Fic: Copper and Seal

[summergen-mod.livejournal.com]

Title: Copper and Seal
Author: kimonkey7
Recipient: shay_renoylds
Rating: R for language
Warnings: none
SPOILERS/Timeline: Takes place immediately following 4X22 - PURE SPECULATION. NOT BASED ON S5 SPOILERS.
Disclaimer: The boys are theirs.
A/N: Cleary AU, as the Krip and I are not psychic BFFs. I remain unspoiled for season 5, and intend to do so until the premier. PLEASE do not include spoiler information in any comments you may leave - thanks in advance. Beta’d by the loving hands and hearts of S and B.

Summary: “The possibility of containing a mighty entity within a tiny vessel never loses its power to fascinate.” - Jan N. Bremmer, Jan R. Veenstra – from The Metamorphosis of Magic from Late Antiquity to the Early Modern Period


“The first sign of corruption in a society that is still alive is that the end justifies the means.”
- Georges Bernanos


“My, my...the Winchester boys,” Lucifer says, then clucks his sharp tongue. “Well, here we are.” His hands are folded, one over the other, arms stock-straight.

Dean’s fist tightens in the gather of Sam’s jacket. They’re both still blinking away the white of The Devil’s supernova entrance.

“Watch him,” Dean utters, the sort of knee-jerk admonishment dropped in the presence of much lesser threats. He’s a little thrown off by the last twelve hours, and he’s making no bets on what to expect next.

And it’s not like he was expecting horns and a pitchfork but, this guy?

Tall – 6’2, maybe 6’3 – and definitely fit. He’s got the kind of jaw Dean’s fists are often well-acquainted with: hard and straight and prone to braggadocio. He’s like a mix between the Marlboro Man and Rod Serling. All that’s missing is the cigarette.

“How’ve you been, Dean?” The Devil asks with a tiny smile.

Everything in Dean goes stiff. He feels Sam shimmy protectively in front of him, and he lets it happen.

The Devil’s hands float out to his sides. “I gotta say, I was sorry to see you go,” he says, sad shake of his head propelling him a step forward. “When that little dick-drip, Castiel, pulled you out?” He leans in toward Dean. “I tell ya, quite a few demons lost their heads over that fuck-up.”

He straightens, sucks his teeth. “Castiel, by the way... Your little angel friend? Dead.”

“You’re lying,” Sam says, before Dean can push out the words himself.

Lucifer picks a thread off his shirt and tsks. “Archangels are nasty, horrendous, ninja motherfuckers, boys. Third stringer like Castiel didn’t stand a chance.”

“You’re lying,” Dean echoes, and pushes slightly forward past Sam.

The Devil drops all the show, brows knitting above the bridge of his thin nose. “Why would I lie, Dean? I mean, what advantage do I have to gain? Infuse you and Sammy, here, with more pathetic despair? Knock you off balance with the Shoulda-Seen-that-Comin’ Stick? You fuckin’ raised Satan, kid; your plate’s plenty full.” He steps away, gives a plaintive tug to each shirt cuff. “I’m just tryin’ to lay it all on the table from the get-go.”

“Because demons are so straightforward,” Sam spits, spray of accusation split squarely between Lucifer and the corpses of Ruby and Lilith.

The Devil casts an eye across the two bodies, then to Sam. “I am.” He taps a sarcastic, wondering index finger against his chin. “How best to prove it to you?”

Without a twitch from Lucifer, Dean finds himself splayed against the marble wall of the chapel, head ringing and vision blinking in and out like a strobe. It’s the fastest flight he’s ever taken via Demon Airlines. Sam’s heavy breaths from across the room tell him his brother’s just taken the same journey. Dean opens his eyes wide, blinks twice.

“It’s clichéd – I’ll give you that,” Lucifer says, beginning a slow pace between the brothers. “The Evil Mastermind capturing the Good Guys...unraveling his sinister plan for world domination, blah, blah, blah.” He smiles so broadly it makes Dean feel sick. “I just can’t resist the temptation. You know what I mean, right, Dean?”

The Devil’s breath is hot on Dean’s cheek; ten feet away one second, right in his face the next. Dean feels a lash of pain across his middle; he winces down on it, and on Sam’s call of “Hey!” from across the room.

Lucifer whispers into the cup of his ear. “You understand how hard it is to say no...over and over and over...” The soft snort of a laugh flicks against Dean’s earlobe, and The Devil pulls away. Retakes center stage.

“I know you boys’re expecting me to tear down the world in an efficient manner: man the canons, full steam ahead... But, see, I’m immortal. I ain’t goin’ nowhere. I’ve been waitin’ a long time for my directorial debut. The world at large has come to expect a show, a spectacle,” he says with a wink. He shakes his head. “You take some dicksmith like Michael Bay? He’ll tear out your retinas with a fuckin’ grand mal of explosions: people screamin’, runnin’ around limbless. Elephants at a mouse parade. But a good director?” Lucifer takes a deliberate step closer to Sam. “Somebody who’s invested, somebody who gives a bigger shit about the characters than he gives about the fans...”

Dean’s lip curls in a snarl. “Sammy...”

“A good director’ll have you squirmin’ in your seat. A good director’s like the best lover you ever almost didn’t have, know what I mean? You know what I mean, don’tcha Dean?”

The Devil turns toward him then, leaving behind Sam to chuff past the linger of sulfur. He resets himself at Dean’s ear. “That one girl that made it like torture? Good as torture gets to feel after thirty years, hmm? She licks and arches and coos and slides, she gets you harder than you’ve ever been before. Balls aching, belly tight and full of fire, and then...? She pulls that sweet, beautiful mouth away from your cock and breathes, ‘Beg for it.’”

Dean feels another strap of pain at his abdomen, feels his blood wick into his shirtfront.

“Dean!”

“And you do. Oh, you beg and plead for that pleasure, that release,” The Devil continues, ignoring Sam’s call and Dean’s strangled whimper. “‘Please...please...oh, Gooood...’” Lucifer keens salaciously, then huffs a laugh.

“Sometimes you just gotta be cruel to be kind.” He pats Dean’s cheek - skin-on-skin stinging like a wasp - and steps back for the big wind-up.

“So, I’m gonna take it real slow, boys. I’m gonna bring on the Apocalypse one inch at a time. Drop a hand grenade here and there. I’m gonna let you think and plan and work. Gonna let you boys get yourselves right up to the edge...and then the fun starts. ‘Cause that’s when I’m gonna get you to beg.” He looks pointedly at Dean. “You got to be real good at it down there, as I recall.”

“Fuck you,” Dean barks, spittle flying off his lower lip.

Lucifer turns his attention toward Sam.

“And, you,” he says, head cocked by the weight of a sardonic grin. “You keep workin’ on those powers, Sammy. That’s some good shit, Maynard. You get it back up to where it was?” His hand motions absently in Lilith’s dead-end direction. “A skill like that might be a nice bargaining tool. When the beggin’ starts.”

The Devil winks and is gone.

* * *

The drive is hellish. Every small jolt in the road brings the raw edges of the lacerations together, rubbing cruelly against the towel-bandage Dean has pressed against his belly. “Slow down,” he grunts.

“Sorry,” Sam whispers for the hundredth time.

And that’s the real torture of the ride, the crux of it; his brother can’t stop apologizing.

“I swear if you say sorry one more time? I’m gonna pop my fist off your lip.”

Sam suffers snake-mouth, the hissed ‘s’ of apology trapped on his tongue for a half beat. “Okay. Yeah. You’re right. I’ll just...play it Joe Cool,” he says with an all-for-show shrug. “‘Cause you didn’t just get your stomach ripped open by a demon for the second time in your life, and I didn’t just, you know, unleash Satan upon the earth!” The last bit rises into a shout, and Dean answers in kind.

“Just shut the fuck up, okay?” he folds forward an inch, and a guttural groan wrenches itself from the back of his throat. “Goddamnit, just...shut the fuck up, Sammy.”

“Dean, I...”

The horrible sadness in Sam’s voice – the defeat – cuts nearly as deep as the wounds on his belly. Dean readjusts the makeshift bandage, presses against it. “Listen to me,” he shushes. “All the bullshit that happened before this, all the mistakes we both made... None of that matters now. No amount of laying blame is gonna change the fact that--”

“That I started the apocalypse.”

“I started the apocalypse! Okay, Sam? I did. If I coulda just kept my shit together in Hell--”

“That’s ridiculous!” Sam says, cutting Dean off before he can take on the entire Winchester luggage set. “I killed Lilith. I broke the seal.”

“I let Alistair break me.”

“Because I couldn’t get you out!”

“I made the deal that got me there in the first place!” Dean barks, and then bites down on a moan. “Look, it doesn’t matter. None of that matters anymore. What matters is,” he blows out a breath, “Lucifer’s here, and we gotta stop ‘im.”

Sam’s head shakes side-to-side. “Whatever power I had--”

“Sam--”

“It’s gone, Dean. And I don’t wanna--” he swallows down on the crack of words.

“I don’t want you to, man. I don’t—We don’t need it, Sam. We do this the old school way: research, brute force, and whatever we can pull out of our asses.” He paints on his best smartass smile; Sam barely even glances over.

“Dean, we can’t--”

“Yes, we can, Sam. We can. You and me. We started this, and we’re gonna end it.”

That stops all the talk for the rest of the ride, but Dean knows Sam’s weaving his hair shirt. The machinations of his brother’s internal guilt bang and clang with the exhale of every breath, with the tightening of fingers on the Impala’s wheel. It’s a bitter tonic - seeing him so consumed – but it soothes Dean’s worry. He knows, now, Sam will never become the monster he’s feared so much. He knows it in his gut, and it renews him. They can do this together. Together, they can do anything.

Dean gets good and smashed – good and quick – the minute they find a suitable motel. His eyes drunkenly follow the rise and dip of Sam’s large hand, again and again, as his brother silently sutures his wounds.

“We gotta...we gotta stop meetin’ demons in churches an’ houses an’ shit. No more places with walls,” Dean slurs. “W’ oughta meet up in th’ desert sometime. Nothin’ around. Jus’ sand.”

Sam snorts softly, shakes his head. “What about saguaros?”

Dean takes another swig from the pint in his hand. “Never smoked ‘em. Can’ stand th’ smell.”

Sam snorts again. “Not cigars; saguaros. The big cacti.”

Dean’s face screws up. “You talkin’ English?”

Sam knots the last stitch. “Cacti, plural of cactus. A saguaro’s a cactus.” He snips off the thread and his arms rise at his sides - elbows bent, hands pointed at the ceiling. “You know...the big...cactuses.”

Dean looses a sloppy grin and giggle. “My brother, th’ giant cactus.”

“Ha-ha.” Sam drops the imitation and starts on Dean’s dressings.

“He’ll keep ya on pins an’ needles,” says Dean. “Get it?”

“Yeah, Dean.”

“Pins ‘n’ needles?”

“Yeah. Got it,” Sam says, and covers his handiwork with thick gauze pads.

“A real pain in the ass,” Dean continues. “Huh? Huh?”

“Hilarious,” says Sam, eyes rolling.

“Super brave, though. Covered with spines,” Dean says, and chuckles.

“You done?” Sam manages, teeth biting off a length of tape.

“Lemme think,” answers Dean, then takes a thoughtful pull off the whiskey. “‘S gotta be a succulent joke in ‘ere somewhere--”

“Oh, Jesus,” Sam moans.

Dean shakes his head. “Nope. ‘M too drunk.”

“Thank God,” Sam says, and starts on the make-shift surgery mess.

But Dean’s not too drunk to forget the conversation they’d left sitting out in the car. The blood and the booze are just momentary coagulants to the bleeder opened back at the chapel.

“Hey, Sammy...”

“Yeah,” Sam answers, focus on the clean-up.

“Sam. Hey,” Dean says, and begs a look from his brother.

Sam complies, hands full and eyes empty. “Yeah, Dean.”

“You ‘n’ me. We’re in this together, right? We got us. No angels or demons on anybody’s shoulders anymore.” It’s sloppy and brutish, hung with accusation he didn’t intend.

Sam’s eyes dip, and his jaw slips open - chin forward - working on words that won’t come.

Dean shifts on the bed, arm hugged across his middle. “Come on, Sammy. We’re gonna...” His hand flutters off the mattress, makes a rolling motion. “‘S okay, man.”

“Yeah, sure,” Sam says. He glances back up, serves Dean a quick, tight smile. “Get some sleep, all right?”

The mattress tilts when Sam pushes off to stand.

He’s halfway to the bathroom before Dean can regain his caught breath. “Nobody’s fault,” he calls across the room.

“See ya in the morning,” Sam says, then hits the main light switch on the wall before closing the door on the darkness between them.

* * *

“Dean. Wake up, man.”

He grunts. Ignores Sam’s call for a second so he can clear his head.

“Dean.”

He’s hot all over – like he fell asleep in the sun – especially his gut, and he guesses he must be brawling with a fever. He cracks open an eye, then slams it shut when the morning sunlight forces a spike through his skull. He adds ‘massive hang-over’ to his list of physical unfitness.

“I was thinking about what you said. About how this is nobody’s fault--”

Dean groans and throws up a hand; it serves the dual purpose of blocking the brightness and hushing his brother. “That’s good, Sam. Glad you been thinkin’. But nothin’ else gets said till I get some coffee an’ take a piss.”

“The more I keep running it over in my head,” Sam plows on, “the more I think you were right, before--”

“Dude, seriously.” Dean pushes up with a gasp, hands pressed against the dressing on his middle. “Coffee. Piss.” He clears his throat. “Not necessarily in that order.” His brother’s perched on the edge of the bed when Dean pries open his eyes and focuses.

Sam’s hands are pinned in his pits, arms crossed tight. He shakes his head slowly, “See, I think it is your fault. This whole mess? Totally your fault, man.”

It’s a tour de force loop-de-loop that nearly knocks Dean back flat. He’s expecting a couple aspirin. A glass of water. Maybe a hand up on the way to some bladder relief.

“All the way back to Salvation. Baby Rosie? When you wouldn’t let me kill Azazel. That was pivotal.”

“What the fuck’re you talkin’ about, Sam?”

Sam stabs an index finger into Dean’s personal space. “If you’da let me kill him then? Dad’d still be alive. I’da never been plunked down in Cold Oak, Jake never could have killed me, and you’d have never made the deal you punked out on in Hell. You’re right, dude. You started the Apocalypse, not me.”

Dean’s nose wrinkles, and he stares down Sam’s cold eyes. His brain’s clicking info like an old binary computer, and when the data card spits out, Dean greets the result with half a smirk. “This your idea of a hand grenade?”

Sam cracks a grin like a volcanic fissure, leans in and huffs “Boom!”

“You’re gonna have to do better than that,” Dean answers. It’s taking everything he has to hold his ground, to not flinch or pull away from The Devil, wearing his brother like a second skin. “I know Sam better than you.”

“You think you do,” Lucifer says with Sam’s lips, then he melts and molts before Dean’s eyes to the man he wore in the chapel. “You keep thinkin’ that.”

“You’re not gonna win,” Dean says, tight-jawed and low. “You think bullshit tricks like this are gonna stop me and Sam from sending your ass back to Hell?”

The Devil stares blank-faced at Dean for a few seconds, and then a slow, dreamy look overtakes his face. “You’ve dug a lot of graves in your time, haven’t you, Dean? Men love their tools, and they’ll use a good tool till it falls apart in their hands...”

Lucifer leans in then, stretching an arm across Dean’s middle and planting a hand next to his hip. Dean’s effectively trapped: can’t escape the heat coming off the demon-god’s body, or the stench of Hell he’s tried so hard to forget.

“I bet you have a favorite shovel, huh, Dean? One you go to first every time. After a while, the place where your hands rest on the handle? That place earns a groove, gets smooth and thin and worn... And then, one day - CRACK!”

There’s a full-on sonic boom in Dean’s head, and he’s assaulted by every sense memory Castiel dragged up with him. He lets out a surprised yell that clears his vision and his lungs.

“Once that handle cracks?” Lucifer’s head takes a melancholy shake. “Well, that shovel’s compromised. You can tape up that handle and reinforce the wood, but your hands’ll never feel right on it again. It’s never quite as strong.” He sets his mouth next to Dean’s ear. “Once broken, always broken.”

“You won’t win,” Dean breathes, eyelids fluttering. “We won’t let you win.”

“Dean,” The Devil says, “you’ve been helping me win all along.” He pulls back then, pats Dean’s thigh and retakes the edge of the bed, hands on his knees. “You’re Caesar’s wet dream, kid. Meg, Azazel, Alistair? Fucking Brutuses. Takin’ them down - one-by-one - just helped me out.”

“No,” Dean says.

“You give Sammy a real run for the money on my favorites list,” Lucifer says with a chk of his cheek.

Dean swallows down a mouthful of spit like ash. “I’m not your shovel,” he says.

“Oh,” says The Devil, fading from the bed like the Cheshire Cat, “you’ll dig.”

Dean wakes, frazzled and panicked, belly hot and tight. His eyes are everywhere, all at once: bed, Sammy, sunlight, motel. Just a dream, then, because his brother is nose-in-a-book and looks up only casually when Dean stirs and moans.

“Hey,” Sam calls out, running a hand through the mess of his hair.

“Hey,” Dean echoes.

“You’re lookin’ better this morning,” Sam says through a stretch.

“Am I?”

“You feel like you can sit out the ride to Bobby’s?”

“I’ll let ya know in a second,” Dean says, and forces himself into a sit on the side of the bed.

“You need help?” Sam asks.

Behind him, Dean hears his brother push away from the table. His hand rises. “I got it.”

It takes almost a minute for him to get up, get across the three feet to the bathroom, and safely close the door. His gut is aching, and he feels about twice his thirty years. A quick peek at his dressings show just a spot or two of dried, dark blood. He takes a piss and washes up. Can’t quite get The Devil’s stench from his nose.

There’s a fresh pot of coffee going by the time he shambles from bathroom to kitchenette. Sam’s back at the research, fingers tapping across the laptop’s keys. Dean pours himself a cup, while his brother jots a note onto a legal pad.

“You get any sleep last night?”

“Enough,” Sam said, eyes back on a book. “There’s bacon and potatoes in the oven on warm. I can do you a couple eggs if you give me ten minutes first,” He glances up and gives Dean a quick head-to-toe, look ending back up at his middle. “How’re the stitches holding?”

“Excellent work, as usual, Dr. Killdare,” Dean says, then takes a tentative sip of coffee.

Sam motions him over. “Lemme see.”

Dean gives him the really?-face. “Dude. I’m fine. Keep your freakin’ OCD to yourself. Trust me – I’m gonna tell you if you fucked up.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Fine. Whatever.” He tries to go back to the book, but can’t. “You’re not feeling feverish? Dizzy? Excessive pain?”

“I’ll tell ya what,” Dean says, pointing his coffee mug at Sam. “I came off way worse after my first meet-up with Azazel, and I ended up killin’ that motherfucker. I don’t think this Lucifer asshole is gonna be as tough as we thought.” It’s pitched brilliantly, but his brother’s not buying.

“Dean, I need to know you’re okay. We can’t go into any of this half-assed and--”

“Sam. Relax. Gimme some fuckin’ credit, okay?”

“I just--”

“I know. I’m good. Lemme have fifteen minutes to suck down a little of this rocket fuel you brewed, fortify with some bacon, and then we can hit the road. You called Bobby, yet?”

Sam wipes a hand down his face, blows out a breath. “Yeah. Last night, after you drifted off.” His hands wave over the mess on the table. “He’s got me runnin’ in seven different directions right now, but we’re gonna find something. I know we are.”

“Damn straight, Sammy,” Dean says.

* * *

They’re at Bobby’s for a full three hours before Dean’s called to the dining room to hear the latest. The first sixty minutes, Dean’d done nothing but sleep, capping off his stellar performance in the Impala; a thousand-plus miles of sawing wood and releasing gas that had Sam working the window crank like an organ grinder.

Hours two and three had him pacing a groove in Bobby’s floor, running coffee and books from the kitchen and library. He knows Sam’s got to be exhausted, but fuck if Dean can help with the reading; he can’t stop thinking about his dream, the things The Devil had whispered in his ear.

Still...

“All night long, all day today, and that’s the best you guys can come up with?” Dean asks. He wipes a hand down his face. “You gotta be fuckin’ kiddin’ me.”

“Dean,” Sam cautions.

“A fuckin’ secret decoder ring?”

“Dean,” Bobby warns.

“It’s a fairy tale,” Dean says, indignant.

“It’s not. It’s...well, it’s more like a parable,” says Sam.

“A parable.”

“About how absolute power corrupts. Sort of.”

Dean points at him, cocks his head. “That right there oughta tell you somethin’.”

Sam blows out a breath. “It’s a chance.”

“A chance for what? To jump the gun? To fuck ourselves over?” Dean’s hard look travels from Sam to Bobby and back again on Bobby’s shrug. “Because a guy in Ohio thinks he’s found some ancient magical bling?”

“Indiana,” Bobby corrects coolly.

“Whatever,” Dean says. “I don’t think we should be randomly takin’ chances with this one.”

“What happened to us taking this on old school?” Sam asks. “Research, brute force, whatever we can pull out of our ass?” he flicks at the legal pad before him, filigreed with notes.

“This isn’t a joke, Sam.”

“No, it’s not, Dean. And neither is the Seal of Solomon. I mean, unless we’re gonna pretend the Key doesn’t work.” Sam let’s that sink in from across the table. “There’s just as much lore about the Seal as there is about the Key.”

Dean juts his chin toward Bobby. “Whatta you know about this?”

Bobby blinks at him through the shadow of his cap’s bill. “Like your brother said, there’s plenty of lore...” He digs through a stack of books on his right, pulls one out and passes it to Dean, opened on a double bill of crabbed illustrations. “Story goes King Solomon had a ring that he used to capture and control demons.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ve heard the story,” Dean says, hands rolling impatiently. “He conjures up demons, traps ‘em in a bottle, plugs it with iron--”

“Copper, actually,” Sam interjects.

“Fine. Plugs it with copper, and seals it with a stamp from the ring, right?”

“Pretty much the gist of it, yeah,” Bobby nods. “The ring’s a signet, inscribed with a variation of Solomon’s Key, plus the one true name of God.”

Dean scans the etchings, notices only small variations between the dozen or so on either page of the open book. “So, which one of these is right?”

“Well,” Sam says, and readjusts in his chair. He sends a sheepish look in Bobby’s direction. “That’s were it gets tricky.”

“Tricky like how?” Dean asks, eyebrows up and a mocking ear turned toward both men.

“You know as well as we do, there’re a lot of refuted true names of God,” says Bobby. “You got your ‘one hundred minus one’ in the Qur’an, Zoroastrian enumeration gives ya a hundred-and-one, and then there’s the whole Allah/Yahweh/Jehovah debate--”

“So, what you’re tellin’ me is, in the hundreds of years since King Solomon’s time--”

“Thousands,” Sam corrects. “Like, almost three thousand.”

“Okay, in the three thousand years since Solomon’s time, there haven’t been a hundred and one idiots who’ve given all the names a go?”

Bobby shrugs. “Maybe.”

Dean’s tone rises, along with his frustration. “Maybe?”

“Dean, it’s not like there’s some...demon roster to take roll. Find out who’s present and who’s M.I.A.,” says Sam.

“Well, there should be,” Dean barks back, then lays his arm across his middle to soothe the pull of his stitches.

“Well, there’s not.”

“Well, there should be.”

“Hey, Heckle and Jeckle,” Bobby says. “You wanna stay focused, here? Satan on the lose? That ring a bell?”

“Sorry,” they say.

“Anyway,” Bobby continues after a readjust of his cap, “it doesn’t seem likely anybody’s figured anything out, yet. We’da heard about it if they had. Nobody’s gonna wield that kinda power quietly.”

“What about Trump?” Dean asks.

“What?”

“You know, The Donald. I mean, that guy’s got money up the ass, lays beaucoup hot chicks--”

“Dean.”

“--all in spite of that ridiculous, ball-clenchingly horrible comb-over.”

“Can you be serious? Please?” Sam begs.

Dean purses his lips, leans forward. “You want me to be serious? Okay, let’s be serious. You’re proposing we – what? - use King Solomon’s class ring to trap The Devil in a bottle? Is that the plan?”

Sam and Bobby share an exchange of exasperated huffs and sighs.

“Yeah, pretty much. That’s the plan,” Sam says authoritatively.

Dean shakes his head, pushes away the book. “This is not the way to go, guys. I’m tellin’ ya. We gotta think this through--”

“We don’t have time to think this through!” Sam bellows.

Dean’s face is a sudden Klaxon; he doesn’t want Sam missing the stupidity of that statement.

“That’s not what I mean, damn it. Dean,” Sam says, hands carding through his hair, “listen to me. Lucifer’s here - right now - by whatever means. And despite that well-delivered monologue in the chapel? I don’t believe for a second he’s gonna take things slow. Do you?”

“I--”

“Because demons lie. You know that.”

The succulence of the irony makes Dean’s mouth water. He licks his lips, and they slide back from his teeth in a slick grin. “Oh, yeah, Sammy. I know that. I forget sometimes, though. Hard fact to remember, isn’t it?” He’s back in Hell for a second, leaning over the rack.

“Boys,” Bobby says, cool monotone that melts away almost instantly.

“I thought you played the everything-that-happened-before-doesn’t-matter card. What? Now it’s one set of rules for me and another for you?”

Dean’s index finger stabs at his temple. “Have you even considered the possible ramifications of bottling up Satan? Of takin’ the fucking core out of the nuclear evil plant?” He fires a salute of accusation at both men. “You think that might dick with the Universal Balance a little?”

Sam flicks a look at Bobby, who answers with a chin twitch.

Dean moans. “Oh, Christ...”

“He’s got a point, Sam.”

“The point is, we need to act fast. We trap him now, then deal once we’ve got him. He’s not gonna wait, Dean! We could have days at best!”

“We could have years!”

“Not when he’s already started the war with you!”

Dean blanches and steps back. “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

Sam moves in, taking back the distance Dean had placed between them.

“I’m talkin’ about the dream you had last night. The same dream I had last night, except I was just watching. Watching him torture you in my skin, break you down and twist you up...”

Dean pushes against Sam’s chest, takes a step to the side and away from his brother.

“And, yeah, Dean. You figured it out, you came out on top. But there was nothing slow and easy about that. Am I wrong?” Sam’s bluntness turns to pleading. “He’s fucking with our heads, right out of the gate. Wants you to think you’re broken and weak, wants me to think that about you.”

“Do you?” Dean asks, almost desperately.

“No. I don’t. Not anymore. This past year – all the things I said and did...” Sam shakes his head. “I was under the influence, Dean. Under her influence, and under not being able to get you out. Because I should have been able to get you out, Dean. I owed you that.” His focus shifts to a space just behind Dean’s head, eye contact no longer an option. “And maybe part of me lost some faith, because part of me thought maybe you’d get yourself out. I’m sorry for that.”

Across the room, Bobby clears his throat self-consciously. Dean had forgotten he was there.

Sam’s eyes are back on Dean, earnest and bright. “But, no. I don’t think you’re weak, Dean. Not broken. I don’t think that anymore. Do you?”

Dean hates being called on the emotional carpet, feels he’s been nothing but rug-burn since he punched his way out of his shallow grave. There’s something horrible and gnawing about the role-reversal that’s taken place between them; there can’t be protector and protected anymore, there’s no hierarchy of surrender under which to struggle.

He may have returned from Hell without his physical scars, but inside he’s still a mess of glossy, ropey twists. All he can hold onto is him and Sam. All they have is together and equal and brothers.

“We gotta stop him,” says Dean. “We’ve gotta send him back, reseal the seal.” He hopes the fresh shellac of purpose coats the side-step of introspection.

“I think the Seal’s our best bet right now,” Sam says, and Dean’s grateful for the pass, relieved at the space Sam gives him by stepping back on all fronts.

“I know we both want some kind of redemption, Sam, some assurance that what we didn’t – I don’t think this is it. I don’t think this is the answer. I don’t think some fuckin’ ring we don’t even know will work is our best course of action, here.”

“It might be our only course of action,” Sam says, “for right now.”

Dean stares down his brother for a beat, relinquishing the duet for a trio; he turns to Bobby. “Whatta you think?”

The man blusters and shrugs, opens his mouth to speak, but instead removes his cap and runs a shaky hand through his hair.

“Bobby?” Sam asks, opening the closed hoop as well.

He blows out a breath, wipes a hand past his mouth. “I think you both raise good points, but the bottom line is, if the fiddlin’s started? We got no choice but to raise our bows. Hope for the best. I say we get a holda the ring and see if it’s the real deal. If it ain’t, we’ll deal with what we get and start over. If it works, we go from there.”

“You prepared to have your bunker filled with pissed-off demons?” Dean asks, always the optimist in pessimist’s clothing.

“We’ve got a lot to gain if it works, Dean,” Sam says.

“And a lot to lose if it doesn’t.”

Sam surprises both men with a fervent shake of his head.

“No. No, everything I care about, everyone I care about is in this room. Right now. And there’s no way I’m losing that ever again.”

“Sam...”

“Fuck the rest, none of it matters.”

“Us against The Devil and the deep blue sea, huh?” Dean asks.

“Whatever it takes, but this stops here and now,” Sam says.

His desperate assuredness makes Dean question everything again.

* * *

Information flows efficiently through the channels and locks of the underground, and while no one’s string-and-push-pinning Dean and Sam Winchester to ‘O hai thar, Satan...’ it’s pretty clear a lot of hunters are aware of a great disturbance in the force. By the time Bobby can get a hold of the Indiana ring-bearer, the price for Solomon’s Seal has risen from ‘negotiable’ to ‘one million dollars – cash.’

“One million dollars.”

“A million dollars?”

Dean listens absently from the couch, dabbing a wet cloth at the stubborn, dried blood around his sutures.

“That’s what he said.”

“He really said, like, ‘I demand one million dollars.’”

“Uh, guys,” Dean says, “I dunno if you’re, like...” - the rust-spotted washrag motions around their exchange - “...workin’ on some sorta stage version of ‘Austin Powers’ or something? But shut the fuck up.”

“We happen to be discussing the price of Solomon’s Seal,” Sam chided like a school marm. He pointed at Dean’s medical hijinks. “You shouldn’t be messing with the sutures like that.”

“And yet, I happen to be.” He reaches down to his right, bend of his torso carving a tight grimace on his lips. He pulls the lever on Bobby’s worn recliner, gets himself into a proper sit. “Look, unless you two ran across a buried treasure, there’s no way we can come up with that kinda money. There’s not enough bullshit plastic in the glovebox to cash advance somethin’ like that, either. So let’s you and me head to Ohio. Talk to this guy.”

“First off, it’s Indiana,” Sam drones.

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean says. He makes a motion with the washcloth, dismissing his mistake. “Whatever. They all grow corn. Second off?”

“Second,” he responds, “you’re not going anywhere until those sutures take.”

“We could go talk to the guy. Pull a couple fake FBI badges, toss his place, grab the ring--”

“Dean.”

“We bring the ring back here,” Dean continues, as if Sam’s said nothing, “and sit on it, do research, before we call Yahtzee.”

“And we’re gonna produce a Search and Seizure on this guy for, what? ‘A magic ring that could save the world’?”

Bobby let’s out a snort, and Dean pouts for a second of thought.

He snaps and points. “Porn on his laptop.”

“You’re guessing,” says Sam. “Or projecting.”

Dean smirks. “Guy who spends his time runnin’ all over the world, dealin’ with supernatural shit? Oh, he’ll have porn, Sammy.” He gives his brother a wink, “Maybe even some freaky stuff.”

“Dude, are you storing porn on the laptop, again? Because I told you not to do that anymore.”

“Yeah, you did,” Dean says.

“It’s a shared laptop, Dean,” Sam barks, reaching for the computer and pulling it close. He stabs at half a dozen keys, then points over the raised monitor at Dean. “I’m installing new firewalls.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, and pushes up stiffly to a stand, “I’ll get past ‘em. The point is,” Dean begins again, chucking his damp, stained washcloth to the side and clearing his throat.

The rag lands on a stack of books, and Bobby’s eyes follow the path of Dean, washcloth, Dean. He fires off a sling of incredulity.

Dean’s as good as one of Bobby’s mutts, fetching the rag immediately. He tips his temple as apology, then rights himself. “The point is, I’m goin’ fuckin’ nuts, here. If I don’t start movin’, doin’ somethin’, I’m gonna lose it pretty quick.”

“Dean, you need to heal. Bobby and I’ll go.”

Bobby sucks his teeth and pulls a hand through his beard. “That might be a problem.”

“Problem, how?” Sam asks.

“I knew when we got the contact info that his name sounded familiar. Took hearin’ his voice to confirm it, but I’m pretty sure I’ve met this guy face-to-face. He used to run mercenary artifact retrieval with your old pal, Bela.”

“Shit,” Sam sighs.

Dean claps his hands, rubs them together like he’s trying to start a fire. “I guess that settles that.”

* * *

“Really? Really?” Sam asks, voice full of disgust.

Dean just grins.

“Thirty fucking years old, dude.” Sam tosses the ID back into Dean’s lap.

It’s an excellent forgery; he’s made it up just for this trip. “What?” Dean asks, as if he can’t imagine why Sam’s refusing the ID.

“Curtis Bunghole? Seriously?”

“The ‘g’ is silent,” Dean says. “Bun-OH-lay. It’s...Italian.”

“It’s bullshit,” Sam says.

* * *

At the motel in Iowa, they work their way through some mediocre take-out and a much-less-savory silence. For lack of anything better to do, Dean washes up and redresses the wounds in his belly. Sam’s got books and laptop open on the table when he comes out of the bathroom.

“Stitch job’s holdin’ pretty good. Itchin’ like a motherfuck, anyway.”

Sam looks up from his research, genuine relief soothing the concentration-kink between his brows. “Good. That’s a good sign.”

Dean shifts his weight from one freshly-socked foot to the other. Nods. Runs out of conversation. His eyes drift left and settle on the TV. He shrugs internally, keeping still on the outside. “You mind if I turn on the boob tube for a while?”

Sam’s all agreeability. “No. Sure. That’s fine. I’m just gonna--” He motions awkwardly at his research.

“Yeah. That’s cool,” Dean says with a wave.

He settles himself on the edge of his bed, feet planted flat and forearms across his knees. The posture creates a pull deep in his abdomen - a low, dull pressure that accentuates the nagging twitch at his sutures.

He runs the course of the available channels, stops second-time-through on a documentary about the badger. Over graphic, bloody film of the large weasel killing and consuming a porcupine, a British-accented voice expounds about the special structure of the badger’s cranium and jaw. Once clamped onto prey, it’s nearly impossible to unhinge the animal’s tenacious hold.

* * *

Parked along the curb in front of Steve Dobrowski’s average-looking home, Dean adjusts his black tie and checks his hair in the rear view. Sam’s fidgeting in the driver’s seat, keys bouncing in his hand.

“I don’t know, man. I think we oughta just talk to him.”

“Dude, relax. The Search and Seizure’s gonna work.”

Sam turns in the seat, right knee pulling up onto the bench and elbow landing on the back. “I say we reason with him. We tell him why we need the ring.”

Dean snorts. “Are you stoned? If it’s genuine, this ring’s a fuckin’ genie-in-a-bottle, three-wishes hard on, dude. We tip this dillhole off to what exactly he’s got?” Dean hoiks a thumb. “His price doubles. Guaranteed. On top of that, he’s got our faces. We follow the plan.”

“We follow your plan,” Sam says quietly, accusingly.

Dean nods, short and curt. “Yeah. My plan. For lack of a better one right now. We keep our dicks in our pants for a little while here, Sam.” Dean’s hand shoots up to halt Sam’s indignation. “I get the personal irony, okay? You can put away the laser pointer.”

“I just--”

“I get it, Sam. Okay? I get that you wanna jump on this and gain some control. I get you need to do that, ensure some...” Dean’s hand waves absently. “I dunno. Some shot of redemption, or something.”

Sam’s eyes drop to his lap. He pushes out a laden breath through his nose.

“It’s in the Winchester genes, man. The need for the quick turn-around, so don’t think for a second I’m not sympathetic. But I’ve been doin’ a lot of thinkin’ about where that kind of behavior’s got us, you know? It’s what got us right here, Sam. We can’t keep doin’ the same thing, over and over, and expect a different result.”

His brother’s eye roll is almost a full-body affair.

“Fuck you,” Dean says through a smile. “Come on. Let’s do this...Curtis.” He pivots away and then out the passenger door, just quick enough to escape Sam’s uttered ‘Asshole.’

* * *

“Special Agent Bunghole?” Dobrowski asks dubiously, glance drifting from Sam’s ID to make lazy eye contact.

Sam’s nose crinkles above a quick-flash snarl. “The ‘g’ is silent,” he says patiently. “It’s Italian.”

Dean clears his throat of a chuckle.

“Look,” the man says, crack in the door widening to admit his frame. His arms are folded tight over his chest, jaw jutting confidently. “I know who you guys are. Sam and Dean Winchester, right?”

Dean leans ear-forward. “Who?”

“Whatever,” Dobrowski sighs. “The price is a million, cash. You have it? We’ll talk.” He takes a backward step into his foyer, moves to close the door when Sam’s hand shoots up to stop the motion.

“Mr. Dobrowski, please,” he says.

“Sam,” Dean cautions.

“If you truly understand the gravity of this situation--”

“I know my market,” Debrowski says, pressing the door against Sam’s stubborn bracing. “Thanks.”

“Your market’s about to disappear, asshole,” Dean growls. His hand flies to Sam’s arm, uses it to lever his brother in the direction of the car.

“Dean,” Sam barks in protest.

He’s dragging him down the sidewalk, breath hot and quick. Dobrowski’s door slams shut at their backs, and Sam shrugs off Dean’s grip.

“Goddamnit.”

“Ditto,” says Dean.

Sam lets out a hard growl. “We should just force our way in.”

Dean scoots his brother forward with a shove to the shoulder when Sam’s retreat slows. “We walk away, Sam. We regroup and come at it different.” He opens the passenger door and gets in, is almost ready to reach across the bench seat and yank Sam in behind the wheel when his brother pauses before climbing in. “Dude, come on!”

Sam’s head is shaking, jaw tight and twitching as he jams the key into the ignition.

‘The badger’s hold on the bristling porcupine is set,’ last night’s documentary narration repeats in Dean’s head, ‘No amount of struggle on the prey’s part will ease the pressure. Death throes ensue.’

* * *

The hand not currently holding a second, angry beer wags in Dean’s face; his brother’s giving the flapping, universal symbol for ‘Lemme talk to him.’ Dean smacks away Sam’s fingers. “All right, Bobby. Call us when you have somethin’.”

“Dude!” Sam squawks when Dean snaps shut the cell.

“Ask nicely next time,” Dean says, and tosses the phone onto the bed next to him. “Besides. He had to go. He had another call.”

“Does he have anything on Dobrowski? Anything more on the Seal?”

“Jesus. Chill, dude,” Dean says. “You’re gonna have a blow-out or somethin’.”

“What did he say?”

Dean yanks his neck-tie back-and-forth until he can slip it off over his head. “Says he might actually have an in – some guy from his gun-runnin’ days.”

“Bobby had gun-running days?”

“He never told you about Brownsville?”

“Brownsville?”

“The Texas Militia?” Dean asks.

Sam shakes his head.

“His Oaxacan lover, Carla?”

“What?” Sam asks, dropping onto the bed opposite Dean’s.

“Huh,” Dean says. It’s a lie – whole-cloth fabrication - but he needed something to knock his brother off-course for a second. “That’s weird. You should ask him about it some time. Anyway,” he continues, “he knows a guy who knows Dobrowski pretty well. Might be able to get us some intel on where and how Dobrowski stores his acquisitions. Personally,” Dean says, and snatches the Yellow Pages from the bottom shelf of the bedside table, “I’d like a little intel on where we can get some pizza and beer around this jerkwater. I’m starvin’.”

Sam’s quiet for a minute, but Dean can feel him working on something. His brother runs the course of pinky-ring-middle-index, popping the knuckles of each finger with a flat, square thumb. Dean skims the anemic restaurant listings, one eye on the smeary ink and the other on Sam.

“So we’re just gonna sit here,” his brother says at last.

“No,” Dean replies with gentle patience, “we’re gonna grab a couple pies, stuff our faces, and get a buzz on.” He returns to his scan of the listings, snaps a finger on a corner ad block. “Right here,” he says with a grin for Sam, “The Brew and Chew. Pizza and beer in one convenient place. And they deliver.”

Sam’s hand flies up from his lap, motioning desperately for the door. “We have a traveling arsenal in the trunk, Dean. We could take the ring by force. We’ve done it before.”

Dean sighs and closes the phone book, thumb holding his place. He pokes his tongue against his cheek. “Say we bust into Dobrowski’s house. Subdue him, tie him up, toss his place...” he says with a rolling hand. “What if we don’t find the ring?”

Sam just stares at him.

“You think that douchebag wouldn’t call in every chip he has in the underground? You think we really need to be drawin’ more attention to ourselves at this point in the game?”

One corner of Sam’s mouth twitches, and his eyes dart left.

It’s a guilty tell, one Dean’s become hyper-aware of in the past year. It sends a spike of ice up his spine. “Best case scenario,” he says after a swallow, “we’re lookin’ at a B and E. No contact with the victim.”

“We’re wasting time,” Sam says tightly.

“We’re bein’ smart,” Dean replies. He reaches for his discarded cell, reopens the Yellow Pages.

Sam pushes up from the bed, hands swinging to his head. He plows his fingers through his mussed field of hair while Dean dials, blows out a few breaths and starts a pace. By the time Dean’s made the dinner arrangements, Sam’s sat down and stood up from the table three times, rifled through a stack of books, disturbed the dust along the A/C unit.

“You got the keys?” Dean asks as casually as possible.

“What?”

“Car keys?” Dean says, holding up a hand and waggling his fingers.

Sam looks at him oddly for a second, performs an absent pocket pat-down, then crosses back to the small table by the window. He drags the key ring out from under a legal pad, pulls back for a toss, and stops. “I thought it was delivery.”

“It is,” Dean says, and waggles his fingers again.

“Then, where are you going?” The keys jingle as they bounce – one, twice – off Sam’s palm.

“I’m not goin’ anywhere. Just toss ‘em, dude.” He’s trying for stealth and it’s coming off bumblefuck. They both know why Dean wants the keys.

Sam’s upper lip curls back from his teeth, then the corners of his mouth stretch into a bitter smile. His arm bends at the elbow, and the key ring’s flung with spiteful force. Dean snatches it from the air, an inch from his face, fingers closing around the sharp serrated peaks of the keys.

Sam stalks to the dinette, yanks his jacket off the back of the chair. “I need some air.” He stops at the door, grip tight on the knob. “That okay with you? Can I be trusted to take a goddamned walk alone?” he asks without turning around.

It’s more sorrow than sting in his voice, and Dean’s fingers wrap tighter around the keys. “Dude...”

“Don’t wait up,” Sam says like he’s asking a favor.

He’s out the door before Dean can say anything else.

* * *

When Sam returns, his brother’s already asleep. There’s a note on the closed laptop:

Leftovers in the fridge. Wake me up when you get back. Dean

The key ring’s sitting on the corner of the note like a paperweight. Sam knows it’s there as an apology, but he’s not willing to accept it, yet. He grabs his cell off the table and checks for messages, spies Dean’s on the nightstand and checks it, too.

Nothing from Bobby, so he may have called when Dean was awake, but Sam doesn’t feel like waking up his brother. He doesn’t even feel like being in the same room with him. He’s been walking and thinking for hours, and he’s just gotten the cork in the bottleneck of hurt.

He grabs a beer from the mini-fridge. It’s cracked and half gone by the time Sam’s seated at the table. He takes another swig before setting down the bottle, wipes the cool condensation on his fingers across his brow. He closes his eyes, listens to ebb-and-flow rumbling of Dean’s soft snores and the big rigs on the highway outside.

“It’s frustrating, isn’t it?”

Every hair on Sam’s body stands straight at the sound of Lucifer’s voice. “I mean, all that work you did. All the training and the bleeding and the headaches? I mean, sure, it turns out you were a little...misguided. But at least you were devoted, right? Committed to the cause. And what thanks do you get for your effort? Your own brother doesn’t trust you as far as he can throw you.”

“Leave him out of this,” Sam warns, eyes finally opening on the man seated across the table. The emotional bait is true and wounding, but he’s not going to fiddle against The Devil. Sam’s not going to allow his brother to be used as a weapon again.

Lucifer sucks his teeth. “Yeah, no, see? I can’t do that. Dean paid his entrance fee when he folded in Hell. You break the first seal,” he says with a tip of his temple, “you make it into the program listings, kid. Anyway. You and me? We need to talk.”

“I have nothing to say to you,” Sam snarls.

The Devil shrugs. “Okay. I’ll talk, you listen.”

Sam bucks against the sudden weight pressing him into the chair. He screws up his mouth, huffs through his nose.

The Devil plants his palms flat on the table. “Here’s the deal. I’m thinkin’ you need to...reaffirm your superiority in this brotherly partnership.” His head tips toward Dean’s sleeping form. “All the doubts and worries he has about you and your abilities? You oughta be havin’ ‘em about him. You’ve ceded Dean a lot of credit for overcoming forty years in Hell, Sammy. Credit – between you and me – he doesn’t really deserve. I mean, I wasn’t right there, but I read the paperwork,” Lucifer says with a wink and a smile.

“Look back on every stutter and pause your brother’s made since he came back. Think about how much his inaction and mistrust cost you. You were only ever trying to do the right thing, eh?”

Sam closes his eyes. Tries desperately to even out his breathing.

“You dispatched Alistair, son. You killed Lilith. That’s some pretty awesome shit, dude. How’d it feel, that kind of power?”

The whisper’s right in his ear, and Sam jerks his head to the side.

“If you got it in you to take out the likes of upper echelon demons, kid, what’s an insignificant prick like Dobrowski?” The Devil coos. “I mean, sometimes we have to sacrifice the few for the many...am I right?”

Sam knows without looking that Lucifer is gone; the pressing weight disappears from his chest and shoulders, the temperature of the immediate area drops drastically. Still, it’s a full minute before he opens his eyes.

Across the room, Dean’s snoring keeps cadence.

Sam lets him sleep.