After Anna, after Alastair, after Dean split apart at the seems, they did't touch on the subject of hell again. Sam would be lying if he said he wasn't glad. Dean's emotions were like an infected wound, building up sickly pus that slowly poisoned him from the inside. A wound he didn't want to touch, pulling away whenever Sam tried to tend to it. Once it had been lanced, the pressure bursting and draining away, he inevitably felt better.

This wound was invisible, deep inside and rotting too fast for Sam to perform battlefield triage. In order to get to it, he'd have to tear Dean open and rip through his flesh the way the Hell Hounds had.

The thought was too horrifying to contemplate.

So they didn't.

Dean continued on as if nothing has changed. He might well have spent the lost months vacationing in Haiti, working on his tan and the notches in his bedpost. His nightmares were no better, still as consistent as ever, only now Sam didn't even pretend not to hear them. He reached over across the beds and laid his hand palm up on Dean's pillow, close enough for Dean to see, and when Dean tried to order one too many shots, Sam switched them for water and neither said a word. He walked in on Dean holding a fistful of ice one evening, his fingers blue and stiff, and hated the relief that spread through him like poison. He'd spent entirely too long on the internet researching PTSD, and he'd take a little frost bite over self harm any day of the week.

It was an awkward compromise, but they made it work.

Ruby had not shown her face in weeks. She and Sam still shared brief phone conversations, but the little voice in Sam's head replayed her words over and over;

'You have no idea what I had to do to convince Lilith to give me another chance.'

And Dean, soft and broken as he had laid his battered soul bare;

'They ripped me apart....for thirty years'

Even if Sam is wrong, even if he is paranoid, he doesn't want any demon near his brother. Not until Dean is better. Not ever.

They take hunts just like before and, just like before, Dean exhibits the age old reckless streak that sets in whenever he's hurting bad and doesn't know how to find some peace.

They hunted chubacabras in Minnesota, and witches in Seattle. Dean took care of a werewolf in Florida; wouldn't let Sam near it, and Sam let him think that he'd spent even a second thinking about Madison since he had held Dean's mutilated body.

It was just like it was after they lost dad. Only worse, because grief could be pushed aside with a moment of happiness.

Dean never seemed to be happy, but he had found this case for them.

"Mysterious fires? No known cause? Fire department baffled? Of course it couldn't possibly be anything supernatural."

Sam let him continue his playful chiding, surreptitiously slipping his extra fries on to Dean's plate. "I'm just saying..."

"You're squelching." Dean said flatly, waving his milkshake in a manner Sam supposed was meant to be scolding. "We're going to Nevada. We can stop by Vegas on the way back. Hmm, Vegas." He sounded so like Homer Simpson mid doughnut crush that Sam couldn't help laugh at him. Dean ignored him, and stuffed a handful of fries into his mouth.

Just like old times.

****

Sam had been right.

It hadn't been anything supernatural. Just some serial arsonist, a human with a few screws loose.

Somehow, that made everything worse.

****

They'd stumbled over the killer purely by accident. Usually they didn't have to worry about tipping a perp off by asking questions. The dead didn't care too much with the curiosities of the living.

Dean waltzed in, like a boy playing Cops and Robbers, people skills as fucked up as ever, and stamped a nice red target on their asses.

Sam should have seen it coming.

****

They'd never really been concerned with fire hazards before. A motel was acceptable if it was easily defendable. One door, and escape route, that was all they needed.

Sam left Dean watching human tetris on the laptop, sounds of 'dude, that's just friggin' weird' soft under the spray of the shower.

The smash of glass barely registered, shampoo suds in his ears and water splashing on his face, but Dean's sudden, unearthly scream of terror snapped him right out of it.

****

The fire spread so fast it must have been chemical based. Petrol maybe, Sam thought absently, smoke rising fast and thick in the tiny room. The flames were to the ceiling already, bright bursts of red and orange on a seek and destroy mission to fill every nook and cranny of the room, stealing life and air from everything they touched.

Sam stood and stared, frozen, half convinced he would see a woman burning on the plaster chipped ceiling. He waited for Dean to come and take his arm, save him from the flames like he had done every single time before.

It was Dean's absence that shook Sam from his shock.

He looked around, the flames hot on his naked skin, and saw his brother huddled between the beds, staring at the fire in terror.

"Dean!" Sam grabbed him by the arm, hauled him up, and grunted. Dean hung limply against him, soft little sounds of pain escaping from his lips.

Sam clutched him tight, Dean's jeans rough against his skin. The fire blocked their exit, the broken glass of the window feeding the flames with oxygen as Dean trembled and clutched at Sam's shoulder.

"Dean! Dean, come on!"

No response, just a pleading sob that broke Sam's heart.

Sam weighed his options.

There was no way out. The flames were too thick, too high and too hot to run through, and the mere idea of dragging Dean through them sent spikes of terror into his spine.

Dean's fingers tightened on Sam's skin, his hair soft and warm under Sam's nose. He smelled like smoke and ashes.

Like death, Sam imagined, thinking of his father.

Like hell.

They fell into the bathroom as the flames grew more violent.

Sam kicked the door closed and threw Dean into the tub. There was no window, but the door was thicker than most, and Sam wedged the gap beneath it with wet towels.

He threw a second one over Dean's head and felt something akin to terror when the slap of wet cloth didn't draw so much as a flinch.

Dean was pleading when Sam climbed into the tub with him. Latin prayers and broken sobs a fevered liturgy as he was pulled into Sam's arms.

It was the most traumatized Sam had ever seen him, and the worst thing was, it was this type of behavior he had been prepared to face when he finally rescued Dean from the pit.

The past months of Dean's stubborn denial felt like lies, a false hope that had been cruelly ripped away.

Though Sam was the one who was naked, it was Dean who felt so vulnerable in his arms, curled up tight and tucked under Sam's chin.

The cloth covering his face, spared Sam the heartache of seeing Dean's eyes wide with terror and memories as he tried so hard to shield his brother from the flames that licked like hellfire at their flimsy defenses.

All his abilities were for nothing here. Dean need not have worried. Sam wouldn't get the chance to go darkside.

He wondered bitterly if the fire would have obeyed him if he had already taken that step too far.

"It's alright, it's alright." Sam wondered if he was lying to himself more than Dean. He needn't have worried. Dean didn't hear him, too lost in his own mind, seeing horrors that Sam could never comprehend.

The flames licked at the door, the heat unbearable.

They were going to die here, in the fire that had given birth to their distorted, damaged lives.

He let Dean cling to him, his hummingbird heart fast and fragile against Sam's chest.

Had the fire taken Dean before, in hell?

The kindest thing for him to do, Sam knew, would be to press Dean against him and hold him tight, just like Dean wanted. He'd hold him and rock, and not let go until Dean was quiet and still, his breath still in his throat.

Thinking about it for a second made him wonder how Dean had lasted so long with their father's twisted last request on his shoulders.

Sam clutched him tight and closed his eyes. He couldn't save Dean from the fire, but this time he'd be damned if he let his brother die without him.

****

When Sam opened his eyes, he was in bed.

The room was dark, undamaged, and smelled like mothballs and citrus soap.

Uriel stood by the door, his arms crossed, his face in the shadows.

Sam's head snapped to Dean's bed, so fast it hurt and made his head spin.

Dean slept the sleep of the innocent, sprawled on the sheets with his arms splayed wide. Not a nightmare in sight.

Castiel sat at the foot of his bed, quiet, serious eyes transfixed by Dean's peaceful expression.

He contemplated the irony that had Dean, the atheist, the most cynical of all men, sleeping like a baby under the watchful gaze of his own, personal angel.

Then he tried to ignore the feelings that rose inside him, leaving ice cold burns to counter the heat. Castiel had saved his brother from the fire twice now.

Sam would never be able to repay the gift Castiel had given him.

On some level, Sam hated him for that.