1.
Dean is used to the screaming now. It's his lullaby. Can't sleep unless he hears it and wakes up when he doesn't.
The first few days it drove him crazy. Hearing Sam in so much pain made him feel guilty. Like maybe Sammy's addiction was his fault. Maybe he started something more than just the Apocalypse. And that scares him. Because he doesn't want to be responsible for that, doesn't want to carry that kind of weight around. His shoulders can only hold so much.
But Sam's quiet now, has been for a while. And Dean's sitting on the floor, back pressed against the metal of the panic room. He looks up to the ceiling and counts the dimples like stars in the sky, making up fake constellations because he can't really remember the real ones. He hasn't been outside since the night he and Sam drove to Bobby's, roughly two weeks ago.
So he imagines that the ceiling is the inverted version of the night. A white sky decorated with black stars. Stains, he thinks. The word pisses him off because it reminds him of Uriel reminds him of demons reminds him that Sammy is Public Enemy number one right now. And he has to press his head to his knees because the word stain reminds him that he's tired. And Sam isn't screaming so Dean's not sleeping.
Dean should probably be worried about that, he thinks. Because it's been at least an hour since he came down to the panic room looking for rest. Sam hasn't so much as whispered, which scares him a little, too. So Dean lifts his head and presses his ear to the metal.
"I know you're there," Sammy says. He sounds defeated and broken and it silently kills a part of Dean.
"I know," Dean whispers after a long, unplanned pause.
"Dean…"
He flinches when he hears his name. Because it's coming from Sam and it sounds too much like a plea or maybe just a realization that someone with that name actually exists.
And that fucking terrifies him.
Scares the living shit out of Dean, 'cause he doesn't want to be forgotten. Not by anyone, except that he can't help but feel like he already is. Like the angels have just shoved him into a crowd and told him to blend. And he can't do that, can't blend even though he's really fucking trying to. Dean is incapable of not standing out, that's how he got himself into this mess.
He sold his soul at the crossroads for Sammy. It shouldn't have meant more than what it was. People do it all the time. But he was different, Dean guesses. He figures it had something to do with him being righteous or whatever other bullshit the angels want to believe. And so he got marked. Lilith painted a big red bull's-eye on his back with his own blood and happily counted down the days until he was hers.
God, he can still remember his last day with perfect clarity. He can still hear the disembodied snarls of the hell hounds as they snapped at his heels. And Lilith, fuck, that psychotically beautiful grin plastered on her host's lips, he'll never be able to get that image out of his head.
And Sammy is still being so goddamn quiet that it hurts. Because Dean knows what he's going to do about it, know who he's going to call before the name can even register in his brain. It's the only name he can utter, the only one that actually makes sense when his entire life is made up of a bunch of fictitious bullshit.
Dean can't say it out loud, though. Can't manage to even whisper it, not even once. So he says it in his head. Cas, please.
He prays that the angel will hear it, though he knows he will. But then again, he's been calling Castiel for two weeks now. Fucking praying down on his knees every goddamn night and he doesn't even have a misplaced feather to show for it.
So Dean doesn't expect tonight to be any different.
Still he tries. Still he folds his hands, bows his head and mouths words over and over. He says, "Help Sam," and "If you make him better, I'll never ask for another goddamn thing,"
Dean says, "Sammy needs this, Cas. Please," But he never prays for himself. Doesn't think the angel will come if he decides to be selfish. So he never says I or me, just him and Sam. Like his brother is more important here. Because no matter what the angels tell him, no matter how "special" he's supposed to be, Sammy will always beat him. Demon blood or not, Sam always has the upper hand.
Castiel doesn't show.
He crushes his face into his palms, breathing out a breath he hadn't known he was holding.
"Cas," Dean finally says the name out loud.
The rough scrape of a body moving on concrete startles Dean. He sits up a little more and smashes his ear against the metal, hoping to hear something. Anything.
"He won't come," Sam says.
Except that. Dean sighs.
"I know," he agrees after a long bat of reluctance.
"Then why do you keep asking?"
Dean is quiet for a minute. He tries to think of an answer, something that will please Sammy, because everything he does is always about Sammy. And this is no exception. Except that he can't come up with anything that doesn't seem like a flat out lie. So he chokes out, "Because it's all I've got left, Sammy."
"Thanks," Sam whispers. Dean feels his body get heavier when he hears his brother move away from the door.
He feels sick.