Part 9: All Too Much

Who was it, Dean thought. Who? What Powers That Be decided he and his family deserved chaos and pain and loss time and time again? What God that may or may not exist thought it was okay for one man to lose everything every time he gained even the smallest something? What Heaven allowed it? What Heaven existed if Hell already owned a place on Earth?

Dean was there. Dean was in it. He didn't need a deal to earn a place in Hell. Someone else decided that for him long ago, ensuring Dean never had a chance or choice in how the world crumbled around him every time he finally thought it made a little sense.

Demons Dean understood. Ghosts. Werewolves. Even an incubus. But humans…Dean couldn't figure them out at all.

"You didn't know him…" Dean said in a breath, staring at the gun in his face but not seeing it, not caring. He was on his knees and he could still feel the weight of Sasha's body against him, solid, heavy and limp. "You didn't know him…or my brother. You don't know me. You don't know…anything." When it came down to it, Dean wasn't even sure if he was speaking those words to Gordon or if they just poured out to whatever non-entity no-where god that decided Sasha had to die.

"I'm sorry, Dean," came Gordon's voice. The way the lights above them glowed down too harshly, Dean could only see gunmetal when he tried to focus, and focusing just took too much effort. "Really," Gordon went on, and if Dean had cared to really listen he might have heard that there was some truth in those words, however jaded, "I am sorry. Nothing personal."

Nothing…personal? Hell couldn't be worse than this. Than life. It just couldn't.

Dean didn't close his eyes, didn't flinch. He just stared on ahead at the barrel of his own gun, breathing, aching, but not thinking. Don't think, he thought. Don't think. Don't think about how you failed. Don't think about how you're giving up. Don't think about how you let him die. Don't think, don't think, don't think.

"Actually…" And the voice wasn't Gordon's, but sounded surprisingly steady for someone who was supposed to be drunk.

The picture changed in front of Dean, just a blur, movement, and Dean recognized that Gordon had whipped around, readjusting his aim to point the gun at someone else. But that someone was too close for Gordon to find a quick enough shot. The gun clattered to the floor and Dean heard Gordon's breath hitch.

"It is personal," said the new voice, a voice forever coming to Dean's rescue as Dean would always gladly come to his. "Goodbye, Gordon," Sam said so calmly. Then there was nothing but dead weight. True, beautifully morbid dead weight as Gordon crumbled, no sound just him on the ground and still.

Don't think, don't think, don't think.

"Dean?"

No, no, no. Gordon was finished and Dean was saved, but that made it real. It meant Dean had to turn and look down again. It meant he had to turn and see Sasha lying there, dead as Gordon was dead.

"Oh, god. Oh, god, Dean," Sam was saying. He must have seen Sasha. How could he not? Sasha was right there, his body leaning up against Dean's legs.

Dean wouldn't turn to look, couldn't let it be real, couldn't believe it.

"Dean, please…" Sam was pleading now, he was on his knees in front of Dean, crying and trying to pull Dean into his chest. Dean let it happen, let his body get drawn away from the one lying beside him until he couldn't feel Sasha at all anymore. Sam was hugging him tight, too tight, and before Dean could stop himself he was thinking about it, and remembering, and trying to breathe, and god, oh god, it was real, it was real.

Something hitched in Dean's throat, caught, choked there, and he did more than cling to Sam, he clawed, fingers digging bruises into Sam's shoulder blades, while the side of his face pressed against Sam's neck and tears fell hot and liberal. "Sam…"

"Dean…oh god, Dean…"

Why was that all Sam could say? Why was that all Dean could think? Oh, god, oh, god, oh, god. There was no god! Dean never believed in one. Sam could keep his prayers. Their mother could keep her dreams of angels. There was only this. This world. This Hell. Nothing else mattered.

"Dean…" Sam was desperate now, begging for a response, any response more than Dean pounding his back with angry fists now and shaking in his arms.

Dean obliged, not because he chose to, not because he wanted to, but because he was thinking so hard, so much that if he didn't find words to form those thoughts into he wouldn't be able to stand it. "The same thing," Dean growled into Sam's shoulder, eyes clenched so tight it forced any further tears to still, "It was the same…god damn thing. I was…I was right…there. I was…right…there. But I…I couldn't do anything. God damn it, it…it was the same…the same damn thing." Only it was worse, somehow it seemed so much worse this time because Dean had been even closer, because he had been the one to call out and make Sasha lose his focus, because it shouldn't have happened the first time and god damn it, it shouldn't have happened again.

"Dean…Dean, please, just…just…" Sam trailed. He couldn't say anything. How could he comfort Dean when he was just as angry, just as fiercely sad? They couldn't take another loss, not again, not after Mom and Dad and Jess and Sam. Sam knew that too. Of course he knew. "Dean…"

"No," Dean didn't want to hear it. He wanted to push Sam away now, wanted to stop crying completely, stop clinging so tight. He wouldn't ever be able to stop if he kept on like this. He wouldn't be able to stop.

"Dean, wait," Sam went on, "Listen to me." Sam sounded surer suddenly, steadier again, but Dean didn't care. He couldn't care. How could he care? "Dean," Sam said again when Dean didn't answer, and the question that followed cut Dean to the quick, "Are you sure Sasha is dead?"

The question stung, to hear the words 'Sasha' and 'dead' said aloud, but also because it was so ridiculous, so unnecessary. Did Sam actually want to force Dean to say the words?

"Dean."

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Dean said bitingly, trying to push Sam away finally but ending up keeping a grip on the shoulders of Sam's shirt that were cold from being outside without a jacket, cold despite the heat of the factory and the iron burning nearby.

Sam's eyes were clear, almost completely free from the haze of alcohol, and they stared certainly and dry despite the tears staining Sam's cheeks. "Dean, are you sure?" Sam said again, glancing around Dean and looking at Sasha with pained eyes. Then he turned back to Dean just as certain, "It looks bad, I know, but Dean…I think he's breathing."

Dean was almost sure he stopped breathing to hear Sam say those words. "What…?" No amount of wanting to escape the truth could keep Dean from turning back now and looking down at Sasha's still body. He hated to see it, to see incubus Sasha in jeans, a torn T-shirt, and a ruined leather jacket from where the glamour could no longer protect it and wings pushed through the back. Sasha's shoes had torn open too, his taloned feet sticking out in places and looking squished.

But all those tell-tale signs—the metal sticking out of Sasha's chest, the faded glamours, the closed eyes and limp body—meant nothing now that Dean could see as assuredly as Sam had the slow rise and fall as Sasha breathed. He was breathing.

"He's not dead…" Dean said in something of a haze. He raced to Sasha's other side and dropped to his knees again instantly, turning back to Sam who crawled up so that they were parallel with Sasha between them. "What do we do?" Dean said, tears completely dry but hands still shaking as he reached out to touch Sasha's forehead. He was still warm. Warm.

"We just need to act fast enough," Sam said. It was crazy how calm they were trying to force themselves to sound when the edge of panic was still so clear. "The antidote?"

"Right." Dean looked up at Sam and suddenly gave a pained cry. "Your jacket! It's still out in that other alley!"

Sam's eyes widened, and for a moment Dean thought Sam was going to jump to his feet and take off running, and honestly Dean wouldn't have tried to stop him. But then Sam's panic faded again and he started patting down his body until he got to his jeans. Out of his pocket he pulled a green vial, a more pleasant sight than anything else Dean could imagine right now.

Dean stared a moment though, almost disbelieving. Was this too easy? Had Gordon shot him after all and this was some horrible tease, the first level of Hell where you get everything you want and still lose it?

"I shoved some extras in my pockets before we left. Just in case," Sam said.

Well that did seem like something even a drunken Sam would do, so it had to be good enough for Dean. He reached over Sasha and grabbed Sam behind the ears, planting a ridiculously firm kiss on Sam's forehead. "I love you, Sammy. Even totally blitzed you think better than I do."

Time couldn't possibly be on their side right now, so they acted quickly, ripping Sasha's T-shirt away—it being already beyond repair—so that his chest lay bare before them. Dean positioned himself to pull the jagged metal free but Sam shook his head and handed Dean the vial. If Sam was thinking clearer then his powers should be working better now. Dean had to assume as much since Gordon had dropped like lead and all he could imagine Sam had done was touch the guy. So a little extra strength was smart, ensuring a clean pull of the metal out of Sasha's chest for Dean to immediately pour on the antidote.

It happened just like that, smooth and seamless, and Dean took a deep, glorious breath when the gaping, angry wound left behind from the metal piece sizzled and closed up. But then Dean frowned, because it had left a scar, large and misshapen over Sasha's heart. None of the others had left scars. Dean even glanced down to where the wound Sam had made long ago used to be, and there was nothing there but smooth white skin.

"Dean," Sam said with some impatience.

Right. Dean opened Sasha's mouth, remembering that he had done this before, that it was going to be okay now, it had to be, and he tipped the remained green liquid down Sasha's throat.

Just like before the green shot through Sasha's body beneath the skin. But his eyes did not spring open and wake him with a gasp. His body didn't move at all the way it should have. It remained heavy and still with no change at all save perhaps a steadier rhythm to Sasha's breathing.

"Why isn't he waking up?" Dean said, trying to hold the panic at bay but failing just as he had failed all night.

"Maybe…it just takes a little longer for something this serious," Sam offered.

Dean nodded to himself, still staring down at Sasha and waiting for those eyes to open. When a minute passed and still nothing, it was more than he could handle, and he grabbed hold of Sasha's shoulders in an angry lunge, shaking him. "Wake up!" he cried, "What's wrong with you, just wake up!"

"Dean," Sam's hands reached down to pull Dean away, gripping Dean by the wrists and forcing Dean's eye up to look at him, "This is different, okay? That was iron right to the heart. All the rules are different now. He should…he should be dead…" It was as if by saying that aloud something finally dawned on Sam and his grip renewed as he focused back on Dean and said, "Dean, where did this metal come from? Where did Gordon get it?"

"Uhh…" Dean shook his head and tried to concentrate. It was right behind Sam past Gordon's body. The box that Sasha had knocked over, spilling out all of those similarly horrible parts. Dean pointed to it and Sam immediately went over to inspect the box himself.

Sam's expression changed as he looked the mostly empty box over, and he held it up for Dean to read the side. Dean didn't understand at first. There was a serial number, some name for what the parts were and what they did, and then...what they were made of. Dean fairly gasped. It said 'Iron Alloy'. Iron Alloy.

"It's not pure iron…" Dean breathed. That explained everything. Almost. "But then why isn't he waking up? It shouldn't be that bad. It isn't iron. He should be okay."

"Maybe it's not that simple," Sam said, walking back to Dean and crouching down again with sorrowful eyes cast on Sasha, "Iron to the heart would have killed him. An alloy still has iron in it, just diluted. That might still be enough to…" Sam's eyes flicked up, meeting Dean's to be sure his brother was listening, "Enough to put him in a coma."

A coma? "But we used the antidote."

"That might only be enough to keep him alive, not to wake him. What we need to do is…is just stay calm and decide where we're going to go from here."

Dean was listening, he was, he just didn't like what he was hearing. If the antidote wasn't enough to wake Sasha then he had no idea what would. At least Sam was sober enough after everything that had happened that he was speaking sense, soothing and confident.

That didn't mean he was entirely right though.

"No," Dean said, "First we're going to get Sasha out of this building then we'll decide what to do next. There's iron in the air. It was hurting him while he was awake. It can't be doing him any good now." See, Dean could be calm. He could. He could pretend his cheeks weren't wet and his pulse wasn't racing. He had to.

"This way," Sam said, not arguing with Dean's decision as he gestured beyond Gordon's body and moved to lift Sasha by the shoulders, "Around that corner leads right to the door."

Dean was just about to lift Sasha's legs when he realized what Sam meant. "That's the door I came through," Dean said, "We have to go around the shelving the other way to get to it."

"No," Sam shook his head, "I came through that door too. A passageway leads right here if you take an immediate right coming inside."

A new weight settled into Dean's stomach upon hearing that, like lead, like a couple hundred pounds of dead weight incubus. Dean had taken a left when he entered that door, leading back into a maze, into dead ends and confusion. If only he had taken a right like Sam…

"That's why it took me so long," Sam continued. They started to lift Sasha, but it wasn't easy, and Dean knew he was managing to move mostly on instinct. "I went to the front of the building but every door I came to was locked. I was so frantic I didn't think to break one down, so I just came back to the one Gordon went in. I'm sorry, Dean." There was guilt in Sam's voice.

Dean could relate. Still, he said, "If I put any blame on you, Sammy, I would have hit you by now," because the guilt was stronger in Dean than in Sam. It had to be. Dean had already been the cause of this once; now he was again. He should have been able to save Sam. He should have been able to save Sasha. It was his job. "What about Gordon?" Dean mentioned as they were disappearing around the too near corner towards the door.

Sam didn't even glance back. "Leave him."

Dean couldn't have agreed more, but that wasn't what he meant. "What did you do to him? He just…he just went down. Like nothing."

Since Sam had the heavier part of Sasha's body, Dean was the one walking backwards on the way to the door. When Sam looked up, Dean could tell it was difficult for him to shrug the incident off as easily as he wanted to, but it was probably best he could no longer see Gordon's body. "I stopped his heart," Sam said, attempting to sound deadpanned.

"Funny, I don't remember you mentioning having that power." Although Dean did remember when Sam mentioned its existence. Something about a girl who accidentally killed her girlfriend. It didn't sit well with Dean. "When did you learn it?"

Sam's mouth twitched like maybe he was trying to smile. "About a minute ago," he said.

Dean didn't press for more. He didn't need to know anything else. He didn't need details to know he trusted his brother with his life and with Sasha's.

Getting out the door was difficult. Sasha's body was heavy and awkward in incubus form, and they couldn't figure for the life of them how to properly maneuver around his wings. Finally, though, they made it outside and set Sasha down on the concrete. He was so still save his breathing, but blessedly limp and loose, not growing stiff as he would if he were dead. Dean took small comfort in that.

"We have to get this off," Sam said, tugging at Sasha's leather jacket. He pulled a switchblade from one of his jean pockets and started to cut the leather from Sasha's arms and wings where it looked painfully tangled. "I just hope he'll forgive me for ruining this thing. Sometimes I think he's almost as attached to it as you are to yours." Sam attempted a weak smile.

Dean pulled out the small blade he kept attached to his ankle. Following Sam's example he began sawing at the few pieces keeping Sasha's shoes together around his taloned feet. Dean was just glad the guy sometimes wore sneakers instead of boots. "It was already ruined," Dean replied about the destroyed leather, falling just as short as Sam had when he tried to smile in return, "We'll buy him a new one." Hell, Dean would buy a whole fucking wardrobe for Sasha as long as the incubus woke up.

Eventually, they had cut away all but Sasha's jeans, deciding that the denim was the one thing that still looked like it fit comfortably on Sasha's body. Besides, the guy deserved a little modesty, what with the being dragged around like a ragdoll and everything.

"Now what?" Dean said as they prepared to lift Sasha again, "We carry him back to the car, get our stuff, and go where?"

Sam looked thoughtful for a minute. There weren't a lot of options. "Bobby's," he said finally, "It' the safest place. We'll have time to regroup. To think."

"Problem one," Dean started in, even though he had known that would be Sam's suggestion, "South Dakota is at least a day's drive."

"Then we'll drive all night," Sam countered.

Dean had thought of that too, but there was still one more problem. "Two," Dean continued, "Bobby doesn't know the truth about Sasha and we just show up at his doorstep with a comatose incubus?"

Immediately, Sam started worrying his bottom lip, but he still sounded sure when he spoke again. "It's Bobby. He wouldn't turn us away."

Dean didn't think so either, but he still had his doubts, for Sasha's sake at least, and it made him worry anyway. Nothing seemed to be turning out like Dean expected these days.

Lifting Sasha was easier without torn clothing in the way. Sam and Dean had folded Sasha's wings around his body to make it less awkward when they carried him, but it made Sasha look even more like a corpse, wrapped in a shroud of black skin. Dean tried not to think of it that way. For the first time he wanted to think, but about how Sasha was alive, about how they could still save him. Dean didn't mind thinking about that.

Sam's extra strength also made it easier to carry Sasha, but Dean could tell Sam wasn't at his best, much as the younger Winchester tried to hide the final traces of drunkenness that lingered.

It took them so much longer to get back to that first alleyway by the hotel that they were both cold and tired and Sam was nearly completely sober by the time they reached the dumpster and Sam's forgotten jacket. They set Sasha down again so Sam could put his jacket back on, and to give themselves a moment of rest. Sam had both arms through the sleeves before either of them remembered.

"Shit, the other guy! Kubrick!" Dean said, staring at the slightly moved dumpster that had no signs of a person crushed behind it.

Sam had jumped back about the same time and now walked slowly closer to the dumpster to inspect it. There were clearly no signs of Kubrick. "He has to at least have a few broken ribs after a hit like that," Sam said, "He couldn't have gone far. Maybe we can—"

"No, we're getting Sasha out of here. Now." Dean didn't mean to sound that vicious, but he was through playing around. They could track Kubrick later. They didn't have time to go hunting the guy down when Sasha could be dying that very minute.

Dean remembered that coma victims were always hooked up to so many machines, one to watch their breathing, one for their heart rate, everything. He had been in that situation himself once. Sasha was just lying there on the ground with nothing to protect him, nothing to make sure he was okay except the constant vigil of Dean's eyes, checking to make sure he was still breathing. That was all they would have during the drive to Bobby's too, and even after they got to South Dakota there was no way to be sure they could find a way to help Sasha. Right now all Dean knew was that acting fast was better than playing 'hide and seek' with Gordon's accomplice.

They reached the car a few minutes later—Sam hadn't even tried to argue with Dean, which was rare, and proved just how desperate Dean must have sounded. They passed one couple before managing to lay Sasha in the backseat, but it must have been normal for New Yorkers to see a strangely 'dressed' guy passed out and being stuffed into the back of a car because they didn't even do a double-take.

"I'll go get our stuff. I have Sasha's key," Sam said, already turning to head inside the hotel.

Dean was still standing by the open back driver's side door. They had had to lay Sasha slanted so his feet fell down into the floor but most of his chest and head were lying comfortably. He was just so large. "Sam…" Dean wanted to get in the backseat with Sasha, wanted to hold the incubus close to his chest to keep him warm, keep him safe, something.

Sam seemed to understand. He paused and took a few steps back towards the Impala. "Gimme the keys, Dean. I'll drive when I get back. It's okay."

"But…you drank too much," Dean said lamely. He knew Sam was sober enough to drive now, but he still had to pretend like he was protesting.

Sam just smiled and held out his hand. "I promise I won't hurt your baby," Sam said, and Dean honestly wasn't sure if Sam was trying to be cute about the car or about Sasha.

After tossing the keys over the Impala's hood into Sam's waiting hand, Dean climbed into the backseat, carefully lifting Sasha's upper body so he could slide in underneath and lay Sasha back down on top of his lap. Sasha was heavy; Dean's legs would probably be asleep before Sam even got back down to the car from gathering their things. But Dean didn't care. He needed Sasha close. He needed to feel that reassuring warmth.

It was an unconscious effort the way Dean started combing his fingers through Sasha's hair. He liked it both short and long like this, past Sasha's shoulders and always so soft. Sasha's skin was so white too. Dean usually forgot that with how much more he saw Sasha human, but as an incubus he was pure white with faded greys on the way to the blackest pitch on his hands, feet, and wings. Dean could see the tattoos peaking out of Sasha's low-riding jeans, and it made him smile a little. The comfort of something normal, of something steady that Dean saw everyday, made the weight lessen, if only a little.

"Some happy birthday, huh?" Dean said softly, whispering even though they were alone in the quiet car. The fact that Sasha didn't answer, couldn't answer made Dean ache a little more. He just wanted those eyes to open, blue or red, it didn't matter.

Thankfully, Sam came back down in record time, and Dean was so grateful he smiled when Sam climbed into the front seat and started up the engine. He never smiled at the thought of Sam driving his car, not even in New York when he refused to drive himself.

Every bump in the road made Dean want to curse though, and he clung to Sasha, afraid that a particularly harsh jerk would cause Sasha to fall off his lap and down between the seats. Once they were on a highway, though, it was smooth sailing.

Sam called back, watching Dean in the rearview mirror. "Want the radio?"

That was a surprisingly tough question to answer. Music was usually Dean's go-to escape, and there were certainly plenty of things he wanted to escape after tonight, but it just didn't seem right. "I kinda like the quiet right now," he said. He knew that made Sam's gaze linger a little, but he really did like the quiet. It made it easier to hear the gentle huffs of Sasha breathing.

"I'll call Bobby when we get closer," Sam was saying, "I'll just tell him…I'll tell him Sasha's hurt and we don't have anywhere else to go. We'll worry about the 'he's also an incubus' part later."

Dean grunted approval. That was fine by him. He still wanted to believe Bobby would shrug the whole thing off like he had Sam's powers—more or less—but that slim chance of Bobby freaking out still made Dean antsy. He just wanted to figure out how to wake Sasha up. There had to be a way. Sasha couldn't just stay like this forever, frozen but still alive.

An hour into the drive Dean asked Sam if he had any more vials of the antidote. Sam produced one from his pocket and Dean applied it again to the wound and down Sasha's throat, hoping that maybe an extra dose might help. But the scar didn't look any paler and Sasha didn't wake. This was going to take something bigger and Dean hated that he didn't know what it was.

"He's so warm," Dean said absently, about the time they were passing Cleveland with the sun peaking over the horizon, "Not hot, has a fever warm, just…not cold, ya know?"

"Yeah," came Sam's voice, gently from the driver's seat.

"You went cold so fast…" Dean said, lifting his eyes to the image of Sam in the rearview mirror, so tired looking but alive and there, right where he was supposed to be. Dean hadn't really meant to say that, and he regretted it as soon as Sam's eyes met his through the glass, suddenly wet all over again, the kid was so damn sentimental.

Dean turned away and looked back down at Sasha. Hours passed and kept passing, and still Sasha lived, breathing the same steady rhythm. As long as there was still a pulse, still the barest breath, Dean knew he could handle this. It was different this time. Sasha wasn't dead and never had been. Dean couldn't have been more grateful for that. He didn't have another soul to give.

They stopped to pee and grab water and food in Chicago, the halfway point. Dean was thankful for the water, but he didn't touch any of the sandwich Sam had grabbed for him in the gas station. He just couldn't want to eat.

They didn't stop again until they reached Bobby's scrapyard. They had made pretty good time, but it was still the next night, dark enough that after they wrapped Sasha in a blanket from the trunk they were pretty sure Bobby wouldn't notice Sasha didn't exactly look normal until after they got him inside. It might have been a dirty trick, but they weren't in the right mind to care. Both Winchesters were dead tired, neither having slept the entire drive, and their adrenaline hadn't stopped pumping since leaving New York. Saving Sasha was all that mattered.

"Bring him in here, on the bed," Bobby directed them, having gone on ahead after opening the door and allowing them to haul Sasha inside.

Sam and Dean obeyed, carrying Sasha into the guest room that one or both of them usually slept in when they spent the night at Bobby's. They assumed Bobby hadn't noticed the horns and clawed feet quite yet, just as they were hoping, but there was no way they could hide the truth once Bobby came in behind them and started to help them unwrap Sasha from the blanket.

They expected shock, even a cry or look of revulsion maybe. What they didn't expect was Bobby's complete and utter disregard for Sasha's incubus form as he checked Sasha's forehead for a fever and inspected the sealed up wound on his chest.

"He been like this since you left New York?" Bobby asked.

Sam and Dean exchanged equally surprised and curious glances before Sam managed, "Yeah. No change."

Bobby checked Sasha over a few minutes more but finally just threw the same blanket back over him to better keep the incubus warm.

Dean couldn't take it. Bobby was just so damn calm. He had to ask.

"Hey. You don't seem too surprised to see him like this."

Bobby looked across the bed at where Dean and Sam were standing. He raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, well neither do you," he said with half a grin, "How long you boys known?"

Something was definitely going on here. Dean was too busy gaping, so Sam had to step in and say, "Since Minnesota. How long have you known?" It was obvious Bobby wasn't just that enlightened.

Again, Bobby allowed a bit of a smirk. "Since a skinny sixteen-year-old redhead showed up on my doorstep," he admitted, "Thought he was scamming me at first with the Deklin Kelly's son thing, but the more we got to talking, I knew he was telling the truth. 'Sides, he's got Deklin's same smile, same walk, same way he carries himself. I put the pieces together. Last I heard from Deklin he called to say I needed to meet his new wife. I imagine that meeting would have been filled with interesting explanations." Bobby walked around to the foot of the bed and Sam and Dean moved to meet him there. "But I don't know anything special about how an incubus hurts or heals. You're gonna have to tell me exactly what happened."

So Sam and Dean did. Every last detail. When they were finished, Bobby still looked just as lost as they were, shaking his head and shoving his hands into his pockets like he needed time to think, but even then he wouldn't be able to come up with anything.

It made Dean so angry. Sure they were here, and Sasha was warm and safe and lying on a real bed finally, but what good did that do them if they still couldn't wake him up?

"There is one other thing we might try," Sam suggested slowly. They had already dismissed looking things up on the computer. Anything readily available they already knew. Then Sam was reaching into his pocket and pulling out Sasha's cell phone, something he had been careful to claim from Sasha's leather jacket before they left the pieces of it back in the alleys.

It took Dean a moment to understand what Sam was getting at. If Sasha got through this he would probably be pissed at them, but at this point Dean really couldn't care. "Do it," Dean said to his brother, firmly and uncaring to the consequences, "I think it's about time we met that aunt of Sasha's anyway."

Apparently, Sasha's aunt left Seattle about the same time Sasha did and was only one state away in Valentine, Nebraska when they called her. She was at Bobby's door less than two hours later, two hours of waiting that Dean spent mostly gritting his teeth. He had completely forgotten about his wounded leg, being so focused on Sasha. He remembered it started aching in the car, but the bleeding had stopped again so that Dean didn't think it mattered enough to mention.

Bobby chewed him out long and hard over that, having noticed the blood stain and tear in Dean's jeans. The elder hunter immediately set to work to clean the wound out. It was borderline infected and angry after a day of going untreated, and Bobby was not gentle. After forcing an antibiotic down Dean's throat and wrapping bandages around his calf, Dean was finally able to relax, but now that he had time to think about his leg again, it throbbed.

Sam was the one who answered the sharp rapping of knocks when they finally came, presumably having the best constitution for an attack should something happen. Dean stayed close anyway though, and peered around Sam to get a good look at the succubus he had only heard about and caught snippets of voice clips from when Sasha was on the phone with her.

It wasn't an exaggeration to say she was probably the hottest woman Dean had ever laid eyes on. She was beyond model material. She put models to shame with those legs, shown off too perfectly in a short black skirt and heels. How the woman had driven two hours in heels Dean would never know. Her sweater was the same royal blue as her eyes, just like Sasha's, and it clung in all the right places, hanging off her shoulder to show pale perfect skin. The face was just like it had been in that long ago picture, almost identical to the face of Sasha's other aunt, but the hair was raven black and wavy down her back.

Dean held back a whistle, threatening to form out of old, old habit, and contented himself with a long once over of the entire package. That was one fine woman. The only thing that marred the picture was her fierce expression, as frightening as she was beautiful.

"Where is my nephew?" Shiarra all but growled, pushing past Sam without awaiting an invitation.

Dean took a step back since she was headed right for him and gestured further into the house. "Guest bedroom back there," he said.

Her eyes passed a sharp, icy glance at him and Dean felt himself shiver. He wondered if Sasha had the ability to look that pissed. He had a feeling the incubus probably did, and it made Dean glad he had never seen it.

Shiarra barely even acknowledged the figure of Bobby sitting in a chair outside Sasha's room, but when she reached the mouth of the door, she cast a look back at them all, each in turn, that made Dean shiver again. "Hunters," she grumbled, not trying in the slightest to hide her revulsion. Then she was gone, disappeared inside the room.

Wary of the succubus as Dean was, he wasn't about to just abandon the responsibility he had taken to protect Sasha. He followed Shiarra into the room without fear—well, with as mild a fear as he could manage—and approached the bed on the opposite side. Sam came in behind him and waited just inside the door, while Bobby remained outside.

A delicate looking hand passed over Sasha's brow, the same gesture all of them kept repeating even though Sasha had never shown signs of a fever, no signs of anything really other than his endless sleep. Then her hand brushed gently over the jagged scar left on Sasha's chest and her sharp blue eyes looked up at Dean, "You said a hunter did this?" she said.

"Not one of the ones in this house," Dean said by way of answer.

Shiarra didn't respond to that directly. "Where is he?" was all she said.

"Dead," Sam replied, steady now that he had had time to process how quickly and efficiently he had rid the world of Gordon Walker, "I killed him myself."

Shiarra released a small huff of air. "Well," she said, and Dean thought as he listened more to her that he detected some kind of accent, though it was so faint he wasn't sure he could have given it an origin, "At least that's something. And he kept telling me not to worry, that things would be even safer now that he was working as part of a team. Well done, boys," she said scathingly, "You've certainly proven that, now haven't you?"

Okay, that was it. Dean didn't take this shit from anyone, not any other hunter, not any other creature, and certainly not from some haughty broad who thought she could walk all over them just because they messed up. "Now you listen to me," Dean started in, no longer caring if Shiarra could technically rip him apart if she chose, "Sasha is just as much our family now as he is yours, so you can shove that self-righteous shit right up your ass." Dean thought maybe he heard Sam gasp and saw Sam twitch, but he pressed on, staring right across the bed into those burning blues. "We did everything we could. We called you because we're sorry, but we don't know how to bring an incubus out of a damn coma. You want to help with that, good. You want to stand there and look down on us because we're hunters and you don't like that, never have, and keep talking down to Sasha for it too, well then you can get the hell out of here. We'll find another way. Understand?"

The silence that followed Dean's outburst was painful, it lasted so long. Dean felt like he was back to being ten, having a staring contest with little six-year-old Sammy. Shiarra was clearly not the type of woman to usually back down.

Apparently, she also respected that enough in others that she decided Dean wasn't worthy of being dismembered.

Rather, she said, "You must be Dean," and crossed slender arms over her more than ample chest.

Dean took that as a compliment. "Nice to meet you," he replied with extra sarcasm, "Now are you going tell us how we can get Sasha back, or do you need to touch up your makeup first?"

Now Sam was definitely twitching and definitely moving to join Dean beside the bed. "What he means is," Sam said, looking over at Shiarra with a smile Dean couldn't have managed right now even if he was good at faking sincerity, "We'll do whatever it takes to help Sasha, so please, tell us there's something we can do. We've already told you everything that happened over the phone. It wasn't pure iron—"

"It was an alloy," Shiarra finished for him. She started fishing in the purse thrown over her shoulder then, one that matched her black skirt so perfectly that neither Dean nor Sam had noticed it was there until the succubus called attention to it. "If that is the case…then your quick work with the antidote probably saved my boy's life." That particular phrase seemed very difficult for her to speak, so she spoke on again quickly. "To flush the rest of the iron out of his system and wake him up…we'll need this," she said, pulling a vial from her purse not unlike the ones Sasha had, "And a little something from the both of you."

Dean stared at the vial for a moment. At first it looked identical to the ones with the antidote, but then Dean noticed the strange spirals of red mixed in with the green and he knew it had to be something different.

"Not that I don't trust your other friend," Shiarra said, nodding towards the door where Bobby couldn't be seen though he remained respectfully outside regardless of the Winchesters storming in, "But I only need two more candidates for blood. My own has already been added." Shiarra started moving around the bed towards them and both instinctually backed away.

"Whoa, whoa," Dean said, enjoying the fact that he currently had Sam as a human shield, "What's this about blood? What is that stuff? What's it do?"

Shiarra stopped a mere foot from Sam and propped her free hand on her hip. Dean couldn't help but notice how similar her exasperated expression was to Sasha's. "If you two care about Sasha as much as you say, and as much as he believes, then this 'stuff' is what is going to wake him back up again. Everything about my kind is mystical, whether you're talking about the fae part or the demon," she explained, holding the vial up so that the green and red glowed in the light of the room, "Sasha has told you that a child incubus feeds off merely the affection of those around him, yes?"

Sam immediately nodded, so Dean decided he didn't have to.

"The most powerful thing to our kind is passion, emotion," Shiarra continued, "Usually we take this through sex, that much you know, but at the core it is still spiritual. This antidote is much stronger than the one used for simple cuts. It combines the strength of three, a powerful number in arcane magicks, by taking an amplified antidote and mixing it with three drops of blood from three willing participants who love the one being cured. Love, boys," Shiarra repeated with a somewhat sinister smile, "So you understand why I'm not so thrilled about this. Sasha has no one but me. So either you're lying and using him somehow, and in that case the potion will be ineffective…and mean very bad things for you. Or…you really care for my nephew and are therefore the only thing that can help me save him. Understand?" she finished, eyes drifting incredulously back to Dean.

Dean felt both a rush of anger towards Shiarra and a jolt of joy at finally knowing there was a clear way to save Sasha and that it would work, of course it would work, Dean and Sam both loved Sasha deeply as friends enough to prove that. Maybe even beyond friendship…at least a little. Well, maybe more than a little, but now was not the time for Dean to dwell on that.

Neither Winchester saw reason to fear Shiarra now, at least in regards to the act they would willingly perform, and perhaps it was their twin looks of determination as they walked towards her that made Shiarra's expression soften. She was still a little vicious, however, when she snatched up Sam's hand and pricked his finger with her suddenly transformed succubus claws. Sam hissed but didn't pull away, allowing Shiarra to hold his finger over the now open vial and squeeze three drops of blood.

Deciding on adding one more act of defiance, Dean reached down to grab for his ankle blade and cut his own finger himself. Shiarra huffed at him, more than a bit snobbish as far as Dean was concerned, and was perhaps a bit less gentle with Dean when she squeezed the blood from his finger.

Everything else about this new, more powerful antidote worked the same. First Shiarra poured it over the wound, where it sizzled the way it had the first time, softening the scar a bit though not getting rid of it completely, and then Shiarra poured what remained down Sasha's throat and green light shot through Sasha's body beneath the skin.

Dean waited for the moment, that glorious moment when Sasha's eyes would spring wide, flashing brilliant red, but it didn't happen. Sasha still didn't move. For a moment Dean felt a wave of panic. Surely, they both honestly loved Sasha. But what if Shiarra thought differently?

As the succubus turned away from Sasha though, her expression was not one of anger, but somewhere between fondness and exhaustion. "Now we wait," she said, "This isn't as quick a fix as other things. It will take time to banish every bit of iron, and only then will he wake again. The longest it could possibly take would be twenty-four hours, but considering how quickly you initially healed him, it might only be a few hours before the potion has finished. If after a day he does not wake up," she added, returning the empty vial to her purse and walking once again over to where Sam and Dean were standing, "You won't live to see the day that follows. That, I should think, should be very clear."

"Crystal," Dean said with a sneer, confident again now that he knew they weren't doomed. Of course the actual act of waiting was not going to be fun.

"So you…have a place in Seattle?"

Honestly, Dean could kill Sam for attempting small talk. He preferred the previous three hours of awkward silence.

Bobby had put on a pot of coffee, Sam and Dean both managing to function on pure will alone as they waited into the night, and the four of them were seated in Bobby's living room. Shiarra had become somewhat more courteous, at least to Bobby who she had heard Sasha talk of fondly for much longer than Sam or Dean, and who Deklin had spoken well of too.

"I'm more of a transient," Shiarra said, sipping her coffee. She was like one of those rich characters on primetime soap operas, all perfect crossed legs and delicate movements, despite the brute strength she had to possess after who knows how many years alive. "I prefer Seattle if I'm going to stay somewhere longer than a few days. It was nice having Sasha home. Of course all I heard about the entire week was the two of you." Her voice dipped a little with mock annoyance.

Sam tried to plaster on that 'but you just have to love me' smile of his. "Well, we haven't really spent more than a few minutes apart since we met, besides that week, of course."

"Yes…" Shiarra said somewhat calculatingly.

"And you can't go blaming or hating us for that either," Dean jumped right in. He could see the gears working in Shiarra's head; she had pegged them before she even got there as just mindless hunters unworthy of sharing her nephew's life. "We've never talked Sasha into anything, not a hunt or anything else. He makes his own choices. You can't blame a hunter for getting in a little deep now and again. But we've always managed to come back from it. Even this time." Dean was certain now that Sasha would wake up. The incubus just had to.

"We'll see about that," Shiarra said with an insufferable grin.

Dean wanted to like her for Sasha's sake, but it just wasn't going to happen. She hated them without know them and he could never like someone like that.

Even though Dean knew he would be chided by Sam for it later, he just couldn't help himself.

"You know…you're about as big a hypocrite as anyone I've met," he said, and before the words even fully left him, Dean could already see Sam's wide eyes silently imploring him to stop. Like hell. "Sasha didn't trust us at first either. Smart thing. But when push came to shove and we found out what he really was, we helped him, kept working with him, became better friends even. We didn't pull what that bastard that killed Sasha's parents pulled. And Bobby, he's known the truth about Sasha for years and you said yourself Sasha's never had anything but good things to say about him."

Bobby gave Dean a look like 'please keep me out of this', smiling weakly when Shiarra's eyes moved over to him. "Yeah, well…" Bobby tried, clearing his throat a couple times, "I could tell Sasha was a good boy from the get-go. Just a kid when we first met and all. I've been around long enough to know that supernatural doesn't have to mean evil. These boys have learned that too."

"Oh, I don't doubt that," Shiarra said, surprising Dean and all of them with the honest sincerity of her tone, "I really don't. But that doesn't mean I trust you," she added, falling back into pattern again, "Sasha can if he wants, but you're still hunters. And a hunter killed my sister and her husband. Deklin made me think…maybe hunters weren't what I had always believed, but that friend of his reminded me of the truth. Humans see different and they fear it, you can't deny that."

"Has Sasha told you anything about my brother?" Dean said, jumping in before Shiarra could say anything else. All eyes were on Dean in a second, Sam's especially.

Shiarra gave a slow nod. "Not anything concrete, mind you, but he did mention that Sam Winchester was someone he believed could understand what it was like to be different in a world that only likes normal. I can only assume that means your brother isn't entirely human, or that he has some unnatural abilities. But if you're trying to say that you still loving your own flesh and blood despite him being different than other humans makes you more capable of loving Sasha, then you can save your words. Sam is your family. Sasha is not, regardless of what you might say."

Now Dean wanted to get up and hit her, he was so mad, though he was fairly certain it would feel even more like hitting a brick wall than hitting Sasha did. "Sasha was right," Dean said instead, his hands gripping his coffee mug too tightly, "It wasn't a good idea for us to meet. And you know who he was worried about?" Dean had to grin, he really did, "Not us. You. So congratulations for living up to exactly what Sasha expected of you. Excuse me." Suddenly, coffee and conversation didn't sound all that good anymore.

Dean left the living room and headed straight for Sasha. He didn't need to be talked down to. He knew where he stood. He knew how he felt. Sasha was family. He had become apart of them so quickly, so completely that it had to be thicker and stronger than mere friendship.

Dean had almost made it into Sasha's room when he heard Shiarra behind him.

"I see why he likes you," she said, softly and close at his back.

Turning back to her, Dean saw that she was alone, perhaps even having told Sam and Bobby to give them a minute. But Dean wouldn't let her have the last word just so she could prove her own point to herself. "Say whatever you want," Dean said, "I'll only listen to the parts that aren't stupid anyway."

A grin grew on Shiarra's pale, beautiful face. She was tall for a woman, tall enough that she could almost look Dean right in the eyes. She walked up close enough that it felt just like that too. "You're bold. You're confident. You're obviously vain."

Dean laughed. Keep it coming, Sister, he thought, he could take it.

"You're also very much in love with my nephew and I would have to be a fool not to see that."

Then suddenly it wasn't so funny. Dean gaped, not knowing how to respond.

Shiarra continued. "I don't want the same mistake made twice," she said, her tone no longer cool and filled with humor but frighteningly serious, "I won't lose Sasha the way I lost my sister, do you understand? Not the same way. Not again."

Not again, God damn it, not again.

Dean felt like he was choking. He had to be choking on something for his throat to feel so tight. Shiarra was saying all the right words, all the right things to break Dean down into pieces. He knew those feelings, those hot, vibrant feelings that called to him from inside her eyes. He had felt them so many times.

"I swear, if you bring that fate upon my child, I will destroy every inch of you," Shiarra growled, and Dean couldn't blame her, he really couldn't. He knew just how it felt to be that angry and that scared at the same time. He knew too well. "I've heard and seen and felt all the feelings Sasha has for you…Dean Winchester. I can only hope, pray he isn't blindly following the same path as his parents. You promise me he isn't. You promise me right now!" It didn't matter that Shiarra's voice was soft, her whispers were harsh enough and close enough to Dean that they still stung with all the emotion behind them.

What had Dean gotten himself into? If Shiarra was asking whether or not Dean would ever break Sasha's heart, then he couldn't promise anything. If she was asking whether or not Dean would let some fool hunter take Sasha away as Gordon tried and almost succeeded last night, then by God Dean would promise that, but he didn't know if he dared.

Since Dean wasn't certain of the question, he couldn't be certain of his response, so instead he chose a compromise, one he knew wasn't a lie.

"I can't keep him safe. Not anymore than you can," Dean said, just as harsh and soft as she had spoken, "But I can try. It's what I've been doing for my brother his whole life. I can't promise anything though, because it's just not in my power to protect Sam or Sasha every second, much as I wish I could. But if you think I'd let anyone hurt Sasha, even me, if there wasn't something, anything I could do to prevent it, then you don't listen when Sasha talks about me, because that is not me."

As Dean finished his words, he looked up past Shiarra and saw Sam and Bobby sneaking into the hallway from the living room, having heard at least some of what he said. Sam was smiling, somber but true, and Bobby gave Dean a nod.

When Dean looked back into the deep blue of Shiarra's eyes, so much like Sasha's but so unlike him too, he couldn't read them at all. He could only imagine she somehow understood since she didn't say anything to counter him.

"Hey…" came a voice suddenly, gentle and ragged from behind Dean. But there couldn't be anyone behind Dean. Everyone was in front of him.

Slowly, Dean turned around, his heart caught somewhere between his windpipe and his voice, and amazingly he saw red, and blue, and pale skin with a teasing black tattoo that peaked up over the top of loose jeans. Surely, Dean had never seen a more beautiful sight.

Sasha leaned weakly against the door frame of the guest bedroom, human looking and very tired despite his large smile. "Any…food around this place…?" Sasha asked, breathless but still breathing, still standing, alive, "I'm starving."

tbc...

A/N: See, I'm not a cold heartless bitch, after all! Yay! One more part to go in this arc. Thoughts? Comments? Suggestions? And again, be sure to check out deangirl1's kiss fics of Sasha and Dean. Hot and steamy, just like you're hoping I'll finally get to, right? ;-)

Crim