Cerberus

For once, the Trickster seemed almost sympathetic. Sam watched him, from his position on the motel bed. He hadn't moved since Dean had left.

The Trickster knelt before him. Under normal circumstances, Sam would have flinched backwards, but instead he did nothing as the Trickster put a hand on his knee. "Final step, kid. You sure you want to do this?"

"Just tell me what it is," Sam said hoarsely.

For a moment, the Trickster's eyes became soulful, but then they flashed back to his normal hard flint. He stood. "A trip to Hell."

Sam dropped his head into his hands. "Everything you made me do, and you want to have me do the same thing as a demon would've asked? Switch places with Dean?"

"Not exactly." The Trickster whipped out the belt of Hippolyte. "Remember this?"

Sam took it with careful hands. "Yeah. Belt of . . . protection of some kind?"

"It'll keep Hell from destroying your body while your soul is in Hell." The Trickster watched Sam as he put it on. "What do you know about the final story of Heracles?"

"Fetching Cerberus? Is that my task?"

"Close enough. Your knowledge of demons is frighteningly pathetic, so I'll explain one concept to you that most people don't realize. The hellhounds? They run the place."

The part of Sam that wasn't numb from Dean leaving—if there was a part, Dean, how could he leave?—listened closely. "But the demons make the deals, and the hellhounds are the muscle."

"Nope. The hellhounds can do whatever they want. The demons make deals with them, giving them favors, taking care of their whims, and in return the hellhounds will occasionally allow them to make deals for human souls."

"Huh." Sam stood slowly. "So all this time I've been approaching the wrong angle."

The Trickster shrugged. "Either way, we're here now. And in order to save your brother, you need to go into Hell, find the hellhound that controls Lilith, and kill it to steal your brother's deal back from it."

Sam surveyed him. "Well, then let's do it."

"Sam. You need to be one hundred percent sure about this. Is your brother worth it to you? He did just leave you, after all."

"Don't even start that."

The Trickster tilted his head. "It's odd."

"What is?"

"Your devotion. It is . . . in some ways, a little admirable."

"Did that hurt?" Sam asked wryly.

The Trickster ignored his comment. He clapped his hands together. "Right, let's get this puppy started. You already did the vow of silence for purification. Next step, we need to visit the Styx."

Sam opened his eyes, and he was in front of . . . a normal river.

"What is this?"

"The Styx." The Trickster handed him the horn of the Erymanthian boar. "Drink from this. It will give you the strength to get through the trials ahead."

Sam swallowed it willingly enough. He had to save Dean. He had to save Dean. He had to—

"How's your singing?"

"Excuse me?" Sam blinked at the Trickster.

"You need to sing a song. To open the door to Hell. Doesn't matter what it is, just sing."

Sam raised an eyebrow, but complied. Highway to Hell seemed appropriate enough. Dean would've laughed.

The boulders on the other side of the river split in half, crumbling away from each other and leaving a dark crevice. Sam took a deep breath, starting forward.

"Hang on there, cowboy." The Trickster handed him a bag. "The apple is in here. To get out of Hell, you need to eat it once you've released Dean's deal. A dagger made from the Hydra's tooth is also in there to kill anything you come across."

"How will I find his deal?"

The Trickster shook his head. "You'll find it."

"Is that all?"

The Trickster gazed at Sam fully. "I won't say good luck, because luck hasn't gotten you this far. Keep your faith."

Sam nodded and looked forward. He pulled out the dagger and said a prayer.

He dove.

The river's icy water took Sam's breath away, forcing him to splash uncoordinatedly until he reached the other side, crawling out of the river with his sodden clothes dragging.

The crack in the rocks smelled like sulfur. Sam crawled inside, the dark dank heat making his skin crawl—not because it felt wrong, but because it felt like it should be normal, something that should feel comfortable. Maybe Dean was right, maybe he was becoming a demon.

Sam shrugged off the dark thoughts and clutched the knife a little tighter.

"Boy king," something whispered through the darkness.

Sam was yanked off his feet by a tangled mesh of vines that crawled up his legs. With a hoarse yell, he was pulled deeper, the sharp ground tearing at his back. Hacking around his ankles, he managed to get to his feet again, ignoring the places where his jeans were singed from the contact.

"Where is Dean?" he snarled. There was soft laughter in response, echoing from the darkness.

"Why did you do this to me?" Jess stood in front of him, fire licking at her arms. "I loved you, and you killed me."

"Jess," Sam whispered.

"You killed me!" she screeched, and slammed into him. Sam cried out in pain as the fire burned his arms, until he slashed with the knife.

Jess collapsed in front of him, dissolving into an awful, crouching creature, flesh red and black. Sam kicked it aside, pulling himself together. Hell was made of tricks, that was all.

A wall rose up in front of Sam, made of sharp bones. Sam stowed away the knife and began climbing, ignoring the tearing at his hands. The belt of Hippolyte obviously wasn't as powerful as the Trickster had believed.

"Sam?"

Sam nearly lost his grip, looking up the wall. "Dad?"

"Here, son." A hand was reached down. Sam, expecting a trap, avoided it, pulling himself up and drawing the dagger again.

"Nice try," he growled. The fake John reached out again, and Sam stabbed its chest.

John glanced down. "I guess what I told Dean was right. Have you come to rule Hell, Sam? I should have killed you earlier, but I knew how much it would hurt Dean."

"You're not my Dad. Get out of here," Sam hissed.

John laughed, a bitter, dark sound. The kind of sound he used to make whenever November 2nd rolled around. "You want to kill me again?"

Sam stabbed once more, but his father didn't dissolve into a demon.

"Dad?"

John shook his head. "I should have known you were the cause of Mary's death. I just didn't want to see it."

Flames erupted around them. Sam pushed off from the wall, falling until he hit the hard ground. The fire followed him. Sam sprinted, but the ground began sinking beneath his feet. Sam struggled to wade through, a thick substance clinging to his legs, his arms, making everything feel . . . heavy . . . guilty . . . it was all his fault, he should just kill himself . . . it would make everything . . . better and—

Sam had the dagger halfway buried in between his ribs before he managed enough control to yank it back out.

He dragged himself out of the mire, falling to his knees when he finally reached a rocky edge.

"Master," something hissed.

Sam lashed out with the dagger, slicing through the demon, turning it into smoke.

"Where is Dean?" he roared. "Show me Dean!"

And Dean appeared.

For a second, Sam paused. That second cost him, as Dean dove straight for him, taking Sam down to the rocky ground easily.

Blows rained down. Sam was unable to get leverage as the body on top of him continued to pummel him. There was a moment's break, and Sam squinted up through the blood in his eyes to find it examining the belt on Sam's waist. Sam made a sound of protest, but it was ripped off.

As the thing—demon, whatever it was—was distracted by the belt, he managed to get his hand into his bag, and grab his dagger.

Dean had been stabbed once, in a mugging gone wrong, during the Trickster's days. But Sam had never done it himself.

Blood, red and real looking, leaked from Dean's chest as he looked at Sam blankly, with something like betrayal.

He turned into smoke, leaving Sam choking on memories and pain.

And the belt was gone.

Sam retrieved his bag with his ticket out, keeping the dagger clutched in his hand.

Something in his gut pulled him through the dark. Sam picked his way over skeletons, still-writhing bodies, ignoring the screams in the dark.

A low growl filled the air. Two red eyes glowed in the darkness. Sam set himself, ready to finish it, finish everything.

"Sam."

A voice he had only heard once in his life—that he could remember—said his name. Sam turned, slowly.

"Mom?" he whispered.

"Baby, what are you doing here? You need to leave. It's all a trap." His mother came close, cradling Sam's face in her palm. Sam leaned into the touch, unable to stop himself.

"This is fake," he whispered.

"No." His mother's voice was soothing. "I've been trapped down here. I'm going to save you."

The growl behind him warned Sam too late. Sam's shoulder was grabbed, teeth imbedding themselves into his flesh.

Like a worm at the end of a hook, Sam squirmed, unable to do anything until he was tossed aside. Sam pushed himself up with his good arm. He had dropped his knife.

The hellhound was huge, matted fur dripping blood. It's teeth were stained with Sam's blood.

"Done playing tricks?" Sam hissed.

It didn't respond, choosing to lumber forward. Sam darted to the left, diving for his knife. By the time he managed to get it in his hand, the hellhound was on top of him, claw digging into Sam's leg.

Sam slammed the knife upward, into the hellhound's neck. Blood, black and viscous, poured out against Sam's body, burning against his skin.

Scrambling out from underneath its carcass, Sam gave himself a few seconds to breathe, staring at the dead hellhound.

The stomach was moving, slightly. Sam grimaced, sliding the dagger through the flesh.

Black liquid and sodden pieces of paper fell out. Sam lifted them up, finding a name written in blood. The next had another name, and so did the next. He shoved them all into his bag.

When Sam found Dean's, he clutched it close, unwilling to lose it again.

Hell was quiet, as Sam ate the apple. It melted away with a wail, and a fiery heat that Sam would remember for the rest of his life.

But he had done it. He had saved Dean.

Ruby still wasn't answering Dean's calls. Since he had left Sam, he had been staking out the motel room, waiting for the thing controlling him to arrive, or for Sam to leave. But there was no movement, in or out of the room, leaving Dean unable to decide what he should do. Go back in? Have things out with Sam now? Or leave for good?

Dean glanced over at the passenger's seat—empty, no Sam.

"Screw it," he muttered. Levering himself out of the car, he jogged up the street to get back to the motel. Maybe he was being a needy preteen girl about this, but he couldn't leave Sam to face this deal by himself.

The door was unlocked.

Ice in his veins, Dean shoved open the door, bleating out Sam's name.

Sam was on his bed, prone body arranged like he was in a casket. Dean snarled at the empty room.

"Whatever you are, show yourself," he yelled.

Nothing happened, and Sam didn't stir.

Pressing his fingers against Sam's neck, Dean found a pulse. It was slow, slower than humanly possible.

"Sam," Dean whispered. "Not like this, come on, wake up."

Dean did cleansing rituals. Spouted off Latin, anything he knew that might help.

Nothing.

Twenty-three minutes after Dean had entered the room, blood bloomed up over Sam's heart.

In panic, Dean ripped off his brother's shirt. Wounds opened up before his eyes, in the shape of an enormous animal bite of some kind. Dean pressed down against the welling blood, going for the suture kit with his other hand.

"You're going to be fine, Sam," he babbled. "I'll fix you right up, don't worry."

His first stitch pulled the skin tight. As Dean prepared to make his next stitch, though, the thread dissolved, letting the wound gape yet again.

"Wha—" Dean cursed under his breath, threading the needle and going back to the first stitches.

Again, it dissolved.

"Why are you doing this?" he snarled at the empty air. "What did Sam do?"

"More like, what did you do?"

Dean whirled, his empty hands raised in defense. He blinked. "You?"

"Yes, me. I'll ask one more time before I lose my patience. What did you do?"

Dean narrowed his eyes. "I didn't do anything. Are you the reason he's like this?"

The . . . well, they had known him as the Trickster, but Dean didn't know his actual name—stalked forward, leaning over Sam. Dean growled, "stay away from him," but he was ignored.

"You should be waking up, kid," the Trickster murmured. "Come on. You got the deal, now get out of there."

"What deal?" Dean asked sharply. He was ignored again.

Sam drew in a breath.

"There you go." The Trickster leaned back, satisfied.

"Sam?"

Unfocussed hazel eyes found his.

"Dean?" Sam rasped.

At Sam's return to consciousness, Dean's terror bled into rage. "What the hell is going on?"

"How apt of you to put it that way," the Trickster said drily. "Sam, did you get it?"

Sam opened his fist, holding out a black piece of paper.

"Got it," he murmured.

The Trickster nimbly picked it up, stretching it out.

Inscribed across it, was Dean's name in red ink.

"Is that—" Dean breathed.

The Trickster nodded. "Say thank you to your savior." It burned up between his fingers, drifting down as ash.

"Sam," Dean whispered.

"Well, I was referring to myself, but—"

Sam groaned. Dean worriedly looked back down at him. "Sam?"

"S'mthin's . . . wrong," he grunted.

"There are other magicks here," the Trickster muttered. "Do you have any hex bags in the room?"

Dean shook his head. "No, all our things are in the Impala."

Sam's body arched, a choked cry caught between his teeth until he slumped back against the bed, limbs trembling uncontrollably. The Trickster began walking around the room, eyes scanning the surrounding furniture.

"Sam, what's wrong?" Dean bent over him, running a hand over Sam's burning forehead, his bloody wounds.

"Can't . . . s'ry, D'n, I—," Sam cut off, jaw trembling and eyes rolling back in his head.

"Don't say that. Look at me, how do I fix this?"

The Trickster broke in, narrowing his eyes at Sam trembling on the bed. "What was the last thing you did with a witch, or some kind of demon?" he asked.

Dean blanched. "Ruby," he whispered.

Sam's wrist, limp against the bedspread, had the unassuming piece of leather encircling it. Dean ripped it off; Sam jerked before settling with a moan.

"That should do it," the Trickster said. Dean ignored him, focusing on how the bleeding was slowing.

"Other . . . other names." Sam gestured towards a bag that Dean hadn't seen before. "Free the others."

The Trickster whistled. "You have guts, kid." He picked up the bag, lighting it on fire.

"Dean's free?" Sam whispered. There was something awful and desperate in his voice.

Dean swore he saw the Trickster's face soften. "Yeah, Sam. You did it."

Sam sagged back against the bed, closing his eyes. "Good. That's good."

"I want some explanations," Dean demanded.

The Trickster disappeared, only to pop up in front of him, making Dean swear and jump backwards. Intense eyes pinned him in place, despite the small stature of the guy.

"Let Sam rest in peace. He has done nothing but sacrifice himself for you."

From the bed, Sam made a noise. "Don't—don't fight, Dean, don't make him mad, he could—"

The Trickster held up a hand, and Sam fell silent. Dean hated the influence he had over his little brother, but if Dean was really out of his deal . . .

"We're done, here."

The Trickster disappeared.

Relief was making Sam's entire body want to sag with relaxation, but Dean . . . the way Dean was looking at him . . . Sam closed his eyes to keep from having to see it.

"Go ahead," he said softly.

"What?" Dean didn't sound angry, yet. Sam opened his eyes, glancing at Dean before his cowardice took over and his gaze skittered back to the carpet, a neutral zone.

"You want to ask me," Sam stated, "what's happened."

Dean sighed, a heavy sound. "Yeah. I do."

Sam bit his lip, preparing to explain as much as he could.

"But not right now."

Sam jerked his head up. "Really?"

Dean's smile was wan, but it was a smile. "Dude. You are still bleeding, and a five year-old could take you down right now. I'm patching you up, you're sleeping, and then we'll talk."

Dean approached, and Sam let himself relax, one muscle at a time. This was . . . familiar, if somehow distant in his memory.

"I'm sorry. For not telling you."

"And I'm sorry for doubting you." Dean was focused on Sam's shoulder, the needle sliding through Sam's skin.

"Do you . . . do you hate me?" Sam asked, awkwardly.

"Can't ever hate you," Dean said. "Even when I try."

Sam wasn't quite sure he knew what that meant, so he fell silent, grunting as Dean moved to stitching up his leg.

"How long?"

Sam made a noise of confusion.

"How long were you working for him?"

"Since Broward county," Sam said.

Dean finished his stitching. "Get up, Sam."

Sam obeyed, swaying a little. Did Dean want him to leave now?

"Now come here."

Sam blinked at him. "What?"

Dean's face was completely serious. "You will give me a friggin' hug right now or so help me I will punch you in the face."

Sam warily stepped closer to his brother. Dean's arms wrapped around him, carefully avoiding his injured shoulder, and Sam dropped his head onto his brother's shoulder, holding back a sob.

"It's okay, Sammy. It's okay. We're good. We're fine."

It was only when Sam's leg gave way that Dean settled him down against the bed. Sam, to his humiliation, had tears sliding down his cheeks. He waited for Dean's response, but instead of making fun of him, Dean brushed his tears away with his thumb.

"Christo?" Sam joked shakily.

Dean pressed his lips into a sad smile. "I'm sorry, Sam. For what it's worth, if it's worth anything. And thank you."

Sam felt another sob rip through him without his permission. "If that's supposed to make me stop crying it's not working," he half-cried, half-laughed.

"It's cool. You're allowed to cry if you need stitches. New rule." Dean sat down on the bed next to Sam. "Plus, you managed to save my soul from Hell. That gives you a free pass for at least a day."

"Week."

"Fine, a week."

Sam's swollen eyes were getting heavy, but he didn't want to go to sleep, leave Dean behind, not now, when they were finally able to speak, finally be on the same page, finally be brothers again.

"Sammy, I'll be here in the morning. Promise," Dean said, and Sam realized he had spoken aloud.

He was Sammy again. Sam awkwardly twisted himself over onto his good side, clinging to Dean's leg. Sam could forget the emptiness, the loneliness, the labors.

He was home.

A/N: Woo! I had a whole lot of fun mixing my mythology knowledge and supernatural, if you can't tell. Anyway, thank you all so, SO much for following along, reading, and reviewing. I know I didn't respond to reviews this time around, but please know that I read all of them and appreciated every single one. As for a current update on future writing, I've been trying to go through old drafts and freshen them up, but it's rough work. Also, nursing school is eating my brain. So it'll be slow going for a while.

Enough about that. Let me know what you thought of this story, and I hope you liked it! :)