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Dean waits until Cas leaves to resume working on the lock to the newly discovered closet in storeroom five. It's bad enough listening to Sam yammer on about the Men of Letters knew what they were doing and if they locked it up that tight, they must have a reason and didn't you learn anything from the fucking Werther Box, Dean? He doesn't want to deal with Cas's crap too. But now Cas has been gone for at least half an hour, Sam's somewhere doing Sam stuff, and Dean's free to explore this closet, as soon as he figures out the puzzle keeping it shut. And he's SO close.
He's concentrating so hard that he doesn't hear the door to the storeroom open and close, and then it all happens in an instant - a final twist of the lock mechanism, Sam's "what the hell, Dean?", a bang, a whoosh, the sound of splintering wood and something heavy hitting the storeroom door. When he looks up, he has to stare at the scene in front of him for a minute, because it doesn't make any sense. Because Sam's up against the door, and it looks like... it looks like something is sticking out of him. Pinning him to the door.
Oh, Jesus fuck.
"Sam!" He sprints across the room. "Sam? You okay?" And no, of course Sam's not okay. He's flat against the door, eyes wide in shock and confusion, and a foot-long barbed bolt is sticking out of his abdomen. A foot long on this side, anyway. God knows how much there is on the other side of the door; how much already went through Sam's gut. Sam's very, very not okay.
He can tell the second the pain hits; Sam tries to fold in on himself, tries to collapse, but he can't. His hands grope for the source and he grabs the end of the bolt and starts to pull. "Oh, God, Dean. Get it out. Get it out."
Dean quickly yanks his hands away - not quickly enough, he managed to move the bolt an inch or so. "No, Sam, no, don't." He clutches Sam's wrists. "It's barbed, man. You're gonna do more damage. And you'll bleed out. Leave it alone. You hear me? You understand?"
Sam's eyes widen even more as he realizes the severity of his situation, and for a second or two he starts to panic. Then he closes his eyes, tries to take a deep breath, shudders in pain, and settles for a few shallow breaths. "Okay," he says. "Okay. I got it. I'm okay."
Dean releases Sam's wrists and reaches for his phone. "I'm gonna call Cas, okay? We need him here to do some angel mojo when we..." (When we shove this thing the rest of the way through your gut. When we pop the cork that's keeping you from bleeding out.) "When we fix this."
Cas answers on the first ring, thank God. "Cas! I need you back at the bunker, fast as you can. Sam's hurt."
"I'm on my way. What happened?"
(I happened.) "Just get here, okay? I'll explain it when you get here."
"I'll be there in 45 minutes."
"Make it 30." Dean shoves the phone back in his pocket and turns back to Sam. "It's gonna be okay. Cas is on his way. He'll fix it. Just hang in there."
Blood is oozing around the wound. Blood and maybe something else, something Dean doesn't want to think about, but he has to, because if it's viscera, he needs to keep it wet. But water is on the other side of this door, the door that Sam is pinned to, and, well. He's not moving him. So it needs to not be viscera.
Sam is frighteningly pale. His eyes are tightly closed, his hands scrabbling at the door, fingertips pressing against it like he's trying to claw his way through it. His legs are trembling with the effort of holding himself upright. Dean edges close to him on his left side, carefully avoiding the bolt. He picks up Sam's arm and drapes it over his shoulder. "Hold on to me, buddy. I'll hold you up." He shifts closer, right up against him, so Sam can lean his head on him. Sam coughs weakly, and Dean tries to ignore the small dribble of blood at the corner of his mouth.
Dean knows he's supporting most of Sam's weight, but after a few minutes, his brother is still trembling, still spitting blood with each feeble cough, and now standing in a puddle of blood. "Cold," he whispers.
"I'm sorry, man." Dean wants to take off his own shirt and wrap it around Sam, but he's afraid to let go of him. He unbuttons his flannel with one hand and tries to cover as much of Sam as possible. "I'm sorry," he says again. "I should have listened to you. I should have left the goddamn lock alone."
Sam's still for a few minutes, then he sighs and slumps harder into Dean, gasping a little bit as he puts pressure on the bolt, the bolt that's fucking impaling him. "I know you're not him, you know."
"Not who, Sam?" He's probably delirious, but keeping him talking seems like a good idea.
"I know you're not Dean," he mumbles. "You always do this, trying to make me think Dean's hurting me."
Well, fuck. Sam's cold and he's in excruciating pain so naturally he's going to flash back to Hell, and suddenly keeping him talking doesn't seem like a good idea after all. Because Dean doesn't know if he can listen to it.
"Sammy, no. You're not in Hell. You're just hurt. But you're gonna be okay. I promise, you're gonna be okay."
Suddenly Sam shifts position and Dean loses his footing, slipping in the blood puddled around his feet. He keeps himself upright but the movement causes Sam to cry out in pain. "I told you, I know it's you, you stupid fuck," he groans. "Wear your own goddamn face."
Well, that's interesting. Is that how Sam spoke to the Devil when he was really in Hell?
Before he can follow that train of thought very far, he hears Cas calling his name. "We're in storeroom five!" he shouts. Soon he hears Cas's footsteps right outside the door. "Stop," he says. "Don't try to open it yet." He pats Sam's face. "Sammy? Can you hear me? We're gonna take baby steps, all right?" He slides his feet under Sam's. "Okay, Cas. Slow. As Dean shuffles backward, Cas cautiously pushes the door open, just enough to squeeze himself through.
Dean can tell from Cas's expression that the other side of the door looks pretty goddamn awful, but this side is even worse. Sam's shaking and panting, his blood smeared across the floor. "We'll have to push it all the way through him," the angel says.
"I know. But can you knock him out first?"
Cas places two fingers against Sam's temple and he lolls unconscious in Dean's arms. Then he goes to the other side of the door. "Are you ready?"
No, Dean's never going to be ready for this. "Do it," he says. He holds Sam as motionless as possible and tries not to hear the sickening sound of the bolt being pulled through his brother's body. Then it's done, and Sam's free, limp in Dean's arms. Cas comes back through the door, holding a three-foot long barbed metal shaft, trailing blood and tissue. He drops it to the floor with a clatter and quickly places his hand on Sam's back, over the wound. Dean feels his brother's body grow warmer as the healing process begins.
"It's okay, Dean," Cas says as they carry him back to his room. Dean's not sure why Cas feels like he needs reassurance, until he realizes tears are streaming down his face.
(But he wasn't okay. I hurt him so bad he thought he was back in Hell. And apparently he not only dragged the Devil back to Hell, but he snarked right at his face when he was down there. And he's gonna forgive me for this even though I don't deserve it.)
"I know," he says. "I know it's okay."