There was no end in sight for Sam's frustration. He couldn't hunt, couldn't even walk. He tried to imagine fighting monster with crutches, sardonically picturing himself taking swings at his enemies with his temporary substitute "legs". The imagery he saw made him scoff. He was pissed as all hell at Castiel. It was his fault that this happened. If he hadn't shown up when he did, hadn't distracted him, that damned werewolf wouldn't have gotten the open window to snap his leg. Sam Winchester prayed endlessly to Castiel, demanding that he get his ass down here and fix him up, but Castiel didn't answer. Figures.
As of late, Sam was aware that something was wrong with him. More than just a broken leg. He felt a gaping hollowness inside. The reason for that was obvious. His vacation to the hot spot Downstairs was by no means a fun getaway. But for some reason, he couldn't quite remember it. He couldn't grasp at the memories associated with the time he did in the Cage. Not that he wanted to. They weren't exactly "trophy memories", as his brother would put it. And Sam was okay with this. He was okay with feeling this wrongness deep down. He knew it was wrong, but he didn't care. He didn't have the capacity to care anymore, and frankly, that felt wonderful. It was bliss. Human emotion was nothing but cumbersome baggage anyway.
But this– this just pissed him off. With a sniveling quirk of his nose and lips, he bowed his head once again as he was sitting up against the headboard of his motel bed.
"Cas, I know you can hear me," he started, in a tone that almost sang, "C'mon, you owe me for what you did. You can't keep ducking my calls forever, man." Sam even closed his eyes this time. As if doing so would coax the angel out of whatever pocket of reality he was hiding in. The younger brother couldn't be certain, but he got the on-and-off feeling that Castiel was there, was watching him.
Castiel took off immediately after smiting the werewolf with his almighty powers. He didn't even stop to help Sam get to his brother. Dean found him minutes later, on the ground, applying pained pressure to the breakage. He didn't understand why their "comrade" was reflecting favoritism toward Dean. He almost always came running when his brother was the one calling him down from whatever lofty seat he sat upon. That just pissed him off even more. But now? Sam was beginning to come under the impression that Castiel wanted nothing to do with him. Like he was trying to avoid the Winchester out of some narrow–or broad–sense of guilt. All he had to do was heal him and everything would be set straight, he thought. But if the hunter was honest with himself, he would probably still hold onto his grudge against the celestial regardless.
Sam opened his eyes. Again, he only found an empty room. Air whittled from his nose in a sigh. His head tipped back against the wall. If only summoning angels was as easy as summoning demons.
Sam's head picked up again.
He got everything he needed from the Impala's trunk. It wasn't easy, having to rely on a crutch to get from Point A to Point B, but he managed to get some candles, chalk, a basin, and a few other trinkets, mostly herbal leaves and petals. He wrapped up the trinkets in a small leather bag, a "hex bag" of a kind that held a rosary within. On the floor of the motel room, he drew a circle, and divided it evenly into four quadrants. Each quadrant received an Enochian sigil. Each quadrant received a lit candle as well, sitting beyond the circle. The basin sat before the circle, and the hunter dropped the ingredients into it. Then, with effort, he pulled himself back up onto his good foot. He struck a match, and uttered a few guttural syllables. But he stopped, and looked up. There was a smoke detector directly overhead. Sam stared at the device for a moment, before anger twisted up in his face, and he pinched the flame of the match between two fingers. So much for that.