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Of the two brothers, Dean ends up wearing his heart on his sleeve the most. Despite all of Dean’s bitching about chick-flick moments and his macho stubbornness, he is more likely to come out and say what’s bugging him– maybe after a few drinks, and maybe with a fist to the face, and definitely with a brusquely raised voice, but he’ll let it out eventually.
Sam, for all his talk about communication and willingness to say that he’s not okay, will never let it actually slip when he’s about to break. He just clings on harder and grows quiet– back when Dad was around, he would yell, sure, but if Dad said something that really truly hurt Sam would just leave, or go quiet, and Dad would move on.
Now, Sam digs his fingernails into the scar on his palm, and stays quiet. It’s easy to ignore it, since Sam clearly doesn’t want to address it and does what he has to to cope and keeps going, and Dean was really just doing that same thing up until he got the call from the hospital and came blazing in to find Sam shaking and hollow-eyed in that ward white clothing. He looks like hell. Fitting.
Dean finds Emanuel, and he finds Cas, and he busts him in and rescues Sammy from the demon torturing him when he was already seeing the Devil himself–
And Cas can’t fix it.
“I may be able to shift it,” Cas says, and before Dean can stop him he’s sitting at Sam’s bedside, muttering something to him while placing his palm on Sam’s forehead. The two of them light up with a red glow, tracing a vein-like pattern through Sam’s face and Cas’ hands and face, and Sam heaves in a breath.
Then he starts seizing, and Cas jumps back, hands hovering with a panicked energy like he just shattered the urn holding grandma’s ashes, and the small spark of hope that had been building in Dean’s chest is snuffed out with all the violence of a door slamming. He’s leaping forward before he knows it, shoving Cas aside and rolling Sam onto his side as his body stiffens and jerks. He’s seen Sammy have too many seizures for one lifetime already. All he can do is hold on.
When the seizing stops, blessedly quickly, and Sam slumps bonelessly against the bed, Dean checks his breathing (shaky but steady), his pulse (strong, fast, but slowing), and goes to pry open his eyes when Cas grabs his wrist.
“He’s sleeping,” the angel says, and Dean rounds on him.
“What the hell was that, huh?”
“Dean-” Cas starts. Dean doesn’t even let him try.
“You said you couldn’t fix him– what did you do? Did you fuck him up even worse? I swear to God, if you–”
“Dean!” Cas thunders, and Dean’s mouth clamps shut angrily. “Listen to me. Let me explain.”
Cas stops like he expects Dean to argue. Dean jerks his head forward, just once, and Cas evidently takes that as the go ahead.
“I… thought I may be able to take on Sam’s pain– transfer it to myself. I was not able to entirely, but I have managed to… shuffle things around, you could say. I grabbed what I could, and what Sam has left will ideally not, at the very least, keep him from sleeping to the point of near-death.”
Dean lets that sink in. He hates the idea of Cas still rooting around in Sam after all the damage he did last time, but at least he fixed it a little, maybe. What happened, though, after?
“Why did he starting seizing, then?” he demands after a minute. Cas holds his gaze, but his eyes are beginning to drift.
“I must assume that having another being in his mind in any capacity at this point is difficult for his body to handle. I do not think seizures will continue.”
Cas’ gaze has drifted fully over Dean’s shoulder by the time he’s finished his sentence. Dean snaps his fingers in front of his face.
“Hey– Cas– focus. How long will he be… like this? Is he better?”
“I don’t know,” Cas snaps. His shoulders are tight and his face is drawn. “I don’t see how he was alive, before. Certainly understandably not lucid. Ideally he will be marginally more functional, given that I am seeing snippets of the Devil over your shoulder.”
Dean turns, like he’ll be able to see it himself. Of course, there’s nothing there, but when he turns back to Cas, Cas has turned away, cringing from the corner. Dean sighs.
“You know he’s not real?”
“Obviously I know that, Dean.” Cas’ voice is strained. “He’s… loud.”
“I’ll… give you a minute,” Dean says. “We gotta go, though. Fast. So– one minute.”
Cas doesn’t respond, and sinks to the floor in the corner, eyes closed tightly and hands clamped on his ears. The flame of hope in Dean’s chest flickers confusedly. He sits down on the bed next to Sam and smoothes his greasy hair back.
“You’re gonna be okay, Sammy,” he mumbles. “Cas fixed you, so you’re gonna wake up and go back to bitching at me and then you’ll fall asleep in the passenger seat and sleep through all my good music, and eat your dumb health food, and you’ll be fine.”
Sam shifts under his hand, face still passive in sleep. His brow is the smoothest Dean has seen in weeks without the furrows of stress, exhaustion, and fear carved into it. Dean runs a thumb across it, feeling his brother’s feverish skin.
“How’s Sammy?”
Dean jumps, hand automatically going for the knife in his jacket. He’s up and almost swinging before he sees Meg in the doorway, smirking.
“Little jumpy there, eh, cowboy?”
“Shut up.”
Meg stalks into the room, gently shutting the door behind her. “I see our little headcase isn’t up and walking yet. What went wrong?”
Dean scrubs a hand across his face. “Cas couldn’t fix it all the way.”
Meg tilts her head. “All the way?”
Her gaze catches on the huddle of tan trenchcoat in the corner, and her eyes narrow as she works out the situation in her head.
“Ah. Dear Clarence was ready to full sacrifice himself so Sam could be up and at ‘em, huh?”
“Didn’t fully work,” Dean grunts, sitting back down on Sam’s bed. “He only took a little of the crazy, I guess. Enough to get him seeing Lucifer. Not great to hear that he couldn’t take it all if only half of it was enough to hallucinate the Devil, though.”
Meg clicks her tongue against her teeth, a grimace making its way across her face. “So now we got two of them for the loony bin? And we lost our angel?”
“He’ll be fine,” Dean says. “They’ll both be. They have to be. Right, Cas?”
Cas’ head slowly raises from the corner. “A minute has passed?”
“You good to move?”
Cas warily glances around. “Right now, it seems he is gone. I am unsure if I am adjusting or if he is simply… playing with me.”
He pushes himself to his feet, and straightens his back. “I will be able to move, now. While he is gone.”
“Great,” Dean says, gritting his teeth. “Help me get Sam.”
“Could we– I don’t know, wake him up?” Meg says. “Might be easier than carrying a Bigfoot through the building.”
“He needs to sleep,” Cas says. “From my understanding, and how I feel right now, Sam has not slept in several days if not longer. I believe his hallucinations may have gotten worse the longer he was unable to sleep. Now that he is unconscious, it is best we let him rest until he wakes on his own.”
“That’s all fine and good, Clarence,” Meg says. “But how are we getting him out of the building? He’s not exactly– conspicuous.”
“I killed all the demons outside,” Cas says.
“It’s a hospital, and Sammy here has been committed as a mental case. Don’t think they’re gonna just let us out with him anyway.”
Dean looks at Sam, and as Meg and Cas bicker in their car ramming into a brick wall type of way, he starts to position Sam’s arm over his shoulder. He could fireman carry him, slung over his shoulders– he’s always been able to lift him, no matter how big he got– but Sammy is hurting still, and the lack of sleep probably did no favors for his still healing ribs. He wants to be careful. He hefts him up, pulling him fully into a piggyback carry. Sam is way lighter than Dean expected, and he lifts him with the same ease that he did when he was 15 and all gangly limbs, falling asleep in the back of the car just in time for Dean to carry him into the motel. His chest hurts.
“Just find a path out,” he says, interrupting Meg’s flirtatious drawl. She raises her eyebrows.
“Okay, Rocky,” she says lightly, and turns on her heel.
Despite the cop cars starting to accumulate around the multiple dead bodies in front of the building, Meg and Cas find a path out and back to the Impala, where Dean hefts Sam into the passenger seat. Propped against the door, his face is still slack with sleep and eyes still closed, and Dean is reminded sickeningly for a moment of a dirty cabin on the outskirts of Cold Oaks until Sam lets out a puff of air that parts his lips for just a moment and moves his chest up and down minutely.
Dean floors it out of the hospital parking lot.
The Impala passes the state line before Dean eases his foot off the gas pedal even a little, and another before he starts slowing down. The sun has long since fully gone down and now the moon is beginning to make its descent. Even Meg has given up on complaining or poking at Dean and is napping against Cas in the backseat. The first rays of dawn are poking up over the horizon when Sam starts to shift.
Dean pulls over immediately at the shoulder of the road, an out of the way highway filled with holes and surrounded by corn fields. Sam shudders, head rolling to one side, before he shoots upright with a gasp, waking up in that violent, sudden way he always does now.
“Sammy?” Dean says, heart in his throat, and Sam looks around wildly before his breath slows from panting to deeper, calmer breaths.
“Dean?” He turns to look at him, and Dean could cry. He won’t, but he could. There’s recognition in his eyes again, and he doesn’t flinch when Dean leans toward him to hug him, he just returns the hug with a squeeze that rivals Dean’s.
“Sammy,” is all Dean can really say before he pulls back, hands still on Sam’s shoulders. “How are you feeling?”
Sam blinks, looking down to reevaluate. It takes him a moment to even gather words. “I’m… okay, I think. I–”
He looks to the side as if expecting someone to be at the window. Dean pictures the Devil pulling them over– license and registration, please, or I’ll pull out my pitchfork—
“I’m tired,” Sam says finally. “But okay now.”
“Makes sense,” Dean says. “You were awake for longer than I think is humanly possible. You can sleep all you want, I’ll find us a motel.”
Sam smiles at him, and it’s weak and exhausted but it’s the first time he’s really smiled in… weeks, at least. Dean smiles back and suppresses the urge to wrap his arms around his little brother and hold him forever.
Sam drops his head against the window and promptly falls asleep again.
“Sam woke up. That’s good.”
Dean starts and narrowly misses hitting the horn. “Goddamnit, Cas.”
“What.”
“I didn’t realize you were awake,” Dean says gruffly, starting the car again.
“I wasn’t sleeping.”
“You don’t sleep usually, right,” Dean says, turning back onto the road. He glances back at Cas to see him sitting upright with Meg still leaning on his shoulder. “Do demons sleep?”
“They do not need to,” Cas says. “I think she was bored.”
“I just wanted to snuggle, Clarence,” Meg says, eyes still closed. “Not enjoying it?”
Cas doesn’t respond, and in the rearview mirror, it looks like he’s mildly short-circuited. Or more constipated. Dean snorts.
“No getting any fluids on my Baby, alright?”
Cas frowns. “What fluids?”
“He means cum, angel,” Meg purrs.
Dean grimaces. “Hated that. Never say that again.”
“You brought it up,” Meg simpers, and nestles her head further into Cas’ collarbone. Cas seems to sit even more stiffly, and Dean feels a small swell of satisfaction that he resolutely ignores. “So, Sammy was alive and kicking for a moment?”
“He’s better,” Dean says. “He says he’s okay, at least, and he recognized me. Then conked out again immediately. That’s at least a step better than last night.”
“The ability to sleep will allow at least his body to heal properly,” Cas says. “Ideally, it will help his mind as well, but I am unsure whether he will be able to process anything through dreams just yet.”
“What do you mean by that?”
Cas doesn’t respond, and Dean watches in the rearview as he cringes away.
“Cas?”
“One moment,” Cas grunts. “He has– returned.”
“Who– Lucifer?”
“Yes.”
Dean sighs. He’d kind of forgotten. “Is he being loud again?”
“He’s singing angelic hymns,” Cas says. He tilts his head. “It is… nostalgic.”
Dean glances over his shoulder at him. “Is that good?”
“It’s not bad,” Cas says. He starts to hum in a high pitch.
“Nope! Nope,” Dean says, and grabs the first cassette he sees. Bon Jovi. Fuck. “You just hold onto your marbles, there, Cas, and I’ll play my own tunes. This is one passenger too many– we’re stopping at the next place we can, alright?”
“Thank fuck,” Meg says. In light of Cas’ Lucifer development, she’s leaning against the window with her arms crossed. “This is too much crazy for one car.”
“Sorry, why are you still here?” Dean snaps.
“You’ve been achieving light speed for the past several hours and you were white knuckling it so hard I don’t think you would have heard me even if I told you to drop me off at the nearest Mickey D’s. And I don’t feel like getting road rash right now, thanks.”
“Are you going to keep hanging around?”
“I don’t know, Dean-o, you think Clarence here is going to hang around?”
Dean grunts in an attempt at non-committal. “That’s up to him.”
“There’s my answer,” she responds.
“Why do you like him so much, anyway?”
“Oh my god, stop,” she giggles sarcastically. “He’s right here and I’m too shy.”
Dean rolls his eyes. “Fine, just shut up then.”
“Ooh, jealous, are we?”
Instead of responding, Dean cranks the music. He forgot– fucking Bon Jovi. He glances at Sam, who remains asleep. He reaches over and brushes his hair aside. For a moment, he feels something settle in his chest, something familiar and comforting.
Then Cas starts humming again. Loudly.
Another excruciating 45 minutes pass before they pull into another parking lot, in front of a classical run-down nondescript side-of-the-road motel with a flickering “Vacancy” sign with the C’s burnt out. Va an y. Sam is still asleep, motionless, and seemingly peaceful, and Dean can’t really handle letting him out of his sight for even a moment so he enlists Meg and Cas to get them a room. He pities whoever’s at the front desk.
Dean sits and resists the urge to pet Sam’s hair again, and plays his AC/DC tape on low volume. The sun is well and truly rising, now, and the sky is all pinks and oranges that reflect off the dashboard and Sammy’s hair and face, coloring his pale complexion and highlighting the bruise-like circles under his eyes– and the actual bruises on him, which Dean isn’t sure where he got and normally wouldn’t bother him because the Winchesters are always bruised up, but Sammy was in the hospital–
Meg knocks on the window, and Dean doesn’t jump. He turns, slowly, and she smiles a snarky smile, jangling a set of keys by her face.
“Let’s get to bed, Rocky,” she says, and Dean scowls.
“You better have gotten your own room.”
She hadn’t, and as Dean hefts Sam into one of the two beds, Meg sprawls on the couch and flips through channels on the TV. Cas sits beside her, seemingly staring into space. Great. At least he’s not humming.
Dean takes off the shoddy white hospital shoes Sam’s wearing, and maneuvers him under the sheets, tucking them around him like he did for years. Part of him wants to wait until Sammy wakes up again. The other part of him has been up for two days and is exhausted.
“Cas, make sure she doesn’t kill us in our sleep,” Dean groans as he slumps onto the other bed and kicks off his own boots.
“Now what would be the point in that?” Meg says. “I just spent a whole day helping you.”
“Fuck off,” Dean mumbles, pulling a pillow over his head. “Turn off the TV.”
“That may be the breaking point. I could get so bored I’d need to rip your throat out and everything.”
Dean is dropping off to sleep before he can hear anything else Meg says. Thank fuck.
He’s not sure how long he sleeps for before he’s waking up to the sounds of a scuffle, shouting, and Meg laughing. He’s grabbing for the demon knife, tucked into his waistband, and swinging his legs out of bed before he even fully opens his eyes, and when he blinks the sleep out of his eyes, he sees Meg stepping back from a struggling Sam, who is looking around wildly, scrambling upright from where he’d been presumably pinned to the bed. Dean has Meg against the nearest wall with the knife to her throat in a second.
“Dean,” Cas’s voice rumbles from far too close to his ear. “It was a misunderstanding.”
“What did you do,” Dean snarls at Meg, ignoring Cas. She smiles flatly, brimming with frustration and a bit of fear. Good.
“I didn’t do shit, Mr. Headcase over here attacked me,” she says, pointing over Dean’s shoulder with her chin. “I guess he thinks I’m evil or something.”
“Dean?” Sam says, and that’s what gets Dean to lower the knife.
Sam is sitting on the side of the bed, having pushed himself fully upright. His shoulders are hunched and his hair flops over his face, and he looks up at Dean with all the confusion and hurt of a kicked puppy.
“What’s she doing here? Is Cas really here? What’s– what’s going on?”
He’s gripping the side of the mattress like that’s all that’s keeping him up. Dean comes over and steadies him, kneeling next to him with his arm around his shoulder and a hand on his upper arm.
“It’s okay, Sammy, just take it easy. Take a breath.”
Sam takes a shaky breath. He’s trembling under Dean’s hands.
“Is this real? Are– where are we?”
“Shortest version– we’re at a motel somewhere west of Hammond, Indiana because that hospital was crawling with demons, and then cops after Cas killed the demons. Cas– Cas is alive, somehow, and he tried to fix your brain and it worked, sort of. Meg is– not going to hurt you.”
Sam takes another shaky breath. “Okay. Okay. Um–what do you mean, it sort of worked?”
Dean sucks in air through his teeth. “I don’t really get it, myself. Cas only said he could ‘shift it’ before he started doing whatever he did but it looked like he only got halfway.”
“I was unable to fully extricate the damage done,” Cas says. He’s suddenly over Dean’s shoulder again because he moves like a cat. “It was too embedded. I would be unable to remove it entirely without killing Sam. Or destroying his mind entirely. I cut out what I could, like an infected wound, but I could not cut too deep.”
“What about shifting it, though?”
“I was unable to heal the damage nor destroy it. I took what I cut out into my own mind.”
Sam’s gaze focuses on Cas, and it softens with pain and guilt that cuts sharp claws of anger into Dean’s chest. “You… you didn’t have–”
“He damn well did,” Dean snaps, cutting him off. Sam just looks down, hand drifting from where it was twisting in the faded bedsheets to press firmly into his palm again. “He caused it. He can deal with it.”
Cas nods. “I am much more equipped to take on this pain, as an angel. I’m glad I could do this much, and sorry I could not do more.”
A silence descends upon the motel room, broken only by the rattling of the air conditioning. Sam has stilled, head still down, and Dean’s gaze on him doesn’t seem to have an effect, nor does saying his name. Dean tentatively reaches out to touch Sam’s shoulder, and Sam jolts back abruptly, arms flying up in front of his face.
“Sam— it’s me–”
“Sorry,” Sam gasps. He takes a deep breath. His shoulders go back to their hunched state, hands curled together in his lap again. “I thought– sorry.”
“It’s okay. No touching. Got it,” Dean says. He plants his own hands on his thighs. “How are you doing, now? You could sleep, so– where are you at?”
Sam shrugs. “I… think I’m alright? Lucifer– I can’t see him, right now.”
“You look in pain,” Cas says. “That is to be expected.”
Sam looks up in surprise as though he’s been caught in a lie. “I mean, yeah, my whole body hurts, but… I don’t know, it’s not horrible. Just–stiff. Or bruised. I’m kinda dizzy. And my head hurts. Feels like it’s been stuffed with straw, or something. It feels… itchy.”
“You did get shocked rather badly. And repeatedly,” Cas says. “That will have physical effects.”
“Can’t you heal him?” Dean asks.
“I fear for any more grace interaction right now. He’s very fragile.”
“Guys, I’m right here,” Sam says. Despite his hollow cheeks and massive eye bags, he’s managing an impressive bitchface. A little spike of hope sparks up in Dean’s chest again— he’s on the mend, he’s gonna be fine, he’s gonna be his Sammy again—
The beginnings of a moment (fuck his chick-flicks rule) are interrupted by Meg’s drawl. “Alright, fellas, great catch-up. What’s the plan?”
Sam flinches at the new voice. “What’s she doing here?”
“She’s got a crush on Cas or something,” Dean says. “She won’t do anything because if she does I’ll stab her faster than she blink.”
“Aww, so much faith in me,” Meg purrs. “Don’t you worry your little head, Sammy. I’ll help nurse you back to health.”
Sam doesn’t look comforted or convinced. Dean pushes forward if only to avoid another awkward silence.
“You hungry?”
Sam looks back down at his hands. “Not really.”
“We’re getting breakfast,” Dean decides, reaching out for Sam. “And you are going to eat. I can practically see your ribs.”
Sam doesn’t respond, only stumbles upward to stand before Dean can grab his hand to pull him up. Dean pivots, pulling fresh clothes out of the duffle bag at the foot of the bed, and tosses them at Sam.
“Freshen up, first– new clothes, shower– and we’ll head out. What time is it?”
“11:04,” Cas provides as Sam shuffles into the bathroom. He watches Sam go, and as he’s about to close the door behind him, asks: “Sam, do you need help?”
Sam smiles slightly and shakes his head, shutting the door behind him. The shower turns on. Dean whirls on Cas.
“You’re not helping him in the fucking shower. You’ve done enough. You’re going to leave him alone.”
Cas looks surprised. “Sam is going to need a lot of help while he heals. His body is very impacted by his time at the hospital, and I am unsure of the full effects of my healing on his mind.”
“And I’ll deal with it,” Dean snaps. “You don’t get to.”
Cas lets the words hit him, and sits back, down on the bed where Sam had been sleeping with its twisted sheets. He doesn’t say anything else. Dean casts about for anything else to do and decides to put his boots on– he went to sleep in his jeans and he doesn’t particularly feel like changing his underwear in front of Meg and Cas. Meg slinks her way over to sit next to Cas.
“I’m getting pancakes,” she informs Dean as he laces his boots. He ignores her. He’s finishing tying his laces when there’s a thud from the bathroom, and Dean and Cas both spring to their feet. Dean shoots Cas a dirty look before heading to pound on the bathroom door.
“Sammy? You alright?”
“M’okay,” Sam’s voice comes. “Just slipped. I’m fine.”
“Do I need to come in there?”
“I’m fine,” Sam insists. “Don’t come in, I’m not wearing anything.”
Dean tries the handle anyway. “Why did you lock the door?”
“I said I’m fine,” Sam says. His voice is frustrated but it doesn’t change in volume. “Stop it.”
“Okay. Don’t slip again or we’ll have to get you a LifeAlert.” Dean knocks his hand against the door, and turns away. Meg is raising her eyebrows at him.
“Wow, helicopter mom.”
Dean ignores her again. “5 more minutes, Sammy.”
The diner nearby is not the cleanest Dean’s ever been in, but it’s not disgusting and their orders return quickly after the waitress takes them. He orders a full breakfast for himself and one for Sam– sausage, bacon, eggs, hash browns, the works. Meg, as promised, gets pancakes and promptly drowns them in maple syrup. Cas doesn’t order anything but watches Meg’s pancakes longingly until she tries to feed one to him.
Sam picks at his plate, shoulders hunched and arms tucked by his side. He finishes his coffee and when the waitress refills his cup, starts to chug before Dean catches him by the wrist.
“Whoa there, cowboy, how bout you get some food in you before overdosing on caffeine?”
Sam startles and drops the coffee mug. It’s ceramic, and when it hits the table and splashes coffee everywhere, it rolls to shatter on the floor. Sam wrenches his arm from Dean’s grasp and runs.
Dean finds him outside, crouched on the curb with his hands over his ears. He swallows, and takes a seat next to Sam.
“Hey, bud. Sorry for grabbing you in there. I– I forgot.”
Sam doesn’t respond, just takes rapid and shallow breaths. Without warning, he leans to the side– luckily away from Dean– and vomits coffee and bile into the gutter.
“Whoa– whoa, hold on,” Dean says, his hands hovering. He doesn’t want to make Sam freak out more but he wants to hold his hair away from his face where it’s trailing across his mouth and dampening with saliva and puke. Sam coughs, spitting on the ground, before pushing himself upright.
“Sorry,” he says. “I just… I didn’t feel good.”
Dean is kind of at loss for words. “You didn’t eat but you chugged a cup and a half of coffee. I bet.”
Sam doesn’t respond, just sits with his shoulders hunched and knees drawn to his chest. Dean feels the relief that had been keeping him going through Sam’s strange silence all through their drive to the diner, that Sam was back and not going crazy and on his feet, that started to drain away the minute Sam ran outside, make its way fully into the sewers of his mind, replaced with that sick worry that maybe there’s no fixing this, maybe there’s something really wrong.
“Sammy,” he starts, and Sam looks at him with exhausted eyes, cheeks now clean shaven but still thin and empty, and he loses his nerve for whatever he thought he might have said. “Could you come back in and try to eat something? The docs said you weren’t eating at the hospital.”
Sam heaves a breath. Nods. Tries to push himself up.
Dean’s heart throbs with that worry when Sam can’t get himself to his feet, and lands heavily back on his ass on the curb. He doesn’t mention it, though, since Sam hasn’t eaten in days and is still making up sleep and just puked his stomach out on the sidewalk, and instead pushes himself up and reaches his hand out for Sam to take.
When they get inside, Sam’s footsteps stall out as they get to their table where Cas is finishing Meg’s pancakes. Dean looks up— Sam’s face is tight, freaked out, and scarily confused.
“What’s she doing here,” Sam says. “What’s— what’s he — how is Cas— “
He’s starting to hyperventilate. Dean might be too. He puts a firm hand on Sam’s shoulder and turns him to steer them back outside. “Get the check,” he mouths to Cas, and when Cas ignores him, he throws a pointed look at Meg that hopefully says pay the stupid waitress if he doesn’t or I’ll stab you with that knife I have. Then he focuses on Sam, whose feet stumble along the linoleum as Dean drags him along. He’s grasping for his palm again.
“Dean, where are we,” he chokes out as they get out the door, the bell above ringing for the second time in as many minutes. Dean glances up at the sign above the door.
“Pam’s Diner.”
“Where is that,” Sam says flatly, voice thin. A little irritated. At least he’s breathing a little more normal.
“Honestly don’t know the name of the town,” Dean says. “We got you out of the hospital and drove west until I thought I was going to crash the car if I didn’t get some sleep.”
“And we is you and Meg and Cas.”
“Yeah,” Dean says. There’s something wrong. Dean really doesn’t want it to be. “Sammy, we had this conversation at the motel.”
Sam grimaces. “I don’t remember a motel.”
Dean heaves in a breath, barely concealing a sigh. Fuck. Sam is watching him like he’s about to explode, and it’s not like he’s not looked at him like that before but it’s different, now, it’s the same expression he’s had on for the past several months where Dean couldn’t tell if he thought he was a hallucination or not. “What do you remember?”
“Bits and pieces of the hospital? Lucifer– the demon who– there was a ghost, and a girl–”
Dean can’t help it, and he lets out a loud curse. “Cas. That stupid fuck. He fucked with your head–”
Sam pales. “What did he– what did he do? And how is he even–”
Dean has already turned and stormed back inside the diner. “Cas!”
He slams right into the angel in question after two steps inside the door, the bell over it still ringing. He and Meg are clearly mid dine-and-dash, with the waitress hovering a few paces behind them wringing her hands and tittering out objections. Dean pulls out his wallet and shoves a few bills at her before herding Cas and Meg outside. He rounds on them as they reach the curb, a few feet from where Sam once again sits, hunched over with his hands hidden in his lap. Good. Accounted for. He can focus on the angry tirade building in him.
“What the fuck did you do,” he hisses at Cas. Cas, infuriatingly, blinks blankly at him. “What did you do to him?”
He gestures at Sam behind him. Cas frowns. “I haven’t done anything?”
“When you tried to fix him, what did you fucking do?” Dean snaps. “There’s something wrong with him.”
“I told you, I couldn’t– I was unable to fully relieve him of his pain,” Cas says. He looks upset. Good. “I lessened his hallucinations by taking on those wounds from his soul, but I was unable to heal any of them, nor take many without damaging him further. He is not ‘fixed’-- I don’t know if he will ever fully be healed.”
Dean grasps Cas by the collar of his coat. “You did this. You broke him. You have to fix him.”
All Cas does is stare at him. His eyes are piercing, eerily blue, and deeply sad. “I’m sorry, Dean.”
Dean punches him. It was waiting to happen. Cas just fucking takes it. Dean’s ready to keep wailing on him, to release some of the sickening despair that’s caked on heavy around his heart, but Meg grabs him by the wrist. He reaches for his knife, hand diving automatically inside his coat, and she steps back, hands up, but gestures behind him.
“Might wanna check on Sammy, there.”
For a moment, Dean almost scoffs at her, because when he turns all he sees is Sam hunched over on the curb like before, until a subtle metallic tang that Dean knows all too well hits his nose, and he’s on his knees in front of Sammy before he can even blink.
“Sammy–” he grasps for Sam’s hands, which come forward dripping with blood. His left hand has a huge gash down the center, and even as Dean grabs at him, Sam digs his right fingers into the wound. Dean seizes his wrists and pulls his hands apart from one another, but Sam fights him, eyes suddenly wild and muscles tight.
“Dean– no– no it’s not –”
“Sammy, it’s me,” is all Dean can say. “It’s okay, Sammy, I’m here, it’s me.”
“I know, I know–”
Their gazes meet, and the words die in both of their throats. At least Sam recognizes him. At least Dean’s here.
“Sammy, what happened?” Dean asks after a beat. Sam ducks his head, somehow embarrassed.
“I need to know it was real. I needed the pain for that.”
“I told you. I explained it to you. Cas fixed you, at least a little. I thought–”
“I don’t remember that,” Sam says quietly. “I don’t remember how we got here. It’s just.. it’s better, yeah, the– he’s not screaming in my ear every second but–”
His eyes flicker over Dean’s shoulder and Dean turns his head to see Meg smirking at him. She’s got her hand on Cas’s shoulder. Cas is staring at the ground.
“Why is she here?” Sam finally gets out. “Why– how is Cas here?”
“You really don’t remember this morning?” Dean asks. All Sam can do is shake his head.
The moment hangs in the air. The grey sky matches the pavement below Dean’s feet, as he throws his head back for a moment, just to look away from how Sam stares at his shoes instead of looking him in his eyes. Dean doesn’t really know what he expected. He’d dragged Sam out of that hospital still unconscious. There was no way he just woke up okay.
Dean was really, really hoping he would just wake up okay. But the universe doesn’t like them enough for that.
“Okay,” Dean says finally. Sam’s shoulders somehow become more hunched. Dean barrels forward. “Okay. First off– we gotta remember I just dragged you out of bed at a psych ward. Healing will take time. We don’t know how long this is gonna be for.”
Sam still doesn’t look up.
“Second– let’s plan for the worst, hope for the best. I’ll get you a journal. We can write everything down, Memento style. But Sammy–” Dean cups Sam’s face and lifts it so he can look Sam in the eye. To his credit, Sam doesn’t shy away from it. He just meets Dean’s gaze, scared but exhausted, the fight draining from him and acceptance of the situation trickling in. Sam was always good at the acceptance part. “You gotta tell me everything. You need to. If the Devil’s talking again, if you wake up and forget where you are, if there’s anything– you have to tell me.”
“Okay,” Sam says quietly. Dean feels the sharp edge of Sam’s cheekbone under his thumb as he strokes it, and lets his hand fall away. He pushes himself up, and offers a hand to Sam.
“Let’s get you fixed up, now,” he says, and grasps Sam’s left hand to pull him up off the curb for the second time in ten minutes. He herds him over to the Impala, takes out the first aid kit from under the driver’s seat, and bandages up his hand. Sam gets in the passenger seat, and rests his head against the window, eyes drifting shut.
Surprisingly, Cas and Meg are still standing nearby. Dean’s glad. Means he won’t have to track Cas down again. Cas is staring at the place where Sam was sitting on the curb. There’s a few drops of blood soaked into the pavement, next to the switchblade Sam always carries tucked into his boot. It’s open and has its own sheen of blood on it.
“Get in the car,” is the only thing Dean can really say to him. He can’t deal with the look on Cas’s face right now. He can’t really even look at him. Cas’s nose is caked with dried blood from Dean’s punch that has dribbled down to his mouth. When Meg goes to follow them, Dean whips out the demon knife.
“Get the fuck out of here,” he says, pressing it to Meg’s throat. She raises her eyebrows at him, annoyance flashing in her eyes. “I’m not asking again.”
“Okay,” she says simply, and turns on her heel. “See ya, Clarence.”
She was absolutely going to follow them. Dean didn’t care, particularly.