Takes place after 5x05, Fallen Idol.

"You can't have him."

Sam hears from someplace far beyond the room he's shut in.

"Morael, please listen—"

"I'm here to fix him. I'm making him better."

"Listen, you son of a bitch, if you don't hand him over right now—"

"What do you care?" Snarling. "He's no longer your charge, Winchester."

Sam hears this, all of this, sitting hunched in a kennel of some sorts, covered with a tarp, in the back corner of the basement. He's unseen by the view from the door at the top of the stairs by several crates and other junk. However, he's certain that he's invisible to others regardless, if only at least humans.

That's Morael's expertise, after all. That's why he's been without Dean for at least a month.

The timeline between with Dean and without has chunks missing, days of fuzzy pictures full of static, but most of it Sam remembers. One of the parts he can't remember is how he attained a fear of being found again, irrational as it is. He's tried to get rid of it, but every time he thinks of escape or without Morael, his heart starts beating fast and he breaks out into sweats and shivers.

Even now he trembles, which makes him sick because he's afraid of Dean, and that doesn't make sense.

He hopes Morael is okay.

Right now there's thumping at the door like someone's being thrown against it, and then a screeching sound like rocks slipping together— Morael— then abrupt yells that sound much like an indignant, scared hunter and his angel companion. The house shakes like Sam, then a moment's silence before his cage is being assaulted and the tarp thrown off. He panics for a second previous to seeing long brown hair and facial piercings.

"They're gone," Morael informs him, out of breath but still in that stoic fashion of his. "We need to go fast."

He then opens the cage and holds out his hand. Sam takes it without hesitation and then they're simply away.

"Sam, look, just come back inside and we can— Sam? —Sam!"

Sam was taken on a cold day after a mostly successful hunt and a daunting fight between him and his brother.

It wasn't anything new, just the regular issues that fester like a staff infection. Castiel had been with them but left before the dispute for reasons unexplained.

Sam went out to sit on the hood of the Impala, staring up at an overcast sky. A man with angel bites and several eyebrow piercings walked to the car next to his. The man's hair was long, past his shoulders, but it was styled in neat layers to make it look clean. It almost reminded Sam of an old 80's rocker but the man didn't look older than Dean.

Sam didn't pay him too much attention until the guy turned to stare at him, a cold and hard gaze that completely started the young hunter. His eyes were gray, and looked almost frightening though Sam wouldn't be able to explain how.

"Samuel Winchester," the man said, and before Sam had a chance to pull his gun a finger was pressed to his forehead and he was no longer on the Impala.

"...Pick up, damnit." Silence, voicemail. "Fuck!" Dialing.

"What is it, Dean."

"Sam's gone."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, he was here and now he's not. He just—"

"You two separated again?"

"No. He just disappeared. After you left, we fought and he walked out and he's not anywhere near the motel, I looked. His things are still here."

"Maybe he went for a walk."

"He's not answering his phone, Cas. And he doesn't just go for a walk anymore."

A sigh. "Hold on."

"—Jesus, Cas, space."

No, next he knew, he was in some back alley, perhaps not far from the motel because it was sprinkling lightly. And in front of him was the man— angel, he now knew— that had taken him.

"Samuel Winchester," he repeated, and his voice was deep and rough and quiet but loud in Sam's head, and when he said it he seemed to grow five times larger, his eyes becoming shadows and his piercings gleaming.

Sam saw shadows of wings behind him, so much darker than Castiel's, and a powerful essence oozing off of him— it reminded Sam of an angel's grace, but it was so much darker and menacing.

Sam's heart sped up, and he froze.

Instinct was urging him to get the gun in his waistband or the knife in his jacket, but he couldn't move. If felt like someone was squeezing the organs inside his body.

The angel suddenly held out his hands and made a gesture of pushing in Sam's direction, a small but deliberate motion, and instantly a force overpowered Sam and all his bones became weak as dust. He crumpled to the ground, managing to catch himself on his elbows, then started to retch the nausea away. His heart kept pumping faster and faster and he couldn't calm down, couldn't throw off the suffocating panic. I'm not doing this, he thought vaguely. It's the angel.

The angel who was crouching next to him, and when he looked up he met sharp gray eyes that seemed to catch light from an unknown source.

"Wh— what d-d-do you want," Sam managed out, finding his shaky and thready voice betraying him.

"I have been assigned to you, Samuel." He leaned ever closer, and Sam's heart fluttered, close to faint. His voice was almost completely devoid of emotion. "I want your compliance and cooperation." Then he stood up, taking some of the dread with him.

Fuck that, Sam thought, and pulled out his gun. It was useless, but he couldn't do nothing.

He succeeded in firing off a few shots before his vision faltered and flashes of something dark pervaded his senses, some monster he'd never seen before. It could have been a type of demon or the angel himself, Sam wasn't sure. It made him jump and drop the gun out of shock but didn't last long enough to incur real fear in the hunter.

In the distance he heard shouts that sounded all too human, people who had no doubt heard the gunshots. Good.

The angel didn't seem to bothered, on the other hand, casually picking up the gun and studying it.

Not too long later, Sam heard here, here and he turned to see two police officers run into the alleyway.

"Help," Sam called, but couldn't get his voice past a whining exhale.

It didn't matter; the cops didn't seem to notice him or the angel at all. They came dangerously close to them, though not close enough to where Sam could reach out and grab them, and his legs were still jelly.

The angel aimed the gun at the closer officer.

"No," Sam sputtered, "No. Don't."

He seemed to ignore Sam but didn't shoot, instead holding out his empty hand and facing his palm towards the second cop. Sam saw what looked like an almost invisible cloud of smoke billowing towards the two men and hitting each with agility. They both startled, almost dropping their guns, one of the men letting loose a weak shout. Promptly they backed up, stumbling over trash cans whose loud crashes spooked them even more, and they turned and ran out of the alley, gasping.

Sam stared at the scene in shock.

"They cannot see you," the angel said after a moment, causing Sam to jump again. He was back to studying the gun shortly before casting it aside. "Guns are ineffective," he seemed to add as an afterthought.

Both of their heads were now soaked, but somehow it didn't take anything away from the angel. He straightened his leather jacket before staring at Sam again. And, he stated with an invisible force, a power only gained through authority, something Sam already knew.

"Samuel Winchester. I am an angel of the Lord."

"What did you find? I checked, and there have been accounts of vague, mild hysteria and a few admittances into the sanitarium a town over this past week, but neither of these fit the MO of anything we've been up against."

"I believe it is an angel."

"The hell? Angels can do this?"

"Some. Certain angels specialize in specific areas of expertise. Angels of Fear were prominent generals in Heaven, though most have been executed for their betrayal in stating allegiance with Lucifer."

"So you're saying that Sam's likely at the Devil's doorstep right now? Jesus Christ."

"Not necessarily. Some Angels of Fear did not commit blasphemy, but had turned their backs to the Host and chose to operate autonomously on Earth. I believe one took Sam."

"Why would it want Sam?"

"As I said, some operate autonomously. Their actions would be constructed from their own agenda. But generally, Angels of Fear work to— as you would say— put the fear of God into man, though they have many objectives. They use fear in this respect to accomplish them."

"Okay. Do you have any idea who this angel is, where to find it?"

"I have a... hunch, as to who it is. One angel is rumored to have been corrupted as he left, abandoning the standard laws and acting outside of what was permitted. He isn't exactly working in rebellion, but his views and actions have become distorted and aberrant."

"Anything else?"

"If it is this angel, his name is Morael."

Morael isn't cruel to him. Or, at least, not anymore.

He says Sam's learned and improved and Sam is happy to hear that, he really is. But the feeling is only fleeting, and it soon tumbles into confusion. He shouldn't be feeling happiness over Morael's statement. But he doesn't dwell on either emotion too long because Morael doesn't let him sit in silence for too long. There's always something the angel is doing. Fear pulses in his veins as an ever-constant reminder.

As soon as they're settled in whatever new abode Morael's flicked them to, they start the exercises again. Morael pushes something onto him and he's sent into another practice trial. This time, he's in a bathroom, probably a motel one judging by the size. He's cramped in between the toilet and sink, handcuffed to the pipes. And what he's rarely experienced in other trials is that this time, he's really hungry.

The lust for demon blood overpowers him momentarily, along with it a strong undercurrent of that darkness, that raw terror. Sam pushes back against the cravings before that terror takes over completely again; his eyes and jaw clamp shut tightly in protest. Before much else happens, a loud and low groaning seeps through outside the door, accompanied with a few crashes. He sits up as much as he can with his wrists chained, but isn't able to stand up against the two demons that come in wearing suits and black eyes.

Sam can smell them, smell the sulfur and blood that used to be disgusting and used to be alluring and is now revolutionizing and inciting fear into him twofold, on top of the unrefined tinge already there. His heart skips a beat and he begins to struggle against his metal bonds. The demons smirk down at him.

The man bends and unlocks the cuffs while Sam sways full of craving and panic, barely coherent as usual in these trials and only acting off of instinct. Like the angel trained him to.

Next thing he knows, they're grabbing him, intent on dragging him out into the main room. Sam suddenly is flooded with the urge to grab back and just bite, rip at the throat and hold the woman at bay while he sucks the man dry- then the dark takes over and he's attacked by images of what he knows is Morael, then Sam himself in what he can only guess is the future, several apocalyptic scenes following suit as simple evil overrides the world. Flashes of things Sam still can't describe wreck through each scene, tearing Sam apart and stamping his heart into overtime.

He knows, he knows what to do when this happens, but it's so hard to react when he's so fucking scared shitless of these flashes and at the same time nothing at all, like fear is being injected into him. He gets that, how irrational fear can be. That way it can't be stopped, and like the other times, Sam is paralyzed and unaware of the events unfolding around him.

He wants so badly to push back at everything, send the demons and images flying with a single thought, and he thinks he can but he knows he shouldn't because it's wrong. He's barely breathing but he chokes out an exorcism at record speed because that's the only way to get rid of the flashes without giving up entirely and subjecting himself to torture or death. There's a lesson that he needs to learn, he knows more than anything that none of this will stop until he learns it.

He spits out the rest of the Latin, although not before the demons let out a few blows of their own, Sam thinks maybe one with a knife. He's just now starting to get his vision of the room back, flashes slowing from his success, and the demons curdle in their hosts before spilling out and through imaginary cracks in the ground. The bodies crumple. Sam isn't sure whether the ritual kills the demons or sends them back to Hell, he doesn't remember Morael clarifying, Sam just knows that it's one Bobby doesn't know about.

Either way, Sam is left in spasms on the floor wondering if this is the time he's learned his lesson or if this is the time his heart will give out.

The thudding fades slowly, way after Sam is back in what he supposes is reality and Morael is sitting on a dusty chair. The lights are always off, it's always dark, so that doesn't do much to help Sam transition. Still, he spots Morael, drops his head and rises to his hands and knees.

He sees both the vessel and angel's shadow now, and that does nothing to help him either, leaving him constantly disoriented. It's hard to catch his breath.

"What is your lesson," Morael deadpans.

"T-to g-g—get rid-d of— f'all d-d-dem— monic ent-t-t-t-tities inside a-and out-t-side of m-myself— s-s-sir."

"What do you think of demon blood?"

"Oh g-god," Sam gasps out, his body automatically hunching into itself and rebelling, forcing him to tuck his head and retch. "P-please, n-n-no more. Please. P-please."

Morael seems satisfied with that answer, as he stands and gives Sam the mercy of not being in his presence so the hunter can make an effort to calm down and not fall into another panic attack or come closer to a heart attack.

His body's reactions are no more than that: reactions, trained into him; he has nothing in his stomach to bring up yet it acts as if in revolt.

Even though simply thinking about Morael incites more panic than Sam knows what to do with, he tries to use as much of his break figuring out the angel and both of their situations. He's not sure why, because he won't think of trying to run— he shouldn't. It's just something he should not do.

But part of Sam that had lived with Dean and without Morael knows what he should think about— even though he shouldn't.

God, but if he only weren't so fucking terrified all the time, something, anything, might make sense.

He shouldn't be thinking about it.

It's only after more than an hour of silence and heartbeats does Sam get up and explore the new house, half-looking for the angel. He must have gone out. That's not unusual anymore, so Sam basks in loneliness and eats from a tray left on the ground and stays away from the closed doors and all windows— because he shouldn't be near them, not at all. The lights should also always be off, so he stays away from the switches as well.

"I have some more information."

"I'm waiting."

"—Dean, we aren't going to get anywhere with your impatience."

"Save it, Cas."

Hesitation. "I realize you are worried for your brother."

"Do you? It's been a goddamn week already."

"You have to acknowledge that this may take a while, Dean. Angels are hard to track when they don't want to be found, especially ones cut off from Heaven. Do not fool yourself into thinking Sam is simply being kept in some storage facility."

"Okay, Cas, okay. I get it. What do you have for me?"

"I am fairly convinced it's Morael. The angel worked under Beleth, who sided with Lucifer during the Rebellion. Morael went to Earth to perform what he believed was the work of the Lord but over time lost sight of his righteous purpose and began to act on his own delusions. For his type, the guidelines stated not to create new fear into humans, but to use preexisting fears to threaten or help people overcome something. Angels also should not mentally damage a human unless they are granted permission to inhabit the vessel, though as you've learned from the events of this town he seems to ignore both decrees. Thankfully, angels are immune to the bulk of his power, as is natural, but that will not stop Morael from attacking fellow brethren if provoked. He seems to be easily provoked as it turns out."

"Great. Any good news?"

"Well, I believe the first location Morael took Sam was an alleyway a few blocks from here. Two police officers investigated but didn't stay around more than two minutes before they ran back to their vehicle. That leads to the assumption that Morael wants to stay close to this area, perhaps as he has a headquarters of some sort here, or he will gradually remove Sam from this area."

"Where do we start looking?"

"Abandoned houses, most likely. Morael seems to like space."

The first thing Sam noticed after he woke up was the light absentmindedly pouring in behind a thin curtain from a window positioned across the room. It was a big window, taking up a little over half of the wall, and aside from it there was nothing else in the room. Sam's limbs ached from laying on the wooden floor.

He got up, slowly, cautiously.

What he noticed next was less of a tangible thing. It was a small, raw fear placed just under his skin. A fear of what, he wasn't sure. It felt alien, an emotion not belonging to him. Sam wasn't one to brag, but people in his profession weren't easy to scare. The feeling in question was one Sam hadn't felt in a long, long time. It was a type he felt before he had discovered what was out there, as well as a short while after making that discovery too. The type of fear that could easily become fatal and overriding any rational thought.

At a young age, he had had that fear removed from him. Sure he still got scared, but he could work with it easily.

When the Trickster had cornered him at the infamous Mystery Spot, or when the witches had hexed Dean, or even when he was pinned to the wall while Dean was ripped to shreds by hellhounds, Sam never let fear take over— and even so, it was a different type of fear then.

This fear now, it wasn't a fear of the inevitable, or of helplessness. It wasn't a sense of doom. It was the simple, vague, childish fear of the unknown and the impossible.

Sam knew this when he found himself jumping at every creak in the house, startling at a shadow passing the window. 'What-if' scenarios filled his head, the like of which only ever occurring when he had been six years old.

What if something comes through the door? What if it comes through the window? What if it's dark and big and slow and I can't run or fight?

So it was partly due to his hijacked mind when he startled badly and practically gasped as he noticed a figure right by the doorframe, sending him backwards until he was wedged into a corner facing the door and window. The doorknob hadn't made a sound. The figured had simply appeared there without using the door or window. Shit, I hadn't thought of that. He chastised himself for being frightened, though, when he saw it was the angel that had taken him earlier. Anger covered up the alarm, though it didn't demolish it.

He blinked and the angel was right in front of him, causing him to jump a second time, but he straightened up as much as he could and put on what he thought might be an intimidating expression.

"What do you want?"

The angel didn't answer, just stared at Sam with a mix of apathetic scrutiny and cold detachment. Sam refused to back up. His eyes flickered to the door, the window, judging the distance and time it would take to run to either one. He felt the icy weight of his knife tucked in his jacket and pressed against his ribcage.

"I want your compliance and cooperation," the angel repeated itself from earlier, his voice haunting, sending shivers down Sam's spine.

"Why?"

"I have been assigned to you."

Sam considered that for a moment before bolting towards the window. It was a long shot, and before he had touched the sill the angel was bearing down on him, grabbing Sam's neck and shoulder.

Trepidation was injected into his flesh, he thought, and instinct had him reacting instantly and pulling the knife from his jacket, jamming it into the vessel's stomach. Another long shot.

The stab had seemed to warrant only a simple grunt, the angel not giving any other response of pain or surprise. Instead, his grip only became stronger, and Sam was slammed against the wall just as images flooded into his mind totally against his will.

They changed too fast for Sam to make out what they were, but each flash looked like a demon, a monster, things he'd never seen before. Some bore a resemblance to himself, goading more fear to enter through each gasping inhale. The longer-lasting images reminded him vaguely of the vessel in front of him, though not in any corporeal way. They all contained a sort of coldness, a sort of dark, something tangible but had power beyond what could be seen. It was somewhat similar to demon smoke, something almost mundane as an idea but could corrupt and terrorize upon impact. It did just that.

Sam recoiled as much as he could, shrinking against the peeling wallpaper and flinching with each wave of fleeting phantasm. He noticed the lungs surrounding his pounding heart were weakly rejecting each breath he shakily pulled in around the squeezing hand.

"Do not try my patience," the creature in front of him hissed out low and deep. Sam wasn't so sure anymore that it was an angel; angels weren't dark, they were blindingly bright. "Rebel and there will be consequences. Attempts at escape will be met with punishment."

There was something else behind those words, something that deviated with what Sam knew. He wheezed as he was released, mulling over it. It seemed to say, attempts at escape will be met with reformation, and not all punishment will be physical.

"Cas?"

"I've found where Sam is being kept. We must hurry."

It's a few days later when Morael makes a mistake.

The angel has always had a temper, Sam had found out, and it had come out often enough in the early weeks when Sam tried to escape or kill him. He also lost his temper whenever Dean, Castiel, or another angel caught up with him. Morael is easily frustrated when something interferes with his plans; Sam guesses he's always been very solitary.

But the angel is strong, stronger than maybe even Zachariah, and confrontations have always resulted in just a few ruffled clothes and a new location. With the few quarrels Sam has had the misfortune of witnessing, the angel grows colder, darker, and louder, almost pushing his intimidation onto the opponent, and affecting anyone in a near enough proximity.

Sam doesn't witness it this time, but the aftermath is different.

Sam feels the very moment Morael enters the house. His heart picks up its racehorse speed almost instantly, and he's abruptly paralyzed, dropping the food Morael had left him. A pulse of power suddenly wracks through the entire house, sending cracks fettering along the walls and the sounds of things shattering and crashing to the ground spontaneously echoing across the premises. It pushes Sam down just as a painstakingly loud shrilling emits from some not-so-faraway source, like a dog whistle. Anything that hadn't broken before trembles and bursts while Sam clutches his hands to his ears, hyperventilating.

Three sharp seconds and then the door all but tears down and inky darkness fills the room like smoke and oil and horrifying sensations. Between flashes of those unspeakable things beginning to filter through his head, Sam wrenches his eyes open and sees, amidst possibly hundreds of tortured souls and demons alien to those he's fought, the massive sprawling form of Morael, the vessel just a puppet hidden behind the shadows of nightmares. Sam's mottled mind misses it, but one of the man's shoulders is seeped with dark and blood.

Another crashing pulse from Morael sends Sam flying against the wall, and the severe shriek sounds up again. Sam is filled with Morael's terror and anger, so much anger and rage and wrath.

His heart buckles and pounds and skips one beat, then two, lungs no longer cooperating, and just as Morael's form impossibly grows and becomes something else, Sam's eyesight is flooded with black— like a demon forcing itself into each pupil— and he is overtaken by a mix of panic and pain.

"Dean, calm down. Dean!"

"J-J-Jesus, Cas, g-get away from me! What the fuck."

"Dean, you need to put down the gun and calm yourself."

"Don't you think I'm trying? I c-can't control this!"

"Dean!"

"Don't yell! You're scaring the crap out of me!" Clattering. "Okay, okay. Ju— ...Just hold on. Just... God, that was Morael?"

"Yes. I underestimated his influence over humans. I am sorry, Dean."

"No shit, Sherlock. Ugh." Some deep breaths.

"I will find a way to block out the worst of it for you."

A long pause.

"...Oh God, Sammy."

"I apologize," Morael says some time later. (It's hard now for Sam to keep track of the time.) He startles at the angel's voice, but not by much, because Sam can usually sense his presence beforehand.

He thumbs the skinny metal bars of his kennel— which he notices he's in again, wonders if Morael went back to one of their previous locations to retrieve it. It reeks of his piss and blood.

"My intentions were not to show my true form. It..." Not often is Morael not completely articulate. "I was wounded and careless. Someone had caught on to our coordinates and had wished to interfere."

He straightens, Sam hears the rustling of clothes tightening and then falling slack. "It is not in my expertise to heal humans beyond superficial injuries, so I am afraid your eyesight will be damaged here forth." I am afraid. Sam can barely understand, but he's learning to communicate past the knocking fright that never leaves.

He swears (to who?) that he can still see the angel, at least a shadow of its true form, which scares him more than anything and so he tends to keep his head down at all times.

Luckily, the trials still allow Sam to see as they're in his head, so now he looks forward to them.

"Cas, that's your phone."

"Yes." Shuffling. "They did not persist in calling."

"Who was it?"

"I'm not familiar with this number."

"Let me see— looks like a payphone."

"Is it significant?"

"How should I know? Let me look it up."

"What do you want me to do with the knowledge?"

"Check it out, for God sakes. It could be Sam. Look, see this location here? That's where the phone booth is."

"Fine. I will return shortly."

A long silence, lasting for what feels like an eternity.

Ruffles. Dialing, and rings.

"What the fuck, Cas!"

More silence.

Then, "Dean."

"What took you— oh my god."

"...It's not mine."

The first trial wasn't as bad as future ones would be.

In fact, it was familiar. Sam would think later he'd have done better if he knew what was going on, what the angel had wanted him to do.

As it was, his instructions were vague and ominous.

"Resist and endure."

He left those words before sending Sam into some sort of time loop, as he recognized where he was as the bar he'd worked in during his break with Dean. Memories of his own assaulted him, especially the dreams of Lucifer, but the Devil seemed so far away now. He remembered his last fight with Dean; they had argued over seemingly trivial things.

Suddenly time was fast-forwarded, and Sam was no longer alone in the bar but with Tim, Reggie, and Lindsey. Something seemed— off.

"What do you think it is?" Tim said, though his eyes were colder than Sam remembered, more distant. "It's go juice, Sammy boy."

"Get that away from me," Sam snarled, repeating the words he had said that night. It wasn't hard to recall them, and the tainted red glinting at him from the small glass tube held in grubby fingers.

"Away from you? This is— for— you—" Tim's speech began to distort at the end, and suddenly a disturbing feeling washed over the area. Sam's vision faltered a few times and then Tim and Reggie were in front of him. The lights seemed to dim, and Lindsey stilled and stared at Sam with a face devoid of emotion.

"Come on, you know— you— want— it— Saaaam." The two older hunters stared at him, pressing into him with an empowering slowness that only frightened the younger man. It hadn't been anything like this. He started to sweat, cold.

"N-no," he stammered out a weak protest. He was afraid to speak loud, afraid to trigger something. But that seemed to do it. Their movements sped up abruptly, and soon they had Sam pinned and restrained, dragging him down.

"Reach— out and take it." They forced the vial of demon blood into his mouth, like last time, but now they were holding Sam's mouth closed with bruising strength and clamping his nose shut and slowing down again, slower and slower...

The blood wrapped around his tongue. It tasted like it always had, rotten and gag-inducing, but had a promising allure in its aftertaste that had Sam restraining and tempted.

Then, something else came up with the metallic tang: fear.

It washed over him, making him buck and panic anew between the taint in his mouth and the denial of air. The room twisted even more, everything becoming darker and morbid. Nightmare flashes kicked against his vision again, and he saw things the angel had shown him before along with new pictures, scenes. They sparked his nerves like making contact with a split power line, controlling his panicked actions.

All the while Tim and Reggie forbade him to continue on living, stealing his breath and sight, the latter spiraling into that new sort of dark that was tangible and dooming.

Agony caused him to fight and caused him to fall, whole body shrieking as he went.

He almost blacked out before the hands lifted off of him, unnoticed at first. His nostrils flared; he had remembered to focus on the blood still pooling in his mouth, taking care not to swallow it in his haste for air. His head pounded and his eyesight was still unstable.

"There," Tim drawled, "was that really so bad?" How does he escape this?

He got up shakily, then spit it at Tim in defiance. Their faces only twisted unnaturally, and Lindsey was still stock-still and staring. Sam was too weak to fight them, not able to repeat what had originally occurred. He eyed Reggie's knife.

"Don't think we won't— be— back—" Tim droned out. Sam shuddered but didn't respond.

A flurry of skirmish passed, until Sam fell onto a rug and dirt with a dull sound. He noted halfheartedly that he was clad in only his t-shirt and jeans, missing his jacket and flannel and socks and shoes and weapons. The feel of blood on his hands and in his mouth was still there.

"You did well," a voice spoke near him. Sam jerked. It was the angel.

He was being stared down at, the thing's gaze unblinking and unnerving.

"What is your lesson," he barely asked. Sam didn't know, so he stayed quiet, trying to settle his breathing.

"What do you think of demon blood?"

"What are you trying to g-get at?" Sam's voice betrayed him, his feelings betrayed him. "Who the hell are you?"

"You're not getting it," the man said, his eyes narrowing in what looked like disappointment. Without warning he was pushing Sam, leaning down onto him, and a cold and murky energy soaked into him and spurred his heart to pound fast. "What is your lesson."

Sam was gone, though, panicking too much to form words. Tears pooled up in his eyes and he screamed to himself why? but it was all too much. The angel pushed one last time, sending another wave of his aura crashing into the hunter, then moved back.

"My name is Morael," the angel said almost belatedly, as if toying with the idea of speaking. "We will try again."

The first trial had been one of the easier ones. He had fared way better than the next ones, in which he was required to fend off demons but had yet to learn Morael's exorcism.

"Jesus, this is taking too damn long."

"Patience, Dean. Morael is powerful."

"I don't give a shit if Morael is codename for fucking Lucifer. I want my brother back."

"...Morael is doing this for a reason, however delusional."

"Christ, Cas, I don't want to hear your sympathies for this dick."

"I'm only stating we should be familiar with his motives. Angels of Fear can sense demons and those in allegiance with Lucifer, but they usually lack the power to detect those influenced by the Hell-sworn."

"So you're saying Sam's a fucking demon?"

"No." Sigh. "I'm saying that Morael must have had a strong objective concerning your brother to be able to find him in the first place. As he stated all but an hour ago, his goal was to fix him, make him better. He, perhaps, sensed a wrongness in Sam he wished to correct."

"Like Sam's demon blood addiction."

"It's a possibility."

"Okay. So."

"We cannot yet halt his instructions on Sam, as you've witnessed in our few confrontations with Morael. He is obviously practiced in cloaking; Sam remained hidden every time."

"Mhm."

"So we'll have to wear him out first. It'll be difficult, but I'm convinced we're not the only ones going after him at the moment. For whatever reason, he's constantly being attacked, which is why he has to move locations so often."

"For whatever reason?"

"Revenge, most likely. Or attempts to immobilize him and bring him back to Heaven. Michael is trying to round up as many rogue angels as he can."

"Alright. So all we need to do is keep chasing his tail, throw a few punches, and wait."

"Essentially, yes."

"Great. I might as well just sit here and let Sam do all the work."

"Dean, this may be our best, if only, chance. He is already slowing down. I have his trace, so I can better track him. It may be a few days, maybe even another month, for Morael to fall. You just need to be patient, and strong, for Sam, because he is likely holding on for only one thing."

They run into some trouble again. Another time Sam isn't present during the actual confrontation, is glad of that, but the aftermath is just as bad.

Morael busts in much like last time and the hunter guesses he's hurt, but there's no glass breaking, no unseen pulses of energy throwing Sam against cracking walls. But then the angel touches him, and all the horror he's experienced in the past weeks floods into him again and he think he's having (another) heart attack, and weakly he notes that now he's somewhere else.

It's raining again and the angel is dragging him to his feet. Sam vaguely registers the sound of his own voice begging, wracked with half-sobs, but Sam himself is so far gone in his delirium he doesn't really give a fuck about what's coming out of his mouth. He just wants to stop, but the angel clearly wants him to keep moving.

There are a few gaps of dryness, and then Sam's falling, he doesn't— doesn't know what's going on. He hears human voices, feels the angel practically pick him up and carry him and other hands grabbing him. He doesn't know. There are a few screams around him, some close and some far, and his ears register a lot of running. Then he's shoved unceremoniously onto the ground, his palms scraping from the concrete, and Morael's energy cloaks are driven onto him.

"Don't move," he hears Morael command, and thinks it ridiculous seeing as he's frozen as always. And Morael, his essence, is gone. Sam hears a subway train stop briefly and open its doors with a spilling of air.

He doesn't know how long he stays there, silently willing himself to calm down, but he knows Morael never moves too far away. Tiny pulses of energy hit him occasionally but nothing as big as the first time. He hears a shout, a No, that sounds a lot like Castiel. Then silence, although he still feels his abductor.

The fear gradually increases until Morael's hands are on him again, and Sam can tell he's badly wounded from the way uncontained amounts of his power flow from his vessel like a broken levee. Sam isn't at all coordinated with his new blindness so he finds himself dragged and carried by the angel again.

Gravity leaves them for a split second as they trip off the platform and onto the tracks. Morael starts to walk, Sam being hauled at his side.

"I cannot teleport us out," the angel grates next to him, "Not until I regenerate more. We will stay in the tunnels and veil ourselves from the enemy until I regain some strength."

Flecks of wet land on Sam as the angel speaks. He thinks it's blood.

Minutes pass. Sam begins to shut down his mind, chanting an exorcism in his head to relax. Their pace is leisurely at first at first, then speeds up and becomes hurried and clumsy as a rumbling groan gets nearer. The subway train, Sam knows.

Soon the squealing gets too loud for Sam to think of how to avoid it and his legs do him the favor of liquefying, and he just wants to huddle down and wait for the end. But Morael is yanking him up sharply as his gate increases in speed, and before Sam knows it he's flung into a wall of concrete and pinned there by a massively tangible terror and the shrieking turns into a deafening scream that threatens to burst his eardrums. His arms jerk up on their own accord, his fingers twisting without an objective, fear canceling any self preservation instincts left in him.

It's like that for an age. Then the screech passes and quiets and he's not so limited in movement, Morael moving away a short distance.

The respite remains even as Morael stalks back and grabs Sam's arm, stony fingers clasping his goosebumped flesh desperately, and dark sweeps over him but not enough to renew his lost panic— Morael must be healing already, better containing his power. A slick warmth paints his forehead and he's falling back into mud and puddles, no longer any wall behind him. No longer any subway. He hears thunder rolling above him, in harmony with a different thunder much closer and more temporary. Wind whips his hair and shirt to and fro, ruddy vibrations pulse through him. Morael is quiet, but Sam can still feel him. He tries to place where he is. Under a bridge, he guesses.

"We sha—" Morael starts, but stops abruptly when a brush of feathers echoes around their location. The calm dissipates faster than it had come, and soon a chaos of energy crackles around and into him, like shards in his pores. There's splashes and shuffling of weight to one side of him and the tension pops and sparkles and he starts breathing fast.

Castiel's voice comes into conception, making Sam's lungs even smaller. "Where's Sam?"

Sam thought this might be his last attempt at escaping.

His nerves, quite frankly, couldn't take much anymore, and were holding him back and protesting no, no. They knew from experience what happened if he tried to run, to fight. So did Sam's heart, and lungs, and mind. But some part of him still believed he should leave, even though he wasn't entirely sure why anymore.

Turns out, his last try was likely the worst.

It was dark, like always, and had Sam flinching and trying not to acknowledge the prickling on his back of something behind him watching. Morael was gone but that didn't mean much anymore.

Sam had managed to run, before, maybe five miles, before he had had a panic attack that left him defenseless in the face of a wrathful angel who's temper had snapped. His ribs still ached from that.

No, he knew now (not to run) to try and immobilize Morael so he wouldn't be able to retrieve Sam.

He also knew that Morael was weakest after an absence, likely from fighting.

Never hurt, nowhere Sam could see, but his abilities more exhausted.

Sam himself was weak from preparation, but he gathered up his last reserves of strength. He tried to ignore the hammering in his chest, the shallowness of his inhales. He didn't have time to worry past what was already there—

Morael had arrived.

Sam felt it, the strength with which the angel asserted himself whenever he flew into the house. The overwhelming power concerned Sam, yet although he was no longer capable of pushing his fear aside, he steeled himself and thanked the darkness that Morael had chosen to teleport straight into the basement instead of another room first.

Sam waited, trembling, at the top of the stairs, only seconds before Morael was on a step below him. The glint of several metal studs winked from the angel's face.

"Sa—"

Sam allowed him no time to say anything, bringing up a fist and slamming the angel in the neck while simultaneously kicking out at his stomach. Morael went tumbling down the stairs and the hunter wasted no time in opening the door (despite the terror that assailed him due to touching the knob) and pushing himself through the frame and onto the other side. He slammed the door shut, waited another second before the angel appeared in front of him, fury emanating off his vessel and causing the room to darken and distort. Sam could barely breathe, but he kept going.

"What are you—" Morael burst out, as pissed as Sam had ever seen him, and Sam retaliated by slamming his hand against the back of the door, which had been coated in bloody sigils.

There was a blinding light, light, for once, and it faded, taking Morael along with it.

Sam almost collapsed on the spot. He actually did it. His chest was close to bursting but he wouldn't stop now.

He looked around, not having been outside of the basement during their stay in this house. The rooms no longer disturbed by the angel's presence, Sam found them dilapidated and messy. His heart skipped and stopped each time he opened a door, and he was terrifyingly aware of how little time he had before he broke.

The last door he opened startled him more than anything, because it was the door to outside. He was alarmed and terrified while he burst out into the evening. A phone, he had to find a phone. He wasn't stupid enough to think Morael had left his cellphone in the house, more likely to have destroyed it.

Luckily, the house they were staying in was close to the town it was affiliated with, unlike many of the others he had ran from. He found his way to the outskirts of it in less than an hour, choking and tripping every other step. He found a phone kiosk and viewed it with aversion. There was no one in sight.

He stepped inside and touched the thick payphone, alarms signaling off in his head. He fumbled with it and dropped it numerous times before clutching it harshly, his hands shaking ridiculously.

Dial— he needed to dial a number. But who's? Not Dean's— his was out of the question. Sam didn't want to go from one nightmare into another. No— he'd call— someone else. He tried for Bobby's, but his wrecked mind couldn't recall the exact digits. He cursed, jumped at his own voice.

Castiel. He wasn't much better than— Dean, but Sam remembered his number. Castiel would take him away, hurt him, but maybe not kill him. He could— he knew how to fend off angels, and Dean— he couldn't fight Dean. If his luck held, maybe Dean wouldn't show up.

Sam dialed, his fingers not cooperating. He misdialed perhaps four times before managing what he believed was the correct combination of numbers. It rang once.

And then the payphone was smashed, stand and all, leaving only the glass walls intact.

Morael was here, casting doom and horror onto Sam in magnificent bursting hallucinations of what he thought now was Hell. Flash, flash, flash. He lifted Sam by his neck and slammed him into the busted phone box, and Sam felt the back of his head rip open. Then he was rammed continuously into the glass until it cracked and spiderwebbed and Sam couldn't register anything but daunting beasts and tangible dread and dark. He didn't even bother to try and breathe.

"I told you to stay— in— the— house!" Morael shouted, emphasizing each word with a smash of Sam's skull against the wall. During the end of it, Sam's hair was slipping in a slick sanguine wetness. The angel threw Sam against the other side of the booth, letting go his grip on the man's neck so he could choke and hyperventilate alone around the cracking of ribs. He slowly fell down to the ground, but Morael lifted him up again by his shirt.

"I said not to rebel. I said DO NOT ESCAPE!" The angel roared above Sam, pounded into him with abandon. Blood splattered and painted the glass around him while any light was clouded over by a black void. Sam dazedly jerked with each blow and saw Morael grow and become as sinister as the hunter could never have imagined, flashing terror pulsing off the vessel and huge figure around it.

Sam's heart kept going faster and Sam was no longer around to stop it. His face and chest felt as if they were robbed of their skin, and it may have been true in some areas. Demons warped around them.

The angel's voice was as low as Hell and controlling and burning as he warned, "This will never happen again."

The beating in Sam's chest constricted in torture, then stopped.

When Sam became conscious again, he was in a cramped place with a smell that triggered his gag reflex instantly. He tried to get up, to move, but the walls were so closed in they suffocated him. The odor ended up being blood, which coated the blanketed floor and most of Sam's skin. His head screamed in pain, his face doing the same as it twisted in agony, and his chest stretched and burned. Even his neck pulsed achingly as he tried to crane his head to see something, only coming up with black. He uncurled one of his arms, gasping at the shocks it sent throughout his frame, and brought it up to press against whatever was restricting him.

Thin metal bars, crisscrossing each other to form an unyielding loose-knit mesh, prevented his hand from going far.

A cage. Morael had put him in a sort of kennel, in order to prevent any more escape attempts, he guessed. His organs pounded in remembrance of what had happened; he didn't want to think about escape anymore.

He felt Morael's presence very close by, and though it was too dark to see, he could also feel the angel's gaze on him.

He stayed and mended in the kennel for probably weeks, and was only half-healed during his trials.

Castiel sounds out of breath himself.

"It is unwise to interfere in my ministrations," Morael replies coldly. "I have already informed you of this." Sam knows through experience the total lack of emotion the angel carries, though at this moment he witnesses a darkness seep into the man's voice. It mimics hatred.

Sam starts to scrabble backwards.

Castiel speaks up again after some hesitation. "I do not wish to harm you any further, brother—"

"Goddamnit, just let Sam go and we won't tear your bastard wings off!" That's Dean.

No no no, the word hooves through his mind, erasing any other thought. His chest contracts painfully and his hand lands on something serrated, and he's slipping backwards into a shallow pool. Rain is pouring down harshly now, his ears register that, but the drops aren't touching him. Layers of Morael's cloak, however, are piling on by the second.

"I will repeat. Samuel Winchester has been assigned to me. To interrupt or take him is blasphemy."

"Morael, God is no longer in Heaven. The authorities have been corrupted—"

"My mission will not be compromised."

"Beleth is not your superior anymore, Morael! Much of Heaven's Host has fallen in the last month alone."

"Sam!" Dean calls out suddenly, sending Sam's heart into a frenzy. He tries to forestall another inevitable panic attack as he continuously slips backwards. Dean can't see him, he can't. "Sammy!"

"Samuel is not here."

"Bullshit," Dean growls, then resumes his hollering.

Castiel shouts over the rain and thunder and cars and Dean's yells, "I will warn you only once more. Surrender Sam Winchester or I will force you to relinquish him."

Sam gives up entirely on escape, instead bringing one hand up to grasp at his shirt while he tries to breathe through agony. Ripples form ceaselessly from his shaking.

"You are thus proposing betrayal of the Lord—"

"I have already fallen, brother," Castiel snarls. "And so have you."

Then, chaos anew. There's a scrabbling of movement and curses, and Sam stills in seeing the two great angels release themselves upon each other. It's an awe-filled show of dark and new light, both burning and racking Sam's frame mercilessly. He feels pain foreign to what Morael's given him, a stabbing that doesn't belong to the cold angel. It feels as if messy talons were ripping the life off his skin.

He can't breathe. There's more screaming, human and angel, the earth and bridge rumbling with their force. Sam's being attacked.

Screeches turn to gasps, then, and a heavy and threatening silence follows. But Sam doesn't notice.

His heart is seizing and every gulp of air is fake, making him beyond disoriented. Most of his person is soaked by or submerged in water. And then, and then, Morael's presence is just— gone. A cold enters his jerking bones rapidly and he's lost and stripped bare. His name isn't registered when it's shouted, but the hands grabbing him are.

Any idea of calm is completely erased at that moment and if he could struggle, he would— but his heart and lungs and nerves and mind are burning and he just. Can't.

Because it's not Morael. He knows, from the feel, the smell, it's not Morael.

It's Dean.

And he can't, he can't get away, can't escape them. He's drowning in more ways than one and he doesn't know how to get away—

Then he's burning, and Castiel is right there, pulsing with heat and light, and that touch on his forehead is nothing like the other angel's.

Nothing at all.

The first two times Sam tried to escape, he wasn't even sure if what was going on was real or not.

Events blurred together after the first few trials, his mind no longer very stable or reliable. His constant state of disorientation did nothing to help him flee, as he was always doubting his actions or backtracking in fear.

One time Sam didn't make it out of the house before he surrendered to panic. With every door he opened, every window he looked out of, there was something on the other side looking back. Sometimes they were violent, sometimes they didn't move at all. Usually they had that frighteningly morbid slowness that was worse on Sam's nerves than a blade. The dark and shadows scared him now too, but it was better than turning the lights on, because whenever Sam did it sickly illuminated bloodstained walls and fatally still figures in the corners of rooms. Some things Sam saw were instantly repressed like a door slam shut.

The other time he hadn't been looking for an escape route, but started wrecking through the house when he heard Dean call out his name. His heart already pounded at record speed, and he startled just as easily at the monsters behind the doors, but he didn't stop— knowing it could end. He just wanted to find Dean. But then he did, and Dean was standing in the middle of the room, facing him, and his expression was falsified and untrustworthy. Sam froze, suddenly unsure.

"D— Dean?"

Dean's face twisted into a smile. "Hey— Sammmmm—mmy. Hey— Sam—" He stopped abruptly but didn't continue.

Sam backed up. This was a trap. He turned, but was met with a view of Castiel a few feet away, face shadowed and unreadable, a hand outstretched and reaching towards him. He didn't say a word.

Sam was uncertain where to go, now, both his exits trapped. His breathing quickened and he tried to keep quiet, not provoke either of them.

"What's— wrong, Saaaammmm?" Dean's head cocked to the side, and he took a slow step forward. Sam's lungs tripped.

"G-g-get away from me."

Flashbacks suddenly assaulted his mind, showing Dean and Castiel doing things and being things Sam knew weren't true but scared him nonetheless. Between each scene he regarded his brother and the angel— fake versions of them— coming closer to him, slowly, slowly. He was paralyzed to the spot.

"S-s-s-st-stop-p—"

"Come on, Sam—mmy, we'll get— you— out of here."

Then, hands were grabbing at him, time suddenly sped up, and Dean's face morphed and split and twisted and leered at him with hollows where the eyes might have been on one face and regular green eyes on another. Sam struggled weakly, but their grips were strong, and Castiel's touch burned at his back. Nails were clawing at his ears and face and neck and Dean's fingers were blades, ripping down his torso. They made morbid disgusting sounds without having opened their mouths.

"D-Dean," Sam called, for the real Dean. "Dean! C-C-Cas!" But the only Dean and Castiel were the two surrounding him now, and flashes bucked his mind and sent his pulse into a frenzy. He kept screaming for his brother, for the angel, but each time he opened his mouth images of unspeakable things and indescribable feelings were stuffed in, throttling him. He struggled less and less and he felt violated, tainted and scared.

After an age, he started crying for Morael instead, and the hallucinations slowly faded until he was left clutching at the cold angel while trying not to have a heart attack.

He wouldn't remember these events or the many similar ones that followed.

When Sam wakes up, only remnants of fear linger over his skin. He stays still, reluctant to ignite the panic all over again. He feels a heaviness over him, a blanket by the feel of it, and his head is raised slightly and cushioned. A bed. He's bewildered— Morael's never put him in a bed before. There are a lot of bandages wrapped around him.

It smells cleaner than the places they've camped out in. Sam then realizes Morael's presence is nowhere, and his own soul has been stripped of the angel's energy, leaving a palpable sense of lacking. The beating behind his rib cage stutters. But before he can react to it, a hand is on his wrist.

"Welcome back to the land of the living, Sammy," a voice above him murmurs. It's rough and low and Dean. Sam starts and scrambles up, trying to yank the sheets off.

"Hey, calm down Sa—"

"No no no," Sam stutters, "Morael? M-Morael?" He's calling, but gets no response. The hand around his wrist lets go suddenly and he tumbles off the bed and the carpet grates against his knees relentlessly. He switches between calling out for the angel and sending protests towards the darkness. Flashes of things start up again, but nowhere near as potent as the ones sent by Morael.

He gets shakily to his feet and backs up further, but trips over something and crashes to the floor again.

"Morael!" He cries out. Where is Morael? He never goes too far.

"Sam," Dean speaks again, closer than Sam would have guessed, "Calm down. Morael's gone, it's me."

"G-g-get away," Sam spits out. "D-don't."

Dean shouldn't be here. He can't be— that's wrong. Morael said—

Sam's thoughts are halted as Dean calls out again.

"Cas," the man asks confusedly.

"It... must have been Morael," comes the hesitant reply, "It may take a while to wear off."

The voice is lower than Dean's and especially rough, no doubt belonging to Castiel, whom Sam pinpoints being on the other side of the room to the left. He rises again and turns, stumbling with his hands outstretched and tripping over more unidentifiable objects until he hits the wall. Trembling, he traces along it, turning with the corner.

"Cas, he's blind. And he's fucking— afraid of us! What the hell!"

A pause, until Sam finds the door knob and turns. "No, Sammy—"

But then it's open and he bursts out, not confident enough to run— for the best, he realizes, when his knees crash full force into something and he falls onto a plastic sheet. Something rips and he's all the way down, in what he comes up with is the bathtub. Fuck.

Breathing is hard now, especially with a shower curtain pressing against his face. The hands return, and Sam thrashes and kicks out against them, landing a few successfully from the sounds of sharp exhales and cussing.

"Sam!"

"G-g-get the fuck away from me," Sam gasps out, fearing punishment and pain and flashbacks of what Dean's done, what he will do. But his memory searches for recollection of the past and he can't find a suitable spot in his timeline for what his mind says Dean has done. A headache rears up ferociously and a single hand traps his wrists together in an iron grip.

"No! NO!" Weight's being pressed against him and restricting his legs. Wetness falls out from his eyes absentmindedly, his actions induced by panic-filled tremors that strips him of all reason.

"Sam, stop!" Dean shouts, command hot by his ear. Sam bucks.

"Dean," Castiel's voice chides from further ahead of him. "I do not believe you are helping him."

The pressing pauses, then Sam is let go, left to wallow in his uncertainty and thudding heart. He works to calm himself, screwing his eyes shut even though he can't see either way.

At first he tentatively wonders if this is another trial, but the words from under the bridge come back to him, and Morael is gone. Morael is gone. The thought does nothing to calm him further, but the expected terror never presents itself either. He attempts to slow his lungs, jumping as the voices start up again though further away.

Sam manages to calm down as much as is possible, though it leaves him with a sense of misplacement. He tries to rise silently, unconsciously aware of his brother and the angel watching him. His mind wars over itself, tied between fear of the two and the vague unyielding trust that had come before. His thoughts are a train wreck, screaming metal and crashes of dread.

"Well, what the hell are we supposed to do now? I can't go anywhere near him without him flipping out."

"We will wait, then. Give him time to readjust."

"But we can't, Cas. He's goddamn blind—" Cracking voice, pause. "We can't just leave him here and expect him to take care of himself."

"Then we have someone else do it for him."

"You saying I can't take care of my own—"

"Dean. Sam's been with Morael for almost two months. Do you honestly expect him to go right back to where he left off?" A short silence. "We have no idea what's been done to him. I've told you before what Morael was capable of. I can undo some of the damage, but not all of it, and not right away. It's one thing to shield a human from an angel's power; it's another to heal one of it."

"Then we take him to Bobby's, see if he can't get through to him."

"It will not be a guarantee—"

"You got any better ideas? Just let me pack up and we can go."

"Dean, I can just—"

"Cas. No offense, but I've had enough of your goddamn teleporting. Just let me drive him."

Sam clutches the counter, slightly hunched over and unsure of his next move. His eyes strain uselessly.

"Sammy," Dean speaks up tentatively, and Sam flinches at the sound of his name. "You're okay. We're not gonna hurt you... Just, just stay tight and— we'll take you to Bobby's. You like him, don't you?"

Sam stays silent, wary. There's a sigh, then, "I'm gonna get the car ready," and footsteps leading away.

"Sam," Castiel addresses him now, "I understand Morael's impressed upon you some notions of which are hard to let go. I will... see if I can find someone who will be able to rid you of those impressions, as well as your blindness." A silence rules over them again, making Sam startle badly when the angel talks more. "Morael was a different angel. I am not under the illusion that he didn't taint you through revealing remnants of his true form."

After that, there are no more words. The space outside of the bathroom fills with sounds of things being picked up, zipped closed, hefted around. Sam thinks of how he can get out of this; fear slowly builds up again at the display of his vulnerability, waiting to consume his heart again. It pushes at him each time he tries to wrap his mind around his situation, Morael not here, Dean and Castiel trapping him in the room.

The door opens and closes a few more times and Sam's still frozen when Castiel's presence crowds up to him Dean comes in and states,

"Let's go."

"How about we take a break?"

"Why?"

"Why— I'm tired of searching, that's why. I want to rest for once."

"But we can't just stop. Nothing is going to stop, Dean. It'll keep going and we can't afford to fall behind."

"For Christ's sake, nothing is going to stop no matter what we do. You're just gonna run yourself into the ground and next time something comes up you won't be fit to watch my back."

"Dean—"

"And vice versa. Look, I'm not gonna take back what I said, alright? We've already worked that out. But I'd feel a lot better if I could just stop and not have to worry about you running around while I'm asleep."

"I'd feel a lot better if you could trust me to handle something besides just research, Dean!"

"If you don't want to do this together, then why are you even here, Sam?"

"You know that's not what I meant."

"No, I know what you meant. And I get it, I do."

A snort. "Do you?"

"Damn it, Sam— you don't think I feel just as guilty as you do for this whole mess? That I don't want to fix as much as I can?"

"No, but—"

"I know. We have a job to do. But we're taking a break. You owe the world, sure, but you also owe me, or have you forgot that?"

Sigh, pause. "No."

"Then calm the hell down. You wanted to be treated as an equal, don't force me to start babysitting again."

"Dean, I don't—" Huff. "Fine."

A door slammed, then silence.

"Aw, hell." Shuffling, the door opened, "Sam, look, just come back inside and we can— Sam? —Sam!"