Exactly seven months, three weeks and four days after Dean made a deal with the devil, Sam finally stumbled upon a ritual that allowed him to hope. Suddenly, there was hope that he would be able to keep his promise to Dean. Such hope, after so long without, was an unfamiliar, heady feeling.

As the days, weeks and finally months had passed since Cold Oak, Sam had watched the calendar with an increasing sense of desperation, made no better by the fact that Dean seemed to have grown more and more accepting of the idea. It bothered Sam beyond measure that his brother, who normally raged against everything, might go gently. As gently as it could be with hellhounds on one's heels.

Oh, Dean was living it up in the meantime. They continued to hunt, working tirelessly to find and exorcise as many demons as they could, although nowhere near all that had escaped the crypt. Dean still hustled pool, sought out poker games and picked up women.

Sam could only watch, nervously, as Dean seemed to take the impending life sentence as an excuse to try anything - and everything - at least once, no matter the risk. Sam shuddered, recalling a particularly frightening drag race incident. He had never imagined Dean risking damage to the Impala like that before. Not his baby, that he had spent so long rebuilding.

In the mean time, when Sam wasn't asleep (which was rare) or hunting (far less rare), he was either glued to the laptop or holed up in whatever library was closest. He had lost count how many times he had thought that he might have stumbled onto a solution, a cure. Oddly, he hadn't lost count how many times, without fail, those cures had failed outright.

He had initially faced the whole situation confident - certain - he would succeed.  But after so much time, so much failure, Sam had become deathly afraid that he was going to let Dean down, the very time he couldn't at all afford to. If there was ever one time that Sam knew he needed every piece of logic and intuition and downright luck he possessed, it was now. Cheesy movie line aside, failure was not an option.

Their latest hunt had brought them to a small town in southern Mississippi and while the hunt had proven worthless, Sam had found a small library on the outskirts of town. It had become his habit, no matter how small the town, to search out its library or local folk-teller.

Leaving Dean at the diner, Sam sought out the library, and soon found himself ensconced in the basement surrounded by books. He rarely paid attention to time when he was researching before. However, since Dean's deal with the not-so-proverbial devil, time had a way of making itself known constantly. He didn't want to be apart from Dean more than he had to be.

Sitting at the only table in the basement, the notebook he kept just for possible cures (almost full, he'd need a new one soon) and pencil at the ready, Sam ran his fingers along faded text, buried halfway through a worn, leather-bound book.

It told the story of a man who gambled with the devil - and had walked away. The irony of the story to their location (they were not so very far away from their first encounter with the Crossroads, after all) wasn't lost on Sam as he read, entranced. Toward the bottom of the first-hand account, there was an incantation written - several lines of Latin and twice as many in Creole. And while Sam could recognize the less familiar language, he couldn't read it.

However, even if the literal translation was lost on him - for the time being - Sam felt a flare of hope he hadn't known in weeks. Quickly, but very carefully, Sam wrote the incantation down in his notebook. Glancing back and forth between the book and his notes, he triple checked the contents, especially the unfamiliar words and their accent marks, before replacing the book on the shelf.

Leaning back in his seat, Sam took a breath, stretching his arms over his head. There was a knot, just between his shoulder blades, which had formed when he had learned of Dean's sacrifice. He knew it wouldn't disappear until his brother was free, but he stretched all the same, listening to his vertebrae pop and sighing quietly.

Once more, he read the incantation that might finally prove the magic bullet he'd been so desperately searching for. At some point, Sam had stopped telling Dean about the possible solutions and fixes he might have found. It wasn't worth the spark of hope, mixed with the oddest fleeting glimpse of fear that the news always received. Sam had resolved not to mention it again until he knew he'd found the one - the right one - the one that would set his brother free.

But this... this one Sam couldn't help thinking was worth mentioning, at least as soon as he determined the meaning behind latter part of the spell. He knew better than to risk an unknown spell, the possibility of summoning something he wasn't expecting or couldn't disperse.

There wasn't much hope of finding anything to help translate the words within the small library, but Sam searched the shelves anyway, just in case. It only took about twenty minutes, but in the end he was right back where he started.

He returned his notebook and pencil to his bag before replacing the books on the shelf. With a last, long look at the small book that might change so much, Sam left the building as quietly as he came, but with a much lighter step. Sam wished he had the laptop with him, wanting to start as soon as possible on translating the words, but knew it would have to wait until he was back at the motel.

Dean still had the car, having said something about looking for a pool game when Sam had mentioned the library, and they'd gone their separate ways. Luckily, their motel was not a very long walk from the library. Walking quickly, Sam was able to reach their room in less than ten minutes. He tried to ignore the voice in the back of his head saying that was ten minutes he could have been researching.

Most days, Sam had plenty of patience. But as he watched the clock ticking away the minutes Dean had left, Sam found his patience had run out. There was no time to lose and even less time to waste.

Closing the door behind him, Sam pulled his notebook out of his bag, grabbed the laptop and soon had it plugged into the phone outlet. Even under normal circumstances, Sam hated dial-up, but the small town they were in had neither high speed nor wireless internet. Sam doubly hated the slow connection now, as it meant the pages that might hold the clues he desperately needed would take even longer to load.

Two hours and more websites than he could count later, Sam finally had enough information to piece together the incantation. Enough that he was fairly certain - as much as necessary to give it a try, anyway - that it was safe and would have a good chance at accomplishing what they needed. He was certain enough that by the time he was done, Sam had decided to risk telling Dean about this latest find.

The main catch Sam had established was they would have to wait until the new moon, judging by the phrase "lin lan nouvèl" in the first line of Creole. They were just past the most recent one, which meant almost a full month's delay before they could try. While Sam hated the idea of waiting any longer, he knew better than to rush into such things. It said to wait, so they would wait.

Sam jumped when the door swung open, startling him from his thoughts.

"Geez, Sammy," Dean said with a smirk as he walked in. "Good to know you're ready in case something attacks." He closed the door behind him before dropping his keys onto the table and his coat onto a chair.

Rolling his eyes, Sam shut the laptop and turned in the chair to face Dean. "We already know there's nothing here, Dean. Remember?"

"Not the point," Dean replied, looking at Sam as though concerned that he could forget such an obvious thing. Moving toward the bathroom, Dean pointed back at Sam saying, "You've gotta be sharp."

This time, Sam fought the urge to roll his eyes, reminded suddenly of a conversation a lifetime ago when Sam's insomnia had been the cause of their discussion.

Standing, he crossed the room and pulled his duffel open, searching for something to sleep in. "Dude, I'm not twelve, I think it's okay," he said, knowing Dean would hear him through the closed bathroom door.

"Yeah, yeah," Dean said, walking back into the room before rooting around in his own bag. Sam watched, smiling at the familiar sight of Dean sniffing his clothes before picking which to change into. He felt a well-known pang in his chest at the little things which were so common, but would be gone forever if he couldn't make things right.

He must have been staring, because he jumped when Dean said, "Dude, what gives?"

Shaking his head, hoping it would help clear it (and make him look remotely innocent of wrongdoing) Sam sat on the bed. He glanced over at his notebook, which looked so innocent - no one would ever know how it possibly held the most important piece of information he might ever know. Sam took a deep breath, and said, "I think I might have found what we need."

Dean stopped checking his clothes, turned to look at Sam, and sat on his own bed. Sam could tell by his expression that Dean knew exactly what Sam was referring to. "Sam..." He sounded resigned and Sam worried that what little hope he used to see in Dean's eyes had finally died. "Maybe we ought to face facts. There's not a way out of this one."

Standing, Sam paced from the bed to the far wall and back again. He threw his hands up before shoving them in his pockets; the urge to hit something was too tempting. "There has to be, Dean," Sam said, turning to face his brother. "I can't accept that there isn't."

The guilt will kill me if there isn't, Sam thought, but never dared voice aloud.

"And I really think this one will work." He sighed, searching Dean's face, once again seeing the strange mixture of hope and fear. "It has to work, Dean," Sam said, pulling his hands free of his pockets and dropping onto the bed once more, arms hanging limp on his legs.

He heard Dean sigh, and looked up when Dean said quietly, "Okay, Sammy. We can give it a try." Sam shuddered at how... panicked Dean looked for a moment before his expression shuttered closed.

Needing to believe that everything would be okay, Sam said, "It'll work this time." He knew that he was trying to convince himself as much as Dean, and that Dean would hear it in his voice. "It has to," he whispered, knowing that he was repeating himself.

"Yeah, okay," Dean said, grabbing his toiletry kit and clothes. "I'm gonna take a shower, get rid of the cigarette smoke smell." With that he stood and crossed the room quickly, shutting the door behind him.

Sam ran his hands through his hair, wishing he could recapture the feeling of optimism from before he had told Dean. From when he had been certain this would work and everything would be okay and Dean would live. He wished Dean had any hope left, and could only pray that he had enough hope for the both of them.

He changed quickly, climbed into bed and fell into a dreamless sleep - free of nightmares for the first time since he had learned of Dean's fate - before Dean came out of the bathroom. There was a certain irony when, what felt like mere moments later, Sam was ripped from sleep by Dean's voice.

"No!"

Jumping up, tangled in the sheets, Sam searched frantically, looking for whatever Dean was yelling about before realizing, in his sleep-befuddled state, that it was a nightmare, not an attack.

"Dean," he said, his voice rough from sleep. Untangling the sheets from around his legs, Sam crossed the narrow space between their beds. Reaching out hesitantly - waking Dean from even a normal sleep was never the safest of endeavors - Sam placed his hand on Dean's shoulder and shook gently. "Come on, Dean. Wake up."

"You can't do that," Dean mumbled, refusing to wake. Sam only had a moment to be surprised by Dean talking in his sleep (which he never had been prone to) before Dean continued. "You can't have him."

"Dean!" Sam said, louder, knowing Dean was likely to lash out before he realized what was going on. However, anything had to be better than watching Dean's face screwing up in frustration and fear.

"So if I break the deal... If I live... I lose Sammy again, anyway?"

Sam's heart skipped a beat, his breath jammed in his throat. It felt like someone had doused him in ice water and he shivered. Suddenly, things made so much more sense. The fear, the panic that was so unlike Dean, every time Sam mentioned finding a way to save him. It wasn't bad enough Dean only got a year, but the bitch had to go put another caveat on the wager, too?

Dean's life for Sam. Sam's life for Dean's. Full circle.

"Sammy?" Dean asked, his voice sleepy. He moved to sit up, managing to prop up on his elbows, and gave Sam a puzzled look. "Why are you looming over me? Everything okay?"

Shaking his head, his mind spinning a mile a minute, Sam swallowed nervously, his throat dry. "You were having a nightmare," he finally managed, dropping his hand from Dean's shoulder.

Something dark and unidentifiable flitted across Dean's eyes, but he blinked and it was gone. Had Sam not heard Dean's words before, he would've though perhaps he had imagined it. "It's nothing, Sam," Dean said, dropping back onto the bed, and turning onto his side away from Sam.

Staring at Dean's back, Sam asked, "You sure you don't want to talk about it?"

Dean grunted. "Oh that's rich, coming from you." He glanced over his shoulder at Sam, his gaze belying the harsh words. "I'm fine, Sammy. Go back to sleep."

"Dean..."

"Good night, Sam," Dean said, clearly meaning the conversation was at its end.

Sam sighed, but dropped back onto his own bed. Arms resting on his knees, Sam stared at Dean's back for several more moments. He was trying - and failing - to wrap his mind around what he had learned.

No wonder Dean was spooked - Sam knew he would feel no differently if the situation was reversed. Lying down, Sam curled onto his side, mirroring Dean's position without meaning to. He grabbed the extra pillow, pulling it to his chest.

He still had faith in the spell he had found, but now he knew that wasn't going to be enough. While he might be okay with dying to save Dean (it was a family trait, apparently) he knew how well that wouldn't go over. Sam didn't put it past Dean to start the cycle all over again, if he had the chance, and Sam wasn't willing to risk it.

Okay, he thought, so there's a catch... But catches could be dealt with, Sam knew. All it meant was going back to the drawing board.

The sleep that finally found Sam, hours later, was fitful, full of dreams of sacrifice.

-=-=-

Two weeks passed, their limited time before the next new moon seeming to fly, before Sam finally happened upon a mention of a priestess who lived in the lowlands outside New Orleans. One who, it was rumored, specialized in the kind of information Sam needed.

As far as Dean knew, Sam had dropped the subject of the latest possible solution to their problem. He probably figured Sam was on the chase for another option and didn't want to risk broaching the subject. Sam almost found it funny. Dean was half right.

He reasoned that if the punishment for Dean breaking the deal, and being saved, was Sam dying, what if Sam was already dead when the deal was broken? A long shot, Sam knew, possibly even grasping at straws, but one he had no choice but to pursue.

In the meantime, he had continued searching for other potential ways of reversing the deal. If the incantation he had found failed come the new moon, Sam knew he would need a back up plan (or ten) to try afterward. And when they weren't hunting, when he wasn't searching for other options, Sam searched for ways he could die - but not die.

It had taken some persuading, possibly whining and pouting the likes of which Sam hadn't tried to pull on Dean since he was in elementary school, but he had finally convinced Dean they needed to take a hunt near New Orleans. Dean was determined there was nothing to the reported haunting, and Sam suspected the same, but he had to get there - and fast.

Sam left Dean at a local bar that afternoon; cash was always in short supply after all. He used the excuse that the library was further than he wanted to walk to guilt the car keys away from Dean, since the motel actually was well within walking distance of the bar. His constant trips to libraries near and far gave Sam the perfect excuse to slip away without Dean being any the wiser.

The way they had been raised had instilled in Sam a sense of direction that would rival most compasses. He rarely, if ever, got turned around when trying to find something. Yet even with that, and directions, it still took him three tries to find the tucked away little cottage the priestess lived in. It left no doubt she wasn't interested in entertaining visitors, but he was going to try anyway.

The small building was far from inviting, vines and weeds crowding the walls in a way that almost made it blend into the swamp it was settled in. Sam got out of the car, cringing at the loud noise of the door slamming shut, before crossing the marshy ground to the front door.

He knocked, waited a few moments before knocking again. It had taken too long to find this place - both the research of the past two weeks and the drive out - to give up easily. Sam was prepared to wait however long it took for her to come to the door. She had to at least hear his case, even if she then turned him away. Joshua had promised him at least that much when he had finally sent the directions.

"Passe'," came a voice from inside, startling Sam.

The word didn't sound inviting, though Sam wasn't positive what it meant. Standing up straighter, Sam tried anyway. "A friend sent me to you... I need to speak with you." Sam paused, swallowing roughly. "Please."

The door creaked open, a small woman who was wrapped in a shawl peering out. Sam met her measuring gaze, hoping she would see in his eyes whatever it was she sought. Something that would make her more inclined to help him and not deny him outright. If this didn't work, Sam wasn't sure what options would be left before the new moon.

"Dis friend," she finally said, making Sam hope he had passed inspection. "What is 'is name?"

Sam let out a breath he didn't realize he had been holding. "Joshua. He gave me your name. Told me you could help." He knew how desperate he sounded, part of him hoped she heard it as well.

After a long moment, she nodded. "I know dis name, if not da man." She seemed to size Sam up once more before stepping back, holding the door open slightly. Gesturing for him to follow her, she asked, "And your name?"

Following her into the darkened dwelling, Sam replied, "It's Sam, ma'am."

She laughed at that, surprising him. "No 'ma'am' here, jus' moi."

"Sorry," Sam said, ducking his head.

The woman - who Sam still didn't have a name for, even from Joshua - smiled, making her look many years younger, Sam couldn't help but notice. "Not a problem," she said, waving her arm toward a chair. Once he sat, she asked, "Now, dis problem you have..."

When she didn't continue, Sam guessed he was meant to speak. "I need a way to die," he said, glancing away and then back again, "but not die."

She recoiled, horror on her face. "Death is not a toy to be played with, young 'un. It is a serious matter."

"I know," Sam hurried to reassure her. "I wouldn't be asking otherwise." He took a deep breath, looking all around the room before daring to look back at her, fearing judgment. Finding a wary skepticism, but no longer horror in her eyes, he continued. "I have to save my brother. He's all I have." Pleading both with his voice and his eyes, Sam said, "And to save him, really truly save him... I have to die, but live."

The priestess settled down beside him and placed a hand on his arm. The mistrust was gone from her face, replaced by an open curiosity. "And how will you dyin' save dis brother of yours?"

"He traded his life for mine," Sam said, speaking the words out loud for the first time. Shuddering, Sam clenched his eyes shut, rubbing his hand over his face. "He made a deal, and it's going to cost him his soul."

"And you dyin'?"

Sam smiled, humorlessly. "That was the catch on the deal. For him to live, I have to die. Again."

Her eyebrow quirked at that, but she didn't question it further.  "And you would not be willin' to die for your brother? And stay dead dis time?" she asked, though Sam wondered if she already knew the answer by the look on her face.

He nodded. "In a heartbeat, if it would save him." Sighing, he added, "But it wouldn't. I know Dean. He'd follow me. And I can't let him. I won't."

"Dis is da right answer," she said after several tense moments, squeezing Sam's arm. "I have somethin', somethin' dat if you took it, would make you sleep so deep, you would be dead to da world around you. A livin' death."

Sam nodded once more, relieved to hear what he'd hoped for. Well, part of it. "I would be dead - but be able to return. I wouldn't stay dead?"

She stood, shaking her head. "No, with one except'n." Moving from shelf to shelf, she began collecting several bottles and pouches as Sam watched. He was about to ask what the exception was when she added, almost as an afterthought, "Should you, your spirit, stay out of da body too long, you will be lost."

"Lost?" Sam asked, a shiver running down his spine. He had a sudden mental image of evil spirits, poltergeists, lost and twisted souls. To become what they hunted... Sam felt cold at the prospect.

As if sensing his apprehension, she turned and gave him another smile. "Where da will is strong, da spirit will survive." She gave him a long, serious look as though she could see into him, measure him. "As will da body."

"What do I have to do?"

Busy grinding powders and mixing them, a pinch here, a drop there, she said, "Dis mixture must be taken one hour before. You will den have exactly one hour to finish da job you seek. Any longer an' it will be too late."

Thinking on the incantation he had copied, and been practicing to get the pronunciations right, Sam knew an hour should be long enough. "And in this hour? I'll be dead?"

"To all who see you, yes. Da spirit shall be tied to da body, but da body shall be dead." Before Sam could reply, she asked, "Do you think dis is enough separation to fool your demon?" Sam looked up quickly. He had never mentioned the demon. "Don' look so surprised," she said with a laugh. "Did you think I did no' know?"

Sheepishly, Sam shook his head. "I probably should have guessed..."

"'s okay, young Sam. Der are more things out there den either you or I know, but in da meantime, we know enough." He hardly dared blink, trying to absorb what she had just said. She might not know Joshua himself, but it was growing more and more apparent she had her own contacts into the hunting world.

They were both silent for several minutes, Sam watching as she continued to putter along the cabinets. "Thank you," he finally said, hoping the true depths of his gratitude showed in the meager words.

She tied the bundle up, a pouch so small it could fit in Sam's hand and not be seen, and handed it to him. "Sacrifice is a noble gift. It should be rewarded, not punished." Sam stared at the bundle, his mouth opening and closing but no words coming forth. "Mix with water - jus' water - and drink all of it, one hour before. Den lie down and wait, t'will feel like you're fallin' asleep."

"And when I'm dead?" Sam asked in a small voice.

Smiling, she said, "One hour to complete da spell you've found." He started once more, at the depth of her knowledge but she didn't comment on his surprise. "One hour to save your brother and return to your body."

"How?"

She smiled enigmatically. "Da heart will know."

Not entirely pleased with her answer, Sam started to press but could tell by her expression that he would get no more answers. "Can I repay you?" he asked instead.

She shook her head, looking almost offended. "All of us must work together to defeat da demons of dis world, young Sam. Dis is only a part mine."

"Thank you," he said again, clutching the bag desperately.

"Go now," she replied, holding the door open. "Your brother will be lookin' for you."

Stepping outside, Sam was surprised to see that dusk had fallen. It didn't feel like so much time had passed while he had been waiting, and he half-heartedly hoped Dean was still distracted at the bar. Shrugging - there was nothing he could do about it now - he got into the car and tucked the precious bundle into a safe pocket of his bag. He hated the idea of letting it out of his sight, but it couldn't be helped. He couldn't afford Dean finding it before the time was right.

The drive back into town didn't take half as long as the trip out, Sam's unerring sense of direction no longer failing him. And he wasn't surprised that the priestess was proven right when he entered the motel room to find Dean waiting for him.

Sam watched as the worry faded from Dean's face, only to be replaced with a more easily managed - to Dean's way of thinking - annoyance.

"Dude, what's up with disappearing for hours? With the car, I might add?"

Dropping his jacket onto a chair, Sam grinned, knowing it would drive Dean up the wall and distract him at the same time. "Not enough action for you at the bar?"

"I didn't say that," Dean replied with a smug grin. "Got four numbers. Which is why it would've been nice if I'd had the car, Sammy. Chicks don't dig guys who have to walk them home."

Laughing, Sam powered up the laptop under the pretense of more research. "Oh I don't know, some of them like the gallant type."

"Boring girls, Sam. Boring girls dig the 'gallant' type. Not my kind of girls. My kind of girls dig muscle cars," Dean said in a blunt tone as if this was an obvious fact to anyone with half a brain.

Rolling his eyes, Sam looked at Dean and then back at the computer. "Whatever, dude. Your precious car is perfectly fine. Here," he said, tossing the keys to his brother. "Have a blast." That Sam would rather Dean stay in, time was short and Sam hated how much of it they spent apart no matter the reasons, remained unsaid.

However, he wondered if Dean somehow heard the thought because his brother surprised him by shaking his head. "Nah, it's too late. I guess I'll just have to baby sit you, instead." Almost as an afterthought, but in a voice that clearly said he didn't want to know, Dean asked, "Find anything at the library?"

"No," Sam replied, cursing himself for the white lie, but knowing it was for the best. "It was a bust."

Dean looked like he wasn't sure if he should be upset or relieved by the words, but shook himself out of it quickly enough. "That's too bad," he said, and Sam almost believed him.

-=-=-

If getting Dean to agree to check out New Orleans was difficult, getting him to agree to take a break at Bobby's was nearly impossible. Sam was keeping a wary eye on the calendar, hating how close the new moon was (they still had to get to Bobby's) and wanting it to hurry up (a real chance to finally save Dean) at the same time.

Sam had decided early on, pretty much as soon as he had realized what it would take to truly break the deal, that it needed to be done at Bobby's. He knew the older hunter would take them in, and he knew that Bobby had a wealth of knowledge about many things supernatural. Most importantly, Sam trusted Bobby to take care of Dean if the chips fell and everything went to hell - literally.

There had been a week and a half until the new moon after they left New Orleans. Which was plenty of time to get to South Dakota, if only Dean would stop stonewalling him. They'd gone on a hunt in Indiana first, and another in Wisconsin. The only reason Sam hadn't already snapped was that the hunts were basically on the way to Bobby's.

However, when Dean had found a hunt in Arizona, Sam finally had to put his foot down. He played a card he hated; one he knew took advantage of Dean in a manipulative way Sam was loath to resort to. Sam had begged off - he was tired, worn. Couldn't they just take a break? Just for a few days.

In the end, Dean caved just as Sam knew he would. He only hoped that when everything was said and done - if they were both still alive - Dean would forgive him for the exploitation.

The sun had long since set when they pulled into the drive at Bobby's, but a light was still on in the kitchen, which was a promising sign. Sam had called when they were a couple of hours out, to make sure it was okay to drop by. He hadn't been sure what he was going to do if it wasn't. Luckily, Bobby had agreed in his usual gruff manner and told them to get a move on, it was getting late and he wanted to get to bed.

Getting out of the car, Sam felt as though he was made of lead. All of a sudden, his pleas of exhaustion didn't seem so far off the mark. A sideways glance at Dean, when the other wasn't looking, showed this to be the case for him as well. Even if Dean would never admit it.

They grabbed their bags out of the trunk of the car and crossed the small area that might be described as a lawn if one was generous, and knocked on the front door. Barking answered them before the door finally swung open, Bobby looking at them expectantly.

"What's wrong?" he asked, stepping aside so they could come in.

Dean looked startled, glancing at Sam before saying, "Something have to be wrong to come say hi?"

Bobby gave him a 'cut the crap' look before looking at Sam. "So you tell me. What's wrong?"

"Nothing, I swear," Sam said, holding his hands up in mock surrender and smiling. He convinced himself it wasn't a lie, since the intent behind the visit was to fix what was wrong.

Bobby continued to look at them warily, closing the door and gesturing toward the sitting room. His reaction was almost enough to make Sam laugh. He could only imagine what possibilities had been going through Bobby's head since they'd called. The last time Sam had been there, he had recently been dead and had shocked Bobby by suddenly being very much alive. Thanks to Dean.

"You know where the extra room is," Bobby said from behind them after locking the door. "And there's food in the kitchen, if you're hungry."

Turning, Sam smiled, touched by how much the older man had taken them in over the past couple of years. "Thanks, Bobby," he said quietly, hoping the man understood how much his friendship meant.

In response, Bobby pulled his ever-present trucker hat from his head, and ran a hand through his hair. "Yeah, yeah. Come on then, put your stuff up and come get something to eat." He turned then, disappearing into the kitchen.

They watched him leave and Dean turned to Sam. "I don't think he trusts us, Sammy," he said, but the smile on his face revealed it for the joke it was.

Sam laughed. "I can't imagine why."

"Raise one guy from the dead..." Dean began, still smirking, but stopped when he looked at Sam and saw the stricken expression on his face. Sam swallowed roughly, his stomach clenching at the reminder of what had happened. And why they were there. "I was just kidding..." Dean began, trying to make amends, Sam knew.

Clearing his throat, Sam shook his head. "It's fine. Lets go put our stuff up, okay?" he asked, turning toward the stairs. He didn't look back, trusting Dean to follow. While it was rare Sam led and Dean followed, matter of habit as much as age, Sam knew he would be there all the same.

He had to admit that it was a comforting thought. And one that he hoped, after the next night, would continue to be true long after his one year was up.

The room looked much like Sam remembered it. Two small beds that had long since seen better days filled the bulk of the room. Since Bobby didn't have any kids, Sam had wondered in the past about the reason for the beds - he'd slept on them often enough growing up - but he had never dared to ask. They were too short for him anymore but oddly enough, the small room was as much home as any apartment they'd had when he was younger.

It only took a few minutes to drop their bags off before going back downstairs in search of food. They found Bobby waiting on them, nursing a cup of coffee. He gestured toward the stove with a tilt of his head. "It's nothing fancy."

Sam lifted the lid from a pot and found what looked like macaroni and cheese and hot dogs. He grinned, they hadn't had that particular meal in years but growing up, it had been a staple. In fact, it was one of the first things Dean had learned to cook. It hadn't hurt that the ingredients were cheap and readily available.

"Dude!" Dean cried, not faking his enthusiasm. "You used to love this stuff, Sammy," he said, looking at Sam, his eyes light. "Used to beg me to make it till I couldn't stand it anymore."

Sam laughed. "Admit it, you liked it too."

"Yeah, yeah," Dean muttered, grabbing a plate and piling an almost obscene amount of the food onto it.

Once he was out of the way, Sam did the same, albeit a more reasonable amount. He grabbed a couple of drinks from the refrigerator and they both sat at the table across from Bobby.

Bobby looked from one of them to the other before asking, "So, what really brings you boys up this way?"

"Francis here is tired," Dean said around a mouthful of food, tilting his head at Sam. "Needed some beauty sleep."

Luckily for Sam, Dean was preoccupied enough with dinner he didn't catch the flash of emotion Sam felt burn his face. Unluckily for Sam, Bobby did. Sam glanced at Bobby while playing with his food more than eating it. He almost winced at the piercing look the other man leveled on him. There was no way Bobby was going to let that one go, but at least he seemed willing to do it away from Dean.

Dean burped loudly, pushing his plate away with one hand and patting his stomach with the other. "Thanks, Bobby. That hit the spot."

Smirking, Bobby asked, "You don't say? You always did eat like a horse."

Sam grinned when Dean at least had the decency to look slightly abashed. "Sorry."

"No worse than when you two were teenagers," Bobby said with an exaggerated shudder. "Just the sight of you two and all my food seemed to disappear."

Dean laughed. "Heh. Good times, man."

Although there was still food on his plate, Sam stood and scraped it into the trash before running water over the dish. He left it in the sink and turned to Dean. "I'm gonna head on up."

Sam glanced at Bobby, knowing his actions were only postponing the questioning, not avoiding it entirely. But the new moon was the next night, so he only needed to avoid the discussion until sometime the next day. Sometime Dean wasn't in earshot.

Dean nodded. "I'll be up soon."

"Good night, Bobby. Thanks for dinner," Sam said before leaving the room and trudging up the stairs.

He tried not to think about the fact it very well might be the last normal night of sleep he would ever have. The spell was going to work. It had to.

-=-=-

Sam slept in the next morning, waking to the sound of metal clinking against metal and knew that Dean - who was nowhere to be seen - was outside tinkering on the Impala. Working on the car, even if nothing was wrong, had become something of a tradition anymore. Anytime they were at Bobby's and not in the middle of one disaster or another, Dean would jump at the chance to touch up the car.

And although Sam wanted to spend as much time with Dean as he could (just in case...) he also needed the time to prepare. He needed to go over the incantation again; though he could probably recite it backwards, he'd practiced so often.

He had also decided that he needed to write a letter, hide it under his pillow so that Dean wouldn't find it if everything worked out, but would if it didn't. Sam could imagine the level of mocking Dean would subject him to, if everything worked out and he found the letter. But Sam couldn't bring himself to risk dying - risk leaving Dean forever or worse, Dean following him - without leaving something behind.

Paper was rarely in short supply around Sam, so it only took a few minutes to find the supplies he would need. The problem came when he sat on the bed, pen in hand, and stared at the empty sheet. What in the world could you say, in a letter, to someone who made up most of your world?

Sorry it didn't work was far too trite, if nonetheless true.

Please don't follow me was quite possibly pointless, if even more true.

I love you was... not something they said. Ever.

Sam sighed. The decision to leave a letter was easy, but he was beginning to think it would take all day to actually write it. Fiddling with the pen, he thought about it for a few more moments before pressing it to the paper.

First let me say that I know you're pissed. I know how I felt when I found out what you'd done for me - how you had saved me - and worse, I know how you felt when Dad saved you. It's okay that you're pissed, Dean.

In my defense, I think this will work. I don't want to die, Dean. I don't want to leave you. And I if I have any say in the matter, I won't. You'll get the chance at the life - the years - you deserve and I'll be there with you. Please believe me.

But if something does go wrong. If I screw this up, then all I can hope is that at the very least the deal is broken. That way my dying (again) will mean something. That's really all I have the right to ask for, though I'm asking for so much more because I don't want to die. Not back in Cold Oak, not today.

I'm going to do my damndest to live for you, Dean. All that I ask is you do the same for me, no matter how this goes.

Sam

Sam looked at the letter for a long moment, hating how sappy it sounded but knowing it all needed to be said. As an afterthought, he added:

P.S. If you follow me, I will hunt you down, and I will make your afterlife hell, big brother. Don't think I won't.

He grinned, albeit morbidly. It might not accomplish anything, might very well be pointless, but it needed to be there.

With a last glance at the words, Sam folded the paper into thirds. Turning, he slid the paper underneath his pillow, tucked out of sight. Just in case, he threw his bag on top of the pillow in the hopes it would keep both Dean and Bobby away from it.

He had just finished when a knock on the door made him turn. Seeing Bobby standing there, looking anxious, he said, "Hey, Bobby."

Walking into the room, Bobby pushed the door closed behind him. "Now would you care to explain whatever fool idea it is you have in your head?"

Sam tried to smile, but failed. "Have a seat," he said, gesturing toward Dean's bed. "Just watch out for Dean's socks. They might bite."

"Sam..." Bobby said with a sigh as he sat. "Please tell me you're smarter than your daddy and your brother." Surprised, and almost offended, Sam opened his mouth to reply but the other man cut him off. "And don't go getting all hot over that, you know what I mean. First your daddy trades himself for Dean. Then Dean for you. Whatever you've got planned, nothing good can come of it."

Clenching his jaw, Sam shook his head. "Something good can and will come of it, Bobby. If I don't do this, Dean'll die in just over three months. I can't let that happen." His voice broke on the last words.

"Do I want to know?" Bobby asked several moments later, giving Sam an unreadable look.

Laughing humorlessly, Sam said, "Probably not, but I need you to, anyway. It's why I wanted to come here."

"I gathered."

"I know I can count on you, Bobby," Sam said as if the other man hadn't spoken. "I trust you."

He paused, looking at Bobby and seeing the moment realization dawned. "With Dean."

"Yeah, with Dean." Sam rubbed his hand through his hair and then over his face. He felt drained, so many months of searching and chasing had finally come down to one day. It seemed unreal. "I really think this will work. And Dean will be free."

"And you?" Bobby asked, his rough voice surprising Sam. Sometimes it was easy to forget that Bobby had watched him and Dean grow up, that this would shake him up, too. Bobby was always so unflappable, it was hard to imagine.

"This can't be as easy as a ritual or a spell," he said, interrupting Sam's thoughts. "You wouldn't need to be here for that. Something's up." And sometimes it felt like Bobby knew him a little too well.

Sam turned and pulled the notebook from his bag. "I did find an incantation. One that I think will break the deal."

"But..." Bobby prompted when Sam stalled.

Shaking his head, Sam continued. "But I found out a while back that there's a catch. Dean doesn't know that I know, but the demon put a retainer on the deal. If Dean escapes - and lives - I die again."

"Damn it, Sam," Bobby interrupted, standing abruptly and towering over Sam.

Holding out a placating hand, Sam gestured for him to sit. "Bobby, I know that if I die saving him, Dean will do something stupid. He'd probably consider it noble and heroic, but to me, if it ended up with him dead, it'd be stupid. So I did some research. It's what I'm good at, right?" he asked the last with a feeble grin. "I swear I think I have a way around it."

The last thing Sam wanted to do was spell out the details of his little work around. It made for less implication on Bobby's part when Dean's anger came to the fore after it was over.

"And if you don't?"

Sam cringed. "That's what you're here for Bobby. You have to keep him safe if I... If I can't."

Bobby seemed to deflate in front of Sam's eyes. Sam couldn't help finding it a rather shocking picture. Sam had never seen the other man look so small. "You're not asking for much, are you?"

"I know you can do it," Sam said with a half-grin. "But hopefully you won't have to."

"And I can't talk you out of it?" Bobby asked, sounding as if he knew the answer already.

"No."

Nodding, Bobby asked, "So when are you going to do this - what ever this is?"

"It has to happen at the new moon. Tonight."

"Hell, Sam. I hope you know what you're doing."

"Yeah," Sam said in a small voice. "So do I."

-=-=-

The day passed faster than Sam would have liked. As sure as he was that his plan would work, there was enough uncertainty to make him nervous. So, he spent as much time out at the car with Dean as he could without arousing his brother's suspicions. The small voice of "just in case" was driving him to make the most of the day.

By the time dusk fell, Sam was hot and sweaty and covered in brake dust from helping Dean rotate the tires. His willingness to pitch in, bordering on eagerness, had earned him a perplexed look, but grateful thanks, all the same. And Sam couldn't help liking that they'd spent the day doing something so... normal together.

Finally finished, Sam wiped his hands on a work towel as they headed into the house. They'd barely taken two steps into the kitchen when Bobby, who was nursing the ancient coffee maker, pointed toward the stairs without a word.

"We'll just... go get cleaned up," Sam said, pushing Dean - who was snickering - ahead of him.

Walking up the stairs, the back of Dean's head filling most of his line of sight, Sam felt oddly at peace. Dean should have never had to trade his life for Sam and in only a few hours, Sam would finally have a chance to make it right.

He entered their room to find Dean already digging through - and sniffing - his clothes. Sam made an absent-minded mental note to do laundry before they left, not consciously thinking about the inherent hope in his plan. He knew Bobby wouldn't mind if they did, but he also knew Dean would avoid the chore until the clothes were walking on their own, which left it up to Sam.

"I know you're not used to dirt, Sam," Dean said, breaking Sam from his thoughts. "But he meant you, too. You stink." He gave Sam a measuring glance. "Besides, you're staring again. This new habit of yours is starting to get a little creepy."

"Yeah, right," Sam said, moving toward his own bag and pulling out a new shirt. He ignored the last part of Dean's comment. "Just because I don't find every piece of dirt in a three-county area - and go roll in it - doesn't mean I'm not used to dirt."

He flashed Dean a grin, happy to see it returned. Their normal banter from when they were younger was strained at times since Stanford. Sam was relieved that this wasn't one of those times.

"Just for that," Dean said as he left the room, "I'm leaving you no hot water."

Laughing, Sam shook his head and returned his attention to his own clothes. Sam paused and gave his own shirt a sniff. Dean wasn't kidding, he thought, I stink.

With nothing to do but wait, Sam sat on his bed and thought over his plans for the evening. He had already decided to wait until Dean was asleep. The slightest threat would wake Dean, but when it was just Sam there, and no danger, Dean would sleep like a rock. Another reason for choosing Bobby's place was Sam knew it was one of the places Dean felt most safe, and should sleep on, unaware.

That last part was important. Sam didn't want Dean waking in the middle of the ritual if he could help it. If he was lucky, everything would be said and done and Dean would be none the wiser until he woke in the morning and the deal was broken. At that point, Sam would handle the inevitable explosion of temper he knew would come.

"What's with you?" Dean asked, causing Sam to jump. He looked up to find Dean looking at him, perplexed. "I shouldn't be able to sneak up on you so easy, Sam."

Sam could hear the hint of annoyance in the curious question. If there was one thing Dean couldn't stand, it was Sam letting his guard down when he was conscious to help it, and sometimes, not even then.

Shaking his head, trying to clear the cobwebs the heavy thoughts always brought, Sam forced a grin. "Sorry, just thinking."

"Well, stop that," Dean said, dropping his dirty clothes onto the bed before grimacing, and pushing them onto the floor instead. "I'm not waiting for you to finish thinking before we eat."

Smiling, for real this time, Sam picked up his clothes. "I'd better hurry then. I know better than to get between you and food." He left the room, hastening into the bathroom and closing the door before Dean could respond.

Ten minutes later, and blessedly dirt free, Sam left the bathroom, dropped his own dirty clothes on top of Dean's pile and went downstairs. Not surprisingly, he found both the other men in the kitchen. What was surprising was the sight of Dean peeling potatoes with a wicked looking, curved knife.

"Don't say it," Dean said before Sam could comment.

Holding up his hands, Sam bit back a laugh. "Not a word." Sam waited a beat before he was unable not to egg his brother on. "But you know that dulls the blade even faster."

"But you know that dulls the blade even faster," Dean sing-songed, tilting his head back and forth as he did. Glancing at Sam, he said, "Dude, I'm not an idiot." He must have noticed the amused look on Sam's face, because he rolled his eyes. Dropping a skinned potato into the sink, he added, "You're more than welcome to do it instead. And at least I can cook."

Sitting at the table beside Dean, Sam snickered. "Dean, there were times growing up that you could burn water." Looking at Bobby, who was standing at the stove and apparently doing his best to ignore both of them, Sam said, "Bobby, you should know, whenever Dean had to peel potatoes when we were little, more of the potato ended up left on the skin, and in the trash, than in the pot."

Dean elbowed Sam in the ribs, before Sam moved out of the line of fire. "Oh shut up, Sam. Like I said, you're welcome to take over." While the words were harsh, Sam could see the humor in Dean's eyes. He was enjoying the lighter moment as much as Sam, even if he would never admit it.

"Yeah, yeah," Sam said, holding out his hand for the knife. "Here, let me have a turn. You help Bobby with..." He looked once more at Bobby's back, surprised the older hunter was still ignoring them. "Bobby, anything for Dean to do?"

Bobby turned then, giving Sam a searching glance before shaking his head, the awkward look disappearing from his eyes as if it had never been. It wasn't quite soon enough, however, because Dean looked from Bobby to Sam and back again.

"What's up?"

Shaking his head again, though his face was twisted as if he smelled something foul, Bobby said, "Nothing, Dean." Bobby looked at both of them, letting out a long breath. He held out another knife to Dean and gestured behind him by tilting his head. "Mind finishing up the meat?" he asked without really asking.

Sam could tell Dean wasn't entirely convinced nothing was wrong, but he nodded anyway and took the knife Bobby offered. "Sure thing."

"Thanks," Bobby said, running his hands under the tap before drying them and leaving the room.

For a long moment everything was silent and still. Eventually, Dean said, "Okay, that's not nothing. What's got him so spooked?"

Sam shrugged, trusting in his finely tuned lying abilities to get him through the last couple of hours before bed. "Dunno. Probably something to do with the junkyard, or maybe someone else's hunt. Who knows?"

Dean didn't appear convinced, but as there was nothing he could do, short of chasing Bobby down, he finally turned his attention back to dinner. "Yeah, I guess," he mumbled.

All Sam could do was hope that Bobby wouldn't let slip what was going to happen - and he trusted him not to, especially if he was going to avoid them all night. Bad enough Dean's hackles were raised even a fraction when Sam needed him thinking nothing was out of the ordinary. That was partly because he didn't want to be discovered, but also partly because he wanted one last completely normal day with his brother.

Dean had just pulled the meat, which Sam was pretty sure was venison, out of the oven when Bobby reappeared in the kitchen. The peculiar look from before was gone, leaving Bobby looking, well, like Bobby again.

"You managed to not burn the house down, I see," he said gruffly, but with the slightest hint of a grin.

Dean smirked. "Well, Sammy tried, but I managed to get it under control."

"Not even close," Sam said, finishing the mashed potatoes and placing the bowl on the table. He wiped his hands on a rag before taking a seat across from Bobby. "It was all Dean trying to burn the place down, Bobby. Not me."

Sam flinched when Dean smacked him on the back of the head with a towel. "I did not slave over a hot stove all day for you to bad mouth me like that," Dean said, sighing melodramatically, giving Bobby a wink.

"Technically, it was the oven. I was the one using the stove," Sam said, rubbing his hand over the back of his head. "And it was hardly all day."

"Whatever, Sammy," Dean said, placing the steaks onto the table beside the potatoes. Looking at Bobby, Dean put on what Sam thought of as his long-suffering face. "See what I have to put up with?"

Groaning, Bobby looked at each of them in turn before grabbing a plate and beginning to pile potatoes onto it. "Some days I think you boys never did grow up."

"Hey!" the cried, simultaneously.

Bobby laughed, a surprisingly unrestrained sound, the likes of which Sam hadn't heard from him in a very long time, if ever. "That's what I mean," he said before digging into the food. "Eat up before it gets cold." He paused and glanced at Dean. "You did slave over a hot stove all day, after all."

"I get no respect," Dean muttered. Sam laughed once more, able for the moment to forget (or try to forget) about what was coming.

-=-=-

After dinner, Sam spent most of the evening surrounded by the untold number of books Bobby had on occult rituals and practices. And since Dean had decided to clean the guns and sharpen the knives, there was the added bonus of being near his brother without any pressure to make conversation. The later the day grew, the tighter the knot in Sam's stomach became and the less he wanted to talk.

So, when Dean finally finished the last of the knives, carefully packing them away, and said he was headed up to bed, Sam gave him a long look and merely nodded. He didn't think he could force any words through his throat right then, even if he had to.

Dean gave him another confounded look - he had been doing that a lot since Sam had begun researching ways to break the deal - and said, "Good night, Sammy," before disappearing up the stairs.

Sam watched him leave, not looking away until Dean was completely out of sight, before turning his gaze to the middle of the room and staring off into space. He was startled, several moments later, by Bobby asking quietly, "You sure you want to go through with this?"

Pretending he hadn't just jumped so badly as to spill the book from his lap (which he had), Sam looked at Bobby. Sam felt pressed in from all sides - the time had finally come. Almost a month of planning after almost eight months of hopeless searching, and Sam found he didn't know what to think.

"I have to," he finally managed, his voice rough and low.

He half-expected Bobby to argue, and was surprised when he nodded instead. "He won't be happy," Bobby said, tilting his chin to the left to indicate the upstairs.

"I know."

Bobby chuckled, an odd sound in the serious conversation. "But it isn't like he can throw any stones over it exactly, either."

Sam grinned at the gallows humor, knowing it for the truth even as he knew Dean wouldn't think of it like that for a second. "Won't stop him."

"No," Bobby said, shaking his head. There was a long silence before Bobby asked, "You ready?"

Icy fear stole over Sam's chest at the question. Was he? Really? Was he prepared for if the spell didn't work, or if the draught was wrong? No, he wasn't remotely ready for either. But he couldn't let himself think about all of the possible outcomes, just the right one.

"Yeah," he said, hoping his voice sounded strong. When Bobby looked at him, almost sadly, Sam knew it hadn't. Meeting Bobby's eyes, Sam shrugged, trying to find the words to express that maybe he wasn't ready, but that he somehow was at the same time.

Finally, he settled on, "He's my brother, Bobby."

Bobby was silent for so long that Sam began to grow nervous. Eventually, he must have seen what he was looking for on Sam's face, because he nodded. "I know, kiddo. I know."

The words were sincere, and quietly spoken, and in that moment, Sam knew he did know. Maybe even understood. Even if Sam didn't doubt Bobby hated the self-sacrificing methods his family always seemed to find. In the end, the older hunter understood that it was family - blood first, chosen second. Everything else was distantly tertiary.

"I'm gonna head on up," Bobby said, breaking Sam away from his thoughts.

Sam nodded. "I'm going to let Dean get to sleep, then I'll be up."

Bobby walked across the room, and reached the bottom of the stairs before turning back to face Sam. "Let me know if you need anything."

"I will," he said, hating himself just a little bit for the lie. Sam was going to do everything he could to keep Bobby out of the line of fire. It would be bad enough for him if something did go wrong. Sam didn't envy Bobby having to deal with a cornered Dean if or when the time came.

There must have been something on Sam's face telegraphing the thoughts, because Bobby didn't reply, just shook his head slightly, frowned, and disappeared up the stairs.

For several moments, Sam just sat there, staring straight ahead and trying not to think. Eventually, he shook his head, trying to force any doubts away, and began replacing the books he had taken from the shelves. Once done, he turned off the lamp and followed the others up to the second floor.

There was only a little light coming in the window of their room, and Sam had to tread cautiously to avoid tripping over any of the clothes that littered the floor. Reaching his bed, he pulled his bag open. First he removed the pouch the woman had given him from its hiding place, followed by a bottle of water. He then picked the bag up from his bed and dropped it - quietly, not wanting to disturb Dean - on the floor.

His eyes had adjusted to the dark and winding his way back into the hallway wasn't quite as difficult as working his way into the room had been. Once outside, he hurried to the bathroom and closed the door before turning on the light.

Sam opened the bottle of water, dropping the cap onto the counter before very carefully pouring the contents into the water. It occurred to him that he had no idea what had gone into the concoction and that - were circumstances different - Dean would have his head for even thinking about drinking it (which, were circumstances different, he wouldn't have). As it were, Dean was going to have enough to be upset about on the whole and Sam didn't have any other choice - or room for doubts if he was going to try and save his brother.

Replacing the cap on the bottle, he shook it vigorously, trying to mix it evenly. The water turned a rusty brown and when he opened the bottle, Sam's stomach turned at the smell. Steeling himself, Sam held his breath and chugged the potion as fast as he could. He refused to stop until the bottle was empty, coughing at the vile aftertaste as he tossed the now empty container into the trash.

Mindful of the woman's instructions, Sam flipped off the light switch and hurried, as fast as he could without making any noise, back to the bedroom. Luckily, he reached the bed without tripping over anything and lay down on top of the covers. Sam rested his head on the pillow, he heard the letter hidden beneath it crinkle at the added weight.

With a glance at his watch, aware that he only had an hour once everything started, he sighed. He turned his head to the side, looking at Dean for several moments before letting his eyes fall closed. All he could do was wait.

It was show time.

-=-=-

The next thing Sam was aware of was Dean calling his name.

For a moment, Sam thought it hadn't worked. That the trip to New Orleans and his hopes to solve this once and for all, were for naught. Until the moment he realized he was looking at his body, not from it.

"Sam. Sammy!"

Sam squinted - everything was oddly blurry - trying to make out what was happening. In front of him, and below, Dean was kneeling at the side of Sam's bed. One hand was wound in Sam's hair; the other was on his shoulder, shaking it roughly.

"Wake up, damn it," Dean cried, his voice rough and getting louder with each word. Sam watched as Dean pressed fingertips to his throat, searching for a pulse. "Damn it! I knew something wasn't right."

Seeing the pain on Dean's face - open and unfettered - tore at Sam. This was exactly what he'd hoped to avoid. Tabling the issue of why Dean was awake at all for later, Sam tried to respond, but nothing would come out. He jerked his hand up to his throat (or what passed of it in his current form) alarmed. Why couldn't he talk? If he couldn't talk, the ritual was useless.

"Damn it, Sam. Wake up!"

Dean crawled onto the bed, pulling Sam into his arms. While it was barely big enough for Sam, it was certainly much too small for the both of them. He shook Sam him roughly. "You don't get to do this." Staring skyward, Dean yelled again, "You don't get to do this! I played by your rules! Good little soldier. All that crap! You can't have him!"

Sam thought his heart would break, hearing Dean's shattered voice pleading. This wasn't how it was supposed to happen. The shock of seeing his own broken body, lying prone on the bed, was an afterthought; all that mattered was the near frantic gleam in Dean's eyes.

He wondered if this is what it had been like in Cold Oak. Sam had never dared to ask. He hadn't really wanted to know how bad it had gotten then.

Climbing off the bed, Dean knocked the pillow to the side, appearing to Sam as though he was about to attempt mouth-to-mouth. CPR was a skill their father had insisted they each learn at an early age. You never knew when you would need it, he had said. It hurt Sam to know that when Dean finally did need it... it was for him.

Dean pushed the pillow to the floor, making Sam lie flat, only to pause. Still trying to find his voice, and still failing, Sam watched in confusion as Dean went immobile. To his horror, he realized the moment Dean reached his hand out, touching the innocent looking paper with shaking fingers.

"Sammy..." Dean said, as if guessing what the paper would say. There was utter stillness then, after Dean picked it up, in the seconds it took him to read the words written there.

Suddenly, the fury returned, "Damn you, Sammy. This is not your choice. I did not deal with that bitch just to turn around and lose you anyway." His voice cracked, a tear tracing down his cheek. "Not for me," he whispered, crumpling the letter in his fist.

"Dean..." Sam tried to speak, for the hundredth time, surprising himself almost as much as Dean - who jumped as though he had been scaled - when it worked. He was supposed to recite the incantation, but calming his brother had a far greater priority, if he could manage it.

Dean looked frantically around the room before looking back at Sam. He shook his head roughly, unblinking. "Sammy?"

"Over here. Well, up here I guess," he said. And though he could hear his voice, Sam's heart fell when it was obvious that Dean couldn't.

"Great," Dean muttered, once more hastily positioning Sam for resuscitation. "I'm already losing it."

Undeterred, Dean pressed down on Sam's chest fifteen times, chanting the count under his breath, before tilting Sam's head back and breathing for him. "Come on, Sammy," Dean said around the numbers as he moved back to the compressions.

Sam stared, fascinated, as Dean fought to save him. Suddenly, his chest, or what passed for it, felt tight. His head felt light. Aghast, Sam realized that Dean's efforts were working against the potion. He felt as though he was being pulled back toward his body.

"No, no, no," Sam chanted, shaking his head roughly. Panicked, he yelled, "Dean, stop!" and was stunned when it worked once more, and Dean did.

His older brother was only still for a moment though, his head cocked to the side as if unsure what he was hearing, before he returned to the compressions. "Not this time, Sammy. You're coming home."

Realizing his time was limited, Sam began reciting the chant that he had found in the small Mississippi library. The words fell easily off his tongue and even if Dean couldn't hear them, Sam knew, somehow, that the effect was the same.

The longer he spoke, the warmer the room became. Soon, a breeze picked up in the enclosed space, Sam could see his hair stirring and half-noticed the letter Dean had dropped fluttering away.

Midstream, he slipped from Latin to Creole, the language that had once been completely foreign for him but that he could now speak effortlessly. However, the lightheaded feeling was growing worse, the longer Dean persisted. He was counting louder and louder, pressing harder and harder, Sam could tell. And as he did so, Sam felt as though there was a hook behind his belly button, pulling him back to his body.

As he continued speaking, the wind grew stronger, faster. It whistled and shook things violently. Yet he pressed on.

Gasping - or he would have been if were in his body - Sam fought against the pull Dean was inadvertently creating. A sharp pain was growing in his middle, the closer he came to the end of the incantation. It felt as if the deal was fighting back, trying to survive where Sam was willing it to die.

Unwavering, Sam forced the words out through clenched teeth, pressing his eyes closed against the broken tableau in front of him. The whole ordeal was worth nothing if he didn't finish the spell while he had the chance.

Reaching the end, Sam opened his eyes and cried "Konsanti kounye-a kretyen vivan libere!" Suddenly, unexpectedly, there was a long, keening howl and the wind died and the heat released as if they'd been pushed back.

In the sudden still and quiet, all that remained was the sound of Dean's frantic counting, and muttering around the numbers. "Sam, I swear. If you do this..." The words were cut off when it was once more time to breathe for Sam.

Sam would have gasped for air if he could. It was over. The silence had turned deafening and he watched as Dean moved from breathing for him, to compressions once again.

Sam had no idea how much time had passed, though he probably still had time to return to his body before the hour was complete. He hoped. Then again, he had no idea even still how getting back would work. However, he'd barely had time to finish the thought when the tugging in his middle seemed to jerk him forward.

In the blink of an eye, he was hovering just overhead, looking down at his "dead" body and Dean's increasingly desperate face. Close up, Sam could see the innumerable tear tracks on his cheeks. He almost couldn't fathom it - Dean never cried. Not like this.

Another blink of an eye later, he was arching up off the bed, gasping loudly and knocking Dean's hands from their perch on his chest. Falling sideways, Sam pressed his forehead into the mattress, trying in vain to recapture his breath.

He wasn't sure how much time had passed before he finally heard Dean's voice over the roaring in his ears. "Sammy...?"

Sam turned slowly, feeling oddly fatigued, as though he had run a marathon, and looked at Dean. The open disbelief and fear on Dean's face made Sam's chest hurt, more than the compressions already had.

"Hey, Dean," Sam said, his voice gravelly.

Dean ran a hand over his face, no doubt trying to remove any trace of the tears, his breath coming in tortured gasps. Finally, he dropped his hand and stared at Sam for a minute. Sam was about to say something - anything - to break the silence when Dean did, instead.

"You okay, Sammy?" he asked in a very quiet voice. For the moment, it appeared, Dean's relief was winning. Sam knew that wouldn't last long.

Sam nodded. "Am now."

"And that note?" Dean asked, gesturing toward the head of the bed, though the letter was actually nowhere to be seen. "That 'so sorry I had to go and die' note?" The longer Dean spoke, the more hoarse his voice became.

Wincing, Sam said, "I'm sorry. I only meant for you to find that if something went wrong."

"You were dead, Sam. I'd say something went wrong."

Shaking his head, Sam disagreed. "I wasn't dead. Well, not really. I had some help."

"Help?" Dean asked, his voice gaining an octave. "What kind of help did you have, pray tell?"

Not wanting to get into it just yet, Sam shook his head. "Just something to hopefully make sure I stayed here long enough to take care of business and make it back."

"Sam, I swear..." Dean began, very loudly.

Suddenly the door - which Sam didn't remember closing - slammed open, causing both of them to jump. "What in the hell is going on in here?" Bobby was standing in the doorway and breathing like he had run a marathon.

"Bobby?" Dean asked, collapsing on the bed beside Sam.

Bobby ignored Dean, instead turning his gaze on Sam. "Was it your bright idea to lock the door?"

Surprised, Sam shook his head. "It was locked?"

Nodding, Bobby seemed to catch his breath. "Must have jammed when all the commotion started. Mind explaining to me what happened? Seeing as how I was woke up by your brother here screaming and what sounded like the winds of hell in here."

"You knew he was up to something," Dean said before Sam could muster the energy to reply. He glared at Bobby, anger boiling in his eyes. "Didn't you?"

Taking a seat on the other bed, much as he had when he confronted Sam the morning before (Could it really only be the morning before? Sam wondered), Bobby sighed. "I knew there was something going on, but your stubborn brother wouldn't tell me what."

Jumping up as if he had been shocked, Dean yelled, "And you didn't try to stop him?" When Bobby glared at him, Dean lowered his voice but spoke with no less venom.

"You couldn't warn me? Give me a hint? Something?" He paused. "This is why you were acting so weird."

Bobby nodded. "Yeah."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Dean asked, his anger draining.

"Because I asked him not to," Sam said, stepping in on Bobby's behalf. It had been his choice - not Bobby's - and there was no reason to let him bear the brunt of Dean's reaction. "I didn't want you to know."

Dean looked at Sam for several moments, a myriad of emotions flickering through his gaze before he turned and left the room. Sam watched him go; yet another pain tore through his chest that had nothing to do with the CPR.

He turned and looked at Bobby, and could only imagine what his own expression looked like. For his part, Bobby didn't look surprised by the turn of events, but there was sympathy there.

"Just give him a minute to cool off," Bobby said a moment later. "Then I'll help you downstairs to find him." At Sam's startled glance, Bobby added, "You're moving like a ninety-year-old man, Sam. I can tell whatever you did, it took a lot out of you."

"I'll be fine."

Sam cringed when Bobby sighed, very much a long-suffering sound only to nod in defeat. "Sure you will. That's just one of the things about you Winchesters. You're always fine. Even when you're not."

There wasn't much Sam could say in response to that.

-=-=-

True to his word, Bobby helped Sam downstairs once Sam was able to move fairly well. Sam reclaimed the comfortable seat he had sat in earlier that night (though it felt like so much longer). He sat, gingerly, hurting from head to toe. He would almost swear even his hair hurt. Absently, he ran a hand over his chest, which he had no doubt would be a Technicolor rainbow by the morning.

He waited, as patiently as he could, while Bobby went to roust Dean out. Closing his eyes, Sam relaxed into the chair only to startle them open when the others returned. Bobby pointed at Sam, while looking at Dean. "You. Talk to your brother." Turning, he pointed at Dean, while looking at Sam. "You. Whole story this time, no excuses. I'm going to get some sleep. You boys behave."

Muttering under his breath, Bobby then left the room, retreating up the stairs and ostensibly back to bed. However, Sam wouldn't be surprised if things got ugly, Bobby would appear and intervene. Hopefully, it wouldn't come to that.

Exhausted, Sam could only watch as Dean paced rather than sitting. When it became clear Dean wasn't going to speak, Sam asked, "Why did you wake up, anyway? You were out cold when I laid down."

Dean shrugged, glancing at Sam and looking incredibly uncomfortable. "Something wasn't right."

Confused, Sam asked, "What?"

"I don't know, Sam," Dean said, continuing to pace back and forth nervously. "I just... Something wasn't right, and it woke me up. I turn over, and see you laying there staring at the ceiling like..." Dean's words faded, and Sam saw him swallow nervously. "It was like before, all over again. All I could think was something had happened and the deal backfired. You were gone again and it was all my fault."

The words were whispered, broken, and Sam could only stare, stunned at the onslaught. "Anyway. Then I found that damn letter. We're gonna have a long talk about one, Sammy," he said, gesturing at Sam as if to make his point. "And then I knew you were up to something but I didn't care. The only thing that mattered was getting you back."

Sam smiled. Suddenly the woman's explanation of how he would return - which had driven him crazy at the time - made sense.

Pausing in his pacing, Dean turned to look at Sam, annoyed. "What in the world are you smiling about? You almost got yourself killed. Scratch that - you did get yourself killed. And if I ever find out who helped you..."

"The heart will know," Sam said, having to interrupt Dean. For someone who was often a man of few words, suddenly he didn't seem inclined to stop talking.

"What?" Dean asked, looking at Sam as if he'd finally lost his mind completely.

Sam laughed. All the relief at Dean's release from the deal and his own survival seemed to burst out of him at once. "When I asked how I would get back into my body, once I was done, that's what she said. 'The heart will know.' Somehow, even asleep, you knew. You brought me back."

"Who her? And more importantly, you listened to her?" Dean asked, throwing his hands up in the air, exacerbated. Resuming his pacing, he added, "Sam, this was your life you were playing with."

The euphoric feeling remained, but Sam's smile dimmed. "I knew that, Dean."

Turning to face Sam, Dean said, "And you did it anyway."

"I had to," he said, his voice barely loud enough for Dean to hear. "It was the only way."

Dean growled, a low sound in his throat, startling Sam. "How did you even know about the catch anyway? I never told you. And I know that bitch wouldn't have warned you. She would've just gotten a kick out of you dying again. For good, I mean."

Dean made a face at his rambling, tongue-tied sentences and Sam laughed, half-heartedly. This wasn't going to go over well at all. When Dean appeared about to press the issue, Sam decided to just rip the bandage off all at once and get it over with.

"You told me."

"No I didn't. I think I'd remember that, Sam."

"Remember the night in Mississippi, when I told you I thought I'd found a way out of this?" Dean looked at Sam vacantly for a moment before recognition dawned and he nodded. "You had a nightmare that night, remember? I woke you up. But before I could, you were talking in your sleep about how it wasn't fair. That you would lose me again."

Dean collapsed onto a chair, all the air seeming to deflate out of him. "I remember that dream," he said, almost to himself, shuddering. He looked up at Sam. "I talked in my sleep? Dude, I never talk in my sleep."

"You did that night. That's when I realized why you'd always look so... afraid anytime I'd mention finding another ritual or spell." Sam shrugged, and managed a small smile. "It all made sense then. So I started searching for a way around it."

"And you thought it'd be a great idea to poison yourself," Dean replied, once again sounding as though he thought Sam wasn't all that bright. "Brilliant."

Rolling his eyes, Sam shook his head. "No. I tried to find a way that would allow me to die - but not die. Something that would mean my body was dead when the deal was broken, and beyond the reach of the deal you made, but that my spirit wasn't."

"Sammy. That was too much to risk. What if it had just killed you? What then?"

That very question had dogged him for close to a month. Resigned, Sam shook his head once more. "What else could I do, Dean? Wait until the year was up, for the hounds to come after you? It was my risk to take. And it was worth it. And it didn't. Kill me, I mean."

"It's not worth it to me!" Dean said, standing once more.

"It was my choice, Dean." He watched as Dean paced back and forth, willing his brother to understand. He was too tired to chase him down if he took flight. Quietly, he tried to explain, to make Dean understand his side. "You traded your soul to save me."

"It was my choice, Sam," Dean said, throwing Sam's words back at him. But rather than being hurt, Sam knew the reason. Even after the fact, even with Sam safe, Dean was afraid, and anger was safer than fear.

Instead of taking the bait, Sam merely nodded. "I know."

Dean collapsed at that, once again sitting down. "So did it work?"

"I think so," Sam said, wishing he had a more definitive answer. Looking closely at Dean, he asked, "Do you feel any different?"

Dropping his forearms across his knees, Dean shrugged. "I haven't felt different until now because of the deal, I don't know why that would change." Dean seemed to think about something for a moment before adding, "But upstairs, right before you started gasping for air - and nearly gave me my second heart attack of the night, I might add - there was a noise. It was like..."

"A scream. Or a howl," Sam finished. At Dean's stunned look, Sam said, "I heard it, too, before you pulled me back. Dean, I really think it worked."

After a moment, Dean nodded. "That's good enough for me." He paused and added, "But don't you ever pull a stunt like this again."

Sam laughed. "Yeah, sure. Just as long as you take your own advice."

Grinning, Dean stood and held out a hand to help Sam stand. Once he was fully upright, Sam grimaced. "There is nothing on me that doesn't hurt right now."

"Come on," Dean said, moving toward the stairs, a hand under Sam's elbow. "I'll run a bath for you, princess. That should help."

Ignoring the stupid name, Sam nodded. "Sounds pretty nice, actually."

"Thought it might. And I'll rustle up some painkillers. Your chest isn't gonna be pretty by tomorrow. Never mind whatever else you did to yourself."

Sam stopped walking, and looked at Dean's profile, something suddenly occurring to him. "Dean. I..."

Dean paused, turning to look at Sam, concern clear on his face. "What's wrong? Are you sure you're feeling okay?"

"I'm fine. Sore, but fine," he added at Dean's disbelieving look. "I just... I never said thanks. For saving me back then. I can't say I'll ever agree with your methods, but..."

Sighing, Dean stared at Sam for several moments, unblinking. "Yeah. I think I know what you mean. And you didn't have to say thanks, dumb ass." Sam opened his mouth to reply, but Dean cut him off. "That said... Thanks, Sammy. For not giving up on me. For being your usual stubborn, pack mule self."

Laughing, feeling lighter than he had in a long while, Sam swiped his hand across the back of Dean's head. "We're Winchesters. It's what we do."

fin