Author's Notes: After about a week of being sick and watching Constantine, one of my favorite comic book movies (despite Keanu Reeves; I refuse to let anything ruin my Hellblazer fandom), approximately twenty-nine, it hit me that Castiel is essentially Constantine, and that Suernatural's Lucifer is so very much like Constantine's Lucifer. This is the result: a blending of the Constantine plot with Supernatural's plot. It took a little bit of time to figure out what characters belonged where, but I was quite pleased with the result.
Warnings: Violence, suicide, profanity
Spoilers: None, really.
Disclaimer: My last name is neither Kripke, Gamble, or DC/Vertigo, so it's probably safe to assume I don't own them.

"Sam didn't kill himself."

Dean knows Sam, knows he wouldn't have done that.

Everything says otherwise, everything says that Sam threw himself off of that roof, but Dean knows Sam.

Dean knows Sam. Dean knows Sam had problems, knows Sam had his struggles, knows Sam in the way only Dean could. Dean essentially raised Sam, a father and a mother and a big brother and a friend, the only constant in Sam's life. Dean had given Sam everything he could, hot meals and a comfortable bed and clean clothes and patience and care and love.

Dean knows Sam like no one else does, and Dean knows Sam would never, ever do something like that.

But Jo doesn't comment immediately, just stares at the corpse for a few more minutes. "We have security footage, Dean," she says gently.

"Sam didn't kill himself. He wouldn't."

"He was sick, Dean. He wasn't right in the head."

Dean gives Jo a look so black it makes the detective start to sweat. "No. He wasn't that kind of sick. He wasn't crazy, not like that."

"Look, Dean, he thought he was seeing people's deaths. He wasn't…right. You've got to know that."

Dean knows exactly how not-right Sam was, and he knows that Sam would never commit suicide. Sam had problems, Dean knows, but he wasn't suicidal. The kid was more religious than anyone Dean had ever met—suicide was an unforgivable sin, and Sam would never have done such a thing.

"No. He would never kill himself. You knew him, Jo. He would never do that." It sounds exactly like denial to Jo, but he doesn't comment on it.

"I know he was sick, and that he's done things not too far from this before."

"No. Not Sam. He'd never do this to himself." Jo's known Dean long enough to know he's really saying Sam would never do this to me, to us.

"Detective Harvelle? Are you going to need another look at the security tapes before we go?" a timid cop asks, staring from Dean to Jo.

Jo switches her gaze to the young cop. "Yes. I'll be there in a second."

Dean lets Jo drag him to the security office, lets Jo flip the monitor back to the rooftop camera tapes, lets Jo shove him into a chair and force him to watch.

On the grainy black-and-white monitor, Dean watches his little brother scramble through the door to the rooftop. He watches Sam approach the edge of the roof, not hesitating until his toes almost hang off the edge.

Dean watches as Sam contemplates something, rubbing at his wrist before he yanks off his plastic hospital bracelet, letting it fly off in the wind. Sam turns his head to the camera, like he knew it was there all the time, shaggy hair blown every which way, mouths a word that Dean can't quite decipher, and then…

Then Sam leaps off the roof.

Jo pauses the tape, lets it sink in with Dean. For Jo, this case is closed. It was tragic, yes, but Sam was sick and had been so for quite a while, and it wasn't like Sam hadn't been violent towards others and himself before. All that remains to be done is to file the reports and catalogue the evidence.

For Dean, this case is still wide open.

Sam was sick—Dean knew he was. After all, it had always been Dean's job to take care of Sam, his Sammy, and Dean had been the one who'd decided Sam needed more help than he could reasonably provide on his own. He's going to want a copy of this security tape so he can see what Sam's mouthing to the camera, the hospital's files, interviews with everyone involved with Sam at the hospital…

Besides, now that Sammy's gone, it's not like Dean has anything else to do besides work.

"Ruby's back," explained Sam, pointing to the drawing in the sketchbook. "She's going to teach me how to be even stronger. When you went to Hell, she helped me."

Dean recognized the girl in the picture instantly—she has the room across the hallway. Her name really was Ruby, Ruby Abel, but as far as Dean knew, she was just a bipolar single mother who tried to drown her two year old son. The girl who had the room before her was also named Ruby, Ruby Laurent, but she was a paranoid schizophrenic with a record of suicide attempts who was released after an almost three year stint here.

Sam was a good artist when it came to drawing his visions and delusions, Dean noted, but was barely capable of stick figures when it came to anything else. This particular sketch featured 'Ruby' in a black leather jacket and jeans, her eyes the solid black that Sam insisted signified demonic possession.

Gently, Dean took the sketchbook and closed it, not wanting to see any more of the strange things Sam had come up with.

"Wait, wait, I have to show you Castiel!" Sam said excitedly, snatching back the black-bound book.

The drawing was unlike anything Dean had seen of Sam's so far.

The man in the sketch was serious, stony-faced, arms held stiffly at his side as if he didn't quite know what to do with them. He wore a rumpled trench coat over a suit, the coat hanging off of his shoulders loosely. His dark hair looked just as rumpled as his clothing, like he'd just rolled out of bed wearing yesterday's clothing and decided that trying was just too much effort. The only detail Sam had colored in were the man's eyes—a vivid shade of blue that contrasted dramatically.

Dean didn't recognize the man, despite how he had a nagging feeling in his gut that he knew him. No new patients had arrived in the lockdown ward Sam had gotten confined to, either, and Sam hadn't been allowed to leave his room since he'd assaulted some poor random patient, saying the guy was being possessed by the demon Azazel. This Castiel seemed to be a first for Sam, coming up with a completely made-up character.

"His name is Castiel, and he's the angel who brought you back from Hell. He's trying to help us beat Meg and stop the Apocalypse too. You haven't met yet, not officially face-to-face, but I think you're going to be friends with him."

Smiling politely, Dean nodded. He knew it was best just to go with Sam about these things, especially now that since starting art therapy and beginning to keep a sketchbook he hadn't been violent or even too difficult. His doctor Dean wasn't about to ruin a good thing.

Sam closed his sketchbook as he rose to his feet, stretching. "You gonna come back after dinner?" He tossed his sketchbook onto his bedside table, looking to Dean expectantly.

That almost broke Dean, that look of innocent trust, how much Sam trusted him with. It took him a moment to realize he was supposed to answer the question.

"Oh. Uh, yeah. Yeah. I'll get you something to eat. McDonald's sound good to you?"

Sam shook his head violently, attitude suddenly changed. Dean recognized it as him slipping into one of his episodes. "No. You have to go find Castiel before we can do anything. He's going to help us. We have to find him before it's too late. I've seen him for a long time but now we've got to find him."

"Okay, sure. Where is he?" Dean hadn't wanted to upset Sam, particularly not since this was the first episode all week.

"You have to find him."

"I will. But where is he?"

Sam shook his head again as he grabbed his sketchbook again, flipping frantically through the pages, until he found the picture of Dr. Singer, his primary psychiatrist, he'd drawn ages ago. "Bobby. Bobby will help you. Bobby."

Dean stared at the picture of Dr. Singer. The older man wore a plaid shirt and worn jeans with a trucker cap for one "Singer Salvage". It was oddly fitting for him, despite that Dean had never seen the psychiatrist in anything but suits and lab coats.

Nodding, Dean made a note to discuss this new twist in Sam's delusions with Dr. Singer tomorrow. He was going to talk to 'Bobby', certainly, but not to find this likely nonexistent Castiel.

"I'll be back at eight, okay? Hold yourself together until then, bitch."

Sam didn't say anything, just bit his lower lip and stared at his sketchbook. He didn't even bother to respond with his customary "I will, jerk."

Dean didn't push it. He just turned around and left, never once thinking twice.

Much later, as Dean sits in his apartment, watching his little brother throw himself off of the roof again and again on the security tape, Dean wishes he'd left Sam with an 'I love you', with a 'You're my brother, and I'll take care of you no matter what', with some form of good-bye.

But, no.

His last words to Sam, maybe the last thing Sam had listened to, were "Hold yourself together, bitch."

And it makes Dean hate himself that little bit more.

Dean is aware he's having a nightmare, but he can't stop it.

He's had this nightmare hundreds of times before, but now it has a new aspect of horror: this is exactly what happened to his brother.

Dean scurries out of the narrow staircase that leads to the roof, letting the door slam behind him.

He is all calm determination until he reaches the edge of the roof, toeing the man-made cliff. Below him is the glass roof over the patient physical therapy aquatics center.

He doesn't really have a choice—either he will throw himself over the roof or whatever's driving him to do this will force him to.

He turns to the security camera he knows is there, he knows his brother will see.

"Dean," something murmurs to him internally. "Dean."

"Castiel," he whispers back. He doesn't quite know why the name soothes him, but it does.

He scratches at the spot on his wrist where a symbol he'd never paid much attention to before lies before roughly yanking off the plastic hospital bracelet. It flutters off in the wind, and Dean watches it for a second.

And then, he spreads his arms and takes the step.

As usual, Dean wakes up before he should hit the glass above the pool, a chill settling into his bones despite how he's soaked in sweat.

Dean throws back the sheets and starts up his laptop, swearing at the slowness of the technology as he waits. It's not like he's going back to sleep, not after that…nightmare. After all, that's all it is, right? A nightmare?

Still, he sits there and curses under his breath. He re-starts the security footage of Sam, waiting for the moment.

"Castiel." That's what Sam is mouthing to the camera.

Castiel.

Castiel, the man or angel or God knows what that Dean is supposed to find.

Castiel. Castiel. Castiel.

Then Dean's only thought is that this Castiel will help him.

He flicks through the pages of Sam's sketchbook, past the portraits of patients and doctors and nurses and orderlies mutilated into the characters of his delusions, past the demons and witches and hunters, until he finds the very last drawing in the sketchbook.

Castiel.

Blue eyes, dark messy hair, head cocked slightly to the side like a curious bird, trench coat and suit.

Dean plugs the name into the police database, thankful that he can at least do this much without having to get to the station.

It pulls up only one result.

Castiel Novak.

Dean only has to glance at the physical description to know that this is the Castiel he's supposed to find.