A/N: I don't own Supernatural, the CW, or any other known person or entity presented in this story. This story is my (way belated) birthday present to poestheblackcat, who turned 21 a few days ago and asked for some crack!angst. Happy birthday! There is some Spanish in this story, and any and all translations (also known as what I put into the translator) are at the bottom, and are courtesy of freetranslation(dot)com. Minus the title, which means "What do you want?" I hope you guys enjoy, and please review.

¿Qué Quieres?

Dean's eyes were closed, Sam noted absently. Then again, he deduced, they probably should be, considering he was currently holding what was left of Dean's internal organs in his hands. And his hair. And his pants. And his shirt pocket.

Though, not actually on his shirt. Which was odd, given he could feel the sting of Dean's blood in his eyes. Smell the iron particles floating through the air. Taste that familiarly awkward fluid (though less evil-tasting than the stuff he was used to) in his mouth.

The stinging in Sam's eyes, though, wasn't just from the blood. It was from the salty specks of water and DNA flowing from his eyes. He wasn't ashamed to admit he was crying. No. Not at all. In fact, he was slightly more surprised. After all, how many times before had he been in this position? Holding a lifeless Dean in his hands. Maybe it shouldn't have hurt that bad this time.

Of course it did, and would. Because, at the end of the day (and the world), Dean was, and always would be, his big brother. Even if it did feel like said brother had a revolving-door life.

Although, that thing at the Mystery Spot was actually Gabriel's doing. And if it wasn't for the fact that he was dead (too), Sam would've sworn that this death was of Gabriel's making (too).

Because really, who besides Gabriel would hide a bomb in a slice of blueberry pie?

Sam gently rested the pieces of Dean's body back onto the faded tan and dingy black floor beneath them, tears cascading down his chiseled cheeks. He glanced around the once-crowded diner (that is, crowded before Dean blew up) to find not even another soul around. Tumbleweed blew out of the kitchen and past his vision, causing Sam to tilt his head and look back down. Only, instead of the dirty tile floor, he saw pinkish-reddish sand underneath his knees and his older brother's head and extremities. It wasn't much longer after that when Sam registered that someone else had joined him, and he knew exactly who it was.

"Cas?" Sam asked, simply addressing the restored angel.

"Sí," the angel replied.

"Please. Bring him back. Please."

Castiel half-sighed and half-groaned. "¿Es eso lo que quieres? ¿Por qué habría de hacerlo?"

Sam furrowed his brow, still staring down at Dean. "Since when do you only speak in Spanish?"

Castiel shrugged. "No sé. Es tu sueño."

"What?"

Castiel grunted, annoyed. "Mi 'vessel' no habla inglés más allá de unas pocas palabras."

Sam finally looked up, only to find Cristian De La Fuente standing behind him with the intensity of Castiel's eyes. "What happened to Jimmy?" Sam asked.

"Está muerto, en esencia. Pienso."

"And anyways, I thought Cristian De La Fuente could speak English."

"Aparentemente, no en España."

"Wait, we're in Spain? How the hell did we get here?"

Castiel muttered what could've been a string of curses (because Sam couldn't understand what he was saying) before uttering aloud, "No sé. Es tu sueño."

"What the hell are you saying?" Sam half-shouted in frustration.

Castiel shook his head, looking off in the distance. "No me ames," he said, slightly hurt. Almost.

Sam sighed, half in anger and half in resignation. "Can you please just bring him back to life?"

"No."

"What? Why the hell not?"

"No está muerto."

"What?"

Castiel shrugged. "No sé. Es tu sueño."

Before Sam could utter another word, Castiel was gone, and he was back in the diner, kneeling in the pool of Dean's coagulating blood and looking at the shambles of remains that used to be the lively older brother through the clouds of his own tears.

With a loud, agonizing sigh, Sam looked up at the tin-covered ceiling, crying and cursing Castiel and whatever vessel he rode in on. How could he not save Dean? How could he not bring him back to life? It wasn't like Castiel had lost his mojo. He had it back. And, really, what the fuck was up with the Spanish?

Seriously.

The room started to spin, and Sam felt himself grip onto… something fabric-y. But, there wasn't any fabric on the floor of the diner. It was tile… right? And the ceiling… it was tin. Not… whatever the hell you want to call that color. Tannish-used-to-be-white? And, was someone talking to him? Trying to get his attention?

"Sammy!" Dean shouted, his voice alarmed. And suddenly, the face behind the voice appeared in Sam's blurry vision, and the alarm he thought he heard could be seen on that face. "Sammy, you back with me?"

Sam shook his head slowly, starting to sit up.

"No, no, man. Lay back down. You're gonna be alright."

Sam put his hand on the top of his head, feeling it come away sticky. He looked at his hand, finding it covered in bright red blood. "Bleeding from the head isn't generally alright," Sam said slowly, carefully forming the words.

"I said, 'gonna be,'" Dean commented.

"Whatever." Sam closed his eyes, only to feel Dean forcefully (and painfully) grab his shoulder.

"No, man," the older brother said. "You gotta stay awake for me."

"You said yourself, I'm gonna be alright. Then again, what the hell happened?"

"I don't know. All I saw was my pie blowing in every direction. Which sucks, 'cause I really wanted some pie."

"Blueberry pie?"

"Yeah," Dean said, smiling reverently.

"That stuff'll kill you," Sam replied.

"Huh?"

"Just trust me. I've seen the future."

"Okay..." Dean said hesitantly, shaking his head. "Dude, you must've hit your head harder than you thought."

"You have no idea."

The End

What Cas Says:

"Yes."

"Is that what you want? Why should I?"

"I don't know. It's your dream."

"My 'vessel' doesn't speak English beyond a few words."

"He's dead, essentially. I think."

"Apparently, not in Spain."

"I don't know. It's your dream."

"You don't love me."

"No."

"He's not dead."

"I don't know. It's your dream."