd been gone (four months, Jesus), the one thing he'd held onto was his reason for going. When he'd finally slid off the rack and picked up the instruments of torture for his own use, he'd done it with every intention of clawing his way to the very top of the demon hierarchy just so that he would know what was coming for Sam. There'd been nothing noble or self-sacrificing about it—Dean's soul had broken into brittle uneven shards that weren't ever going to fit back together. But he'd managed to hang onto that one thing—that if Hell was coming for Sam, Dean would be there.

To know that Sam had that same visceral impulse is terrifying.

"I didn't want that for you," he says again. "You were wonderin' how I'm even vertical after four decades in Hell? Well—it's because I'm one day out and already hip deep in demons and violence. I'm—I'm doing what I was made for, Sam." Exhaling a shaky breath, Dean looks sidelong at his brother. Sam watches him with dark unblinking eyes, chest huffing with quick quiet breaths. "I was... remade. I didn't just—exist in Hell. I did at first, for as long as I could, but eventually I—I couldn't. I started. Climbing."

"You think that's when you started to turn?" Sam asks, voice just above a whisper.

"I don't know, man, probably? You do the work of a demon, you start turnin' into one. Whatever happened, I think I'm a disappointment to whoever brought me back." Flinching in surprise when Sam's big hand wraps around his bicep, Dean looks over to see Sam's eyes burning into his.

"Good," he bites out. "I'd rather face whatever's coming our own way."

"You're gonna have to remind me what that is, Sam," he says, huffing an unsteady laugh. "We couldn't keep each other safe. Hell, we couldn't even keep each other human."

"It's okay, Dean. You remember more than you think, and you're human enough to resist an exorcism. We'll be okay."

"You're settin' the bar pretty low," he jokes, rubbing a hand over his face. But Dean remembers the blood on Sam's mouth, the way he'd reached inside those meat suits and pulled the demons out by the root, and now that the surprise has worn off, the memory makes him feel a little wild, excited. He thinks that maybe they will be okay.

They might even be brilliant.