The Unseen Outcome

Sam crept closer to the door.

"I'm just saying, I need you to promise me he'll be okay." Dean sounded nonchalant, but a tremor of worry was running underneath his voice.

Bobby said something in return, to which Dean responded, "sure Sam'll be fine. He was fine in Stanford without me."

Ha. Maybe Dean didn't know Sam as well as they both thought.

"I won't. But there isn't much time left, and I wanted to check—"

Bobby's angry retort obviously had some rude epithet or other. Dean's laughter was in his voice.

"Careful, Bobby, your insults are getting outdated." Sam heard his phone snap shut.

Sam snuck back to lounge on his bed, like he hadn't been spying on his brother. He heard Dean enter the room and rummage around in his stuff.

"Hey, Dean?"

"Yeah, Sammy?"

"Could you read the newspaper for me?"

"Sure thing." The paper crinkled.

"Well, the sports are big in . . . where is this paper from?"

"Savannah."

"Yeah, yeah, there was a rumor about that hunt. Okay, um, the mayor's resigning for some reason . . . hmm, the forecast is—" Dean's voice cut off.

"What?"

"Nothin', uh, forecast's great in Savannah. Hey, they have a restaurant that sounds amazing."

"Dean, what about the weather?" Sam asked severely.

"Just some electrical storms, but, hey, dude, that's probably normal, y'know, nothing to—"

In exasperation, Sam stood, clenching his hands into fists. "Dean, stop trying to protect me. We're looking into Savannah because of the odd circumstances surrounding that death. This might be the demon. We're going."

Dean's voice took on the quality it did whenever he was a combination of angry and terrified. "Sam, we have no way of stopping this thing. Going there will be suicide."

"We have yet to try and exorcise it properly," Sam reminded him. He crossed the room, gathering up his clothes and shoving them into his duffel. "It's worth a shot."

"Worth a shot of getting us killed?"

"You have one month left, Dean!" Sam's loud outburst surprised himself, and he swallowed, repeating quietly, "you have one month left, and I'm not letting go of the chance that if we get rid of him, it may save you."

"Sammy, he wasn't the one at the crossroads. He probably—"

"He's one of the most powerful demons out there. He has to be in charge." Sam zipped his bag shut. "We're going, Dean."

"No, we're not."

Sam reared back, rage making his gut clench. "You can't just—"

"Yes, I can. I'd like to see you drive to Savannah," Dean snarled.

In the ten years, Dean had never . . . he had never really taken Sam's disability and used it against him. He had never left him helpless.

Sam sank onto the bed, feeling numb. Dean couldn't do this to him. He couldn't.

Dean knew Sam might hate him for this, but he was only protecting his brother. This . . . this suicide mission was just that, a suicide mission. Dean knew the rules. No getting out of the deal or Sam would die. Sam didn't get that, but Dean would do anything, anything to keep from seeing Sam lying dead in the mud again.

"I'm going to get us some dinner," he said.

Sam didn't respond, remaining at the end of his bed, white eyes gazing where Dean couldn't follow.

"You want a salad?" Dean knew he deserved the silent treatment, but that didn't mean he had to like it. "Fine, sit here and sulk. I'll be back."

The moment Dean left, Sam went into action. He had a short amount of time to work, and so he went quickly, breaking the salt lines and slowly using his fingertips to find the wards Dean had traced with a grease pencil on the window and rub them off.

He uttered the simplest summoning spell he knew—not a really summoning spell, more like a supernatural flare. The demon would know where he was, if Sam had done it right.

"Sam, I'm so pleased you've come around."

Sam had done it right.

He took a deep breath. "Long time no see." The demon didn't catch the irony.

"You and your brother have been busy, haven't you?"

Carefully, Sam took a hold of his cane. "Yeah. We have."

"Why the change in heart?" Cold fingers grasped the junction between his shoulder and neck, and Sam forced himself not to flinch.

"I want Dean's deal gone. He gets off free, protected. I'll do whatever you want me to."

"Is that right." Sam felt the demon circle him, hand trailing across his shoulders. "What about the Colt?"

"We melted it down long ago," Sam said honestly.

The demon growled a little, but subsided. "So those are your terms? I get you, body soul, et cetera. Dean's deal is off—"

"—and you can't hurt him or cause his death in any way."

The demon paused. "Well. Excellent work, finding the loopholes and plugging them. Alright, Sam, deal." The demon's mouth pressed against his, tongue plundering Sam's mouth. It drew away, chuckling and leaving Sam wanting to throw up.

"So you'll leave Dean alone?"

"Deal's a deal." the demon's heavy hand circled Sam's neck. "Let's go have some fun, Sammy."

With a wrench, the ground disappeared underneath Sam's feet.

It took Dean two weeks to catch up with Sam for the first time.

Sam was standing in a circle, surrounded by figures—Dean assumed they were demons—chanting and slicing open his own arm.

It was stupid, for Dean to alert them of his presence.

Dean didn't care anymore.

"Sam!"

As one, the demons turned to face him. Sam ignored him, continuing to sprinkle his own blood and chant.

"Sammy!" Dean rushed forward, expecting the demons to stop him, but instead passing through their ranks without difficulty.

"Dean." Sam's voice sounded deeper than Dean was accustomed to hearing. He turned, and Dean halted, swallowing. Sam's eyes were covered with swirling yellow, and blood dripped from his teeth. "It's good to see you again."

"Sammy, you have to stop," Dean pleaded.

Sam shrugged. "I'm fulfilling my destiny, Dean. I saved your soul from eternal torment, what more do you desire?"

Dean reached out, touching Sam's shoulder. "I want my brother back."

Sam narrowed his eyes at him. "Well, it's too late for that."

The knife in Sam's hands rose to Dean's eye level, leaving Sam's arms free to cross over his chest, and Dean stepped back.

"You need to leave," Sam said mildly. "I hope you can find a good life."

"Sammy—"

Sam blinked and cocked his head at Dean. "Goodbye."

Dean opened his eyes and found himself in the Impala. He swore violently, slamming his fists against his baby's steering wheel.

After a moment of feeling sorry for himself, he got out his phone.

"Bobby? I need your help."

"I am impressed, Sam."

Sam focused on manipulating the energy rather than paying attention to Azazel.

"We need to cement your place as demon leader, though."

"Is that right?" Sam asked absently.

"An act of evil. Easy enough, just kill a bunch of kids or something. Babies, if it makes you feel better, it's not like they're old enough to realize what's happening."

"Mmm." Sam felt the snap of energy as the manipulation was fulfilled, and he turned to Azazel. "Why would I want that?"

Now that he could see again, Sam was able to watch the impressive contortions the demon's face made. Sam had Azazel unnerved and uncertain.

"It's the fulfillment, Sam. A blood killing, so you may embrace your powers."

"I've killed before," Sam said slowly. "What is the difference?"

"You killed to save the world." Azazel's emotions were bleeding out, irritation overriding the usual hatred and anger that Sam had learned to read from all demons.

"I see." With a sigh, Sam focused back on the energies. "Give me three days."

Azazel disappeared in a swirl of his own type of energy. Sam carefully catalogued it and moved on. There was ultimate power in his grasp, and Sam was very close to finding it. As long as no one interfered, he would be able to rule Hell before Azazel realized he would be overthrown.

"Take a look to the sky just before you die." Sam hummed to himself.

"Master, what are your wishes?"

Annoyed, Sam raised his fist and sent them down to the deepest pits of Hell, leaving their vessels thrashing in the throes of painful death from how hard they'd been ridden by the demons.

"It is the last time you will," he sang, cutting off the air for each body. The energy hummed, and Sam plucked the colorful strands, looping them around and throwing himself into the abyss.

"I hear your brother's gone darkside?"

Dean shoved aside his beer and twisted the hunter's collar. "You go near him and you'll wish you'd never been born," he snarled.

"Ease off, Dean," Ellen said sternly. "Everyone's confused about what's going on, and it's your job to explain it."

Dean glanced mistrustfully around the room. "I don't know these people. They could turn on Sammy."

"And they will, unless you tell them what's going on," Ellen repeated.

"Dean, be reasonable," Bobby chimed in. "Your only shot is to get as many people involved as possible so we can slow Sam down."

Dean scrubbed a hand across his face, feeling the growth of too much stubble. His very bones ached. When was the last time he slept? He wasn't really sure.

He looked to the room at large. Hunters, new and old, and one of them might hurt Sam.

This was his chance to stop that, hopefully. And stop Sam.

Dean cleared his throat. "Sam made a deal with the demon Azazel to save me from going to Hell. He's . . . he has some kind of power right now. I'm not sure if it's Azazel's power or . . . his own. But don't kill him. I can stop him, if I can just get close enough. I need the manpower, if there are other demons around. "

The hunters were silent, for a long moment.

"Well, Dean, what's the play?" Bobby prompted.

"All signs lead to Wyoming, where Jake—the other kid with abilities—was trying to open the gates to Hell. That's where we'll find him."

One of the hunters—Walt?—stood. "Let's get this done," he said. Dean ignored how ominous it sounded. They would save Sam, all of them. It was the only way.

Azazel's obsequious smile grated on Sam's nerves.

"I'm glad you agreed to do this, Sam. With this, we can harness the power of Hell and bring the earth to its knees."

"Sure," Sam drawled. "You planning on starting a Broadway musical with that power?"

Yellow eyes flickered over him uncertainly. Sam narrowed his own until Azazel forced another smile. "Shall we complete the ritual?" he asked. "I have the location and I can supply the children."

"I don't think so." Sam paced slowly. He realized, suddenly, that his feet were bare. He couldn't remember where his shoes had gone. "During this time I have been searching. And I have found the way to true power. You will meet me tomorrow night, leaving all of your lackeys—" he glanced at their audience, "—behind. Or I will not fulfill the ritual."

Azazel shifted, as did the demons surrounding him. "Of course. Will you drink?"

Sam inclined his head, kneeling as Azazel stretched out his arm. The demon seemed a lot more comfortable with Sam in the subservient position, and Sam wanted to roll his eyes at the lack of subtlety.

Azazel sliced open his arm. The smell of his blood was potent, due to Sam's enhanced senses, and he let the heady feeling go to his brain, drawing the demon's arm forward and latching onto the source of blood. It was liquid power, a way for him to finally stand on his own. The first time Azazel had him drink, Sam had been able to access the parts of his mind and his optic nerves that had long lain suppressed by ancient magic. No longer blind.

Now, it was beyond that, and Sam had powers that even the demons around him could hardly dream of.

Sam stood, power humming through the ground and into his bones. "I will meet you tomorrow."

The graveyard was silent. Various hunters were scattered in a ring around the gate to Hell, half on watch, half sleeping.

"Dean."

"Bobby," he acknowledged briefly, refusing to look away from the dark grounds.

"Kid, you need to make sure you think about what is going to happen."

Dean glanced at Bobby. "We're going to save Sam. That's what is going to happen."

In the pale moonlight, Bobby looked his age. "He could be too far gone. Demonic power, Dean. After being useless his whole life, Sam's been given a helluva a lot of power. That would change anybody."

"Not Sam," Dean said flatly.

"You don't know that for sure."

Dean twisted his fingers into the cool dirt. "Yes, I do."

For a long while, Sam stood in the graveyard in silence, keeping himself invisible. The few spirits that were restless he settled with a slow wave of his palm. A simple cut on the palm would do it. He began pacing, a wide circle that would encompass enough ground for the ritual. Dripping blood around the edge, he imbued the liquid with power.

Once that was done, he centered himself in the middle, where the power was strongest. He lowered himself so that he could feel the miasma oozing from the ground, into his bones. Sam was one of the dead. It was his birthright. It needed to be fulfilled.

"You've become different, since you made the deal with me," Azazel observed.

"I suppose I have," Sam said. He dug his fingers into the cemetery dirt, tempted to bury himself.

"You must start the ritual before the night passes."

"Of course." Sam sat up and looked around at the quiet cemetery; the stink of death was filtered through the demonic power, making it almost tantalizing.

Sam began chanting Azazel's ritual to open Hell, but he sectioned off most of his power for himself. The net was building, energy writhing in planes far beyond what Azazel could see. Sam had the power. Nothing would stop him.

There were humans running forward and yelling inane words around the fringes of the cemetery, trying to push their way forward. Sam idly kept them at bay with a ring of resistance, murmuring Latin under his breath. Lines spread out from beneath Sam, sparking with fire.

"Sammy!"

He watched one desperate human, clawing against the circle as if he wanted to die. Strange. Why go towards destruction?

A bullet slammed through the air, stopping just short of Sam's heart. He had been distracted—no more.

"Sam, finish the ritual," Azazel snarled.

Sam turned to him. "I will finish it." He stood, stepping in close to the demon, the stink of sulfur strong in his nostrils.

There was another cry from the desperate human, but Sam ignored it.

His voice layered with power, Sam commanded Hell to open.

The ground split, red fire and lightning springing forth as demons swarmed free, black smoke only a hint of their true forms. Azazel laughed, maniacal in his victory.

And Sam collected Hell, circling it around Azazel and himself.

"Let it be free to take over the world!" Azazel cried, voice ringing with pleasure. "Release them!"

"No," Sam murmured. "Blood and fire, it will end it all."

He drew out his knife, slashing it deep across the flesh of his left arm. Blood ran thick into the ground, and Sam sucked in a deep breath. The words slipped out of his mouth without any prompting, a combination of ancient Latin, Greek, and maybe something even more ancient. Sam washed his right hand in blood, coating it completely. Sam stalked forward—Azazel stumbled back, realizing too late what Sam was doing—and placed his bloody hand against his sire's face.

"Hell shall swallow us whole," he murmured.

The demons screamed together, as Sam pulled all of his threads and wrapped them around Azazel's twisted soul.

Azazel screamed in rage and helplessness. Sam's blood acted as a mark, linking Azazel to humanity and condemning him to Hell like any sinful human might be condemned.

"It ends," Sam whispered. In a surge of power, he sent Azazel into Hell, the remnants of his power burning out as he latched Hell's gate closed.

Dean pawed helplessly against the barrier. He couldn't see through the clouds of black smoke—demons?—only catching glimpses of two figures in the middle, Sam and Azazel.

"Sammy!"

The smoke swirled—suddenly, a bright light flashed out, blinding them. Dean blinked the tears away from his eyes.

It was . . . quiet. The cracks in the ground were gone, the black smoke gone and Azazel gone as well.

Sam lay prone in the center.

"Sammy!" Dean sprinted forward. He could hear some of the hunters calling his name, but he ignored them.

A shot rang out, a puff of dust marking the spot next to Sam's body.

"Don't shoot!" Dean cried out.

The hunter—whichever hunter that was—didn't listen, firing off a couple more bullets. One made impact, and Dean let out an inarticulate sound of rage, reaching Sam's body and blanketing him. If they wanted to shoot his brother, they would have to shoot him. At the edge of his perception, he could hear sounds of scuffling and Bobby and Ellen yelling.

"Sammy," he whispered. The entry wound was near Sam's collarbone, a bad spot for pain, but not fatal. What was more worrying was the deep cut on Sam's forearm, still leaking blood. Dean ripped off his shirt and tore it into strips, wrapping Sam's arm efficiently.

"You're going to be fine, Sammy," he said shakily. "I saw what you did, you stopped all of them. That doesn't mean you can give up, though, you hear me? I need you, buddy. Why don't you wake up for me?"

Sam stirred, minutely. Dean held his breath, palming Sam's cheek and rubbing his thumb across one high cheekbone. "Come on, you can do it. Wake up, Sammy."

He braced himself for the yellow eyes, as Sam's eyelids fluttered.

"That's it," he encouraged. "Come back."

Sam's eyes opened.

"I'm not saying vacation forever. I'm just saying . . . for now." Dean leaned more fully back against the Impala's windshield, not looking at Sam. "I dunno about you, but I could use a break."

The metal squeaked as Sam dragged his bare feet across the hood. The metal was warm from the recently running engine. "It feels . . . wrong," he said stiltedly. "To be still for so long." At times he thought he still felt the humming of energy beneath his skin. It made him want to run, run and fly away forever.

"That's what you get for teleporting across the country doing crazy stuff," Dean told him. "Totally your fault."

"Yeah." Sam's chin dipped down to his chest, He let his hair cover his eyes, unwilling to have Dean look at the evidence of his sins. "I, um, I'm sorry."

Dean sighed. "How many times have I told you to stop apologizing?"

Sam wrapped around his good arm around himself. "It was close. I could've killed you. Can I ever apologize enough?"

"Dude. It's done." Dean sat up, scooting over a little. "The way I see it, you saved my soul and probably the entire world. Nothing you need to apologize for there."

"Yeah?" Sam tilted his head towards his brother. "So, drinking a demon's blood, opening Hell . . . that's all cool with you?" He let his eyes—an awful ugly mix of sickly yellow and white,(he had seen them in the mirror and thrown up)—meet Dean's, waiting for his brother's disgust.

"Water under the bridge," Dean said easily. Sam's shoulders dropped a little. The shadowy shape of his brother wavered a little, and Sam scrubbed at his eyes futilely, caught between sight and darkness.

"It still feels wrong," he said.

Dean wrapped a companionable arm around his shoulders. "Yeah? We'll get you a psychiatrist or whatever. I don't want to hear about it during our time star watching."

Sam let himself laugh, a little. He leaned into his brother's warmth, feeling Dean's fingers twist into his hair, scratching gently at his scalp. "About that? Um, you mind telling me what it looks like?" The dark sky was more frightening than anything, as his bad eyesight left it a simple black canvas, too much like complete blindness again. Sam kept his limited sight on the ground and Dean. That was enough for him.

Dean's hand pressed Sam's head to tilt down against Dean's shoulder. Sam went willingly. He would have to live with what he had done, what he had become. But he had Dean. And that was all he had ever asked for.

"Sure, Sammy. I can do that. Whatever you want."

A/N: I can't believe that this 'verse over. Over 95,000 words. A little part of me winces: the time I've spent doing this should probably be going towards writing original works, but at the end of the day, it's been worth it. You, my lovely readers, have been supporting me, carrying me through writing this, and have made it all so much fun. So thank you. Thank you so much for reading, for reviewing. You are why I write fanfic. Thank you!