A/N: Thank you so so much to ImpalaLove, toridw317, sarahmichellegellarfan1, and Lindsay for reviewing the last chapter! I can't believe we made it to 100 :O This is the LAST CHAPTER, so it was quite the task to write (and, in true form, I couldn't stop myself from making it excessively long). I hope you all enjoy it, and thank you so much for sticking with me this far!

Song: The Song Remains the Same by Led Zeppelin

CHAPTER 25

The Song Remains the Same

Before Dean can comfortably fade off into the bleak unconsciousness of his nightmares, he decides to sneak down the hall to check on his brother. If he can put at least one fear to rest before he puts himself to rest, he can consider that a small victory.

Everyone else is already in bed, and he's careful not to wake Claire as he slips out from beneath the sheets. She shifts slightly at the loss of body-heat and her eyelids flutter, but don't open.

Sam's room, unlike Dean's, is barren. There are no decorations on the walls, no photos or magazines or records; just a pistol that he barely has the strength to raise concealed underneath his pillow.

The door is ajar – almost all the way closed, but not quite. Dean pushes it wider with the very tips of his fingers, subconsciously dreading what is about to be revealed. He can't remember a time when Sam didn't sleep with the door firmly shut, and so part of him suspects something is amiss.

Knowing when Sam's in danger… It's like a sixth sense, a little alarm bell that jangles in the back of his mind. It's had to be. How else would he know which direction to point his life in?

That bell had been keeping him awake, and right now the volume is ratcheting up.

And then he sees.

"Sam Sam Sam," is the prayer that flies from his mouth as he flies towards his bedside.

His little brother is convulsing on the rickety mattress that came with the room, the sixty-year-old springs whining with each jerk of his body. Long strands of hair are pasted to his forehead, obscuring his eyes, which he imagines are screwed shut anyway.

The second Dean reaches Sam he realizes that he is smoldering from the inside out; his skin is not warm, but hot to the touch. Sam has had a low-grade fever for nearly three months, but Dean is no doctor and even he can recognize that his brother's body temperature is well above anything that is anatomically sound. He shouldn't even be able to get this hot, let alone remain alive through it.

Again, Dean is no doctor. He doesn't know what to do in a situation like this. He's played many roles in his lifetime, but he's not equipped to play this one.

All he can think to do is extinguish the fire.

He drags Sam's long-limbed frame down the hall, to the bathroom. He rolls him into the tub and draws the cold water. As the water level climbs, he sprints to the kitchen to get ice.

His heart is working a mile-a-minute. His breathing is erratic. He's gonna need to take an ice bath too after this, he wagers. It crosses his mind that he's having a panic attack but he's not sure, and it's not like it even matters anyway.

Not like this. His brain is screaming not like this.

It's not supposed to go this way. He only had to make it through the night.

Dean dumps the plastic bag full of ice into the water with a crack. Sam's body occupies the whole tub and then some, and his soaked clothes make it look dark – abyssal.

The water toys with his hair and clothing, lifting it. He seems suspended in time, serene, even.

Dean shoves his head beneath the frigid water.

And waits.

And waits.

And he counts each second, because he knows exactly how long the human brain can survive without oxygen. He counts and he counts, and as his countdown reaches the point of no return, his breath hitches and his throat and eyes burn, because he's not going to drown his brother but he's not snapping out of this fever-induced coma and not like this.

And just as his own heart is about to stop…

Sam plunges from the black with a roaring gasp.

Dean could cry tears of joy – he almost does. But by now the ruckus has woken up the rest of the bunker, and Kevin and Claire are huddled in the doorway, silent. What they're witnessing – these two brothers coming undone right at the end – is a tale as old as time, and not one they're truly meant to be a part of.

And so they don't say anything. The just watch like the horrified spectators they are, like anyone else who has ever had the misfortune of seeing the Winchester Cycle up-close.

Dean helps his soaking and shivering brother out of the tub, muddled relief and vexation folding a deep crease in his brow. Sam's lips are pulled thin and the color of a bruise, and the beads of water on his face catch the light, making him look almost radiant... Or, more accurately, radioactive.

The sound of water splattering on linoleum rouses Claire from her trance, and she quickly offers Sam a clean towel. His hands shake as he reaches for it, but she bridges the gap between them and wraps it around him herself.

"C'mon," she murmurs, impossibly calm, "let's get you into some dry clothes."

Dean watches in something akin to awe as she leads him back to his bedroom, but soon locks eyes with Kevin. His pupils are wide, black pools rippling with fear.

Dean rushes out of the bathroom.

He and Claire cross paths in the threshold of Sam's doorway. "You should help him," she says, as though he even needs to be told.

Dean just nods.

. . .

The eldest Winchester awakes with a crick in his neck.

His eyes open slowly and focus to see Sam asleep on the bed across from his chair, stiff as a board, like rigor mortis has set in.

But he knows he's alive – he stayed with him all night to make sure of it.

It must be morning. He can't tell in this windowless cell of a room, but it must be because there are sounds coming from the kitchen. Sounds of pots clashing. Sounds of normalcy. Sounds of them still orbiting the sun.

Without these, he might have been able to trick himself into thinking it was still nighttime, into thinking they didn't have to do this. Night has always been a time of danger and uncertainty, a time when all the evil things creep out unabashedly into the world; never has he wanted it to stretch on, until this moment.

But it isn't nighttime, and they do have to do this.

"C'mon, Sammy," he says, nudging his brother.

Sam stirs, before his swollen eyes crack open. The first thing he sees is Dean.

"Rise n' shine," he greets with an obviously forced smirk.

With a groan, the younger of the two hoists himself into a sitting position and swings his legs over the side of the bed. He stands, and Dean readies himself to catch him if need be.

" 'm okay," he insists unconvincingly.

In the end, his assistance is not needed, and Sam treads into the kitchen on his own.

Dean follows helplessly.

Everyone is in the kitchen, and the first thing they say is not 'How are you feeling,' or 'Good to see you back on your feet,' or anything of the sort. Claire is the one to break the silence, and she states bluntly, "I'm going with you."

Both brothers are caught off guard. "What?" Dean questions.

"When you go to finish the trials," she clarifies, "I'm going with you. You've done all of them on your own so far, but not this one."

"But Mary –"

"I said I'd stay with her," Kevin chimes in solemnly.

Eyes glittering, she repeats, "I'm going," and neither of the Winchesters dares to challenge her. The memory of when they first set out on the road together all those years ago skitters across Dean's mind.

Something else strikes him, too: she cares about Sam deeply, more than just the superficial fondness for someone who is, essentially, her brother-in-law. She cares about him apart from Dean.

He'd been blind to it before, blinded by his own love for Sam. He didn't even notice, it didn't even register that they spent a year together without him, that Sam held her hand through one of the darkest times in her life – in their lives – and now she wants to do the same. And he hadn't been letting her.

Sam means everything to him, but he means something to Claire, too.

Dean says, "Okay," and Sam looks almost thankful. No more is said, because there's little else to say, and the two brothers sit at the counter. They eat mechanically, like their bodies are nothing more than machines that need refueling. Sam's is a broken one; he eats slowly so as to not aggravate the queasiness in his stomach. A few nibbles of toast, and that's all he can take.

When they're done, Kevin, in all seriousness, says, "Good luck, guys."

"Thanks," mutters Sam.

Dean kisses the crown of his daughter's head on his way down to the dungeon.

The 'consecrated ground' component of the equation is an abandoned church located less than five miles away from the bunker.

They load Crowley into the back of the Impala, and Claire sits beside him. He has a look of amusement glinting across his puggish features the entire time, like he's in on some furtive joke, like he's laughing at their expense.

They ignore him. Sam thinks they'll be the ones laughing soon enough. Soon as he has the lung capacity to allow it.

The four of them have been to many churches, but none like this. Derelict ones aren't as common as you might expect – there's something sacrilegious about letting a house of God fall to waste, after all, and the US is a very Christian country around these parts.

The sheet of white is flaking, exposing the pine boards that are nailed together and creeping towards the sky. The material looks just the same as a coffin's, even in the sunlight, and the steeple reaches upwards like some abomination sprouting from the lifeless ground; the grass out front is overgrown and straw-colored.

Dean throws himself out of the driver's seat and goes to drag Crowley brutally out of the backseat, his sullied fingernails cutting into the back of his neck.

"Let's go, dipshit," he grunts.

Crowley snorts, "You lot really think you can pull this off, don't you? Well, Godspeed – truly, I mean it."

Dean's features are hard, unyielding. Maybe they can't cure Crowley – but they can sure as hell kill 'im, and if it comes to that he'll rejoice.

"Someone shut him up," Sam grumbles, and Dean is happy to oblige by slapping a thick piece of duct tape over the King of Hell's mouth.

A thicket of brambles obscures the entrance to the church, and Dean tears through them without a second thought, even as they sink into his skin.

The inside is littered with dust, debris, and pages from deserted hymnals. The more lavish parts have been looted, leaving cross-shaped stencils in the filth. It's not very large – about the size of Claire's old apartment.

Claire and Sam linger in the vestibule as Dean unceremoniously drags the cathedra down from the sanctuary, into the center of the room. Wood grates against wood like nails on a chalkboard.

Sam, with the little vitality he has left, then shoves Crowley into the termite-ravaged throne and binds his arms to the sides, making sure the shackles chafe his soon-to-be-mortal flesh.

In the Winchesters' familiar army-green duffle are a syringe, a bible, some holy water, and their other customary demon-killing supplies.

"This is gonna take a while, guys," says Sam, readying the syringe. "You sure you wanna stick around for all of it?"

"We ain't goin' anywhere," Dean states matter-of-factly.

Sam nods, before making a fist and trying to pop a vein in the underside of his forearm. However, he seems to abruptly remember something, and sets the needle down on the altar.

"What's the matter?" Claire asks, brows crossed in confusion.

"I forgot – I gotta purify first," is all he says in reply, before heading off to the confessional.

Claire and Dean lock eyes, sharing one indeterminate expression.

"Don't you need a priest for that?" she hisses.

He shrugs. At this point, what's a priest gonna do for them that they can't do for themselves? Say a prayer? Dean could almost laugh. Fuck that. Fuck prayers. Prayers didn't stop the Apocalypse. They did. He and Sam.

Inside the rundown confessional, Sam isn't quite sure where to start. His sins are innumerable; he's been wallowing in them for as long as he can remember, and to try to sort through them is a Sisyphean task. But he does, he does try. Brick by brick, he disassembles the dam he's built to preserve himself from a complete inundation of guilt.

His sins flood back to him chronologically: leaving Dean to go to Stanford, walking out that door, dying and causing Dean to trade his soul for his, failing Dean, letting Dean die, letting Dean be dragged down to Hell right in front of him, not finding a way to unpin himself from that wall, Ruby, drinking demon blood, going off the deep end, walking out that door twice, Lilith, Lucifer, all of it. God, he thinks, feeling weak in a more metaphysical sense, oh god oh god oh god. He has so many sins.

"I'm sorry," he coughs, looking up, searching for absolution. All he sees is the ceiling, all he sees are slivers of light filtering through the cracks in the gangrenous wood. He can't say what he's sorry for. There's too much, and he can't seem to vocalize it, so he just goes on, "I-I'm so sorry… For everything."

And then he waits, like he's waiting for an answer, like he's waiting for something to happen.

But every other time he's been in a situation like this, he's waited for nothing. And so, he leaves the confessional.

As soon as he steps outside, to his tremendous shock, an epiphany fills him like a glass of cold water. He suddenly understands the pain, the fever, the blood. If he had been anyone else, it wouldn't have hurt so much. It had to be him, the whole time it had to be him. That blood… that's the demon blood, that's Azazel's blood leaving his body.

The trials have been purifying him all along.

And now he's ready, truly ready.

Dean and Claire's eyes track his movements across the church, to the altar. He takes the syringe in hand and slides the needle into his skin, watching expressionlessly as his thick, dark blood is sucked out of his veins and into the glass.

He plunges the un-sanitized needle into Crowley's jugular, and the demon's muffled curses resound unintelligibly through the cavernous room.

Casually, Sam peeks at his watch. One down, seven to go.

No one says anything, because Dean and Claire have come to the unspoken agreement that Sam should be the one to initiate any conversation.

And sure enough Sam, eyes fixed on the rubble at his feet, muses, "Dean… Do you remember when we were kids, when you used to read me those bedtime stories about… about the Knights of the Round Table, and King Arthur and Sir Galahad and the Holy Grail?"

Dean shifts his jaw in a combination of befuddlement and something more obscure. He tries not to dwell on thoughts of simpler times anymore, but he does indeed remember, remember that that chubby-cheeked kid rifling through bags of Cracker Jacks for prizes has turned into this. "Yeah?" he says, as though he doesn't see his point. And really he doesn't, he doesn't see the point to any of it.

Claire watches him carefully, trying to understand what's happening. Right now, Dean looks almost as ill as Sam does.

"I remember thinking," he goes on brokenly, finally snapping his eyes up to meet his brother's, "I could never go on a quest like that, because… I'm not clean. I mean, I was just a little kid, but do you think maybe I knew, even then? That I… that I had demon blood in me? And about… about the evil of it?"

Dean's eyes scintillate with a deep, futile unhappiness. "Sam…" he warns, voice quivering even over that one simple syllable.

"It doesn't matter anymore," he cuts him off, smiling wide and chillingly. "Because now… Now, I'm going to be. These trials, they're purifying me, and when this is over, that… that part of me will finally be gone."

He's just not sure how many other parts will go along with it.

. . .

Five injections later, the sun is setting and Claire and Dean are taking a break in the churchyard. Darkness is seeping down into the horizon, tainting the sky. People think sunsets are beautiful, but this one is stomach-churning.

Dean leans against the Impala, looking world-weary as he digs the heel of his boot into the dead grass.

Claire asks, "Do you think it's working?"

"I dunno," he dismisses flatly, and her features pinch in a hurt expression.

He kicks up a clump of dirt and digs his hands out of his pockets before he acknowledges her stare. "I really don't know, Claire," he amends.

As far as he can see, all this is doing is immolating his brother. Right now Sam's in there, sweat running down his chest and back and fusing his shirt to his skin. Right now Sam's in there with track-marks in his veins, like a drug addict. Right now Sam's in there, trying so hard to make himself into the sacrificial lamb he was never meant to be.

It makes him want to cry out, the religiousness of it all. He has to believe in it, he has to, but he so desperately doesn't want to. Why did it have to be a church? Huh? Why? Who's supposed to follow that sacrificial example? Humanity? Because it seems to be an affliction particular to the Winchesters, and no one else. What makes them so different? Why did 'He' put this curse on them? Why? What did they do to deserve it?

Dean knows he'll never find the answers to these questions, just as he knows exactly what's going to happen to him when he dies. He's going to go upstairs or downstairs, and in either place he's going to be surrounded by dickheads.

And there will be no answers.

"Dean," comes Claire's gentle voice. She's peering at him with a confused sort of anguish, and there are still bruises on her face.

He did this to her. Her brought her into this. She may not be a Winchester, but neither was his mother, and that story ended just the same as all the others.

Plus, his daughter certainly is. Mary Winchester. The name was supposed to be an honor, and he can only pray to a god he hates that it's not a prophecy.

He should be the one to get them out of this – not his brother, not Sammy.

Perhaps it's the knowing-what-happens-after that's numbed them both to death. Dean's not afraid to die, not anymore, and apparently Sam isn't either. Dean's far more afraid of living in a world without his brother – he's petrified of it.

And maybe Sam is, too, and maybe that's why they fought over who would complete the trials.

"It's okay," Claire tells him uselessly, playing with the sleeve of his jacket. "Whatever happens, it'll be okay."

Right then, she has no idea how much she sounds like a Winchester.

Dean gives her a conciliatory half-smile. "I know, babe," he lies, wrapping his arm around her shoulders.

They stay like this for several minutes, against the car, before Claire suggests, "It's getting close to the seventh injection. Maybe we should go back in?"

He nods his assent, keeping his arm slung around her as they trek into the building.

Inside, Sam has removed the duct tape from Crowley's mouth, and the King of Hell is howling in rage. Crowley's temper very often vacillates precipitously between dead-calm and histrionically angry, and right now he's switched to the latter setting.

"You'd better bloody unchain me, or that niece of yours is going to be a hellhound's chew-toy, you understand me?!"

This is the first thing they hear upon entering the building, and it sends an icy spike of uneasiness through their hearts, even though they know this is precisely what he intends. He's all talk. Mary is safe, safe in the bunker.

Seeing Dean and Claire rejoin them, Crowley's demeanor reverts back to cavalier. "Ah. Jack and Rose have finally decided to take time out of their impassioned love story to join us. You're just in time. The ship's just about to sink."

"The only ship going down around here is yours," Dean scoffs. "The Gates of Hell are closing, and the captain is chained to the helm."

"That's very witty of you, Squirrel, but you forget that the very reason the ship is sinking is because I'm not going down with it," Crowley says patronizingly.

"Enough," Sam spits, fed-up with the metaphor. He strides over the altar to ready the syringe for the next injection.

To their immense shock, they see a spark of fear in Crowley's beady eyes.

At this realization, Dean feels a smirk tugging at his lips. "We are turning you human," he allows, "but that don't mean you're getting outta this mess in one piece. We cure you, we kill you, you go straight back to the Pit with no way back."

"Please, send me back," he snarls. "In case you forgot, I'm King."

"As a demon," Dean corrects. "As a human soul… Well, you're gonna be in line for the rack, just like all the rest of 'em."

At this, Crowley seems genuinely fazed.

"You won't kill me," he refutes self-assuredly. "You don't have the stomach for it."

"Don't have the stomach for it?" Dean snorts cruelly, "How many o' your butt-buddies you seen us gank, huh? Did it seem like I had the stomach for it when I jammed an Angel Blade into your intern's spleen?"

"That's different," Crowley sneers. "Those are demons. Like you've so redundantly mentioned, I'm going to be human."

"You don't think I got what it takes to kill a son of a bitch like you?" Dean laughs mirthlessly.

"No," he says frankly. "That's one of your rules, innit? No killing humans."

Dean, still smirking, replies, "Like I always say, rules are made to be broken. Whaddyou think's even motivating me to go through with this fiasco in the first place? Spoiler alert – it's the thought of driving a knife through your smug little face. Killing you as a demon would be too easy – too merciful. I want you to suffer. I want you to be human. I want you to die and go to Hell all over again."

"I climbed to the top of the ladder once," he says in a modulated tone, "I can certainly do it again."

"Well, Godspeed," he mocks. " 'cause I've been there, and I know what's gotta happen first. And it's gonna be hard to muster the energy when once you remember there's no way to get topside anyway."

Crowley gulps almost imperceptibly – maybe the blood is working, after all.

Sam's glassy eyes dart between his brother and their captive. "Time for your medicine," he tells Crowley, voice low. Without further warning, he shoves the needle into his wrist and presses his own blood into the demon's veins.

Crowley lets out an outraged hiss, thrashing against his chains. They jingle almost innocently with each movement. His eyes go dark, but can't seem to hold it; the shade of black flickers like a strobe light, his human eyes fighting to be seen.

He's furious, searching for something – anything – to torment them with, to make them stop.

"Look at what this is doing to you, Sam!" he shouts desperately. His voice is rough, guttural. His head snaps to Dean. "Look at what this is doing to him! He's going to die. Is that what you want? Because I was under the distinct impression that you would do anything to prevent that outcome."

Dean is silent, grinding his teeth. Claire tightens her grip on his waist. "He's just trying to distract you," she whispers urgently.

This does not escape Crowley's notice. "That's right," he snarls, "you've changed. You're a different sort of family-man now, not the type to trade his soul for a lost cause. You know what they said about you down there? They said that you wanted to die, that you always did, and that little Sammy was just an excuse. Now… Well, now you find some harlot that strikes your fancy and you're itching to throw your brother on the pyre-"

"SHUT UP!" Dean roars, bounding towards Crowley. His fist makes contact with his right cheekbone, splitting the skin, and when Sam rips him away he's panting.

"Stop it, Dean!" he objects. "Can't you see this is what he wants?"

By now Crowley is cackling evilly, blood staining his teeth.

"You know what they call her, down there?" he continues to goad. "Your precious little prophet? They call her the Winchester whore! And who could blame her? A year is a long time, Dean-o. Tell me, how sure are you that that sack of drool is really yours? Moose here seems awfully quick to die for your daughter, doesn't he? Maybe that's why you're so willing to let him take the bullet."

Dean is hyperventilating in rage, but Sam and Claire are holding him back. "He's just trying to get under your skin, Dean," Sam maintains. "You know they're all just lies."

"You can't listen to him," Claire piles on. "Don't give him the satisfaction!"

Dean inhales sharply through his nostrils, before pushing the air out of his lungs through his mouth. Okay. He's okay. He's not gonna lose it.

A bit harshly, he shirks out of his companions' grip and paces over to the other side of the church. Only a half hour to go, and he's having second thoughts.

"Sam, get over here," he barks, and the shadow of a smile flits across Crowley's face.

Sam, a bit unsure, walks over to where Dean is standing. He's hunched slightly, his spine compacted under the tremendous pressure of his stress.

"What is it?" Sam inquires.

"Don't do this," he says plainly. "Let's just kill Crowley and get the hell out of this dump."

He starts incredulously, "Dean-," but his brother cuts him off.

"I know we had an agreement. I know we did. But this just feels wrong, Sam."

Sam sets his jaw. "You're letting Crowley get to you. We're so close – can't you see it's working? Look at him – look at him! He's fucking terrified, he'll try anything to get himself out of this. It's working."

"I know," Dean allows, "but that doesn't matter anymore. What matters is all of us together and alive. So let's just snuff this asshat and leave – that'll solve the whole demon issue. And just think, think about all we learned from this – we know how to gank a hellhound, how to move souls between worlds – let's just kill him and be done with it!"

"You know as well as I do that if it's not Crowley, it'll be someone else. We kill him, and some other demon will just crop up in his place. People will die if I don't finish this, Dean!"

"We know enough now to turn the tide for good!" Dean insists. "We can make a real difference here, but I can't do it without you!"

Sam, eyes watering, chokes, "You – you can barely do it with me! You didn't trust me to do this, you think I screw up everything I touch – and you're not wrong! I've always been the fuck-up little brother. You've been saving my ass for as long as I can remember."

"C'mon, man, that's not true," Dean rebukes gravely.

"It is! It is true! I have sucked the life out of your life, Dean! You wanna know what I confessed in there? What my greatest sin was? It was how many times I let you down," he sobs. "I can't do that again."

This is all wrong, Dean thinks. His fury has boiled down to nothing, evaporated into a thick fog of horror. "Sam…" he tries raggedly. "How can you… How can you even say that? It has never been like that. Never. I need you to see that."

"I have to do this," he manages, with newfound resolve. Tears and sweat are mingled on his face, forging rivers down his hollow cheeks. "I need to do this."

"And I need you not to!"

Sam laughs bitterly. "Well. I guess I'm just gonna have to be selfish, then. Like always."

Before Dean can stop him, Sam uses Ruby's knife to slice his hand open, bolts towards Crowley, and forces his blood into his mouth.

"Sam, NO!" Dean cries, chasing clumsily after him.

Claire stumbles back in shock as the two Winchesters wrestle on the blighted floor of the church, but it's already too late – Crowley has ingested the blood.

They all expected it to be more dramatic. It was too soon; maybe it's not going to work. Crowley seems unchanged, and Sam is still hanging on as well as he had been.

The brothers pause their tussling to watch Crowley, who gripes, "That's it?"

"Did it work?" Claire murmurs.

Sam looks like he's about to answer, before his features twist into a pained grimace.

"Sam? SAM?" Dean shakes him.

Sam is hissing and moaning and shit shit shit, Dean thinks, no. It's Cold Oak all over again. It's Stull Cemetery all over again.

Dean wrenches away from his brother as though he has some contagious disease, walking backwards without tearing his eyes away from his limp form because no no no, this isn't happening.

Is Crowley human? Is Sam dead? Did it work?

One way to find out.

He turns around and kicks Crowley's chair over, pummeling him viciously. He can feel his bones crack against his knuckles, feel his ribs split and puncture his lungs. Dean decimates the chair itself too, causing fragments of wood to shoot through the air like projectiles. He rams the toe of his boot into Crowley stomach with as much force as he can conjure. His belly soft and absorbs the impact. He makes a strangled, gurgling noise. Blood streams from his mouth.

He hits Crowley again and again and again, and in doing so he starts for transfer his own pain onto him.

Somewhere, off in the distance, someone is shouting, "You're killing him, Dean!"

And Dean, laughing on the inside, thinks, yeah, I am, thank God.

Because that means that's it, that means it's over.

Claire comes out of nowhere and side-tackles him, trying as vehemently as she can to drag him away from his potential victim.

"What about Sam?!" she screams in his ear, and he starts to sober up. The red haze begins to dissipate, and something else begins to happen.

He drops to his knees beside his brother, at the base of the altar, beneath the naked crucifix. Claire kneels on the other side, across from him, and Crowley lays unconscious in a puddle of blood.

"C'mon, little brother," Dean chants hysterically. "Hang on. You're gonna be just fine." The words that pour out of his mouth are meaningless. Claire is crying, searching frenziedly for a pulse, and Dean is just staring at his brother's frozen face.

His chest constricts; shards of despair perforate his heart like shrapnel. A lump builds in his throat like a tumor. He feels like he's dying. Dying of trauma, dying of sickness. Dying.

Because Sam… Sam is already dead.

His brain is spinning, overturning every memory, scouring every crevice for something that could possibly help him. What can I do? What can I even try? No demon-deals, no God. No nothing.

A prayer rips from his mouth before he can stop it. It's not a prayer to God or some other unknown entity, because Dean can't stand to think there are still things in this world that he hasn't seen, that he doesn't understand.

"CASTIEL!" tears out of him, each foreign syllable grating over his bone-dry tongue. He turns his head up towards the sky, unthinkingly, surprised by his own actions. It's stupid, he knows, Castiel's dead, he knows, but right now it's all he can summon.

Claire's tear-suffused eyes bore into his. She's never heard him say the angel's full name.

"What are you doing?" she chokes. "Castiel is dead. We have to take him to a hospital. I can still feel a pulse. It's slight, but it's there."

Dean, with some help from Claire, heaves Sam's dead-weight into the back of the Impala. He has been here before, so long ago. Right now, he can see it as clearly as the day it happened: his baby brother lying stiff on a filthy mattress in an abandoned shack.

He wants to retch but his stomach is empty, empty as the rest of him.

Sam is in the backseat, head lolling at every jagged turn as Dean races to the nearest hospital, which happens to be in Nebraska.

Claire is sobbing and sobbing and he can't hear it, he can only hear I need to do this uttered repeatedly in his brother's voice.

They all have things they need to do.

They all need to do the wrong thing.

Dean might've just murdered a man, and he feels not even the faintest tinge of remorse. Maybe they deserve it. Maybe that's why they've been punished so profoundly. Maybe they deserve it.

It takes every machine in the Good Samaritan Hospital's arsenal to keep Sam Winchester alive. The name is a sick joke, Dean thinks, and Sam might be alive but he sure as hell doesn't seem it.

"I'm sorry, sir. Your brother has suffered severe internal hemorrhaging. I do not want to give you false hope, so I must be frank – we're doing all we can, but there is little chance he'll make it out of this," says the junior cadet doctor with cropped black hair.

He scrubs his hand over his face. He didn't expect to hear any less.

He says, "Okay," like it's really just that, like it really is okay.

The doctor leaves and Claire is sitting at Sam's bedside, her face raw and sticky from crying. Her hand is dwarfed atop his brother's huge one. Dean notices that her flesh, while very pale, makes Sam's seem gray.

"What're we gonna do," he murmurs to himself. The words come out slurred, almost drunkenly. He hasn't felt this lost since Sam vanished into a hole in the ground.

He hadn't expected a response – not from Claire, not from anyone.

But then he hears:

"Maybe I can help," in the most miraculous and familiar croaking voice.

He whirls around to see an angel standing in the doorway.

THE END

A/N: I hope you all liked it! I know it's not a great beautiful happy ending, but I think you guys can fill in the blanks and have faith that they will have their happy ending. The tone of this story is angst-central and I don't want to pull a JK Rowling right at the end, so I decided to leave it semi-open to interpretation. Some of the dialogue is (c) SPN, which I'm sure you guys recognized. I'm really nit-picky and I tend to go back and edit things, so if at any point you decided to reread this and it's a little different, don't be surprised lol.

A few people have already asked about a sequel - I am NOT going to write a sequel to this story. Unfortunately, my schedule right now just won't permit another full-blown story, and I think this was a good place to end my Claire 'Verse.

HOWEVER, I am probably going post 2 new SPN stories (haha I know, it sounds like way more work than just writing a sequel, but just hear me out). Story one would be a series of one-shots (case-shots) about Claire and Dean hunting during the year between 'Turn the Page' and 'The Sound of Silence.' Story two would be a series of one-shots about Sam and Dean in the canon. If you guys are interested in either of these, I'll post an addendum to 'Turn the Page' (not this story, because posting it to TTP makes more sense sequentially), so be on the look-out!

Again, thank you so much for reading/following/faving/reviewing. You guys are amazing and I'm so lucky to have gotten any feedback at all - I honestly felt like I was posting this story (and the first one) into dead air, so I can't even begin to express how grateful I am that people actually read this.

Much love,

Persephone