Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"Do you think you are alive because you can fight?

You are alive because of what I did to save you."

-Unknown

His arm is throbbing. Burning beneath the Mark, almost as if it's trying to wrap itself around his nerves and char them. His fingers keep jumping out, making it hard to focus on anything but how wrong his right hand feels. How tainted. Sickly.

He wants to start gnawing his skin off with his teeth. Scrape to bone until the Mark is gone, torn from his flesh by force. But this isn't an itch he can momentarily abate by scratching enough. Nothing helps the pain. Nod meds. Not alcohol. Not even sleep.

He's just had to swallow it down, reminding himself over and over, grin and bear it.

He wants out of this car. He's not sure he's wanted anything more desperately for a while. The Impala may be more of a home than anything else is, but his body could care less about this fact. Every joint is both stiff and too loose, ready to break and snap back together.

I need to get out. I'm going to break something.

Dean peels his gaze away from the endless asphalt, desperate for any sort of distraction that doesn't involve the endless road or the occasional passing car. Middle of the night driving offers little in the way of scenery.

The radio is silent. Everything is silent. His head is loud to the point of bursting. Thoughts spinning, spinning, spinning.

Sam is sleeping off to his right, curled up against the passenger door with a jacket buried beneath his head to accommodate for his shoulder. His breaths are quiet and even, suggesting that his sibling actually is asleep, rather than faking it as he's made a habit of doing when he doesn't want to talk the last few weeks. Something Dean privately finds ridiculous. They aren't talking beyond the bare minimum required for hunts and existing as fellow humans. He really thinks that's gonna change regardless of whether or not his eyes are open?

Dean isn't pushing. Because if he pushes, Sam is going to retreat, and the tentative communication that they have is strained enough as it is. Besides that, Sam doesn't want to talk. Dean isn't going to trample where he isn't welcomed; not until Sam won't physically bite him for it.

Dean glances at the road to make sure the Impala is still between the lines. She is, and Dean's gaze drifts back to his sibling again. Not because there's anything particularly interesting about watching Sam's chest rise and fall with each breath, but there's little else to stare at.

His brother is pale. His cheeks slightly flushed as if feverish, and eyes rapidly moving behind closed lids. Dreaming, then. REM takes what? An hour and a half to reach at a minimum? Have they really been on the road that long? He could've sworn they'd just exited the tiny town in the middle of Wyoming with a population of seventeen all recently massacred by the now-deceased, bloodthirsty berserker.

Dean blows out a breath between his teeth. Returns his gaze to the road. His arm throbs.

The Impala keeps eating mile after mile while Sam sleeps on, oblivious.

The pain grows from dull itch and throb to deep needing ache. Dean finally submits, pulling his right hand off of the wheel and rolling up the sleeves to his elbow carefully. With his left hand keeping the car steadily between the blurring lines, Dean begins to viciously dig into his skin with his teeth. Blood pools in his mouth from how hard he's biting. The Mark, despite what he first thought, is freezing. Like licking ice, or biting into something frozen.

Gah.

His mouth scrapes hard enough that he feels skin pull between his teeth. It's almost agonizing in it's intensity.

Yet the momentary relief from the pulsing makes his entire body sag. He didn't realize how much the pressure had been tightening every muscle until it's no longer there. This does, unfortunately, also mean that his death grip on the wheel slips.

They don't go sailing off into a ditch or anything—in the middle of nowhere, Midwest, there's little here but dust and tumbleweed to serve as a threat—but they drift enough that Dean overcorrects, jerking the Impala onto the right side of the road with a rough brake stomp and forceful grab of the wheel. The sort of move that teenagers make that gets them killed.

Braced for it, Dean manages to keep himself from getting thrown. Sam isn't so lucky. His brother is tossed from the sudden movement. Dean's blood-covered arm shoots out automatically to smack against his chest with a flat palm in an effort to keep him in place. He manages to keep Sam from smacking his head on the dash, but his brother still slides slightly forward.

The way his sibling flinches back from the contact, with gasped, kneeing noise makes him inwardly shrivel. He wishes the Impala had seatbelts. He has for a long time, honestly. Ever since the demon ran her over with the semi. But especially now, when he wouldn't have had to soccer-mom his stupidly touch-sensitive sibling.

Sam's bloodshot hazel eyes are open—and how the heck are they bloodshot after sleeping that long?—and flickering wildly. Almost as if he's trying to figure out where he is.

"Hey," Dean tightens his left hand's fingers around the wheel. Sam releases a slight sound at his voice. Dean considers pulling over, but the thought of getting stuck out here for any longer makes his insides crawl, so he doesn't. "Relax. It's just me. I overcorrected."

"I," Sam's eyes dart, landing on his face and remaining there. His body loosens some, but not enough that he's really relaxed at all, just acknowledging that he's not in any immediate danger. That stings a little, that his brother isn't comfortable in his presence. "O-okay." Sam breathes out, flexing his fingers as if he'd been clenching them.

Dean's tongue pushes against the inside of his teeth, wanting to say something, but knowing it will be received poorly.

When Sam sits up a little, Dean pulls his hand away from him, the contact no longer needed. Sam's left hand shifts up to idly rub at the area like Dean actually bruised his sternum. The exhaustion that's followed his brother like a death shroud is still obviously there, but the alertness in his eyes indicates he's not going to go back to sleep.

Dean feels guilty that he's disappointed about this fact.

The silence lingers between them. Dean's arm is leaking blood, but he doesn't want to draw attention to this fact, so he just lets it rest on his lap like he's bored, sleeve awkwardly still rolled up. If Sam looks over, he's going to see it.

They pass a road sign with the words NEBRASKA...the good life imprinted on it cheerfully. Dean presses his lips together. Goodbye, Wyoming, home of the nothing State. As they entered yesterday, Dean cheerfully reminded his brother that Rhode Island has a bigger population. He was received by Sam lifting an eyebrow, and saying nothing.

After about another minute, Sam clears his throat and asks softly, fingers clenched around his knees, "Where are we?"

Dean's brow lifts a little. "You can read." He says.

Sam's face flicks slightly. Something unreadable there. Dean wonders if there was ever a time he could really read it. He used to profess to, frequently, but he's lost that innocence about his sibling. He and Sam are often strangers clinging to remembered experiences.

Well. Except, not now.

Disownment is a witch.

"Yeah," Sam says hesitantly, as if Dean is quizzing him on some obscure math concept instead of reminding him of something he's been able to do since he was almost three.

"Okay." Dean agrees, leaving it at that. His arm aches. His fingers dig into his palm, unable to do anything else.

There's a beat. "So where are we?"

Dean's eyes flick up with annoyance. "Nebraska. We just passed a sign."

"Oh."

Oh. That's all he's got. Oh? Dean forces the nauseous, always existing, cramping worry about Sam's health to abate. Sam couldn't read when he was dying from the Trials. Fine motor skills and things that require a fully functioning brain leached from him. But Sam's fine. Gadreel made sure of that, and what he didn't fix, Cas did.

He swallows. "Hey, you feeling okay?" Sam is quiet, so he appends, "Just, y'know. That Berserker got you pretty good in the head. You sure there wasn't a concussion?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. So, you good?"

"Yeah."

Dean's teeth grit. One word responses. How old are they? Six? When Dean looks at him, prepared to grill him about it, he sees that Sam's expression is very far away. When they pass a mile marker along the road, Sam's eyes snap to it, staring until it's no longer in view as if trying to memorize the paint splatter of the numbers.

Dean's mouth closes silently, and he frowns. That's new. Sam is obsessive on a good day, but even in the middle of some of their worst fights, he never mistrusts the location Dean tells him he is. Is he trying to count the miles to know how far they have left before they're rolling into Lebanon? 'Cause they've still got about eight hours at a minimum.

He's frowning. It takes him a second to catch that. "You sure you're okay?"

Sam jerks a little at the sound of his voice, head swinging around to stare at him with wide eyes. Lost in his head, then. Dean waits for an answer, and Sam's throat bobs as he tries to formulate one. He licks his lips, and opens them, then stops. The sudden paralysis lasts only a few scarce seconds before Sam's hand snakes out and grabs his right arm in a vice.

"What the hell!?" Sam's voice is sharp.

Dean's foot stomps on the brake again, but he doesn't jerk them around the road this time. "Dude!" Dean exclaims, trying to wiggle out of his brother's death grip, "What—!?"

Sam's right hand is already shifting behind him, patting down on his jacket until he removes his phone and lifts the device up to shine light down on the bloody gouges. "These are bite marks." Sam realizes, gaze flicking up to him. There's the slightest narrowing of his eyes. "Pull over."

"What?"

"Pull over."

"I'm not gonna—"

"Pull. Over."

Dean pushes heavily on the break, directing them to the shoulder of the road. The Impala whines unhappily at the sudden mistreatment. They both jolt a little from the sudden stop, but Sam's attention is clearly elsewhere.

Dean's fingers flex in discomfort. Sam's hands are icy as they prod around the bloody area. Dean can't repress a slight grimace as his brother accidentally pokes at a particularly sore spot.

"You bit your arm open." Sam says it clinically, which is almost worse than any emotion would have been. "What were you thinking?"

Dean pulls his eyes away, suddenly feeling like he's being suffocated. I want out of this car, he thinks again, almost more frantic. And another deep rush of frustration pushes through him. Will you make up your goddamn mind, Samuel?

"Dean."

Dean manages to pull his arm away from his brother's death grip. He feels like he's baring his teeth when he turns his head back to face his sibling. "You're playing concerned now? Really?"

His brother's face flattens out. "Dean—"

"Don't." Dean interrupts, shaking his head. His mind spins. Same circumstances, I wouldn't. I wouldn't. I wouldn't.

Sam's eyes narrow, and he looks both defeated and murderous all at once. With a slight noise, he grabs the handle to the passenger door and shoves his way out of the car. He doesn't slam the door, but it's close. The panic that flares in him belies his earlier fury, and Dean is reaching for his own door when he hears the trunk open.

Don't leave. Don't—

Dean all but throws himself towards the back of the Impala. He hasn't even turned her off yet, and her tail lights cast a haunted red light across his brother's features. Sam looks like a war-painted soldier, prepared to kill and maim with nothing but his bare hands.

"Sam, what're you—" Dean starts to say, but stops when he sees what Sam is digging from the trunk. The first-aid kit. He feels frozen and stupid. Oh.

Sam turns to face him, already opening the box, digging through it for the wanted supplies. His face is as blank as it always is now. "You want to do this out here or in the Impala?"

Dean's mouth opens and closes, but he can't form any sound for a long second. "Here."

"'Kay." Sam pulls the trunk down and gestures for Dean to put his arm on it. Dean moves with reluctance, but Sam shares none of his hesitance. His manhandling is almost rough, and words a minimum as he cleans and wraps the bites. Dean would have fought him, protested independence, but he's not sure he could touch the skin without adding to the wounds.

With the blood swept away, he's morbidly disappointed that the Mark is still intact, burned into the lower layers of skin. How far does it go? To bone?

As Sam is double checking the wrapping, he asks with a tone much calmer. "Is it itchy?"

Dean's left hand's fingers push against his thigh. "No." He shrugs a little, like this isn't important. "It just...aches."

Sam's hands stop for a second at that, but resume their task, hazel eyes flicking up to his eyes for a moment. "Did it help?"

"What?"

"To bite it? Did it help?" Sam seems almost too calm about this. Detached.

"No." Dean submits. "Not any more than anything else does."

Sam frowns a little, but nods, as if simply processing information to tuck away. It's a little weird. But Dean has to admit that his brother not exploding about it is...good? He doesn't have the word for it. It's just...it could have been worse.

Sam lets go of Dean's arm, tucking the supplies back into the kit and pulling the Impala's trunk open again to return the medical kit.

"Thanks." Dean rubs at the bandages. He feels sick when he realizes he's disappointed he can't feel the pain as prominently anymore. Only if he pushes down, like a bruise. Sam doesn't say anything, so Dean tentatively tries his ground, "You want something?"

He's not sure if he means it in jest. He doesn't think so.

Sam's back goes rigid. The way he turns to face him has Dean leaning back. "No." Sam says. "You're my brother. You needed help."

Dean could laugh. "I, uh, thought we left that behind us."

Sam closes his eyes, shaking his head. He pulls the trunk closed. "No." He says. He doesn't append. He doesn't argue. He goes back to the passenger side and clambers inside of Baby without another word. Dean stares at his retreating back and feels something tug at his gut.

It takes him a little longer to gather himself together enough to return to the Impala. Sam's face is buried behind a book he grabbed from the backseat. An obvious way to avoid anything Dean wants to say. Good. Dean doesn't want to talk to him either. What is he supposed to say to that?

Make up your mind.

He pulls the car back onto the road and they return on their journey to Kansas. He notes out of the corner of his eye that Sam diligently stares at the mile markers until they vanish. Dean wonders why and how long he's been doing that, but can't find the will to ask.

He thinks, distant, a part of him is terrified of the answer.

Neither of them say anything but bare minimum until the Impala is rolling onto the Bunker's familiar soil.

His arm aches.

000o000

One of the biggest problems with the Bunker is that it echoes. It might have been designed that way, maybe it's just because it's a big space and few people live here; in the end it doesn't really matter. You could spit on one end and hear it on the other.

So the guttural, intestines-being-torn-up-through-the-throat scream that breaks into open air some time past three in the morning a few days later is hardly quiet. It's haunting in its intensity, and Dean is jerking up, gun cocked as he barrels through the door towards Sam's room before his brain is even half awake.

The panic is intense in its brutality.

The Bunker is supposed to be able to ward off the supernatural. So if something got to Sam…

Dean bursts into the blank room without warning, gun raised up in preparation for whatever Dementor is leaning over his sibling. His eyes flick over and around the space. And—nothing. The only thing he manages to do is make Sam jump, gun torn from beneath the pillow and pointed towards him.

His little brother is soaked in sweat, eyes bloodshot. He's panting, like he's recovering from a strenuous run. He looks like he's one good shove from crumbling apart. He's not even dressed for bed. On top of the covers, jacket on, same with his shoes.

"Sam!" Dean barks, releasing his hold on the 1911 Colt so he can lift his hands in surrender. And he feels strange, almost out of body, when he realizes how much he'd been hoping to kill something. "Calm down, it's just me. You're fine. You're in the Bunker."

Sam gasps like his chest is caving in. His hands are shaking so badly that Dean doubts he'd get hit even if Sam did discharge the weapon. "I-I—" Sam heaves, looking like he's going to be violently ill. "I killed, I killed, I..."

His finger hovers over the trigger. Dean remains still, uncertain what to do. What did you kill, he feels he should ask, but part of him doesn't want to know.

"Are you real?" Sam sounds impossibly young.

His stomach churns with discomfort. The resurrection of questions he'd thought they'd moved past when Cas yanked Lucifer from Sam's mind. "Yeah, Sammy," he says, trying to keep his tone even, "I'm real."

The next question throws him. "Am I?"

What?

"I don't understand." Dean admits after a moment, taking a cautiously small step forward. The sudden urge to have all firearms far away from his sibling is strong. He prods as he reaches for the gun, "Sam?"

Sam inhales and exhales sharply, but his eyes seem to be getting clearer, no less terrified, but there's sanity slowly seeping back in, replacing base instinct. Dean's hand wraps around the top of the gun, and he pulls it from his brother's pliant fingers.

Sam breathes out shakily, obviously trying to calm down.

Dean feels like he's intruding on something private.

He sets the gun down on Sam's bedside table and takes a seat next to his brother hesitantly, leaving clear space between them. He wants to reach out, make contact, reassure, something, but he's not sure if he's allowed. So he keeps his hands next to his sides, ignoring how his right aches.

"Sam? You with me?"

"No." Sam's voice is clearer. His arms wrap around his chest. He still looks like he's in danger of vomiting.

Dean chews on his lower lip, feeling very much like he's playing the role of somebody else he doesn't know anymore. "You...you want to talk…?"

Sam actually snorts at that, the bitterness in it causing Dean to shy back. "Why, Dean? Are you going to listen?"

He feels like he's been struck. What the hell? "What?"

Tired, pained hazel eyes lift to look at him. The depths of nothingness and too much to say swirl, clashing like winds. There is no innocence there. Just pain. "Nevermind."

And it's here, Dean thinks, that their problem lays. Too much to say, and none of it getting said. As if the punishing silence has actually done anything for them in recent weeks. "No, Sam. What?" Sam shakes his head, raw eyelids closing. "What?"

"I killed him." Sam says. "Kevin."

Dean shakes his head, weirdly irritated. Gadreel and Sam aren't the same person. Their actions aren't accountable for each other. "Sam, we talked about this—"

"No. You talked, I listened." Sam shakes his head again. "I killed him."

Dean tries again. "Sam—"

"You're the one who impressed how his safety lies with us. This is on me. He was supposed to be safe here, we all are." Sam adds that last part softer. Dean's mind swirls, trying to come up with an argument, a protest. But he can't find anything that won't make it worse.

Dean had been furious after Purgatory, knowing Sam ghosted the kid. They were supposed to be better than their dad. And Sam just...but he didn't realize…

"Sam," Dean keeps his tone calm, and he fumbles over his words as he speaks them, trying to create coherence as he goes, "we are safe here. Kevin was just...just a fluke, okay?"

Sam stares at him.

Dean gets the impression that wasn't the right thing to say. He's not sure what would have been. He tried, right? In the end that's all that matters?

(No. No.)

"Sam…" Dean says when Sam won't say anything, "you been sleeping at all?"

Sam rubs at his eyes, looking worn and emasculated, "A couple hours."

"A night?"

"A week."

Dean grimaces. The sleeping schedule of hunting is often crap, but even with the night terrors that Sam's suffered with since early childhood, he's managed to grab a few hours a night for the most part. Honestly, Dean's struggling to remember the last time he saw his brother sleeping for longer than two hour increments recently.

"You should probably lie down." Dean says, "You look shot."

"Thanks."

"I mean it, Sam," Dean says firmly. "Get some sleep."

The look his younger brother shoots him is nothing short of despairing.

000o000

Dean retreats to the bathroom later, when Sam has lain back down. Dean doesn't think he'll sleep, but he doesn't know what else to do save knock his brother unconscious.

Dean pulls back the bandages around his bloody arm and stares at the Mark. It's aching like his hand beneath the elbow is being twisted off, and the sensation is nothing short of awful. He runs it under hot water, trying to ease the bunched muscles.

Sam's medical care has done wonders for the bites. They aren't infected, or even red and swollen. Not closed, but he probably doesn't need to re-wrap it.

Dean looks up at himself in the mirror. His eyes are shadowed, hair a mess. He looks like the hollow dead-eyed people of fiction. But still, amazingly, better than Sam.

Sam, who hasn't been sleeping.

And counting those stupid mile markers like they're his salvation. Now that Dean's thinking about it, Sam seems to be checking his phone constantly, almost as if he's waiting for texts from a girl. Conscious of time.

Dean just wants to lose it. He's tired of knowing the seconds. He's tired. What is wrong with them?

His arm hurts. He rubs at it with the pad of his thumb.

000o000

As if Dean catching him the act of the waking nightmare is a catalyst, Sam doesn't sleep for the next two days. Dean doesn't even know how he's functioning anymore. Sam often seems to live solely off of an absurd amount of coffee and spite, but this is different. It's the sort of functioning that only leads to collapse.

Dean's in the kitchen when day three arrives, and Sam staggers into the room looking like he just got pummeled by an unhappy spirit. He's balancing his laptop with one hand in a way that makes it seem in danger of listing to either side and breaking into dozens of pieces on the floor. The shadows under his eyes look like bruises.

Dean's eyebrows draw together, at a loss between turning his sibling around to throw him back into a bed, or taking him to a hospital. Clearly, an intervention is needed.

"Caught a case." Sam announces, shoulder raising slightly to indicate the device.

"Uh, great," Dean says with doubt, even as part of him purrs happily at the thought of kill, kill, kill! Dean forces the thoughts to the side with effort, quietly terrified. His eyes slide toward the Mark, wondering.

"Bunch of girls' skulls are split open, their significant others torn up and eaten. Kinda sounds like the Futakuchi-onna we took care of a few months back. It's in Maine. I know it's kinda a long drive, but there's already five deaths, and we're not making much headway with Abaddon, so I thought—"

"Whoa, whoa, wait." Dean lifts up a hand, utterly lost. "The futa...what?"

Sam stares at him, as if Dean just spoke utter gibberish. "The Futakuchi-onna." He repeats a little slower, annunciating the pronunciation. Dean stares at him blankly. Sam's brow furrows. "The woman with the mouth on the back of her head—how do you not remember that? She almost ate your arm off."

What? Dean shakes his head. "I'm pretty sure I'd remember that, Sammy. You must have had a wild dream."

"No." Sam's hands drop slightly. He looks pale. "No, it happened. We fought one. In New York. It happened. We hunted it…" His hands are wrapped tightly around the edge of the counter. The deep exhaustion has been filled with the edge of panic. "The Futakuchi-onna. We killed her. We had to. We killed her…"

Dean's lips pull against his teeth. He must be more tired than Dean thought. "Sam, I think—" Dean stops.

Oh.

Oh.

He feels his teeth snap together, his body clenching up tightly. The words that Gadreel said in cruel placating echo in his head like a banshee's warning shriek. Gadreel said that he'd put Sam in some sort of...game in his head. Where they were hunting.

He just…

He didn't really believe him. Didn't think twice about it? Sam never brought it up. It just hadn't seemed important, and he'd...forgotten, in the long run. Crowley stormed the gates of Sam's head and pulled him out. Dean sort of assumed that Sam knew the pretend hunt didn't happen.

Never, not in a million years, did Dean think that Gadreel did it more than once.

His stomach feels emptied, but twisted like a coiling snake all at once. The coffee he'd been nursing settles like chunks of cement for him to digest. His hands clench, his body demanding bloody violence.

Dean lifts heavy eyes up to his brother's panicked ones and stops. For the longest, weighted moment, he doesn't know what to do. He doesn't know if telling Sam that Gadreel was messing with his head would be worse or better. The lies he's spat for months laugh at him. You used to say it so easily, they taunt, never thought about the long term effects then.

Yeah, 'cause Sam wasn't supposed to find out.

Dean wanted to tell him. Every day. But Gadreel was like a wall between them and everyone else. An abusive significant other Dean kept dragging himself back to again and again.

"We…" Sam sounds utterly lost.

And it's that—the look on his brother's face, that causes him to break. Dean sets the coffee cup down. "Sam, Gadreel…" the forbidden name causes his brother to flinch like Dean hit him, and he hesitates, holds the words for a long moment, thinking: Should I, should I, should I? He pushes forward, not because he wants to, but because Sam looks like he might snap apart if he doesn't. "He said that he used to put you in these sort of...hunts. In your head. When he needed you to be occupied for a while. We never hunted this double-mouthed girl. That must have been one of them."

Sam's not breathing.

Staring. Wide-eyed. Pale. Afraid.

"O-oh," gushes from him. He looks like he wants to say more, but the state of his breath prevents him from getting anywhere. Sam turns on his heel and stalks from the room in long strides, leaving the laptop abandoned in the kitchen.

Dean releases the coffee cup and trails after his sibling, worry settled in his throat. Disgust. With Gadreel. Himself.

Sam slams a bathroom door. Dean raises a hand to knock, wanting to make sure Sam starts to breathe again, that he's okay, that he's not doing anything stupid, but the sound of his brother's retching stops him. It's quiet, as if Sam's trying to muffle it.

The Bunker echoes, Dean thinks distantly. Then he wonders about how often Sam's done this that he's learned how to make it quiet.

He stays outside of the bathroom door for a while.

Sam doesn't exit before he leaves.

000o000

Somehow, somehow, Dean finds himself inside the Impala a few hours later, headed up to Bethel, Maine to kill the Futakuchi-onna, a silent Sam his passenger. His brother's gaze is dull. Forward. Thoughts clearly far away.

Dean's gripping the wheel hard enough his fingers are starting to cramp.

They need to talk.

And Dean doesn't know where to begin. He feels oddly childish, wishing for the days that Sam's biggest problems were trying to fit math homework around their training. When his brother hadn't been to hell and back, his mind scattered along the roadside. Before Dean was forced to intervene to keep him from dying twice.

Dean carefully forms sentences in his head for the better part of an hour, trying to decide how carefully to approach this, before realizing that he's not even sure what problem he wants to tackle first. The silence, the lack of sleep, nightmares, Gadreel putting a play on in his head, or that weird consciousness of time.

He sighs quietly to himself.

Sam's gaze flicks to a mile marker. He checks his phone, revealing the time is a little past six AM. A little earlier than Dean thought, honestly. He must've been awake since three, then. His sleep schedule has always been shot to crap, and the Bunker hasn't helped with that. There's no natural lighting to offer a way to count days. Only him or Sam checking the time and realizing that a normal body scheduling would have put them to sleep hours ago.

Screw it, he thinks. "You want a notebook?"

It takes Sam a second to process the words, then several more before he looks up and stares at Dean through raw eyelids. Dean almost flinches back from his appearance. Sam needs to sleep. This isn't at the point of suggestion anymore. "What?"

Dean tips his head toward the phone, rattled, but forcing himself to play along. "So you can start writing down the miles next to the time."

Why? He doesn't ask.

Sam draws into himself. He doesn't question, just shakes his head mutely. Dean chews on the inside of his lower lip, frustrated. When did communication become so hard? Before Purgatory? Demon blood? After the Trials?

Sam used to tell him things. Now talking is like pulling fingernail by fingernail off to get any information.

Dean shakes his head, taking his right hand off the wheel to rub the Mark idly against his leg. "Look, you look worse than the things we hunt. You need to sleep. Catch a few hours, I'll wake you up when I'm ready to switch out." When Sam looks no closer to submitting himself than before, Dean blows out a hesitant breath, "I'll keep track of the time and miles for you—"

"No!" blurts out of Sam. His brother immediately looks away as if he didn't meant to say anything.

Dean draws back slightly, stung. He has no idea the significance of the miles and time, but he wants to help, even if that means keeping track of Sam's weird obsessives. But his brother won't even trust him with something so meaningless. "Really, Sam? I don't got much else to do out here. I think I can keep track of—"

"No." Sam repeats, hands flexing out across his knees. His left hand is clenched into a fist so tight his already pale knuckles are white. His eyes flick across the next mile marker, and he glances at his phone again, making no attempts to be discrete this time. "I got it."

Sure. Like you've got yourself right now.

Dean closes his eyes for a moment, spent. He rubs his arm against his leg again, then grabs the wheel with both hands. This, he decides, is going to be a long twenty-six hours.

I want out of this car.

000o000

Sam's body finally crashes outside of Kansas City on I-70 somewhere. Dean's not even sure there's a warning. No nodding off, no shifting to find a comfortable position. One moment Sam is conscious of all road signs, checking the running stopwatch—not the time, Dean's realized after hours of this—the next, he's out. Head slumped back on the bench seat, phone sliding from his lax grip toward the floor.

Dean catches the device before it's lost, tossing it into the open space between them. The position his brother has landed in doesn't look comfortable, but Dean's afraid to touch him to try and change it. Ever since the Cage, Sam has never reacted to unexpected touch very well. Regardless of who it's from.

As the road stretches on, and Sam's breathing grows slower and deeper, Dean sticks in another tape. The music has no affect on his brother. Sam's been able to sleep through music for as long as Dean can remember. That, at least, hasn't changed. Dean still keeps the volume low.

An upcoming road sign causes Dean's attention to flick toward the phone. He sighs in slight annoyance, but resolutely pats his hand down until he finds the device and checks the stopwatch. Sam may not have wanted him to, but for whatever reason this is important to him, and Dean will keep track of it for him while his brother gets some well-needed rest.

Statistically, he knows it's stupid to look at your phone and drive. But it's brief glimpses, and he could drive the Impala in his sleep. Probably has, honestly.

Minutes drag. Hours pass. Sam sleeps. Dean checks his stupid stopwatch religiously.

Dean pulls off of I-70 in Indianapolis to get some gas, find food, and a bathroom, and when he returns, his younger brother is standing outside of the car, blearily rubbing his eyes and looking worse than he did before catching the five hours. Dean feels a frown tug on the corners of his mouth. Honestly, he had been hoping Sam would wake up so they could trade out soon, but he'd wanted his brother to keep sleeping more.

Five hours doesn't make up for three days.

"There a bathroom?" Sam asks.

Dean nods, flicking a thumb back towards the gas station. "Help yourself. I still gotta fill up Baby."

Sam nods, walking off and looking a little drunk. Dean shakes his head in annoyance, wondering if he should pull out the sleeping pills. Sam hates them, they both do, but the induced rest is sometimes necessary. Dean tosses the bag of snacks and water he grabbed from the inside of the store onto the back seat and turns to wrestle with the gas pump.

He's done, parked the car out of the way, and leaning against Baby before Sam returns from the gas station.

Dean opens his mouth to say something, but stops when he notices the thin line of blood trailing down the side of his brother's head. What the—? Dean surges up, "What the hell happened to your head? Someone hit you?"

The Mark throbs, pounding with his heart. Fight, fight, fight.

Sam's left hand flies up to the area, buried beneath his long hair and pulls back with his fingers red. The genuine confusion on his face reassures Dean that this probably wasn't intentional. Which is good. The store attendant looked kinda shady, but not beat-up-random-stranger shady.

How disappointing, the Mark sighs.

"I don't…" Sam stares at the blood.

Dean takes a step forward, reaching out tentative hands to part Sam's hair. His brother doesn't fight him, or even lean back from the contact. Dean traces fingers until he finds a shallow, but several inches long, cut buried in the matted hair.

Sam doesn't even flinch when he accidentally pokes it.

"You remember hitting your head on something?" Dean asks, dropping the hair and tilting so he can stare to check his brother's pupils. They're even. Sam's words aren't slurring any more than they were before, and he looks conscious enough.

"I mean, kind of?" Sam gestures toward the car absently, prodding at the cut with his left hand. "I whacked it on the door when I stood up."

Dean's gaze flicks to the glass, weirdly betrayed. It occurs to him that this must be the most they've spoken in days. "That must've been five minutes ago. You didn't notice? Did it hurt?"

Sam shrugs, which could mean anything. "I don't know, I guess…" Sam quiets, eyes pulling away. His jaw tightens, eyes widening.

Apprehension warns him not to say anything, but Dean plows forward anyway. "What? Sammy?"

Sam breathes out sharply, pulling the passenger door open. He all but throws himself into the car, frantically looking for something. Patting down his pockets, the seat, under the seat. His phone, Dean realizes belatedly, he's looking for his phone. "Sam," Dean says.

His brother doesn't turn.

"Sam." Dean reaches out a hand and touches his upper back to get his attention. True to fashion, Sam jerks out of the car, and Dean draws back, withdrawing the device from his jacket pocket and tossing it to his sibling.

Sam catches it with fumbling, awkward hands. He turns on the screen and immediately loses all remaining color. He looks up at Dean, fury and desperation washing together. "What the hell did you do?"

Dean's brow draws together. "What?"

"It's paused. You paused it!"

And one would think that Dean had murdered his child. "...Yeah? Aren't you tracking how long we've been on the road? I paused it when we got here so you'd have more of an accurate count."

Sam's mouth opens, closes, opens again. He looks down at the device. His hands, Dean realizes, are trembling minutely. They clench, and Sam exhales a gush of air like he hasn't breathed in days. His eyes are red and watery, almost as if he's going to start crying.

What?

How on earth is this remotely…?

Sam isn't a crier. Even after hell, even when Lucifer was breaking apart his mind, Sam remained stoic through it all. Dean tries. He doesn't understand, but he tries. "Sam," he says very carefully. "Why don't you sit down? I'll get the kit and then we'll get back on the road."

He doesn't say that it's been ten hours, and he's exhausted. He doesn't say that it's Sam's turn to bear the brunt of the journey. Sam doesn't say anything at all. Doesn't move.

Dean gets the kit, taking the moment out of view of his brother to breathe in very deeply. He rubs at the Mark absently, feeling sick and dreading the coming conversation. Dean closes the trunk and walks back around. Sam has taken a seat, legs outside of the car, phone clutched between white knuckles.

Dean shakes his head slightly, drawing together his patience.

He sets the medical kit on the roof and gestures for Sam to turn his head. Sam does so, lethargic, and Dean takes one of the elastic bands he's kept buried at the bottom of the kit for such purposes, tying Sam's hair up and out of the way in a fumbled bun. Sam doesn't comment on it. He looks very far away.

Dean prods at the cut again, trying to decide if it needs stitches. His gaze slips towards the door, where the glass cheerfully and innocently looks back at him. Dean can see a faint streak of red on the corner, and he sneers at it.

The cut looks more like a papercut than anything else, which means Sam just needs to keep it clean and it should be gone in a few days.

"I don't think you'll need stitches," Dean declares. "I could try and put some bandaids in, but Rapunzel is going to make that hard." He lightly flicks some of the long brown strands.

"I didn't get so much as a papercut when he was in me," Sam whispers without preamble. Dean freezes, not needing an explanation for who he is. "For months, it would just...be gone. I guess I just stopped assuming that if it hurt I was actually...hurt."

Sam's eyes lift up to him, waiting. Dean holds the gaze, but feels slightly sick.

He thinks about people who's nerves don't function properly, making it impossible for them to know when to stop pushing. If they're in need of a doctor, or bleeding, or anything. How awful, he wonders, would it be to not be able to trust your nerves?

But Dean doesn't know how to say that without making Sam feel worse. "You'll get used to it." He says, and the words feel false and plastic, "Just give it some time."

Sam's shoulders drop a little. He looks worse instead of reassured.

Dean feels the same.

He doesn't put any band aids on the cut, and Sam doesn't ask him to.

000o000

When they roll into Bethel, Maine the next day, Dean finds the nearest cheap motel and collapses onto the uncomfortable bed, refusing to get up for at least the next six hours.

The Mark has other ideas. Dean is staggering towards the privacy of the bathroom two hours later, arm shaking from how deeply it's burning. He's panting, breathing in and out, fingers wrapped around his forearm, thumb pushed against the freezing area. He feels like he's dying. His teeth are sinking into the area again, and he feels tears spring to his eyes in relief as the pain is momentarily abated.

He feels disgusting. He wishes there was a way to ease this that didn't involve gnawing on his arm to bone.

He shakes his head, releases his arm, and cleans up the blood. He pulls his sleeve down and forces himself from the bathroom.

Sam looks up at him from the laptop at the table. "Have you slept?" Dean asks. His brother shakes his head, which Dean doesn't find surprising. He would have been more surprised if he had, at this point. He's living history all over again. Sam working himself to bone, refusing to sleep. It's no more enjoyable the second time than it was the first.

Dean sighs, dropping into the seat across from him. "You really gotta research this thing? Don't you kind of know what we need to do from the...other hunt?"

Sam glances up at him gaze void of any warmth, then returns his gaze to the laptop.

Yeah. He probably deserves that. Dean closes his eyes.

"Hey, do we still have the silver machete from that wolf hunt in Detroit?"

And back open his eyes go. "The what? When were we hunting wolves in Michigan recently?"

"...less than two months?" Sam sounds just as confused as he feels. "There was a whole pack of 'em? They had all those little kids...and then...that didn't happen, did it?"

Dean shakes his head slowly, fingers loosely curling over the tabletop. He thinks about the other weird inconsistencies Sam's mentioned since Gadreel possessed him. Dean had just assumed...so much assumption. But how many times did Gadreel take Sam's body and go for a walk? He was under the—obviously false—impression that Gadreel wasn't co-opting his brother's body. Just sitting there, kind of like a chemical. Not...he needs to talk to Cas. About Gadreel. About how weak the angels actually were after falling from heaven. A lot of the others seemed perfectly fine, a little pissed, but that was it.

I am an idiot.

"No," Dean says, chewing on his lower lip.

Sam's expression flattens out. He doesn't move, frozen. He remembers those first three weeks at Rufus's cabin, how Sam would zone out and lose track of everything. Time, himself, English. Babbled in what Dean now knows is Enochian. How hard it was for Sam to ground himself here.

Dean releases his lip. He lightly nudges Sam's boot with the edge of his foot and his brother jerks, blinking rapidly. He doesn't look up at Dean, instead turning to face the laptop screen with an almost frantic need. Dean doesn't say anything, but he feels wrong.

And it's not just the Mark.

(Guilt.

This is guilt.)

000o000

As it turns out, the two-mouthed lady is a lot more disturbing in person than over a laptop screen. It reminds Dean both of Voldemort attached to the back of Professor Quirrell's skull, and a woman with a Leviathan mouth hidden in her hair.

It also takes a silver blade cutting off her head in order to kill the mother, then release all the "children" she's created by biting them. Which is why Sam wanted to know about their fictional silver machete. All they've got is daggers and bullets, though, which is still effective, but killing some of these things can be weirdly specific, and Sam ends up breaking into a nearby military store to steal a sword.

And then gets himself arrested, so while Sam waits in a cell, Dean chops off the woman's head, buries it, burns the corpse, makes sure the other woman are indeed released from their curse and clambers back towards the car. He smells like blood and burning flesh.

For the first time in over a week, the Mark is quiet. His hand isn't cramping, and all his fingers feel like his own. He feels like he can breathe.

Dean drives over to the police station, waving around a badge and declaring Sam a suspect in an important murder investigation. An hour later, he and his brother are exiting the station, headed back to Lebanon.

It takes Dean until they're inside of the New Hampshire border before he realizes how disformed Sam's fingers are. And it's only because Sam tries to pick up his phone to check the damn stopwatch before dropping it with pain.

"What the hell!?" Dean exclaims, pulling the car into the shoulder of the road. He grabs his brother's left hand and stares at the purpling knuckles. He should have checked for injuries. They used to, after hunts, now... "What did you do?"

"Nothing. It's fine."

His patience slips. "These are clearly broken, Sam."

Sam pulls his hand away, holding it close to his stomach. "And it's fine."

"Damn it, Sam! You don't have an angel to deal with your injuries anymore! First your head, now this—how can you not feel that?" Dean exclaims, deeply, and honestly confused and frustrated. "Even after hell you still knew how to feel pain."

"And who didn't give me the option of that?" Sam's fiery eyes look up at him. "I didn't ask for the angel you stuffed in me."

Dean's tongue pushes against the inside of his teeth. Don't hit him. Don't hit him. Don't…"You were going to kill yourself. Was I supposed to sit by and let you die?"

Sam shakes his head, as if they've had this conversation a thousand times and never gotten any further with it, but he's tired of fighting. Dean feels the same. Circles and circles they go, and nothing gets accomplished.

"Where's the nearest clinic?" Dean asks.

Sam is quiet for a moment. "They're probably just sprained."

"I'm not playing surgeon on your fingers."

Sam looks over at him, incredulous. "Since when? You avoid doctors like they're carrying a plague. You didn't even take me to a doctor after I passed out after Crowley. Just threw me in the back and got me possessed!"

Dean jerks back a little. "What? No I didn't—" he starts to protest, then realizes that Sam doesn't know. He didn't wake up when they were at the hospital. He was unconscious from seeing the angels fall to waking up in the Bunker well over a few days later. Dean just told him he passed out and slept through it all. "Oh."

"'Oh?'" Sam mocks, voice slightly high, "Oh, what?"

"I just...forgot that it was Gadreel I was talking to not...you at the hospital after the Third Trial. I did take you to one, I promise."

And it's nothing that earth-shattering. It's not like Dean just told him he's adopted, or disowned him or something that big. But Sam's eyes blow wide and his chest stutters, breath escaping like he just got kicked in the stomach. Short, shallow, rapid and sickly.

Sam scrambles out of the car, landing on his hands and knees outside the passenger door. Dean hears him vomit. Dean twists the keys, turning off the Impala and shoving the driver's door open. He quickly makes his way around the car and sees his brother dry heaving, thin trails of water leaking from his eyes. He's shaking hard enough that Dean wonders how he's upright.

"Sam! Sammy!" Dean drops beside him, grabbing hold of Sam's arms and shaking him. Sam's eyes won't focus, and he's barely breathing. Panicking, Dean realizes distantly, he's panicking. And him shaking his younger sibling isn't going to help. He forces his rattling to become concrete and still, plasters a smile on his face. "Sam, hey, hey, you're good. You're fine, I promise. You're fine, okay? But you need to breathe, alright?" He runs a hand through Sam's hair, pulling it from his face. Hazel eyes look toward him frantically.

"C-c-caaan't—"

"You can," Dean reassures, forcing himself to breathe deeply and relax when he feels his shoulders tightening up. It's fine. You panicking about Sam panicking is going to accomplish exactly nothing. "You're good, promise. Just—"

Sam's icy fingers grab a fistful of his shirt with broken fingers. His wide hazel eyes land on Dean's face. "I have—I have to talk with him."

"What? Who Sam?"

"Him. He'll know." Gasping rattle, more tears, "He'll know how the order is supposed...supposed to be. Please, please, please—"

"Who Sam?" Dean forces his words to be a little harder than he wants them to be. "Cas?" 'Cause he'll happily call Cas or drag the angel's freakin butt here if it'll appease Sam.

Sam shakes his head, fingers tightening further. The franticness has lost none of it's edge, if anything, it only seems to be getting worse. "He knows my head."

"Who?"

"Lucifer."

Dean freezes. Everything feels a little lopsided, almost as if he's being pushed from a crevice. I don't understand, Dean wants to shout, how? Why? He can't imagine ever wanting to talk about anything with Alastair again. He can't imagine trusting that Alastair would know his own mind better than he does.

Better than he does.

Sam thinks Lucifer knows his head better than he does.

"Sammy…" Dean breathes, gut twisting, deeply sick to his stomach and horrified enough that he's lost feelings in his fingers and toes. "Don't. Don't say that."

"Please," Sam is sobbing now. Looking broken and very much like he doesn't care what Dean says, "He's the only one who won't lie to me. He's...I have...please…"

A memory of driving some endless road in the middle of nowhere and talking to Gadreel, then Sam again, and Sam's confused pointing out of the miles he missed crosses through his mind, and Dean feeling sick and filthy as he smiled and said, would I lie?

Dean thinks about the stopwatch. Oh.

Would I lie?

And he feels sick all over again.

Would I lie?

Dean pulls Sam against him, tucking his little brother's head beneath his chin, holding him close. Sam falls against him without a fight, sobbing and shuddering, still begging under his breath. For the angel that broke his mind. For the creature that tore him apart piece by piece, over and over again.

"I'm sorry," Dean whispers, and he's not even sure what it's for. Gadreel? The lies? He's not sorry that Sam's not dead—never going to be—but the words are the only thing he can say. "I'm sorry, Sam. I can't...I'm sorry."

Sam shakes.

Dean does his best to hold him together, because there's nothing else he can do.

I did this.

He doesn't trust me.

He's falling apart, and I did this.

000o000

Sam doesn't pass out, even though he seems like he needs it. Eventually his grip loosens and he slips into a state that Dean doesn't have a label for. Catatonia seems to be the closest match, but not...not enough.

Dean pulls them both off the ground. He bundles Sam in the back, pulling the blanket out from the trunk and laying it across his brother. Sam lets him without a word of protest, eyes forward, blinking slowly. Dean lingers there for a moment, hand resting on his sibling's forehead. The urge to keep holding him lingers, but the need to get them back to the Bunker, somewhere Sam can just lay down, where Dean can focus entirely instead of trying to drive, is stronger.

"Just...let me know if you need to stop, okay, Sammy?" Dean murmurs.

Sam says nothing.

Dean still lingers.

Move, he commands himself.

He pulls away, clambering into the driver's seat. He starts the Impala and looks at Sam through the rear-view mirror. His brother blinks sluggishly, but doesn't acknowledge Dean. Or the car. Or anything.

Dean chews on his lower lip, checks behind them, then pulls back into the road. All Dean has is his thoughts for company, because Sam might as well be on a different planet. I-70 is much quieter on the returning trip than the going to.

(He's the only person that won't lie to me!

Would I lie?)

Chapter Text

If you wanted to kill your brother, you should have done it outright.

-SPN, S6. 

"I-I don't know what to do, Cas. It's almost been a week. He won't eat. He barely talks. Or moves. He just...lays there, like death. I've tried everything I can think of. And he"—Dean releases his lower lip, nauseous, but having to get the words out to someone—"all he asks for is to talk to Lucifer."

It's like freakin' Stockholm syndrome. But it's a lot less funny when it's real. His feet shift in agitation. Dean passes the table again in his restless pacing, spotting the edge of S.W. and D.W. marked beneath the lamp. Leaving a mark. He could scoff. He's left plenty of marks. None of them are good.

Cas is quiet on the other line for several long beats, as if processing the words, or silently scowling into the device at Dean's idiocy. Cas never seemed to be distinctly against him having let Gadreel ride around in Sam, but that doesn't mean he approved. He doesn't...this is just so confusing.

"Have you asked him why?"

Dean hesitates. He doesn't want to say anything. Don't want to confess your sins, he corrects himself darkly. He shakes his head a fraction, walking the length of the table again. He rubs his right arm against his jeans. The Mark aches dully. "I did; last week. He said it was...was 'cause Lucifer wouldn't lie to him. Which, I mean, that's ridiculous, isn't it? It's the Devil. Of course he's going to lie. It's in his nature."

There's silence on the other end of the line.

"Right? ...Cas?"

Cas's voice is very soft, "Lucifer didn't create demons by lying to human souls, Dean. He did it by psychological manipulation and torture. God didn't cast him from heaven until after he'd finished destroying the princes of hell. As you are not an angel, you can't see the damage that he inflicted, but it was truly horrendous."

Dean rubs a thumb across the Mark.

His lips press together.

"When I...helped clear your brother's mind, I removed a piece of Lucifer from his soul. Dean, Sam and Lucifer were in the Cage together for a very, very long time. Longer than you can possibly understand. Sam may honestly believe that Lucifer can help him."

That's…

It.

But it's the Devil.

"But it's…" Dean presses the back of his hand against his mouth. He doesn't understand. He doesn't know if it's because he doesn't want to. The fact that Cas does and he can't...it's confusing. He's always been the one that's known Sam the best. To just not have that is...this entire situation makes him want to throw his hands up into the air and start screaming. He wishes someone else would fix this, because he doesn't know what to do. "What?"

"Do you know what it means to be a vessel?"

The question throws him. The lack of patience in Cas's voice makes him hesitate to answer. "I mean...the basic idea..."

"We don't exist as separate entities. Our minds merge. Every memory, every thought or intention, they're shared between the vessel and the angel. We, as angels, have the ability to filter out the human, but you don't."

"So when Lucifer possessed him...he got a face-full of Sam's head?"

"Yes."

"This...that's how Gadreel could just...put him to the side?"

"Yes." A pause. "Dean, have you and Sam not discussed this?"

Dean's hand clenches around the phone. The question is invasive, and makes him a little sick. I should have. My job is to look out for him, but I didn't even bother to read terms and conditions. I had no idea. "We...Sam doesn't really like to talk about it. The Cage. Or Lucifer. It's not like I wouldn't listen, I just…"

Sam would rather tear out his own teeth with pliers, bloody bone by bloody bone, rather than discuss anything regarding the Cage. Even bringing it up vaguely makes him shut down for hours or days.

"I'm a few hours away," Cas says instead of directly answering. "I'll be there before today is done. Is he hydrated?"

Dean feels himself sag with relief at the thought of not having to face this alone anymore. He's been texting Cas since they got back to the Bunker, but this is the first time he called. When he called Jody yesterday, she said she couldn't get there because something going on with Alex.

It takes him a second to realize what Cas asked, but once he does, he snorts darkly. Random, but Cas's recent stint as a human has made him far more aware of their limitations. "Doubt it. That would be under the label of 'functioning', and Sam's not doing that."

"Hm."

"That's all you got for me," Dean shifts, rubbing absently at the Mark. "'Hm'?"

"I'll see you soon, Dean."

"Yeah, I—annnd he hung up." Dean pulls the device away from his ear, blowing out a breath between his teeth. Cas has gotten better at phone etiquette in recent years, but he's still not exactly polite. "Okay." Dean inhales deeply, holds it, then lets it out.

He closes his eyes and lets himself settle.

Hydration. He can do that. Maybe. He doesn't want to talk to Sam. Every part of his body protests at the idea of being within fifteen feet of his sibling. The thought of Sam's absence, or hearing him plead to talk to the archangel…

He can't. He can't.

But he's the older brother here. And someone has to be the adult.

So Dean opens his eyes and walks towards the kitchen. He gets out a glass and tries to clear his thoughts of anything but the fact that Sam needs to hydrate, and he is capable of managing that. He fills up the glass to almost the rim. He feels like an outsider watching his limbs move. A child seeing a puppeteer jerk strings around.

He walks towards Sam's room, rubbing absently at the Mark. He knocks, though he doesn't expect a response, doesn't get one, and pushes open the door. "Sam?" he calls softly. His brother is where he was the last time Dean saw him: lying on the bed, knees curled around his stomach, arm buried beneath a pillow, looking vacantly across the room toward the wall covered with wards.

Having become very familiar with these walls the last few days, Dean has become aware of the fact that Sam hasn't really...done anything with them. They're still just as dull and blank as they were when they first claimed rooms save the recent warding. It's scraped against the metal with white chalk and the most angel warding Dean's seen since he was dragged out of hell.

Every time he sees it, he has to repress a wince.

"Hey," Dean says, like Sam is listening. He's not sure where Sam's head is at right now. "I got some water. Your throat probably feels like crap. So," Dean lets that hang, unsure where he was going with it. He moves to set the glass on the bedside table and give his brother some space, but almost startles when Sam's sluggish hand removes itself from the pile of blankets and reaches out for the glass.

Dean almost trips over his feet in his haste to deliver it.

It's Sam's left hand. Dean was forced to set the bones anyway, and the medical tape makes it clunky and awkward for gripping. And what the—? Is that a gash? It looks like something dug into his hand...where the scar is.

Dean hands the glass to his brother, holding onto the rim until he's reassured Sam isn't going to spill it all over himself. Blood smears on the cylinder, but Dean could care less. Sam drains the entire thing, then awkwardly twists around to rest the glass on the bedside table beside the unlit lamp and a stack of books that haven't been touched in at least a week.

He lays back down, like he's settling back inside his coffin. Blinks at the wall.

It's better than nothing. Hopes silently dashed, but his heart in his throat, Dean says, "I—uh, called Cas. He said he'll be here in a few hours...is there anything else I can get you? Do you want more water?"

His brother's voice is a soft rasp. "Are you going to let me talk to him?"

God, no. Dean's teeth press. His answer is the same as it has been for the last five days. "No."

"No, then." Sam closes his eyes, shifting his hand slightly until it falls over his eyes. "Please leave. I'm tired."

You wont sleep, Dean almost protests. The Bunker echoes. I can hear you screaming. Calling out for Kevin. "Do you need more sleeping pills?" Is all he says. Sam's reliance on them is becoming a need, but Dean doesn't know what to do. At least when he's sleeping he doesn't seem to be suffering. He's not asking to see the Devil.

Sam shakes his head.

"More water?"

"You can go." Sam murmurs. It's the most words he's spoken in days.

"Okay." Dean knows a dismissal when he hears one. "Holler if you need anything." He says, even though both of them know he won't. Dean hesitates, but rests a hand on Sam's shoulder. Sam twitches, head lolling towards him slightly in question, arm sliding away from his eyes. "You're...you're going to be okay, Sammy." He almost swallows the next words, "And I'm...sorry."

(Would I lie?)

"No," Sam's voice is a little slurred. "You're not. Stop saying it."

"That you're alive? No." Dean concedes, "But...I didn't...want this."

Sam's head drops back down, breaking the little eye contact they had. He doesn't say anything else, and Dean closes his eyes, breathing in. What do I do? He demands of anyone listening. I don't know what to do. Someone tell me what to do.

He's going to fall, a part of him murmurs. Don't you let go now. Don't you dare let go.

But he doesn't know what else to do. He lets go of Sam's shoulder.

000o000

When Cas arrives later, Dean is stuffed into the back of the Impala, headphones on, arms wrapped tightly around his chest, staring up at the car's ceiling. He's not doing much of anything, but he's not exactly doing nothing either. His thoughts are a crown he's forced to lift, heavy and weighted.

Cas knocks on the window, which startles Dean more than he cares to admit. Has him reaching for the knife at his waist because the Bunker is safe only by word of mouth. He hadn't expected anyone to come talk with him. Sam hasn't made much of a conversationalist recently. His body relaxes considerably at the sight of the seraph.

Dean sits up, planting his feet on the floor of the car and reaches over to open the door. Cas backs up so he's not smacked by the metal, and stands there, hands loosely at his sides, head slightly tilted. But he says nothing. Dean pushes the headphones down so they hang around his neck and pulls out his phone, pausing the song.

"When'd you get here?" Dean asks, starting to get up.

"Sit down." Is what Cas says in immediate response. Dean's lips press together, but he doesn't want to fight—he does, he always does—and he awkwardly folds back into the car, feet on the Bunker's ground. Cas shifts a little, eyes pinched and lips drawn together unhappily. He looks like he's either trying to reign in his temper, or figure out how to say something.

Dean's hands clench.

He agreed before. You were stupid for the right reasons, he said. Dean has clung to that, in the midst of Sam's derision and barbed words, he's clung to Cas's faith because he has always been able to count on it since they met.

"You spoke with Sam?" Dean guesses after a moment of the heavy silence. With might be the wrong word there. To would be better. It's about all the rise that Sam gives now.

"How long?" Cas asks. He seems intent on steering the conversation somewhere else. Dean's brow draws a little, so Cas appends. "How long was Gadreel inside of your brother?"

Dean's mouth dries. It takes him a second to do the math. Work backwards through time, and all those memories, landing himself in that hospital. Sam pale and dying, Sam lifeless, Sam a breathing corpse. That doctor's attempt to be sympathetic as he'd pulled Dean to the side and said, Your brother isn't going to wake up. "A little over five months." Dean says. "Gadreel found us after the Trials."

After he prayed.

After he asked for this.

Sam wanted to stop. Sam wanted to be saved. The terror in his ragged features at that moldering church house will haunt him forever. But Dean didn't want it to be like this. If there had been any other options...if that damn doctor hadn't told him that. If, if, if.

He'll drown in the blame game.

Something like realization flickers in Cas's eyes. "That's why you refused me. You were worried I'd recognize the signs of possession."

Dean winces. The gnawing guilt at the draining hope from the seraph's face had crushed him. Every step Cas took up those stairs felt like a blade digging into his spine. Cas turned out fine. But that didn't really help the shame. He closes his eyes, unable to face the angel's. "Partially," he admits, "Gadreel also said he'd evict Sam if you stayed. Something about you being a beacon to the other angels."

The sound Cas makes isn't quite a derisive laugh, but it's a near thing. Dean opens his eyes, wary, weary to his bones. He meets the flickering blue. "Dean," and Cas's voice has an edge of patience that only makes this much worse. "Angels are only capable of sensing each other through grace, and I didn't have any."

"I don't…" Dean feels confused and tired.

Cas's expression softens an edge, but his words are still faintly toneless. "If I removed your senses, you would still be human. But how you perceive the world would be vastly different. The same is true of our grace. I was still an angel, if a shoddy excuse for one. But I was no more capable of drawing divinity to you than Gadreel was, likely less so."

Dean's stomach tightens. He...he didn't...what? Cas could have stayed. And nothing would have…

"While it's true I would have been more likely to notice what you'd done to your brother, it's more likely I wouldn't have. The prophet didn't."

Dean's mouth thins at the mention of Kevin. His tongue pushes against his teeth. "God, Cas. I didn't. I'm sorry. I didn't want you to leave, man, I didn't. But Gadreel…" Abusive SO keeps coming to mind. Dean closes his eyes, dropping his head into his hands. He made a freaking mess of everything. If he hadn't been so desperate, so panicked, if he'd through things through, if Sam had just told him what he wanted—

Blame game again, Winchester?

You're not six anymore.

None of this is Sam's fault. It wasn't Sam's idea. Sam didn't want it in the first place.

Cas's cold hand rests on his left shoulder. Dean lifts his head a fraction, and sees that the angel's expression has slanted on something close to human sympathy. "Dean," he says his name carefully, almost softly, like it's something delicate and breakable, "I'm...not angry with you."

Dean snorts, hands opening and going flat as he spreads them. "Don't try to play placating. Please. You've kind of made your point. I screwed up, I get it, okay?! My one job is to take care of my family, and I can't even do that! I chased you off, got Kevin killed, and killed Sam in every way that matters! And now you're pissed, and Sam—" he shudders, eyes squeezing shut.

Sam just wants to talk with the Devil.

Sam hates me.

Sam would rather be in a different hemisphere than me.

Cas doesn't let go of his shoulder, and Dean feels his body release sudden tension, the anger draining from him as quickly as it came. He rubs his hands over his face and steeples his fingers over his nose, shaking his head. "Sorry," he mutters, "I'm not angry with you."

He's not. Just himself. Cas doesn't deserve this, but Dean doesn't know how to stop sometimes. It's like a fire ignites in him and runs its course until everything around him is burning to ashes. The Mark hasn't helped. Even now it's throbbing.

"I know," Cas says quietly.

"I just don't know what to do." Dean whispers. "Sam's a mess, and I've got no way to fix it. I don't even know if I can. God, Cas. He spends centuries with the Devil and didn't crack, but three years with me post hopping the Cage and I manage to destroy him. He won't…"

He won't talk. He won't function. He won't get better.

"Dean, Sam is going to be okay," Cas avers. Dean looks up at him. He didn't realize how deeply he wanted—needed—to hear those words until they're falling from the seraph's lips. Some of the anxious twisting in his stomach releases. At the look that Dean gives him, Cas repeats it. "Sam is going to be okay. No one is incurable."

This isn't a disease. Dean can't throw him into the back of Baby and drive him to the ER. He doubts that even therapy and pills would help. His brother housed a divine being. What did Jimmy call it? Being attached to a comet?

So well Cas's optimism is appreciated, it isn't cemented in reality.

"I'll talk with him," Cas says, "we'll find a way to help."

Dean doesn't say anything. Everything he wants to is pessimistic.

Cas squeezes his shoulder. Maybe for reassurance, maybe to try and ground him. Then he lets go. Dean watches him turn and start to walk away. He feels like he's falling. Further and further, entangled in the pit that he's slipped and not coming back up again.

He rubs at the Mark.

000o000

When he finally manages to build up the courage to leave the car and make his way back to the Bunker, it's been close to an hour since Cas walked away. Dean doesn't quite know what to do with himself—not wanting to interfere, but not wanting to do nothing—so he puts his headphones in his room, and then makes his way toward Sam's room. His intention is only to check on Sam, but he stops at the edge of the hallway when he's about to turn the corner.

He can hear voices. And not just Cas. Sam.

Sam is talking?

And part of him knows, he knows he should turn around and keep walking, give the two their space, but he just stands there. The voices are too clear to have come from Sam's room. They must be in the hallway, then. Which makes sense. Dean doubts Cas could make it through the doorway with Sam's warding. But that means that Sam got up for something other than a bathroom. How did Cas...?

And the Bunker carries sound. Even if he turned around immediately, there's no way he would have missed the next few sentences.

"...don't understand," Sam is murmuring, voice soft and tired. Weighted. "Everything is...is this haze. It's like someone took a box of my head and tossed it for me to wade through. I don't know how to sort through anything. God, Cas. I don't know what…"

He's talking.

He's actually talking.

Cas is quiet. Dean holds his breath. Please don't say something stupid, he pleads of the seraph, please don't be like me. "I agree. That is extremely confusing," Cas says, and Dean winces, mentally facepalming. Tactful, Cas, really tactful.

"So…" Sam doesn't sound like he got verbally hit. If anything, he sounds hesitant. "So, you'll help me? Talk to him?"

Dean's hand raises to his mouth and he curls the back of his fingers across his lips, suddenly nauseous. Oh, man. That wasn't...this isn't Sam explaining his mind to Cas to seek help. This is a sales pitch. Sam is explaining to he'll guilt trip Cas into helping him talk to Lucifer.

His muscles bunch, prepared to interfere, storm the gates and start screeching no, no, no! But he holds, barely—breathless, lungs clenched and empty—for Cas's answer.

There's a long weighted moment of silence before clothing ruffles slightly, as if someone is shifting, then Cas says softly, "Sam, I understand why you believe this is going to fix things, but Lucifer is not the answer."

And the sound Sam makes—it empties out Dean's chest and makes him feel like someone just kicked him in the stomach. It's a soft, wordless noise of pain. "Cas, please—"

"Sam." A sharper edge to the angel's voice now. "Sam, no. I'm not helping you talk to Lucifer. I want to help you, but this isn't the answer. Sam, it's not. I'm sorry what my brother did to you, but you cannot talk with the Morningstar. I won't let you."

Dean allows himself a single breath.

"He's the only one that will understand," and his younger brother's tone is bordering on desperate now, "you and Dean don't get it! You're the only one that wants to—you. You...agree with Dean. About Gadreel. You think...oh, god…"

"I never said that." How is Cas so calm?! He sounds like he's discussing freakin' plant maintenance. "And I don't. I don't want you dead, but don't misunderstand me. I'm furious. Angels are supposed to be different than demons. Gadreel had no right to manipulate you into accepting his answer. Dean wanted to tell you—"

"Then he should have!" Sam explodes. "How are we supposed to trust each other if he won't even freakin' listen? He saw me after—after Meg—" and Sam almost swallows the word. Dean flinches, "And the Wall, after I was going to shoot myself in that warehouse and he just—he just didn't care!"

He—

It. That's not—Dean cared. He did. He just—he couldn't—

Dean closes his eyes, lungs tight.

"I wanted...Lucifer won't lie to me." Sam's voice has dropped, as if the anger has leached from him. Dean's teeth press together. Sam has barely said the name since the Cage, and now he won't stop saying it. Dean has never wished more desperately for Sam to stop. "He won't lie to me. I have to talk with him, Cas, I have to. I can't, I can't keep doing this. I can't—please, please help me..."

"Sam," Cas says, voice nearly a sigh.

"Cas..." Sam pleads. Dean shifts his weight, feeling disgusted with himself. Sam has said so little to him since they got back. To hear him talk so openly, so freely...as much as Dean wants this, and he does, he knows he does, he wants to slap duct tape over Sam's mouth more.

"Sam, we will find something else. I promise. For now, I think you should focus on something else."

"Why?" His brother's voice is ragged. "What good is it going to do? I'm going insane. God, I'm going insane again."

"No. You're not."

"I don't know what's real. I don't—"

"Sam. Look at me."

"Please just let me talk to him. Please—"

"Sam—"

He should walk down, and help deal with the panic attack. He wants to. But he can't. The thought of seeing Sam...I did this. Dean turns then, and retreats. He walks as quietly as he can until he's at enough distance, then sprints the length of the Bunker, hauling himself up the stairs and throwing open the door, stepping out into the dark of early December. The air is brisk, but not cold.

Dean keeps running.

Sam has nearby trails he discovered nearby that he runs on frequently, of which he's dragged Dean on before. Dean ignores them. He sprints forward, out to the open road and keeps going and going and going.

Faster and faster and faster. Feet pounding against the pavement like he can destroy either the road or himself the faster he goes. But it's ridiculous. Because the one thing he wants to run away from, the one thing he can't stand is himself. And it's precisely the only thing he can't run from.

You were stupid for the right reasons.

His heart hammers against his ribcage.

Would I lie?

Breathing is like inhaling chunks of ice.

Are you going to let me talk to him?

His nose starts to run.

I'm going insane again.

He's crying. Wet water running down his face, blurring his vision.

My fault, my fault, my fault—

Dean trips on something, some uneven split in the road, maybe a pothole or a rock, and his right ankle twists and he goes down. He slams into his palms, blooding them against the pavement and scraping them to his wrists at the force. His weight rocks forward, and he lands against his elbows, smashing them into the road. Dean falls to his stomach, breathing heavily onto the asphalt.

He breathes in and out raggedly, lungs aching with every intake of oxygen. He rolls to his back with some effort, dirt covered, sweat-soaked. He stares up at the stars and feels a pang of loss. He and Sam used to do this. All the time, especially when they were younger. When Sam and Dad got into a particularly vicious fight, he and Sam would go look up at the stars.

They wink at him, black, empty voids between the burning dust.

Angels...they're falling.

This started here. There. At that church house, with desperation spreading through his veins like poison and panic overtaking everything else. He should have known. Should have done better. Should have let go. Should have known Gadreel was lying. Should have protected Sam. Cas. Should have, should have, should have—

And he finds himself lurch up and screeching. Screaming. Howling. Because he can't do this. He doesn't know how to find it. There's nothing but empty road for miles, a wheat field to his left, but nothing here but the empty ringing in his ears to answer his screaming.

When the sound breaks in his throat, hoarse and tired, Dean drops his hands onto his eyes, digging his palms into the eye sockets. He's supposed to be the protector. His job is taking care of his family. And he failed. He failed so spectacularly that Sam's convinced he's going crazy. Cas was homeless. He—how could he be so stupid?

You were stupid for the right reasons.

Was he? Was he? He didn't save Sam for Sam. He saved Sam because he's terrified of being alone. (You were convinced Cas was dead when he wouldn't answer your prayers, some part of whispers, scurrying for defense, and Sam was well on his way there. Who would want to do this alone?)

I didn't know, he thinks desperately, I didn't know about half of what Gadreel was doing. I didn't think he was using Sam's body at will. I didn't know. I didn't. I would have stopped it if I did.

Would I have? Would I have put Sam's sanity over his life? Would I—?

Yes. I have to. Sam is too important to me not to.

I would have put him first.

(And yet, you didn't.)

"Damn you, Gadreel," Dean says with cracked, whispered words into the dark. Into the void. By all that is good in this world, he means it. "Damn you to hell."

And not the business structure that Crowley likes to flaunt around, pretending that hell isn't suffering. Not the stupid prisons—storage cells, because that wasn't suffering, that was nothing—that Sam mentioned he found Bobby in during the Trials. No. The Pit. Where souls are yanked apart and sewn back together with blood and tears. Where Alastair was. Where the damned souls go to be mutilated. Where Dean broke.

But even if Gadreel is pushed into that agony, it's not going to fix Dean's little brother.

But Dean swears on his life, he is not going to let Sam talk to Lucifer. He can't. Not knowing what little he does about the Cage. About Sam's nightmares. The hyperarousal to every little sound. The way that he looks at the crime scene photos like Dean does now, knowing what it feels like to die like that. He knew Sam would hate it if he ever learned about the buddy-up. (He just didn't care!) And he stuffed Gadreel in him anyway.

Dean parts his chapped lips. The Mark pulses beneath his skin, burning against his heartbeat. Painful. He welcomes the distraction. Dean opens his eyes and stares down at his bloody hands, thinking of Sam's broken fingers, whispering softly, "And damn you, Dean Winchester."

000o000

Dean walks back to the Bunker on stiff limbs. His hamstrings feel stretched and worn to bone, his calves not much better. Despite Sam's arguments, Dean's running endurance isn't nothing. He's perfectly capable of running a few miles without a problem. Sprinting like he's being chased by a Wendigo for nearly an hour is a different story.

He doesn't know how long he was gone when he makes it back to the Bunker. He finds a bathroom to relieve himself and wash his hands off dried blood and wipe as much of the rocks and dirt from the gashes as he can manage, then stares at himself in the mirror. He flinches at his appearance, and ducks his head.

He doesn't know where Sam is. Or Cas. But he trusts that either won't the other die, so he retreats to the kitchen and pulls out the whisky, sitting at the table. He looks at the other side and thinks of what is the upside of me being alive? He doesn't know what shot he's on when Cas enters the room, looking a little worse for wear. The angel takes one look at him, then grabs the bottle and sets it on the counter.

"Caaas." Dean slurs in protest, not sure if he could actually coordinate himself enough to grab it.

The seraph stares at Dean's eyes, then frowns. "You've had enough, I think." He takes the seat across from Dean, looking stiff and uncomfortable. (What is the upside of me being alive?)

"Saaammy?" Dean questions, brow furrowing. It's been a while since he was actually this drunk. It's a pity Cas took the jack before he could blackout. Selfish. Always your problems first, isn't it? A snide voice hisses in the back of his head.

"Sam is resting," Cas says after a moment of hesitation.

"Liiiar." Dean sighs, leaning forward a fraction and dropping his head onto his folded arms set on the tabletop. The shot glass slides across the metal loudly. He doesn't care. It's empty. It's served its purpose. Kinda like him. "He thinks heee's dying. In the head. Heaaard him."

"I know." Cas says. Dean squints at him in confusion. "I'm a celestial being, Dean." He reminds without much conviction, almost as if bitter about the term. Oh. Huh. That's right.

"Imma dumbass." Dean mutters.

He doesn't really know what he expected, but Cas saying simply, "Yes," wasn't on the table. He looks at the angel, strangely stung. Cas's expression shifts, breaking stoic nothingness to sympathy. Maybe pity. "But you have been so since I pulled you from the Pit."

"Ow." Dean intones.

Cas's lips pull down, and Dean realizes belatedly that the seraph was attempting to make a joke. He was trying to make him laugh. Dean sighs miserably into his fingers, but it would be too awkward to even offer a pity laugh now.

Cas thinks about his next words, "Dean, Sam knows you love him." He looks up, mouth open to protest, but eyes transfixed.

"But—he saaid that he didn't waaant to be brothers…he wooouldn't sava me."

"No." Cas shakes his head. "He said he wouldn't let an angel possess you. You are still brothers. Dean, there is little as powerful as the bonds of family."

Dean thinks about that. Tries to, anyway, but it hurts to much to process and he ends up saying, "so I'm supposed to saaave him with...with the power of friendship?"

"No." Cas almost rolls his eyes. "You are too intoxicated to be having this conversation. Go to bed Dean, things will be better in the morning." He says firmly. He gets to his feet and grabs Dean's arm, hauling him to his feet. The world spins, and Dean's stomach rolls with protest. He staggers, but Cas catches him.

"No." Dean sighs, head lolling against his shoulder and mouth pressing into the tan coat. It smells like dry cleaner and blood. His voice is muffled, "They won't."

000o000

He can barely squint through the hangover the next morning, and downs an entire glass of coffee in an attempt to help. He's heard that a "hearty breakfast" is supposed to offer relief, but the idea of eating anything makes his stomach roll.

He's preparing his third cup, back facing the counter, when something is placed onto it rattling. He didn't hear anything enter the room. Dean doesn't quite jump, twisting around with the knife he keeps on his person always pointed and poised.

Sam looks back at him from the bottle of ibuprofen his hand is frozen over the lid of. The two of them hold a long stare for several moments. Sam doesn't look any better than yesterday. Hair yanked into a sloppy ponytail to be away from his face save bangs a haphazard mess across his eyes. The clothing he's wearing is the same baggy long-sleeve and sweatpants he's been sporting for days. But he's actually shaved today, and his eyes look a little less ringed, even if there's an edge to his expression that's hunted.

Dean drops the knife.

Sam slides the medicine across the counter. "Here." He says. The medical tape Dean wrapped around his fingers is gone, along with the gash on his palm. Cas must've healed him.

Dean takes it with hesitation in his movements, feeling like this is some sort of trap. He twists the child-proof lock and dry swallows two of the pills. Then he slowly sets the container on the countertop. Sam says nothing, studying him with a raw gaze. Dean turns a fraction to grab the third cup of coffee and slides it toward his sibling without a word.

Sam grabs it, hand curling around the handle and he takes a seat on one of the stools on the edge of the counter. He doesn't drink anything, just stares into the brown liquid to avoid looking at him. His bangs fall in front of his eyes.

Dean eyes him, wanting to say something, but unsure what will help. Sam's up. He's awake. He doesn't want to mess this up. "You, uh, feeling okay?" Dean asks after a long weighted moment. Sam looks up at him, lips thinned.

"No."

Dean's tongue pushes against the back of his teeth. His shoulders slump a fraction, but he didn't really expect anything different. "Yeah?"

Sam sighs and pushes his fingers against his temples. "Cas and I, um, talked for a while yesterday. And...and I'm not saying that I'm…" he worries his lower lip between his teeth then shakes his head a little.

Dean waits.

Sam sighs.

"Look, I'm sorry that I've been such a mess—"

"Samuel, if you try to apologize to me, I'm going to punch you in the face." Dean interrupts. Sam's brow furrows and he looks up. The honest confusion there makes Dean's heart hurt. "I'm the one that messed up here, okay? This isn't on you. And look, so long as you aren't prancing after Lucifer anymore, I'm game."

And there's...there's this flick in Sam's expression, as if something just shut down. But he gives a strained, weak attempt at a smile. It doesn't reach his eyes. "Yeah. Okay. I think I'm going to take a shower." He makes to move, then stops, and looks at Dean, expression raw and pained. "Jerk."

Dean's mouth moves, but he's not entirely sure if he can talk. "Don't drown, bitch."

Sam grimaces.

He walks away, bare feet tapping against the Bunker's floor.

Dean watches him, dread settling in his stomach and head, right beside the hangover. Why does this sound like goodbye?

Dean listens, because the Bunker echoes, it's always damn echoed, but he doesn't hear a shower turn on. He doesn't hear Sam moving. Just the sound of Cas distantly going through some sort of container filled with metal.

When he goes to look for his brother a few minutes later, feeling a little frantic and sick to his stomach, the Impala is gone.

000o000

"I'm going to kill him." Dean announces to Cas, flipping through his contacts and waiting for the dial tone for Jody. The Mark is burning, and rubbing doesn't help. He's craped it raw with his fingernails until Cas gave him a look. His teeth are gritted. The worry sitting in his stomach is making his entire body both clenched and utterly numb. It's been almost half an hour since they left, and Dean doesn't know where to go anymore. Baby wasn't near the Bunker.

Cas glances at him from his position behind the wheel of the Lincoln Continental. "That would be a little arbitrary, wouldn't it?"

"I don't give a damn. I'm going to kill him." Dean hisses. "How could he run off like this? What if he's—" Dean can't finish the thought out loud, doesn't want to, and his teeth press together. His fingers spasm with frantic worry. He scrapes his thumbnail along the Mark. He's going to do something stupid, and I'm not going to be able to stop it. I can't, I can't, I can't—

"Hey, Dean." Jody's voice is calm, and Dean forces himself to snap to the present. "How's Sam doing?"

"He's gone," Dean answers. He thinks he should have filtered that. Or waited until she got her greetings out, but he's too tired, too worried, too sick, to care. "He's gone, Jody, and I don't know what…" he breathes out, slow. "Have you heard from him? He took the Impala."

Jody is silent a second, then swears loudly. He flinches at the anger in the sound. He'd already explained about the whole Gadreel mess to her a few days ago, hoping for some sort of magical insight, but she didn't have anything.

"When?"

"Maybe an hour?" Dean says. He rubs a hand over his face. His arm throbs. Cas is staring forward, utterly expressionless. He would look almost uncaring if it wasn't for the death grip he had on the steering wheel. "I don't know where he went. Have you heard from him?"

His thumbnail digs harder into the skin, worming its way inside. The pain is agonizing. Cas reaches across the space and grabs his wrist, telling him wordlessly to stop.

Dean's teeth press together.

"No." Jody says. "I can put out an APB? You guys still in Lebanon?"

"Yeah." Dean says. "I don't know that will—" The phone buzzes loudly and he startles, swearing. He pulls the phone back from his ear and sees that he has an incoming call. "Hang on, someone's calling me. It might be Sam. I'll call you back."

"Okay, but Dean—"

He hangs up and answers without looking at the caller ID, wrestling his wrist from Cas's grip. "Sammy?"

There's a pause. "I'm going to take the obvious conclusion here, and assume you have no idea what Moose is doing, then."

"Crowley?" Dean almost chokes on the name. Cas shoots him a confused glance, but Dean doesn't have any more answers than he does. The words register, not just the voice, and Dean frantically scrambles to add onto his question, "What the hell do you mean what Sam's doing? Crowley, are you with him?"

Why the hell would Sam go to Crowley?

"So demanding, Squirrel." Crowley hums. Slightly more serious, he questions in a tone that's trying on casual, but isn't. "You on the road?"

Gah, Sam, what are you doing?!

"Yes."

"Good. I'm sending you the address for a crossroads. I'd hurry it up if I were you."

Crossroads? What does that—?! Dean closes his eyes, shaking his head, breathing out sharply. He feels panic begin to settle in his stomach. No, no, no—"Crowley," he says between his teeth, "what is Sam doing?"

"He's not under a spell is he?"

"Crowley! Talk to me you son of—!"

"Pity. I'd have wanted to know the caster. You see, he's trying to sell his soul for one visit to Lucifer,"—Dean stills, utterly breathless, hands shaking, mouth beginning to work around no, no, no—"but that would only cause problems for me. Abaddon would love that, wouldn't she?"

Damn, damn, damn—

Dean's mouth isn't working. His jaw has unhinged with horror and the only thing he can make is a strained sound.

"Dean." Cas says.

"Squirrel?" And here the callousness wanes. "Stop him before one of Abaddon's demons makes the deal."

The line goes dead. His phone pings a moment later with a text from 666 and an address. He can't read it. Dean bites on his knuckles and tosses the phone at Cas. He can't talk. The thought of doing so makes him want throw up. Sammy, what did you do?

What did you do, what did you…?

Cas grabs the device and looks at the address, but it's clear the words don't mean much to him. "Dean? Dean, what's going on? What did Crowley do?"

"Nothing," Dean chokes out at last. He buries his head into his shaking hands, breathing out raggedly. "Sam's trying...Sam's…"

Did you sell your soul for me?

He scrapes his thumb against the Mark. The raw skin murmurs in protest.

"Sam's tried to sell his soul. To talk. To Lucifer." Dean says, feeling sick. I did this, I did this, I did this—"Crowley didn't want that."

Crowley tried to stop it.

Crowley.

I did this.

Sam's a mess.

I did this.

Crowley was concerned. A demon is doing a better job at saving my brother than I am.

Sammy—

I did this. Me. Gadreel was my fault. Mine. Me. Me. Me. I should have done this. I was wrong.

Cas goes rigid. His head tips down a fraction, eyes filled with a deathly edge that causes Dean to lean away from him. "I see." He says, tone utterly flat. He looks ready to kill something. Dean closes his eyes, and drowns in his regret.

His arm throbs.

000o000

When they find him fifteen minutes later, Sam is sitting in the crossroads, Baby quiet and silent beside him like a looming, disapproving parent. He's sitting on his heels, hands loosely on his lap, eyes pinned on nothing but the dirt in front of him.

But there.

And, at least from what he can tell by the lack of demons, and his presence here, still in possession of his soul.

Dean skitters to a stop in front of him, sinking to his knees, stuck between the urge to deck or hug him. The relief is overpowering, and Dean grabs him, yanking his brother forward. Sam's chin bumps against his collarbone, and Dean grips his shoulders, feeling the rigid muscles along his back.

"Thank god, Sammy." Dean whispers, relieved, then furious, "What the hell were you thinking?! Did they make the deal with you?"

Sam says nothing.

Dean can hear Cas breathing heavily behind him, then whisper something in Enochian. Sam flinches at that, though. Dean pulls back and shakes his shoulders, "Sam! Did they deal with you?!"

And—and something in Sam seems to just...break. As if the words have utterly shattered him. Sam's fist slams into his face, and Dean goes tumbling to the earth, vision white. "No. They didn't! I tried, and no one would deal! What the hell did you do?!"

Him?!

"Crowley—" Cas tries to say as Dean shoves up, hand pressed against his aching cheekbone.

"Crowley?!" Sam's laughing now, dark and twisted, but broken. Tears are streaking down his face. "Crowley wouldn't let me—?" and he chokes, shaking his head as if utterly incredulous, breathing heavy. He clambers to his feet, fingers pressing against the sides of his head, digging into the temples. The ponytail is falling apart and swathes of hair are surrounding his face. "I have to talk to him. And Crowley…"

"Sam, you don't have to do this. Please don't do this," Dean says, also getting to his feet. Cas is a steady presence on his left, but none of them move, feet apart, staring at each other.

Sam shakes his head, looking frantic. Broken. And...defeated. "I tried so hard," Sam whispers, "and nothing makes sense. I'm not...I can't do this. I can't...I can't…"

His hands start moving frantically along the jacket he thought to grab before leaving, and yank his Taurus out of his waistband. His wrist jerks up, safety clicking off, weapon pointed at himself. Dean's stomach drops and he lurches, horrified. Cas jerks forward as Dean shouts, "NO!"

He grabs his younger brother's wrist, yanking the weapon away and down. It faces Dean's heart. Still loaded, Sam's finger wrapped around the trigger. Dean doesn't care. The terror he felt at the weapon being pointed at his brother has utterly dissipated when it's against him instead.

"Oh, god—Sam, Sam stop." Dean gasps. Sam struggles in his grip, wrestling for control. He's not even crying. The calm way he carries this makes it worse.

"Sammy, give me the gun." Dean pleads. He can't—no. No. "Sam, please."

"I can't do this anymore," Sam whispers. His eyes squeeze shut, face creasing with pain. "Dean, please."

"Sam." Dean doesn't know what to say. God, he has to say something! "Sam, please, please give me the gun. We'll figure something out—"

"You always say that!" Sam shouts, raging. "And I can't! Don't you get that?! I can't! You keep saying that like it means something to me! I can't keep pushing. I can't keep fighting. I can't keep pretending for you anymore, Dean!"

"Damn it, Sam! I don't want you to live for me!" Dean finds himself blurting before he can filter it. Sam stops, hand dropping a fraction, utterly bewildered. For some reason, this hurts. He exhales, careful with his words now because he has Sam's attention. He takes another step forward. He has to get the gun, he has to get the gun. "I want you to live for you. I've never wanted you to pretend for me. If you aren't alright, you aren't alright. I get that. I'm not stupid. Do you really think that I stuffed Gadreel in you just for me?"

Sam scoffs, lips splitting apart into a wide, mirthless smile. "You haven't given me a lot of reasons to believe otherwise."

Dean tries to repress a wince, and shudders inwardly. Because he knows, he knows that his reasons are not entirely selfless. God knows he can't do this alone. He can't. But it's not just that.

"You deserve to live." Dean says simply. "You put a hell of a lot of good in this world, Sammy."

Sam shakes his head, "So?"

Dean wraps a hand around the top of the Taurus. His fingers brush against the top of Sam's cold ones. Dean carefully works Sam's fingers away from the trigger. Sam lets him, eyes fixed on his face, unblinking. "Please, please don't do this Sam."

"I don't even know if this is real." Sam whispers, shoulders sagging, shoulders loosening.

Dean takes the gun from him, and his frantic hands don't know what to do with it. He wants to throw it. Sam's always had a testy relationship with guns. Dean can't remember him ever liking them. Not even in the way that you gradually grow to appreciate a knife once you're old enough to realize that you won't chop off your fingers with every slice.

Cas's hand gently pulls the weapon from Dean's grip. Dean didn't even realize he'd gotten this close. Thank God.

"This is real," Dean promises, trying for a smile, but it feels weak and stretched across his lips. "This is real, I promise, little brother. I wouldn't lie to you about this. I swear. We're okay, okay? I promise. I love you so much, Sammy. So please, please stay."

Cas reaches out a tentative hand and rests it on Sam's shoulder. His brother lifts his eyes a fraction toward Cas's face. "I understand this pain," Cas says simply. "You are not defeated. You survived when I destroyed the Wall. You will survive this."

Sam runs a ragged hand through his hair. His lips press together. He releases a shaky breath. His words are a promise to keep going, keep pushing, to keep fighting because Sam is going to keep pushing. "I can't...I don't want to do this alone."

Dean exhales in a rush. This—this he can promise. "You're not alone, Sam." He says firmly. "We've gotcha, little brother. We're not going anywhere."

Sam tries for a tight smile, letting that sink in. "Okay," he whispers, "let's go home."

Dean nods, lips tight, but needing to break the awful tension. He squeezes the back of Sam's neck and glances once at Cas's earnest expression. "Dude, you steal my car again and I am freaking LoJacking it. Try me, bitch."

Sam's mouth twitches up a fraction before he huffs a soft, startled laugh.

Dean relaxes a fraction.

We're going to be okay.