He hadn't even been able to look at his brother, not from the second Dean had so casually benched him, like it meant nothing. Sure, there is some logic to his plan, Sam can admit that, but it still stings, how Dean had chosen Ketch over him. They've been fighting so hard to get back to that other world - back to Jack and Mom - and to have that chance taken away from him-

Sam's not sure what the point of taking Ketch is anyway. Maybe there was no such thing as 'safer' over there, but surely it would be better for Dean to have someone who actually gave a shit about him as backup. Ketch, too, although Sam can't pretend to care about him anymore than Dean does. Come to think of it, maybe it would have been easier for everyone if Ketch had been left behind instead. Let Asmodeus come for him; it'd be one less enemy to deal with.

But Dean and Ketch are gone, and Sam is here. He briefly toys with the idea of just following them - a sort of fuck you to Dean's bullshit orders. But he doesn't. Instead, he simply turns away from the rift and pulls out his phone, thumbing through his contacts until he finds Cas's. If he'd going to play babysitter to a busted up archangel, he's sure as hell not going to do it alone.

God, Gabriel. Sam had almost forgotten about him after the argument, but now the reality of this shitty, shitty situation comes crashing down on him. He drops his phone on the table and leans back against it, huffing out a deep sigh. He pities Gabriel, because, of all people, he knows what it's like to be tortured, and Gabriel hadn't deserved it. Not really. Not after what he'd done to help them save the world. And yet...

And yet, his mind wanders to the archangel blade, safely stashed away in the safe, and he imagines. He knows that he wouldn't be able to kill an archangel with it - had learned that the first time they'd been looking for ways to kill the Devil - but it sure would hurt like a bitch. Dean had thought it would be safer here, didn't want to run the risk of it falling into Michael's hands, and Sam knows he made the right call that time. But he also can't ignore the 24 year-old part of him, the one that's fighting to get the blade and ram it through Gabriel's eyeball.

He deserves it, it argues. He deserves it for killing Dean in the Mystery Spot, for forcing Sam through a hundred Tuesdays and six months of hell, for all the games he's played with their lives.

No. Sam tells it. We don't do that anymore.

And just like that, it hits him. He's not pissed off at Dean - no, that's a lie. He is; he's mad at Dean and Ketch and Gabriel, all of them, but that's not the main part. It's him. He's the one he should be mad at - the one he is mad at. Because he doesn't do that anymore, hasn't for a long time. He's tired of fighting Dean for everything.

Time was, Sam would have fought tooth and nail to go through that rift, until Dean had no choice but to take him. Or he would have followed anyway, to hell with what Dean though. Time was, he would have taken that blade the second Dean's back was turned. Time was, time was, time was.

(And when was that time? Too far away to remember, now)

Time was, but now Sam does none of that. He'd let Dean go with barely a fight, he'd just stood there and silently mixed the spell, he'd watched Dean go through that rift with Ketch, and he hadn't said anything. He could tell himself that he hadn't had a choice, but that would be a lie, too.

Obedience, Lucifer sneers. Such a fine quality in a young man.

Sam winces and curls his hands into fists, trying to block out the cruel laughter echoing in his head. He takes a steadying breath, then grabs his phone again and calls Cas.

"Sam," Cas greets shortly.

"Hey, Cas," he says, clearing his throat. "I need some help at the Bunker. How fast can you get here?"

"I'll be there in a few hours," Cas tells him, then disconnects the call. Sam is, for once, glad for his bluntness; it avoids going over everything that's happened all over again. He turns back around to clear away the remnants of the spell, but the rift catches his eye, almost beckoning him closer.

(You could do it.)

(Do it.)

Sam sighs and turns away quickly, heading towards the kitchen to wash up. No, he can't do it. Not anymore.

A/N: The first draft of this was so bitter, I hope it's slightly less so now. Thanks so much for reading, and please leave a review if you have a moment!