Title: Beyond Good and Evil
Characters: Sam, Dean
Genre: H/C, angst, gen
Rating: T
Word Count: 5600
Warnings/Spoilers: I doubt S8 is a real spoiler by now for anyone, but just in case, be forewarned. Rating for language, etc.

Summary: Sam discovers a book of new Devil's Traps in one of the library rooms of the bunker, but when he tries duplicating them, one backfires on him. Unfortunately, Dean is still in town when Sam realizes he is trapped and steadily growing weaker inside the circle.

Written for the ohsam comment-fic meme prompt below.

Sam doesn't want to go out for his birthday, he would rather stay in the MoL bunker researching and he comes across a book of new devil's traps. Curious as to why they are different he draws one on the floor but when he tries to cross through it, he finds himself trapped. Trying to not panic as he waits for Dean to get back to the Batcave, Sam realizes that he feels exhausted and the longer he's in the trap the weaker he gets, these traps were designed to weaken demons not just hold them.

Whatever is done for love always occurs beyond good and evil.

~Friedrich Nietzsche

It's one of the good days.

Pretty pathetic that he has a scale of judging now, with one being the night Dean went to Hell and ten being…well, he hasn't really had a ten yet, probably won't until the Trials are over, so it's really a moot point.

But today, today is probably a seven or eight, at least. He actually slept through the night, not being woken by a raging fever or coughing fit, the kind that brings Dean running down the hall with hot tea and a panicked expression. He woke up feeling better than he has in days; rested, only vaguely achy, and actually hungry for the first time in weeks.

Now, Sam sets his coffee mug down on a nearby file cabinet, lips curving slightly at the memory of Dean's unabashed delight that he actually finished his cereal and eggs this morning. In fact, his brother had been so stoked that he'd left soon after for the grocery store (not that Podunk mini-mart in town, Sam, there's a Giant Eagle only 40 minutes away) in order to pick up "something special" for dinner while Sam's dietary luck holds.

Knowing how Dean has been since they found this place, Sam suspects it will be a good four hours before his brother can tear himself away from the two-shelf selection of barbecue sauces and return to the bunker, which gives Sam the freedom to entertain himself in his own way without being made fun of for his scholarly proclivities.

Weeks ago when they first explored the storage rooms, Dean was more than happy to leave the paperwork and files of the Men of Letters to his more organized hand, and Sam has been slowly sorting the unbelievable amounts of lore and hunting information into categories and sub-categories. He intends to turn the paper records into a digital database – an enormous undertaking, but one which if he finishes, will be an instant search and research machine for anything and everything supernatural.

He had discussed this animatedly with his brother over dinner one night, hands waving in excitement as he talked about spreadsheet formulae, until Dean's eyes had completely glazed over. Dean won't really see the value in the system until it's done; in which case, he knows his brother will be over the moon at how much research he won't have to do. Once finished, they will have the be-all, end-all of hunter lore, and he is ridiculously excited to think about what an advantage they will have then over all the evil in the world.

He's made it through a good section of the records, finding that the best system is to pick a topic first and then copy down all the information that pertains to that topic, rather than trying to slot a billion different pieces of information into a billion different sub-categories. He's already burned out a laptop battery just recording information about protection sigils and wards, which he suspects have a huge part in why the bunker is undetectable to the uninitiated. Having nowhere near exhausted that topic, he now hauls a huge stack of journals over to the study table and plunks himself down under the soft lamplight, eager to continue. He's personally hoping to find some sigils that, while not incapacitating an intruder, will let the occupants of a room or house know that someone has broken past the protections. It would have come in handy many times in the past when waiting for a monster to return to its lair; even a five-second warning is enough to save lives in situations like that.

He looks up what feels like seconds later from a list of cross-references he wants to check in the main library room, when his phone vibrates loudly on the wooden table. Glancing over at it, fingers still typing the references, he is startled to see that almost three hours have passed; he has made some decent in-roads into this jumble of information.

The text is from Dean, simply saying Got distracted. New bakery in town. Will be late. Need anythg?

Smirking to himself, he shoots a quick reply back. Why am I not surprised. I'm good thx.

15 kinds of pie, Sammy. FIFTEEN.

He rolls his eyes fondly and returns to his typing, finishing up the sub-heading of Sumerian protection sigils and moving on to the more expansive topic of Enochian.

Beginning on the second volume of an archaic set of books titled Symbols and Sigils By Which to Repell All Manner of Evils by some guy named Horace Brewster, he starts as always by flipping idly through the volume to see how it is arranged, as most of these ancient tomes don't have an index or list of contents.

A familiar diagram catches his attention, and he pulls the book closer, not for the first time wondering if it's worth the risk of his brother's unending teasing if Sam were to invest in a pair of decent reading glasses.

The ink is slightly faded, but still legible, and he recognizes the first diagram as a rudimentary Devil's Trap, quite similar to the more heavy-duty ones he and Dean have taken to using after finding that regular Devil's Traps sometimes didn't work on high-level demons. The next twenty pages or so are what looks like variations on the initial, very basic Devil's Trap. Most of them he has never seen before, and he doesn't recognize all of the sigils and markings which comprise the variances between them.

"So…what, there's a template for a Devil's Trap?" he muses aloud, thumbing to the next page. There are no explanations on the diagrams, nor the pages surrounding them; obviously, the Men of Letters assumed that the reader would already understand the markings. Sam vaguely recognizes one symbol as a pretty dark blood sigil, and one or two others as a type of ancient Enochian he hasn't seen since looking through one of Bobby's books while trying to find a way out of Dean's Deal years ago. The rest, are a complete mystery.

It will take a lot longer than one morning to decipher their meanings, and this is a sizable enough project that he'll probably need both Kevin and Castiel's assistance. But if they all are to trap different types of demons – or even not demons, but different types of evil – then this could be their biggest advantage yet until he's able to slam the gates of Hell and finish part of the job for good.

Sam hasn't been this excited about something hunt-related in probably two decades. It's the work of sixty seconds to shove everything portable to the perimeter of the room. He fires off a text to his brother and then sets the book on the floor in the middle of the cleared space.

Dude where are u I found somethg amazing

Me 2. Chocolate-cherry pie, man. U wld not believe it.

Sam rolls his eyes impatiently and tosses the phone on top of the supply cabinet he is currently fishing through.

All he needs is a piece of chalk…

He's drawn the first five without incident, which is to be expected since he has no evil creatures to test them with; but what does confuse his analytical mind is that two of the five had specific dimensions for the trap itself; each arm of the foundational pentagram had to be exactly 6 or else 66 inches long; there would be no carving those onto bullets or handcuffs.

Logic tells him that means they serve a specific purpose to incapacitate certain types of evil without killing it, but what exactly that might entail he is no closer to knowing than when he started. It will take much research and probably experimentation to reveal this book's secrets.

The differences are intriguing, however, because of their subtlety. To someone who doesn't draw the things regularly, many of them would look exactly alike; but he and Dean, for example, would notice the difference instantly. No doubt they all can incapacitate on some level, but if one of them means that a demon that entered it would be instantly exorcised, or at least be unable to project its psychic power past the barrier? That would be a huge game-changer.

He notes the precise dimensions for the next – the pentagram the same 66 inches on each line as before, but the perimeter circle being a good two feet wider in diameter than the previous ones – and diligently follows the directions once more. This one feels slightly different to him; not dangerous, really, but just giving him a weird crawling feeling on the back of his neck.

Shrugging it off, he continues drawing, silently speculating that it's possible this is one which would impede psychic projection; just because he no longer has those powers, doesn't mean he's not still susceptible to psychic influence. He consults the book again, finishes the perimeter circle, and scribbles the last sigil – one that looks vaguely like something he saw once in one of Bobby's oldest books about demonic warfare – and then sits back on his heels to make sure he's done the whole trap right, committing the diagram to memory until they know what exactly it does.

He stands to stretch, feeling a few vertebrae in his lower back snap in relief after being hunched on the floor for over an hour. It's been a good morning's work, he decides with satisfaction, surveying the complete trap with interest. Six down, a dozen or two to go, and then when Dean gets back he can show him what he's discovered.

His chalk is worn down to a tiny nub by now, and so he heads over to the cabinet to find another piece from the odds and ends in that drawer…

…and slams to an abrupt halt as his feet and then his nose hit some kind of invisible barrier where nothing had been before. Startled, he rebounds from the impact, similar to being zapped by an electrified fence (and that was a cattle mutilation story he did not want to ever talk about again), and then cautiously extends a hand an arm's length in front of his body.

He jerks it back with a muttered curse as it encounters the same painful resistance, leaving his fingertips numb and his hand tingling.

Did he let something loose while he was messing around in here? Doubtful, as he hasn't touched anything other than the books, and none of them have the symbols the Men of Letters used to indicate a cursed object. He doesn't recall saying any Enochian aloud that could even have been construed as a verbal spell…did he trip a booby-trap the Men of Letters had wired into the floor, possibly? He glances down to test that theory, and freezes, staring at his boots.

They're less than an inch away from the edge of the chalk perimeter he just completed.

Mentally crossing his fingers, he edges one boot-toe toward the white barrier, and jerks back instantly as a more severe burn crackles through the leather and steel toe. He stumbles backward a couple of steps, tries the other side of the pentagram, near a different sigil. No change; he now only has two mostly numb feet and a growing sense of panic.

The circle is bigger than most of the diagrams, thanks to the extra yard in diameter from the average perimeter they usually draw around the Devil's Trap. He can move freely within the lines, but the moment he touches the perimeter, the barrier activates; he can't smudge out the chalk, if he can't even touch the line.

Trying to smudge the sigils only produces the same result; he can move over the pentagram itself unharmed, but anything else burns white-hot to the touch, increasing in force every time he makes the attempt. He scrabbles at a floorboard, hoping to dislodge it enough that he can pry it up and break the perimeter, but it is of no use; this room's flooring is solid hardwood, with no gaps between the boards for even a fingernail to get through. He doesn't have a knife on him because he doesn't pack while in the bunker; his laptop has hibernated by now over on the table, and besides it doesn't have voice-recognition. His cell phone is still on the filing cabinet, vibrating occasionally as the odd message or alert comes through.

Finally, after ten minutes of borderline-panicking, he settles down Indian-style in the middle of the pentagram, and massages his temples in an effort to stave off a claustrophobic freakout that is brewing deep inside.

This isn't a Devil's Trap; it's a cage.

Sam doesn't do well with cages.

He scrubs both hands through his hair slowly, then drags a sleeve over his perspiring forehead. He takes a deep breath and looks around him at the diagram he's copied onto the wooden floor. Dean's voice inside his head chides him for trying out pictographs that he doesn't fully understand the meaning of – but he had no way of knowing it would work on a human!

…Unless it doesn't work on humans. Unless this particular trap isn't necessarily a Devil's Trap, but the next best thing – a cage for humans who are just as evil.

After all these years, despite his recent efforts, the knowledge that impartial ancient magic still finds him guilty hurts more than he thought it would. No matter how much he tries, the world will never forgive him for not saving his mother, his Jessica, his brother before the time ran out. For jumpstarting the apocalypse, for not getting rid of the Leviathans until they'd taken his and Dean's last remaining family member…for not looking for Dean while he was fighting his way through the levels of Purgatory. For demon blood, by choice and not by choice, for any number of other things that still haunt his nightmares and lurk in his dreams.

Not a year has gone by that he hasn't done some evil, either by commission or omission, and the knowledge that an objective jury condemns him without question hurts more than any harsh words spoken in anger, any condemning nightmares ever could.

His phone buzzes angrily on the supply cabinet, and he can only pray that it's not Dean telling him he's going to be even later; if Dean's not on his way back then the likelihood Sam will last that long without completely freaking out is very high. The phone buzzes and buzzes, and then falls silent; a missed call.

Sam drops his head into his hands, trying to breathe evenly, because the knowledge that he could remain trapped here inside a circle of symbols he doesn't even know the meaning of, the power of…yeah, he is starting to panic, just a little. That must be why his head feels so heavy; not enough oxygen to the brain, all his energy being poured into fighting off a panic attack, not to mention his already compromised condition due to the Trials.

He settles on his back, knees bent up within the pentagram, and puts both arms under his head for a few minutes, engaging in breathing techniques he has used over the years to help with the worst of his migraines. He can barely hear a sound other than his own rapid breathing; this room, being a reading room, must be nearly soundproof. A shelf creaks eerily somewhere at the back, wood settling with the change in atmospheric pressure from his hours of leaving the door open. Some kind of tiny bug idly flits overhead, bashing into one of the fluorescent lights and then flying off again, apparently unharmed.

The ringing in his ears starts to subside a little, as he calms down from the initial panic and shame at being trapped. His eyelids grow heavy, closing against the bright light…

He almost feels sorry for the demons they've trapped inside these things; they were evil, yes, but the feeling of panic as your energy is slowly drained from you over the course of minutes…

Wait, they've used Devil's Traps dozens of times over the last several years, and he doesn't ever recall the thing making a demon weaker – on the contrary, they usually got more violent, had a much higher adrenal rush along with that frantic energy.

Why then does he feel like he can barely lift his head anymore?

Something's wrong.

He rolls onto his side, groaning softly at the effort that one action takes, and reaches with shaky fingers to snag the old tome of sigils. As he does, his watch glints in the light, and he stares at it for a second – it says almost two hours have passed since he started drawing the diagrams, which means he's been trapped in this one for over an hour and a half, an hour and a half he doesn't even remember other than a fog of confused shame.

Something is really wrong. He struggles onto his stomach, braced on one elbow, and flips desperately through the pages in an effort to find some way of breaking the trap from the inside, but there is nothing, at least nothing he can understand without his laptop and other books to

cross-reference and decipher. There is just no escaping it from within, and either his Trial illness is flaring up again with a vengeance, or else something in the trap is weakening him steadily with every soft tick of his watch.

With a soft murmur of hopelessness, his head drops back to his arms, thumping dully on the book in front of him.

But then – God may have left the building years ago, but Sam's evidently still got someone watching over him, because he's never heard anything more wonderful than Dean's voice suddenly yelling down the corridor outside the study room.

The vociferous "Dude, you mind comin' up for air and giving me a hand, here?" is accompanied by a variety of clangs and thuds that tell Sam his brother has yet again tried to carry everything in one trip from the car and has only succeeded in dropping various pieces of jetsam in his wake.

Sam's first attempt to call back is weak enough to scare him more than he is already, and his second is not much better. But while the Trials have activated something in his blood, they also apparently have activated a finely-tuned Sam-dar in his brother's; and while the mother henning has driven him crazy for the last two weeks he is very much relieved that it comes to his aid now.

Something skitters down the hallway with a crinkle of plastic, followed by a curse and pursuant footsteps – bringing Dean close enough to hear his third call, no stronger than the first two.

He could literally cry with relief when Dean's head pokes in the room, eyebrows scrunched together in that way that means he's more worried than he's going to ever admit. One glance, sharp with practice in appraising dangerous situations, already tells him something is very wrong, and by the time Sam collects enough energy to explain Dean has already got his gun out of his waistband and is moving across the room, slowly scanning each possible hiding place.

"Sam?"

"Dean," he says weakly, shoving the tome of diagrams across the cage's border with the last of his remaining strength. His head flops down to his arms again, face turned toward his brother and eyes squinting to focus.

Dean's glance wavers down to the book and then back up again in confusion.

"Stand down," he manages to explain, as his eyelids become heavier and heavier. "Nobody here."

One smooth slide across the floor, and Dean is reaching for him, ignoring the book at his feet.

"Sam, what happened? Are you – Jesus!" A crackling sound and a grunt of pain inform Sam his brother isn't able to cross the perimeter to get in any more than he is able to get out. "The hell is this? Sammy?"

Ever the obedient brother, he mumbles a response. Obviously, Dean is not satisfied with that, because a second later a book thwaps against his head, and his eyes slit open in annoyance and pain. Dean has thrown a smallish dictionary at him, apparently, and his now-aching head is effective enough to give him momentary clarity.

"C'mon, man, stay with me here."

He struggles to lift his head, and points with a trembling hand at the book.

"What about it, Sam? Spellwork? Cursed object?"

"No," he mumbles, half into his sleeve. Eyes squinted, he watches as Dean picks it up and begins flipping through it with that rapidity which proves he is just as good as Sam at researching, he just likes to pretend otherwise.

"We talking variations on a Devil's Trap? Is that even a thing?"

"'Parently," he mutters, bringing a shaky hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose. "Practiced five of 'em…sixth one, found I – I couldn't get out, Dean. Leeching energy from me, I think." His hand flops back to the ground, as his voice cracks on the knowledge that Dean is going to find out just how little these Trials have actually purified him, as he had futilely and so foolishly hoped. "Must be…must be designed…for humans that're evil, or sm'thing."

"That's a load of crap, Sam."

"Isn't," he mumbles petulantly.

"We don't have time for this. Any special instructions on how to break it? Or just the normal ways?"

"Couldn' erase the chalk…wouldn't let me touch it," he replies, eyes fluttering closed again against the light.

"Well…" A yelp of pain tells Sam that it won't let his brother touch the chalk line either. "Yeah, figured it wasn't that easy. 'K, look, Sam, I'm gonna go grab a crowbar from the garage, okay? Sam? SAM!"

He wants to wave Dean away, let him get on with his job, but even that small gesture is too much; he can almost feel the energy seeping out of his limbs, his mind…

"All right, screw this. Sammy, roll over and cover your head. You hear me?"

Dean is either really angry or really scared (or both), that much at least still registers with him, and so he does manage to make a sort of half-flop the other direction, clumsily throwing his arms over his head.

The deafening blast a second later makes him jump, adrenaline suddenly fighting back the lethargy for a few lucid moments. He's about to look up when Dean's voice penetrates the fog, tense with anger and worry.

"You have got to be kidding me. It's a friggin' chalk line!"

He slits one eye open to see Dean's Taurus in his hand, still aimed at the chalk perimeter, which is smooth and unbroken. A spent bullet is still rolling along the floor from where it rebounded off the barrier.

Great.

"Sam, you still in there? Sam? Sammy, you stay with me!"

He wants to answer, but is way beyond response at this point. As he gives in to the approaching dark silence, he makes a final wish that at least this new knowledge will help them someday to determine who their real enemies are, hopefully before they jumpstart the next apocalypse.

Weirdly enough, he isn't dead when he opens his eyes next time. This is such a surprise in itself that he blinks confusedly for a few seconds, trying to figure out what exactly happened.

He doesn't feel as awful as he did right before going under, that's for certain; and while he thinks he might still be lying on the floor (it feels like wood, and while his bed may not be memory foam it's at least better than that), his head is resting on something much fluffier and an ice pack is situated behind his neck. His feet are propped up over what looks like a carpet roll, and his lower half is covered by a tattered quilt that smells faintly of roses and mothballs. Something is pinching the back of his hand, and he rolls his neck that direction to see an IV line affixed there.

Something clumps down beside him on the floor, and Dean's face comes between him and the vaulted ceiling. He blinks, about to ask for answers, when his brother pokes his blanketed chest with a strong, stabbing finger.

"New house rules, Sam. You don't know what it is, you don't draw it on the freaking floor!"

"Noted," he murmurs hoarsely.

Dean mutters something that sounds vaguely insulting, and reaches over with his left hand to grab Sam's non-IV-ed wrist, obviously timing his pulse.

"Dude you came so close to flatlining on me, do you have any idea?"

"Sorry," he rasps, wincing at the memory, the feeling of his very life draining away slowly. "I –"

"You know I almost went back to the car for another trip before coming down here? Another ten minutes…" Dean stops, releases Sam's wrist to scrub wearily down his face. "Not cool, man."

"I didn't know," he whispers. "I – I never thought that…I mean, it's been so long, and…and these Trials, they're supposed to be making me worthy of – of closing the gates of Hell…"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Reel it in a second, Sam. What exactly are you talking about?"

"The cage," he says wearily.

"The what?"

"It wasn't a Devil's Trap, not that one, Dean. I think – I think it was a cage, to trap humans, not demons. Humans that have enough evil in them they need to be weakened before they can hurt other people…" Dean's eyes narrow at him, but he continues, rambling as he thinks aloud. "It's a cage, man. Probably designed to trip up anybody that's evil enough to need to be taken out, that's all. I should have…should have known I was bound to get trapped inside."

"Dude, you are such a melodramatic moron sometimes, I swear you have to be a shifter."

He scowls, head turning slightly toward his brother. Dean's hand is rubbing at his forehead as if he too is fighting off a headache. "What exactly is that supposed to mean?"

"Sam." Denim creaks whisper-soft against hardwood as his brother scoots closer and fixes him with a scowl. "You are not evil."

"Obviously, the spellwork in that trap says otherwise," he says softly, eyes drifting down to aimlessly trace the lines of the ancient quilt he lies under.

Dean makes a noise of exasperation and shakes his head. "Sam, the sigils in that trap are a variation of ancient Enochian. They mean truth, doubt, power, and questions."

Sam's eyebrow crawls up his forehead. "And you know that how?"

"I sent Cas a picture of 'em while you were doing your coma victim impression. He said he hasn't seen a diagram like that in centuries, but it's a legit combination for some serious evil mojo."

"Yeah, that much I figured out myself, thanks."

"Idiot." Dean flicks him very gently on the side of the head. "Sam, it's an interrogation trap. Not a Devil's Trap, not some Let's-Kill-the-Evil-One trap, it's just a…a glorified holding cell. For anybody," he adds sternly, seeing Sam's mouth open. "Cas said that combination of sigils basically is ineffective on anyone who is entirely innocent; only someone who has been touched by evil can trip it and activate it."

Sam's eyes close in misery, because that's not much better than his original hypothesis.

A gentle hand comes to rest on his shoulder. "Touched by evil, Sam; not innately evil." He looks up and meets Dean's warm gaze, and a flicker of hope sparks deep inside his soul. "From what I can tell, between Cas and some quick sigil research in your brand-spankin' database, it's normally used to determine whether or not a person of interest has actually been in some kind of contact with evil, or if they're just some poor innocent fool who just stumbled onto the supernatural. It's a tool of efficiency in witness questioning, Sam. Not a life-sucking fly-trap for unsuspecting little brothers who just happen to have been around about, oh, like five thousand different kinds of evil in his lifetime and are stupid enough to actually draw the tripwire."

Sam blinks slowly, digesting this information. "You're not making this up," he says, not really a question.

"Dude, I've said some crappy things to you over the decades but even I wouldn't make this up just to mess with you," Dean replies seriously.

"I dunno, Dean…it sure reacted to me like it wanted me to slowly weaken and die, wouldn't let me out…"

Dean sighs, brings his right hand across his body from where it's been resting beside him. Sam half-sits up with concern, because it's thickly bandaged from fingertip to wrist.

"Dean?"

His brother waves the mummified hand in front of his nose. "Second-degree burns, kiddo. You were, like, dying right in front of me, and I only had my knife. Took a little while, but finally managed to scrape enough of the perimeter off the floor to snap the barrier and get you out. It wasn't personal against you, Sam; I've been touched by evil too, and it had the exact same reaction to me."

"Dean…" He brushes the bandaged wrist with a light finger. "Dude, you didn't have to –"

"I kinda did, Sammy." Dean shrugs. "Didn't know how long you had, and prying up one of those floorboards was going to take way too long. These geeks built this place solid."

Sam nods, still trying to digest the last few hours in their entirety. The dark, choking weight he had felt sink down upon him after becoming trapped in the circle has lifted, bit by bit, as his big brother calmly explained away the darkness, just as he has for years.

"Thanks, Dean," he says softly.

"No problem." A rough throat-clearing, and Sam knows he needs to let it drop or else embarrass his brother into hiding for three days from the humiliation of his own unsung heroism. "Oh, yeah – almost forgot."

Sam accepts the topic change, and props his head on one elbow, stifling a yawn. "Forgot what?"

Dean rummages behind him in the hallway (apparently he was not able to carry 200+ pounds of little brother, and had instead opted to triage there in the reading room) for a second, amid the sounds of rustling plastic. Finally he turns around and sets a plastic tray on the floor in front of Sam's propped elbow. One flick of his unbandaged hand lights his Zippo, and Sam stares for a second, trying desperately not to laugh.

"Um."

"Look, y'had a cake, but I kind of…lost it in transition from the car to the kitchen," Dean mumbles, taking a great interest in the crack between two floorboards.

"It's…actually, I'd rather that than cake, Dean."

His brother perks up immediately. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Sam grins, and blows out the candle haphazardly stuck in the ranch dip container of a modest vegetable tray. "Means I don't have to worry about sharing with you."

"Damn right." Dean snorts, and rolls himself to his feet in one smooth motion. "Don't choke on the celery while I'm gone, Francis."

Sam waves him away with a loud crunch.

"And seriously. No more experimenting when I'm not at least on the property?"

"Also seriously, I promise, Dean. I don't know what I would have done, if you hadn't –"

"Ughhhh, shoot me now, please." Dean rolls his eyes, making for the door with alacrity. "When you're done dripping emo everywhere, get your ass in the kitchen and help me put away all that organic crap you asked for."

Sam fires a carrot after him with deadly accuracy, receives a halfhearted death threat in return, and then snuggles back down in the slightly musty quilt. He allows himself a comfortable yawn and closes his eyes, knowing full well that Dean is not really expecting him in the kitchen and won't wake him up for anything short of a major crisis.

He isn't quite asleep when he senses the veggie tray being silently removed from his periphery, the IV being just as silently (and painlessly) removed from his hand. A rubbery, soft squeak by his head; a water bottle being left. And a hand, rough with bandages, gently tucking his mess of hair behind his ear, lingering for just the whisper of a second before retreating just as soundlessly.

Devil's Trap, Trials, and all - it's actually the best birthday he's had in years.