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Summons Bell Will Chime

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They debate for hours and finally settle on acquiring a yacht. Sam bitches—apparently he gets seasick—but finding somewhere uninhabited was Sam's idea and the other options are the South Pole and the middle of the Sahara. Bobby takes care of the purchase and makes sure the boat will be waiting when Dean and Sam get to California; Castiel draws reams of Enochian diagrams, half a design at a time.

Dean listens to Sam's music without a word of complaint from Deadwood to Reno, at which point Sam thumbs his iPod from Bon Jovi spending twenty years trying to get out of this place to James Hetfield suggesting they say their prayers and sleep with one eye open. Dean looks over, startled, and Sam flips him off, then leans back and closes his eyes: he hasn't otherwise moved for a hundred miles. Whatever this is, it's accelerating. Fuck.

Dean stops the car and pulls Sam close. Five minutes. He just needs five minutes.

"Drive the damn car, jerk," Sam mumbles.

"We'll get there," Dean says. "Bitch."

The boat's exactly where Bobby said it would be. Dean carries Sam aboard as though Sam's origami made of tissue paper, lays him down on the deck and steers the boat out to the Pacific.

Peaceful. Ha.

Dean lays out string soaked in holy oil in concentric circles, then refers to Cas's sketches to fill in the gaps with the anti-angel wards, triple-checking. "It'd be so fucking easy to just overturn the boat," Dean grumbles.

"Fucking," Sam says. "Good idea."

The thought's never been farther from his mind, probably isn't much nearer Sam's considering how green he looks and how tired Dean knows he is, but it makes Sam happy and it gets the oil everywhere on them both, and, hey, Sam, sex, good things, better in combination. Except now, when Sam's...oh yes they're about to die. (But it makes Sam happy.)

Dean checks the GPS and they're about as far from anybody as they can feasibly get; his blood has been humming for eight hours now and that's about all he can take. Dean curls around Sam and chants the summoning ritual. Come on, Dean thinks to Michael, come and get me, and pushes a matchbox open and shut, open and shut.

Sam stretches, stands, steady and strong, and it's not Sam at all and where the hell is Michael? But there's no time to think, just to light the match and the wards catch and Dean burns and Sam—Sam—Lucifer isn't on fire, doesn't even have grease stains on his clothes anymore, and a wave over the side takes care of the wards and oh

The ocean boils and shines.

Standing on the water presents no difficulty. "Brother," Michael says, reaching out to caress his cheek. "Come home."

"I plan to," Lucifer answers, but that isn't what Michael means at all, and to distract them both (Michael's brothers and sisters, his Father's children, all gone beyond recreation—that pain, like living without his beloved brother, is unbearable), draws Lucifer down to him.

Dean comes back to himself, loses control of Michael's power and goes under with a splash. Laughter, and a hand helping him up, and (when Dean finishes sputtering and can focus his eyes again) a broad grin and it's all Sam, all Sam. "Talk about out of the frying pan," Sam says, rubbing his temple. "I take back every bad thing I've ever said about living in each other's pockets. This is gonna be worse."

"At least Michael's not here," Dean says, and is surprised to realize it's true. "Checked back out, I guess. He hated having to lock him up," he adds.

Sam shrugs, turns to walk back the way they came. Long damn walk, though, and Dean looks inward to try to see if he can poof them back to the car, but Sam looks back. "I can't do this alone," he whispers.

"Yeah, you can," Dean says, because it's true: the plan was, always has been (and when Dean remembers whose idea it was, that angel's likely to be shot, unless it's Michael because that'd just be awkward—though actually it probably is Michael because nobody else seems to have known this part), to create someone strong enough to keep Lucifer confined within his skin and make sure Lucifer died when he did, and that's Sam.

"Oh fuck you," Sam says, and vanishes.

Dean follows without stopping to think (of course Sam doesn't know this part), grabs Sam just as he opens the car door, pins Sam to the hood. "I know you don't want to," Dean says. "Doesn't matter. You can't get rid of me. Bitch."

Sam relaxes. "Love you too, jerk."

Chick-flick moment off the starboard bow. Dean, because he is an awesome brother, dumps twenty gallons of the Pacific on Sam's head.