There is no greater hell than to be a prisoner of fear. Ben Jonson

"Dean?"

Sam couldn't quite keep up with everything going on. Dean was alive. Cas was alive. Mom was alive. Pantsuit was gone.

They were alive and Pantsuit was gone.

"You're alive?"

Pantsuit was gone and they were safe and Sam didn't have to hold on anymore, didn't have to act like he could take everything she put him through and more. He could be sick and he could be scared and he could be in pain.

"Dean? You're alive?"

He could be disoriented.

Dean was alive. Cas was alive. Mom was alive. Dean was alive and pushing him back down to the chair.

"Sit, Sammy. C'mon, sit. I need to get a look at you. Cas? Can you - ?"

The question hung there and as Sam let Dean push him down to the chair he never wanted to sit in again there was a rending screech of wood and metal, and fresh air and sunlight flowed into the foul cellar.

"Is he all right?" That was Mom. Mom was alive. Mom was alive, Cas was alive, Dean was alive.

"Dean? You're alive?"

"Sam? You with me? Sammy? C'mon, look at me. I need to know you're with me." Dean was crouched in front of him but Sam's eyes didn't want to focus, they wanted to close and not open again for a year. He felt Dean running hands over his arms and legs and ribs. "Dammit. What the hell did that bitch do to you? I should've killed her when I had the chance."

"Dean?"

"Hey – hey, Sam. Look at me. Okay? Look at me. Are you with me? You know this is real, right? Sam?" Dean put his hand on Sam's face and Sam was cold and Dean was warm and he was alive and Mom was alive and Cas was alive.

"You're alive?"

"Cas, get over here and heal him."

Cas was alive and he crouched next to Dean to put his warm fingers on Sam's cold forehead and the warmth bubbled from his fingers through Sam's veins and muscles and skin, and the bone-deep misery of the knifing, burning pain bubbled away and the heat bubbled away and Sam was cold and confused and so, so tired.

"You're alive." He meant it for Dean and for Mom and for Cas and for himself. "You're alive." He leaned forward, wanting to put his arms around Dean and hold on but his arms were too heavy and Dean put his arms around Sam and held on and Sam breathed out a deep breath he didn't know he'd been holding and breathed in a deep breath he didn't know he'd been needing.

"Dean," that was Cas, still close by. "I need to heal you, too."

"All right, yeah. Just make it quick."

And Sam felt the smallest shudder run through Dean and that was all. Dean stayed close, holding on and whispering, "We're gonna get you out of here, all right? We need to get out of here."

"Is he all right?" That was Mom, close but not as close as Dean. Mom was alive. "Can he walk?"

"You bet he can," Dean said. He leaned back but Sam's head was too heavy to look up at him. "You just let me know when you're ready. Okay?"

He was ready. Sam was more than ready to leave. He'd walk, he'd crawl, he'd do whatever it took. He was ready.

"You're alive," he said and felt Dean chuckle.

"All right, I am Groot. Mom, you bring the car as close as you can? Cas, you see his boots anywhere?"

Sam tried to stay awake and aware and with Dean but exhaustion spread through his brain and his body and the world muffled around him until Dean was grumbling, "What'd she steal your boots?" and leaning back and pushing Sam to sit up.

"Dean?"

"We can't find your boots, but the car's only just outside now. You walk there and I'll take care of your feet when we get there. Okay? I want to get you out of here, like now."

Out. Out of here. Out of here now. Sam was okay with that. With all of that. He started to answer but wasn't sure he'd say anything other than 'Dean. You're alive.' so he pushed himself to his feet and Dean stood up with him.

"All right, there we go. C'mon, I got you." He pulled one of Sam's too-heavy arms over his shoulders and wrapped his arm around Sam's back and Sam felt him grab a handful of his shirt and t-shirt and when he took a couple of steps without falling face first onto the dirt floor and Dean said, "There you go, there you go, I knew you could do it," he sounded like he was congested, like he had a cold.

"Cold?" Sam asked him. Didn't Cas heal him? "Cold?"

"You're cold?" Dean asked him back. "It's okay, got a nice blanket for you in the car. I'll turn all the heaters up. You'll be fine. Okay, Sammy? You're going to be fine. C'mon, we're at the stairs. Can you make the stairs?"

Stairs. Stairs? Cold? Dean? Sam tried to keep his thoughts in place. In order. In his head.

"Stairs?"

"Just a few stairs, Sammy, and we're outside. Okay? You make the stairs?"

Sam didn't remember walking. He only remembered Dean's arms, holding on, holding him up, holding him together. He didn't remember walking but the stairs were at his feet and he had to get up them. He would get up them.

He put a hand on the banister and a foot on the step and wasn't sure he could feel either of them but Dean still had a good hold of him and each step up that he took Dean seemed to be doing most of the work and all of the talking, "Good, there we go, you got it, one more, one more" and Cas and Mom – Mom was alive – were up the stairs, out the stairs, off to the side, waiting, watching Sam's slow progress.

And then, "All right, we'll take a second here. I wanna be sure you don't step in any splintered door splinters," Sam was off the stairs and in the air and out of that hell and the car was there and Cas was there and Mom was there and Dean was there.

Dean was alive.

And when Dean turned toward him, "All right, Sammy, let's get you over to the car – " Sam got his too-heavy arms to wrap around Dean and hold on and hold on until maybe he'd never have to let go.

"You're alive." It was all he could say. It was all he wanted to say. Dean held onto him and chuckled a wet, congested, laugh. He should've answered Sam with some smart-ass, smart-aleck reply but he chuckled and pressed a hand on the back of Sam's head and breathed out a wet, shaky sigh.

"I'm alive, Sammy. I'm alive. Now let's get you home."

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