Chapter 14

There's a high stone wall dripping with ivy on the same narrow lane where they crouched and collected water from the lion's head. They go over, both of them silent.

Trees cover them. Dean holds his phone out in front of him, the dim light of the lit screen barely enough to pick their way through and find the well.

Sam carries the crow bar with his left hand, keeps his right on Dean at all times. He keeps touching him, hasn't stopped since they left the hotel. It's like he's afraid that Dean might just disappear.

He won't. It's only happened twice, flickering out, then back again, like a ghost trying to hold onto its form under stress. There's nothing conscious about it, he's just gone one second, back the next. And it's only happened twice.

This body is holding him together, holding him here. He's got to lose it tonight, he's got to break free of his body, and just hope like hell that it'll take him back once he's got the cup.

If he can't get out, they're screwed. If he can't pass through the portal into the cave, they're screwed. Even if he can do both and get the cup, if he can't get back into his body again, they're pretty much screwed. It'll screw Sam up completely.

Dean doesn't voice any of it. Sam's twitchy, nervous. Even without any words exchanged, it's not hard to tell.

Down the steps, and they stand beside the well. The lid is down, but Sam pops the lock in seconds and lifts the cover off. Then he crouches down and tucks the crow bar into the edge of the grate. He glances up at Dean, standing over him with his hands in his jacket pockets, and then he looks back and heaves.

It comes out slow, with a grating of iron against stone that hurts Dean's ears. It's loud in the still silence of night, but they don't have time to worry about anyone hearing.

Finally, Sam lifts the circular grate out, and props it against the low stone wall surrounding the well. Then he steps back, and he looks at Dean.

"My turn," Dean says, and he looks down at the stone cobbled floor. He scuffs it with the toe of his boot, and then looks up.

Sam's eyes are all scrunched up, and his lips are tight. He steps back and sits down on the wall. "You'd better sit down," he says.

Dean sits right beside him, doesn't complain when Sam wraps an arm tight around him, fingers splayed out over his chest.

Dean leans into Sam, takes up some of his warmth. He closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath, lets it out slow.

Then he pushes against the confines of his body.

It's like one of those dreams where you're stuck in the dark and you can't find the way out. He's not supposed to be in here, not like this, but this is the first time it's felt like a prison.

Then, right on the edges, he can feel the tingle of the magic that's keeping him in. It's still strong, but starting to weaken in places. It's coming to the end of it's life, so there's soft spots. "I think..." he says, and puts his hand over Sam's where it lies on his chest. "Yeah. Hold on, Sammy. I'm going to need this after."

He pushes through.

It's a rush, and it's hard, because his body tries to hold on to him. But then he's out, and he has to fight against the magic pulling him back in.

Dean opens his eyes, and he grins down at Sam, still sitting on the wall, a corpse in his arms. His eyes are focused on Dean's face—no. On the washed out face of a dead body. "Hey, Sammy?" Dean says.

Sam's head jerks up and his whole body jolts. He recovers, clings tighter to Dean's body, holds the head against his chest. "Dean," he says, voice shaky and breath quick. "Jesus, Dean."

"It's a rush, Sammy." He shoves his hands deep into the pockets of the jacket he died in and rocks on the balls of his feet. "But it's a lot of work. My meat suit is trying to pull me back in."

Sam jerks his head toward the well. "Then get on with it. I don't know what'll happen if you burn out, Dean."

Dean nods. He looks at the hole in the ground, steps up to it and looks down inside. It's nothing more than a spring that seeps up over rocks, there's no way a living person could hope to just climb inside, but he crouches beside it, and then hangs his legs over the edge as he sits on the edge. His feet disappear amongst the water and rock and ferns. It doesn't even feel cold. He doesn't feel cold at all, now that he's not stuck in his meat suit.

"Down the rabbit hole," he says, and then looks up at Sam. "Here goes nothing."

"Just make sure you come back," Sam says, as he combs his fingers through the hair of the corpse in his arms. "You promised."

Dean nods, and forces a smile. "Yeah, Sammy. I promise."

Then he pushes off the edge, and slides into the hole.

---

He slips through darkness, his fingertips sliding over wet rock, slick with moss. His feet hit solid ground without impact, but he rolls with it anyway out of instinct, dropping into a crouch as he comes down into dim light.

There is no light source that he can see. And he's a ghost, he shouldn't have to wait for his eyes to adjust. Maybe it's same thing that gives him his form now that really, he's just spirit. He expects it, and so it happens.

Slowly, the room comes into focus.

It's made of stone, a cave, but with no entrance that he can discern. When he looks up, there's a curved ceiling of stone. How's he going to get out?

But he came here for the cup. For the grail. Everything else has been right. The well, the gateway, the cave. He looks around, sweeps the interior with his eyes. It should be here. It's got to be here.

Dean swallows back the taste of bile. And why he can taste anything now, when his body is upstairs with Sam, it makes no sense. Neither does the roiling wash of feeling in the pit of his stomach. But there's nothing in here, nothing except for himself and a stone pedestal in the center of the cave.

He crosses the space and lays his hand on the flat surface. It's been hewn from the rock, there's no way something like this occurs in nature—not that he's even in a place that's real. This isn't part of the earth that humanity knows. It's some kind of spirit world, like purgatory with its funky lighting and heaven with its personalized bits of paradise.

There's a shape beneath his hand. He lifts it, runs his finger around the rim of a shallow depression, a circle.

The bottom falls out of his stomach. If ghosts could throw up, that's what Dean would be doing. The cup is gone. Someone found the Holy Grail before they did.

He can't fight the pull of his body anymore. He glitches, even though nothing can change around him, he's doing it, can feel it. There are snapshots as he turns, bits of wall. Then he's on the other side of the cave, looking back at the pedestal from a distance.

Then he's just gone.

---

He feels heavy. Weighted down, as if gravity isn't playing by the rules. He's not where he should be, probably not when he should be, either. He's cold. Colder than he's felt in weeks.

Dean opens his eyes. He's staring at another plaster ceiling. He turns his head toward a sound.

"Sam," he says, and his voice is a rasp.

Sam is sitting in a chair beside the bed Dean is laid out on. His head hangs down, cradled by his hands. But when Dean speaks, his head jerks up. His eyes are bloodshot, tired. Tears run tracks down his face, crusted with salt. His mouth hangs open in disbelief. "Dean?" he says, and then, hands scrabbling at the edge of the mattress, he falls down onto his knees, reaches out and clings to Dean's arm. "Oh my god, Dean?"

"Sammy." He barely gets a whisper out, and when he tries to reach for him, his joints are stiff and it's hard to move. "Cold, Sammy. I'm so cold."

Sam scrambles to his feet, starts stripping off his clothes. He lies down on the bed, half covers Dean with his body, and pulls a spare blanket up over the two of them. "I thought you were gone," he says, as he wraps Dean's hands up in his own, and breathes hot breath against Dean's throat, wetting Dean's skin with fresh, hot tears. "I thought you'd moved on. I thought you'd left me behind."

"Never," Dean says, and twists his hands into Sam's. "Jesus, Sammy. What the hell happened?"

"Nothing," Sam says, and there's a hitch in his voice. "Absolutely nothing, from the moment you went into the well, Dean. I waited for hours—"

"Hours?" Dean turns his head, and his lips graze over Sam's morning scruff. There's light through the curtains. "How long was I out?"

"The sun was going to come up, Dean. I had to get you out of there." He strokes his fingers over Dean's face, across his brow, down his jaw line. "So we hit the books again. Find another way in."

Dean turns his head away, closes his eyes. "I got in, Sam. The lore is right. There's a cave, and I got in. But there's nothing there. Someone got to the cup before we did." He pulls his hand away, out of the blankets, covers his eyes. "I must have blacked out. It was too much, too hard to keep it together. I'm sorry, Sammy."

"No." A fresh flood of Sam's tears falls onto Dean's throat. "No."

"We'll find another way, Sam. We'll go home, and we'll find something else."

"There's not enough time." Sam twists his fingers into Dean's shirt, as though, in his desperation, he can keep him here that way. "There's not enough time."