Dean was, unfortunately, quite familiar with the sights and sounds of a hospital room. Long before he became fully conscious he knew where he was, simply from the rhythm of the activities going on around him. He could hear the beep of monitors keeping watch on his vitals, and the whir-hiss of the ventilator doing his breathing for him. Outside the door he could hear echoing voices and footsteps on the hard linoleum floor. From beside him there came the sound of a sigh.
Without opening his eyes he knew where he was, if not from the sounds but also from the taste and smell. Mostly he smelled blood, his own blood, clotting inside his abused sinuses. Beyond that he caught the scent of alcohol and disinfectant, and the peculiar scent of the sticky tape they used to hold an IV down upon the back of his hand. All he could taste was metal and plastic.
There was one more smell however, a scent even more familiar than that of the ICU. It was bright and sharp, a one-of-a-kind combination of aftershave, fabric softener, and sweat. This particular scent, combined with the sigh, could only mean one thing: Sam had found him.
Opening his eyes he discovered he was right. Sam sat beside the bed looking fretful and scared. He didn't notice Dean had opened his eyes, being too caught up in trying to hold his emotions, namely tears, in check. Dean did nothing to attract attention either. The last time he woke in a hospital bed he'd immediately started fighting the ventilator, but this time he simply relaxed and let it do its job. This time he was grateful for it. He was as weak as a baby and his head felt like it was going to explode. No miracles then. He was going to have to recover on his own.
Not, he thought, that he was fully committed to recovery. He found himself wondering if he could will himself back into a coma, if he could will himself to death. If what Alastair had said was true, he'd fucked up royally, worse than ever before. The knowledge was agonizing, and now he had to live with it. Death would be far better. Hell would be better. Sure, Alastair would torture him for a while, but the demon might eventually be persuaded to give him his old job back.
There was no pain in Hell – not for those who administered it.
Dean closed his eyes, but both unconsciousness and death eluded him. There was only pain, and only part of it related to the beating of his physical body. The majority of it lay like a lead weight in the center of his chest, overwhelming the pounding of his head and the raw burning in his throat. He'd failed – again. He'd made the wrong choices – again.
Irrationally he felt a surge of anger toward whoever had saved him, whether it had been Castiel or Sam. They should have let Alastair finish the job. Let someone else be the hero, someone who didn't have the reputation of being a fuck-up.
God, his head hurt. He opened his eyes again and was nearly blinded by the tears filling them. They were equally tears of grief, frustration and pain. A moan conflicted with the tube down his throat, triggering a fit of gagging and coughing. The scrape of metal on linoleum told him Sam had gone to get help, but the fit had subsided by the time he returned with a doctor. Dean's grip on consciousness was weakened considerably as a result of this brief battle with the ventilator. He was barely aware of their presence.
Light flitted back and forth over his left eye, and then his right. He wasn't tracking. He was still unable to breathe on his own. His condition had improved only slightly, the edema suppressing his brain's functions remained a concern. Sam asked the doctor a few questions, and seemed frustrated by the vague responses the man gave him. There was nothing they could do but monitor Dean's condition and wait. A couple of years ago he might have accepted this more readily, but patience was no longer Sam Winchester's forte. He thanked the doctor stiffly, his irritation more than obvious.
As he listened to Sam pace uneasily about the room, Dean drifted further and further toward the darkness, and finally, thankfully, reclaimed it. His last thoughts were filled with both despair and hope.
Maybe Sam would have to wait a very long time. Maybe Dean would never wake up again.
Castiel was standing at the foot of the bed looking more disheveled than ever. There were bloodstains on his coat and collar, and although there was not a mark on him, he seemed – weary. He also seemed distracted and it took him a while to realize Dean was awake. This time Dean had come around a little stronger. His thoughts were a little clearer. He vaguely remembered Castiel's attack on Alastair. He remembered Alastair laughing it off. What, then, had happened next?
"Don't try to talk," the angel said softly.
Dean blinked groggily. He couldn't talk if he wanted to, there being a fucking hose down his throat.
"You don't need speech to communicate with me."
In other words, you're in my freakin' head.
"More or less," Castiel returned.
Nice. Well while you're in there can you do something about the headache?
"I'm sorry, no."
You can put my rotting corpse back together and you can't cure a headache?
"Before - I had orders."
Fuck you and your orders, Cas.
The angel looked away with a sigh. After a moment he said, "I thought you should know – Alastair talked."
He did? Dean knew better than to assume he had anything to do with it. The inquisition had ended with the inquisitor getting his ass kicked, hence the headache and the ventilator. And?
"He claimed it isn't Lilith or any other demon killing the angels and he didn't know anything more."
Lying.
"He wasn't lying. He did not willingly volunteer the information. It was forced from him," Castiel said softly. "By Sam." Before Dean could form a response, the angel continued. "He's getting stronger, Dean. There's no denying he's ignored our – suggestion – that he stop using his abilities."
Dean closed his eyes wearily. I'd guessed.
"He didn't just force Alastair to talk, and he didn't send him back to Hell. Sam destroyed him utterly. Alastair is dead."
His first thought was, good. His second was, oh God.
Castiel concurred. "Alastair was a powerful demon, an old demon. Few outranked him – only one that I'm aware of."
Lilith.
"Yes." Castiel's voice held a note of uneasiness he didn't bother to hide. "Dean. I couldn't have done what Sam did. Do you understand what that means?"
Dean's heart went curled his fingers into the bedding, gripping it weakly as a wave of dizziness made the spin.
Sammy, oh God, what have you done? What have I done?
In addition to the dizziness, Dean was suddenly overcome with the crushing weight of failure, a feeling he'd continued to struggle with since his return from Hell. Everything that came before was now amplified by what he'd learned from Alastair. His self condemnation realized no bounds, ripping him apart in ways Alastair never could, stabbing him through the heart again and again. Nothing he'd ever done produced anything positive. He'd gone to Hell, precipitated the Apocalypse, and for what? He hadn't saved his brother at all. Sam had been brought back to life and set right back down on the road to damnation. Dean had only been thinking of his own pain. He should have left Sam at peace. Damn his own insecurities. He'd been an idiot, a selfish, cowardly, idiot.
I should have eaten a bullet in Cold Oak, Sammy. I should have just gone with you.
He half expected Castiel to chastise him, or maybe even agree with him, but there was no response from the angel. Upon opening his eyes, he discovered Castiel had gone again.
In his misery, Dean recalled something Meg had once said....
"Dean. Back from the dead again. Just like a cockroach."
A cockroach. That summed it up real good.
Sam showed up during Castiel's second visit, when the angel finished confirming what Dean already knew – that Alastair had been telling the truth about the first seal and Dean's role in breaking it. Hearing it from Castiel made it really sink in, crushed him beneath a more complete understanding of the burden he carried. He was already splintered. Castiel's words left him shattered, and he didn't bother trying to hide it. Tears ran freely down his cheeks.
It was at that moment Sam returned. Dean saw him quickly assess the situation and immediately determine Castiel was public enemy number one. Based on what Castiel had revealed regarding Sam's role in dispatching Alastair, Dean really didn't want to be stuck in the middle of an angry confrontation between the two. He was spared, luckily. Castiel deferred immediately to Sam's unconditional demand that the angel,"Get out. Now!"
To say Sam was pissed would be an understatement. He'd kicked into one of his new gears – overprotective brother - as if Dean had come back from Hell as some sort of an invalid. Sam stood staring after Castiel with his fists clenched and his teeth bared, only turning his attention to Dean after he was sure the angel was gone. His posture relaxed as he sat down in the chair Cas had abandoned, but just slightly. "What did he say to you?" he demanded.
"Nothing."
"He said something to get you upset."
Dean ignored him, purposely turning away, wiping his face on his sleeve, trying desperately to regroup. He wanted to be left alone. At the very least he didn't want to talk about Castiel. His conversations with the angel were none of Sam's business. Dean never interrogated Sam on his private conversations with Ruby. Sam didn't even admit he had conversations with Ruby, and seemed to want to assume Dean wasn't sharp enough to realize there were still clandestine meetings going on between the two. Apparently post-Hell Dean was both crippled and stupid.
Fine. Let him keep his damn secrets, and I'll keep mine.
"Point taken," Sam said quietly, realizing Dean wasn't going to answer him. After a moment he attempted a distraction. It was lame, he probably knew it was lame, but he blundered ahead anyway. "You should eat something. Get your strength back up."
"No."
"There's the hospital cafeteria, or I could smuggle in a cheeseburger."
"I'm not hungry, Sam."
"Dean...."
"I said, no." Dean shot him a hard glare. "Sam. No."
Eating was not a priority, not when his throat was shredded, his skull was fractured, and nausea was his new BFF. The ventilator was a thing of the past, but not Dean's breathing issues. His blood-oxygen levels were still too low for the doctor's satisfaction, and therefore a length of rubber tubbing had been employed to blow air up his nose. This blast of pure oxygen was making him light headed and left a nasty taste in the back of his mouth. Dean was convinced that even the smallest molecule of food hitting his stomach would immediately come right back up again.
"How did you find me?" he asked, breaking what went on to become an exceptionally uneasy silence. Sam hadn't volunteered any details about the search and rescue, and that was fine, but Dean wasn't going to let him get away with sweeping it all under the rug. "Ruby?"
Sam's reluctance was palpable. "Scrying spell," he admitted.
One question Dean already knew the answer to, but wanted to see how Sam would respond when asked.
"What happened to Alastair?"
He noted the flinch, and how quickly Sam formed a response – as if he'd rehearsed it knowing Dean would ask. Years of interviewing people, hunting things that often liked to hide in plain sight, meant Dean had the experience to spot a lie. In turn, he himself could lie like a dog without the slightest hint of subterfuge. His poker skills were legendary, Sam's sucked.
"Castiel stabbed him with Ruby's knife. You were as good as dead if he hadn't."
Not a lie, Dean surmised, but not the whole truth either.
Sam shifted his weight in the chair, his uneasiness a tell-tale sign he was hedging. "The trap was broken somehow. I didn't go back and check, I couldn't take the time. You weren't breathing." He paused, and added, "the angels screwed up."
Dean rolled an eye back in his brother's direction. Sam's comment had been undeniably smug, but there was an undertone of outrage that made Dean wonder what his brother would have done if he'd died. Would he have dared turned his powers on Castiel like he had Alastair? Dean wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer, given Sam's reaction to Castiel's presence only moments earlier, and Cas' own admission that he couldn't have killed Alastair. The very thought was frightening. Could Sam take on an angel, and win?
"I let them get to me, all of them," Dean said quietly. "Alastair, Uriel, Cas..."
"I don't think you had a choice."
"There are always choices."
"Uriel would have sent you back to Hell, Dean."
Dean turned his head away. "Maybe I should have let him," he whispered hoarsely.
There was a very long pause Sam spoke again. Dean had figured he wouldn't say anything at all, but he did. His words were soft and matter-of-fact.
"I wondered when it would come to this."
"To what?" Dean countered.
"Suicide is a sin you know."
Startled, Dean looked at his brother and found the sad, pitying expression on Sam's face that he utterly despised. Usually it was directed at other people, the people they interviewed on cases. Sometimes those people were victims, sometimes they were survivors – friends or family who had lost someone. Death and grief were facets of the job they had to deal with on a daily basis. After a while it got hard to actually care. Sometimes Dean had to fake it, but Sam's sympathy had always been genuine.
The year before his contract came up, Dean had done as much as he could – within reason - to make Sam pissy, just so he could avoid that look. He didn't want pity. He especially didn't want Sam's pity.
Here was pity, and oddly, this time it didn't piss Dean off as much as he thought it would.
"I'm not suicidal," he said, and frowned at how unconvincing he sounded. He found the need to repeat himself. "Don't be ridiculous. I'm not suicidal."
"There's throwing yourself off a bridge suicidal, and there's just giving up on life suicidal."
"Sam, spare me the psychobabble. My head already hurts."
"I'm worried, Dean."
"There's nothing to worry about!" Dean forced his throat past comfort level, ignoring how much it hurt. "I just....I just want to get past this - angels and demons and all the Apocalypse crap. I want to get back on the road – pop ghosts, drink beer in roadside dives, chat up some girls. That's all, Sam. You don't have to lock up the guns and hide all the knives just because I'm feeling a little bummed out, okay?"
Sam sat back in the chair with a "huff" - pissy. Stubborn too. He wouldn't let it rest.
"Lilith is getting closer to her goal. Angels are dying. If something isn't done, that life will never exist again. Not for us, not for anyone, Dean. Hell is going to rise up and swallow everything."
"You think I don't know that?" Weakening, Dean could barely raise enough energy to get the words out, let alone give them any impact. His voice was a hoarse croak. "But what am I supposed to do about it, huh? I'm no hero. I can't save the world. I can't even save my own...." He paused, inhaling a deep breath before adding, softly, "I'm a coward, Sam."
"You're anything but a coward," Sam replied gently, and not just pityingly, but patronizingly, making Dean grind his teeth. "Dean, if this is about what happened in Hell...."
Hell. Just the very word could trigger a flashback, and it did. Sam's voice was drowned out by the cacophony of noise that never seemed to end down in the Pit – screams of pain, cries of terror, moans of despair. He recalled it all with perfect clarity, from the sounds to the smells. The stench of rotting flesh made his stomach churn. The smell of fresh blood was there too, blood that had spilled from his own veins, and blood he had drawn from others. He remembered how Alastair had smiled when Dean took up the knife and made his first cut, freeing himself from a multitude of agonies....
And breaking the first seal.
I should have known. I should have known there was a catch.
Dean shut down. Conversation over. Done. Sam had crossed the line by bringing up Hell. He couldn't go there, not after what he'd just learned, couldn't talk to Sam, couldn't talk period. His failures in Hell had already been difficult for him to deal with, and now they were insurmountable. He hadn't just caved under torture. He hadn't just tortured souls himself. He had sent the whole world spiraling out of control toward oblivion.
I started all this. It's my fault. But how am I supposed to stop it when I wasn't strong enough to prevent it in the first place? Maybe Sam's calling it right. Maybe I am crippled. I'm definitely not what I was, and I'm not what everyone expects me to be either.
"I'm tired, Sam."
"Dean...."
"Go away." Dean closed his eyes and leaned his head back on the pillow. "I'm tired. My head hurts. Please Sam, just leave me alone."
He heard Sam sigh, and the scrape of the chair being pushed back. "Fine. Get some rest. I'll be at the motel. Call me if you need me."
Sam's voice held the notes of pity, and frustration, but Dean couldn't make his brother understand, and didn't have the strength to even make the attempt. As Sam left he felt a small surge of frustration himself. He hated it when Sam was right, when he plucked emotions right out of Dean's head and exposed them when Dean would rather keep them to himself. Sometimes he did it when Dean wasn't even sure what he was feeling.
I don't want to do this anymore. I don't want to feel this way anymore. I can't do this. I can't be that person. Please....
Alone, Dean didn't bother to put on the stops. Tears blinded him. A sob caught in his throat as he rolled over and buried his face in his pillow, begging silently for God to listen to him.
Stop the ride. I want to get off.
The alarm chases him from a dream, a nightmare that clings to him even as he opens his eyes. His lashes are damp with tears. There remains a heavy feeling deep inside his chest, as if his heart were made of lead.
Find someone else. It's not me....
A hodgepodge of images linger - strange faces, stranger situations, frightening visions plucked straight out of horror movies. This isn't the first time he's dreamed like this. The things he sees are confusing, nonsensical, completely alien, and he's unable to relate them to anything going on in the real world. Yet in his dreams he's in the thick of things, doing battle against the unspeakable, fighting for his life with weapons he's never even seen before. Dreams are influenced by one's waking life, right? How can that be? These....they're someone else's dreams, not his.
Dean sits up in bed and turns off the alarm. The dream is already fading, along with the uneasy feeling it left behind. He writes it all off as indigestion. He's been trying a new macrobiotic diet.
"Too much fiber," he murmurs.
Rolling out of the bed, he pauses to check his day-planner before hustling into the bathroom to shower and shave. By the time he's finished he's forgotten the dreams. All that's on his mind is his eight o'clock meeting and the morning headlines. Stocks are down. His portfolio is going to take another hit. Damn economy.
Stock market crash.
Dean shudders.
Now that – is a nightmare.
.