His mouth is dry but he can still taste it and he licks his lips.
They taste of salt – the cracks making them sore, painful to the extreme. He slumps against the damp wall and looks up to the ceiling, watches the fans go around and around – a hideous nightmare on repeat – one he thought he would never, ever have again.
He wants to shout but his voice is long gone. The tremors that hit him are getting further and further apart. He can smell the vomit – on the floor and on his clothing. It hurts to open his eyes so he keeps them closed.
Somewhere – beyond the door – is Dean – and his angel. They are waiting, watching, hoping and he is sure that they are on his side. He wants and he wishes – he can still feel the horror of his brother's gaze on him and he trembles – a little boy again wanting his hero to hold him.
He can't sleep – he can't rest and he bites on his own fingers. The hunger is fading – but the disgust and the pain never will – and he stares down at the floor imagining he is anywhere – anywhere but here.
Finally they open the door and he staggers to his feet. Castiel does not judge him – face expressionless – eyes old and weary. Dean says nothing, just watches as he leaves the panic room for the second time and moves up the stairs – feeling old and tired – his future as uncertain as his past ever was.
The water is cool against his mouth and he swallows gratefully. Castiel is gone – flown away on some mission – the curse that Famine put on him eradicated from his host's body – the stoic angel back again as if he had never fallen.
Dean sits across from him and stares – eyes as green as jade – hard for a moment and then softening as he leans against the table and puts his hand, gently, on Sam's shoulder and squeezes.
"You ok Sammy?" He asks and Sam can tell – by his tone – by the hoarseness in his speech – that he has been crying.
"Yeah," he forces a smile, weak, false, pathetic and Dean must see through it but he doesn't say a word, just squeezes harder and doesn't let go.
End