Chapter Text
Dean had spoken to Death. He pleaded his case. He knew, he just knew, that Death could get Sam's soul from the cage. And Dean was fully aware just how much Sam needed his soul back.
Death just sat there as Dean laid out what he wanted, eating his pickle chips. He waited quietly as Dean ranted about Sammy's soul. Death knew Dean would do whatever it took to get his version of his brother back. Even knowing this, he could not resist giving a warning. "Sam's soul has been down there for almost two-hundred years, Dean. Even if he doesn't get his hell memories back, he will not be the brother you remember. The Sam you knew is gone, Dean. Think of how your time in hell changed you, and you only had forty years. There is no deal to get off the rack for Sam, he isn't even on the rack, that would be a blessing. Instead, his soul is the only toy shared between two angry archangels. The cage alone would tear your brother apart, but it is so much worse than that."
"I don't care! Can you or can't you bring my brother's soul back?"
"I can, and I will do it as a favor. But you must understand you will not get back the brother you lost."
"I don't care, he needs his soul back."
-~-
Death got Sam's soul as promised. Dean had trapped his soulless brother in Bobby's panic room. Death appeared between one blink and the next carrying an old-fashioned medical bag. It had been near a week since Deans plea, and Dean had started to think Death had forgotten.
"Understand, Dean Winchester, what this may do to your brother. Putting his soul back could be worse than much of what he has already endured. This could bury him." Death spoke calmly, But firmly, used to leading lost souls.
"Boy, what is he talkin' bout? What will this do to Sam?" Bobby tried to grab Dean as he lead Death to the basement.
"Sam will be fine Bobby, he has to be. I need him back. Let's just do this."
Dean went in first and quickly subdued Sam, knocking him out. When Dean had him laid out on the cot Death walked in and sat down next to Sam, setting the bag at his feet.
"Are you sure you want me to do this? Once it is done it cannot be undone."
"Yes dammit! Just do it already."
Death opened his bag and reached inside. When he pulled his hands out he was clutching a softly glowing white ball of light, cut through with deep blue. As he touched the orb to Sam's chest he spoke in a language that was both a whisper and pure music. The light flared briefly then sank into Sam's chest. Sam's eyes opened, and the same deep blue light shown in his irises. Sam's mouth opened as if in a scream, but before any sound could escape, his eyes rolled back in his head and his breathing evened out in a deep sleep.
-~-
Sam slept for a week. He didn't toss or turn, or do normal sleeping things. He laid on the cot in the panic room, still as a corpse, but for the breath motion of his chest.
Dean stayed by his side almost constantly. On the first day, Bobby brought down plates of food three times. Three times he returned for the still full dishes. Every time he tried to get Dean to come upstairs, or get some sleep. Every time he was denied.
On day two, Dean fell asleep in a chair next to the cot. Their breath synced up, and they were the most peaceful they had been since before Sam went to Stanford.
On day three, Bobby convinced Dean to take a shower. Bobby took Dean's place in the chair, he spent the time talking softly to Sam.
On day four, Sam's index finger twitched, Dean spent the next five hours staring at his brother, pretending he wasn't praying to anything that could listen.
On day five, Dean ate something. When he woke up, he screamed at Bobby for half an hour for drugging him. He was so loud, he didn't notice when Sam's lips parted, and a stream of musical words poured out.
On the sixth day, Dean cried. He worried he had lost his brother forever.
On the seventh day, Sam woke up. His eyes opened, again deep blue, spinning wildly. He opened his mouth, and screamed.