Chapter Text
Eventually, everything came to a temporary yet sarcastic end. The tablet fell to the ground and broke into chunks of rocks or whatever, and Metatron buried the condemned angel blade into his big brother's torso from the back. Sam thought he had already experienced loads of devastating miseries, but this one sure took the cake. In fact, when he sat in unbearable silence beside Dean's bed in their bat hole bunker, never did a single tear of his spill. He had already cried himself dehydrated at that rundown area, surrounded by nothing but the dirt, the humming of enormous machines from away, and the air permeated with the tell-tale odor of death.
He had to carry his brother home. He was two million percent determined. He would never forget how he gathered his dorky and never still brother into his arms; a lifeless and motionless heap on his forearms. It was eerily silent, and while Sam was stumbling out of that shit hole, he was devastated. What should he do now? Dean was dead, though his lukewarm blood was still soaking through the fabric. Both brothers were covered in iron smell and caked with dirt, precipitation mixed with dry blood, and they reclined from the site in a familiar way. All was the same, except that Dean didn't make it this time, and Sam was surprised that he even had the heart to think that Dean was already on the first class of Hell Express, surging downward at light speed.
He didn't put the body in the trunk; that simple option made the bile rise in no time, and he was on the verge of retching. Instead, he pulled open the front door of the shotgun, and gingerly placed Dean on the leather material. Had Dean been alive, he would definitely have kicked Sam's ass seven ways from Sunday, because "do not leave bloodstains on baby, bitch!" . Sam usually would back talk, jokingly pointed out that his big brother was the stereotypical image of a cranky grandma. God did he miss his noisy brother. He fastened Dean (he reminded himself, not Dean's body) to the couch, carded Dean's stray damp hair backward, all the while imagining his brother's no chick-flick moments retorts, trying his best to keep the fresh tears at bay.
He stuffed himself into the baby and put his hand on the wheel. The baby smelt like Dean. His leather, his whiskey, and his greasy junk food. The producer of these sat there calmly, head lolled back. Sam fired the engine, the low rumbling extremely distinct without Dean's classic collection. He pursed his lips, steering the car back HOME.
He must bring his brother back. Of all the lame deaths, just not like this.
_________
Sam literally managed to open the heavy steel door with only his right hand. He actually could just put Dean down on the ground, but the idea was almost turned down immediately: the connotation of it didn't sound pleasant at all. His brother was by no means a chick, and over a hundred pounds didn't equal a bottle of water. Dean draped all over him, his head tucked in the warm place of Sam's chest.
Sam desperately noticed, that Dean already became cold.
He put the dirty blond man on the queen. When he finally decided to leave the room, he didn't forget to close the door.
Sam had already set up his mind. He didn't waste a single second. He washed and briefly dressed the wounds, grabbed a pack of beer and hurried to the bunker library. Geez Sammy, Dean would say, you such a geek. Sam breathed long and deep, drew his attention back to the current, and set down to work.
It turned out that solutions were scarce, but it was not entirely difficult to find one. Sam yawned and pressed on, though he reluctantly had to admit that this was also the only practical way. Remember that Winchesters' scale of practical actually was boundless. Like here, which could be translated as "Invite the Emperor of Hell, and all shall be settled". Hey, but what a coincidence, Sam betted that Crowley wouldn't mind to be summoned and locked up in a demon circle again. Sam scraped the chair backward on the tile and stood up. He marched toward Dean's room, heart clenched. The door gave under his gentle push, and murky darkness enveloped him. He cleared his sandpaper throat, only then did he realize how harsh his voice was.
"Dean," he croaked, "don't worry, I'll bring you back. You just...sleep tight."
______
All weird ingredients prepared, Sam lighted a match as the old book with crispy leaves required. He mumbled several lines of Latin and threw the match into the bowl. The effect was instant. With a poof, Crowley appeared from nowhere and sat on the prepared chair. He didn't look surprised in the least.
"Moose," he greeted, "A goddamned time to summon the King of Hell, you think?"
"Well, it's already in the morning."
"Pff. Do you know there's something called jet lag?"
"Listen, Crowley. Trust me the last thing I want to do is to summon you. But my brother, he needs help. Badly. And only you can help him now, according to the research."
"Ah, what does he get himself into this time?" Crowley quirked up one of his amusing smile.
Sam clenched his jaw and scowled, "he's dead."
Crowley's smile faltered, yet he calmed down quite quickly. "Now that's a piece of news," he singsonged, "how come I didn't know. And, why would I care?"
Sam told him to cut the crap, for Dean was the man with the Mark, and above all for he would make Crowley's life hell if the king refused. Crowley thanked for his friendly advice, pointing out that hell was great. Sam punched him and left the dungeon, slamming the door shut as he exited.
Either Crowley didn't want Dean to die or he thought Sam had some tricks to stand against him with others, Crowley shouted to call him back. He explained that the dungeon was too confining, which might deteriorate his claustrophobia. Anyway, he acceded to Sam's demands.
"Lead the way, will you?" Crowley wriggled his wrists, wincing as the muscles gained freedom.
"Don't even think about that," Sam looked at his fingers pointedly, " or you'll regret."
Crowley shrugged and followed.
Sam pushed open the door and switched on the light. Dean still lied in the bed, too motionless; his face now turned even paler than the white bedsheets. Sam didn't dare to go near his brother with his adrenaline receded; the truth was scorching. Crowley ignored Sam's eyes turning red-rimmed, slowly approached Dean.
"Dean, Dean, what have you done? I should have noticed," he touched Dean's neck, chuckled lowly, "when did all this nonsense start? You were restless, and I let that go; it was not until you refused the cheeseburger that I noticed how bad this went. Shit hit the fan, and all is too late." His brows knitted as he turned to Sam.
"I can bring your brother back," he stated.
" I hear a 'but', Crowley," Sam asked warily.
"Straight things straight. Dean will come back, only he will have demon gene in himself and will be regressed to a baby, for I only can use demon ways to retrieve his life, gene planted, the course of growing up is required."
Sam asked tentatively, "baby...as in physically? He will become a demon?" Please don't, Sam prayed.
"Nah, as in mentally. He will retain his adult vessel. As for your second question, that depends. The gene may not develop; even if it does, hopefully you will become the first in the world to train a polite and good-natured demon." Crowley winced at the imagined image of a meek demon.
Sam stood there, totally at a loss of what to say. He really wanted his brother back. There was no friends to ask him "does Dean want to be like this" or other questions alike. Fuck the morality. Dean could get back, and he might still stay human after "growing up" as Crowley stated. It was a one-way, and Sam had been already on board. He needed Dean back. Call him selfish, he found out that he didn't even care.
"You in or not, Moose? Clock ticks." Crowley whistled.
Sam nodded. He didn't miss Crowley's meaningful eyes. He dumbly watched Crowley's right hand came to rest on Dean's forehead, and the King of Hell mumbled slowly. For a while nothing happened, and Sam went beside Dean, watching eagerly with his heart pounding fiercely. Dean's eyelids moved; Sam's throat tightened again: this was really happening. Under two pairs of watchful eyes, Dean opened his eyes, coal black, yet they fell closed several seconds later. Sam couldn't stop calling his big brother's name，feeling Dean's hand become warmer and warmer. Several minutes passed, Dean opened his eyes again: they were lake-green, yet disoriented. Sam couldn't help smiling. "Dean," he called enthusiastically, "it's me! Dean!"
Dean didn't pay him any attention. He pouted, tears coming out of his eyes. He frantically searched here and there, eyes full of raw fear. Not long after, he was on full force wailing, nearly crying his eyes out. Sam stared at his big brother, then at Crowley; Crowley only gave an "I told you so" shrug.