Sam!
With a start Dean woke up. The pain shot through him as if he had been stabbed. The lump in his throat made it hard to breath and the tears prickled in his eyes. He stared at the ceiling, silently letting the tears run down the side of his face. He wanted to curl into himself, wanted the pain to stop. But when he moved, Lisa stirred next to him. He didn't want her to wake up. So he got up quietly and went downstairs into the living room.
He got the bottle of whiskey out and filled half of the glass. Lisa didn't like it when he drank. She had started to beg him to stop with her beautiful brown eyes. So he did. No more booze in the house. But in nights like these he needed it. He needed to take the edge off when the pain was just too much. He had a few hiding places.
Dean filled the glass a second time. You know, I'm not coming back. The tears blurred his vision. You got to promise not to try to bring me back. He squinted his eyes. You go find Lisa. You have barbecues and go to football games. You go live some normal, apple-pie life, Dean. Promise me! He saw his face, heard his voice.
Dean wanted to keep his promise. He really did. And during the day it got better. Lisa had introduced him to Sid from next door. She had put in a good word at one of her customers, had organized him a job. On good days he liked to pretend he had a wife and a son. But it never lasted for long. Watching Ben come out of school and run toward the Impala he suddenly saw little Sammy again. His co-worker talking about his holiday in Texas reminded him of a case they worked. Sid buying him a beer made him wish Sam was there. And every time it hurt so damn much.
In the beginning Lisa had been there, holding him. But after a few weeks she told him how good it was to see him smile again. So he smiled. How much Ben enjoyed it when Dean cooked for him. So he cooked for Ben. How with time the pain would go away. The pain didn't go away.
Dean drowned his third glass. He knew the pain. Remembered it from his time downstairs. Alistair cutting into his soul. Ripping pieces off. The pain hadn't gone away. Not when Alistair put him back together so he could start all over again, not when he finally got off the rack. For ten long years the pain had stayed until he came home to Sam. But at least back then he knew why he'd done it. Sam was alive. Now? Dean didn't care about the world, the right thing to do, the deal he'd made with Death.
He drank his fourth glass of whiskey while the computer booted up. There wasn't much lore about the cage on the internet. A lot of cute little pictures with smiling devils. Preachers talking about Satan tempting the innocent. There was one page about how to summon the Dark Lord. But the ingredients to the spell were harmless and the Latin didn't make any sense. That could only make a demon laugh, but not bring a soul back from the cage. Dean considered calling Bobby. Maybe he had some leads. But Bobby had been so happy to see him get out of hunting. He didn't want to disappoint him. Ask Cas? His phone was off and he hadn't answered to any of his prayers. He was probably busy up in heaven.
Sam always knew. He knew when Dean had been scared of hell. Knew how the regrets ate him up inside after he'd come back. Knew the moment he was about to give up and say yes to Michael. If only Sam was there. It felt as if someone shoved his fist into Dean's chest to crush his heart and rip it out. He took a mouthful of whiskey strait from the bottle but that didn't help. He finished the bottle. It still hurt.
There had to be a way. There was always a way. And if he couldn't find a way out for Sam, he would find a way in for himself!