A crash echoed through the bunker. Sam jolted off the couch, hissing as his arm complained with the sudden movement; maybe he should have taken the pain meds after all. He fumbled for his gun. In the now-resounding silence of the bunker, Sam's footfalls fell too heavy. If it was an intruder, they'd hear Sam coming for sure.
He entered the kitchen gun first, only to find Cas bent over the countertop, and at his feet was a fallen pan with a spreading puddle of steaming soup beside it. Sam lowered his gun. "Hey," he said.
Cas shivered, forehead pressed to the counter. One-handed, it took an eternity of silence to flick the safety on and stow his gun away. Sam placed his hand to Cas's back, petting up beneath his shirt to feel the near-burning skin beneath. "You okay?" he asked, voice even and soothing, like how he used to talk to Riot.
"I… spilled the soup," said Cas without lifting his head.
Maybe that was for the best. Sam's stomach rolled, and he tried to breathe through his mouth. Throwing up again wouldn't be the best way to convince Cas he was fine. "You're okay. Hey—" He tugged at Cas's shirt. "Why don't you go lay down? Get some sleep. I'll take care of it."
Cas filled up his lungs with a protest, only to break out in a wet cough. From experience, Sam knew what that felt like. He grimaced in sympathy, then slid his hand to Cas's heaving stomach to pull him up till Cas was flush against Sam's chest.
Sam held his breath when Cas jostled his arm, the former angel attempting to get his legs under him. "It's okay," said Sam, again, this time gritted into the sweat of Cas's hair. "It's okay."
"I'm not a child," Cas grumbled, settling into Sam, careful of the sling.
Sam said, "I know. Come on, man."
They separated. Sam placed his palm at the small of Cas's back, guiding him over the pooled soup. The two moved slowly, carefully, more than once stumbling over one another, missing some synchrony—something missing. And Sam couldn't think about it, relieved when they came to the nest of sweat-rank blankets on the couch. "Is this oh—?"
But Cas had already settled into Sam's smell, the man pale within Sam's disgusting nest of blankets. "Thank you," murmured Cas, his head tilted back and eyes shut.
Sam opened his mouth to talk, but could only shut it again. Cas was dying on him, too, and Sam wanted to take care of him, but Dean's specter hung between them, and Sam had to—Sam left to go clean the kitchen, a fire in his arm.
The soup had dried by time Sam wet a rag. He stared down at the mess, swallowing thickly as the washcloth dripped in his good hand. Cleaning the kitchen had been Dean's thing—more than his bed, Dean loved the stupid, stupid kitchen. And now Sam stood here with a rag, in a kitchen that hadn't gleamed since before—before Kevin, and Sam chanced a glance at the silent coffeepot.
Sam bent to the mess, unbalanced on his knees with one operable arm. He bit his lip till he tasted blood.
By time he finished, sweating and shaking, Cas had fallen asleep, all twisted up in Sam's blankets. Sam clutched the whiskey to his chest and sat heavily at the foot of the couch. He drank and drank, till the roar of his shoulder became a murmur and some of the chronic tightness in his chest loosened.
Sam leaned his head back to rest it against Cas's chest. The soft rise and fall of his breathing had Sam relax—just, just for now.
He woke to the curl of fingers in his hair. Sam's eyes shot open, pain snapping back into place like a puzzle piece, but the fingers kept carding through his stands as Sam remembered he was too old to sleep sitting up anymore. "Cas?" Sam slurred, sleep-heavy.
"Good morning," Cas's fingertips came to rest at Sam's temple—
"Cas, no—" but it was too late. Some of the pain—especially in his shoulder—dampened as if stuffed under a heavy blanket. "Dammit, you have to be—I'm not—"
Cas gasped as he cupped Sam's chin, forcing Sam to look up at him, at the deep-set lines of pain Cas's face. "Don't. I'm—I'm all right."
Such a lie, but it was easier to swallow it than fight. Sam contorted himself, pulling again at his injury, but Sam pressed his lips to Cas's chapped mouth. Cas's grip tightened. But just for a moment, and when Cas pulled back he said, "You should… go shower," his words came out slow and labored, and Sam wanted—
He nodded his head, avoiding Cas's eyes. The whole showering thing had been almost too much lately. Sam knew he reeked. With one last dry press of his mouth to Cas's, Sam lurched to his feet.
Sam dragged himself back into the room, afterwards. Clad in a pair of sweatpants and his sling, he figured he might get some research done before he collapsed into a slightly-less-disgusting heap of meat. Cas looked up from where he perched on the couch. The blankets were neatly folded and a ratty duffel bag of Dean's sat at his feet. Sam stopped dead.
He swallowed, tried to keep himself even as he asked, "Cas?"
"I think it best I leave," said Cas so levelly.
About a million things to say hit Sam like a thunderclap. He opened his mouth, then took a deep breath, watching as Cas stood there like he wasn't bursting out of his seams. Sam turned his head away, clenching his jaw. "I get it," Sam said, after a moment, "Whatever you need to do."
The silence stretched out between them like it might be endless, before Sam gave in and looked back at Cas. Cas's mouth pursed, and he regarded Sam carefully, like he was waiting for something Sam didn't know how to give.
Finally, Cas nodded. "Finding Dean is the priority. Please call me if—when you find him. Or if… if you need anything. Of course."
Cas used both hands to lift the bag and, without looking back once, he left the bunker. Sam curled his hand into the fabric of his pants. But didn't say a damn thing.
Without Cas, Sam researched more. He got so much done within the first week it was exhilarating in a way he didn't take time to think about. But the silence of the bunker blanketed everything, till Sam found himself blasting music at odd hours just to hear something beyond the heavy beat of his heart. (In some ways, the bunker was more haunted now than when it had actually been haunted.)
Only the sporadic ring of his phone broke the monotony—never the person he wanted it to be, but that was life.
After Mike called, Sam dialed Cas without thinking. Something inside Sam had wanted to believe, now that he'd been removed, that Cas had magically gotten better and had been too busy to call Sam.
But it wasn't a surprise to hear he'd gotten worse. Sam could handle Dean himself. No problem.