Dean's heart lurches and his body twitches violently at a particularly loud bang from the floor below. He's squeezed his eyes shut tightly, so tightly that it's starting to give him a headache, but he doesn't care. He wishes he could rip off his ears; claw at his brain until everything went silent and fuzzy. Anything so that he never has to hear that awful noise ever again. He never thought he would have to hear it again. He thought this chapter of their lives was over. He would give anything, anything to make it stop. But he's been through this before, and there isn't a damn thing to do but wait. Wait until it runs its course … or until a heart stops beating. It's a whichever-comes-first situation, and at this point, Dean isn't sure who's heart it's gonna be judging by the way Bobby's white-knuckling the arms of his wheelchair. And as for Dean … well, if it were possible to die from heartbreak, Dean's pretty sure he'd already be dead. His back aches from sitting in the same position for too long – on a couch in Bobby's living room, bent over with his head in his hands – but it's nothing, nothing at all compared to the ache in his chest that doesn't have anything to do with a stiff muscle. It has everything to do with that horrible, gut wrenching noise that echoes up from the basement, ricocheting off the walls and burrowing into Dean's brain; suffocating him, drowning him.

They've been at this for hours. Five, to be exact. Five excruciating hours of digging his fingernails into his palms and watching the seconds tick by like dripping molasses and feeling each cell of his body die its own slow, painful death. Five hours of listening to the person he loves more than anything; more than Dad, more than hunting, more than sex and whiskey and his car and Led Fucking Zepplin … more than life itself … five hours of listening to his precious baby brother being tortured within an inch of his precious life. Dean's devoted nearly every waking minute of his last twenty-six years on this earth to keeping exactly this from happening – keeping Sammy away from pain and fear, keeping him safe. And now, for the second time, Dean has spent nearly three hundred snail-slow minutes of listening to Sam screaming in unimaginable agony; screaming 'no' and 'please' and, worst of all, 'Dean'. And Sam's every shout, every desperate plea for Dean to help him; to save him, every single fucking one feels like a knife through Dean's heart, with a side of his intestines being ripped out through his mouth.

At first, Bobby and Cas kept reminding him that they just had to wait; "He just has to get it out of his system, Dean," they said with fake encouraging smiles plastered on their faces. Fucking liars. They had no idea. This could kill Sam. It didn't last time, but that is in no way a guarantee, and there's no chance Dean would survive that. Not this time. But they'd insisted on remaining positive, at least at first. Then, when Dean ignored them, Bobby busied himself with cleaning his vast inventory of artillery, and Cas … Cas sat in the corner and stared at Dean through watery blue eyes as if he were feeling empathy for the first time. Then Dean turned to the seemingly never-ending supply of scotch in the cabinet above Bobby's fridge; counting on the warm, amber liquid to dull his senses, but with every sip Dean could only hear Sam that much clearer, like the alcohol was tuning him out to everything but his suffering brother. So Dean put the bottle back, barely restraining himself from smashing it. Everything else in his life had turned on him, why not liquor too? Seems only fair. Or it would, if fair had ever been a word in Dean's vocabulary.

Dean jumps again after a particularly frantic round of "Dean, please! Please help me, I'm so sorry, please!", and suddenly he feels about eight seconds away from a Niagara Falls of tears. He stands up abruptly and all but runs out of the room, ignoring calls from Bobby and in the space of a blink he's in front of the thick, iron door that dares to separate him from Sam. His fist is an inch away from the handle; demon blood be damned, Sam needed him!, when he feels a firm hand on his shoulder.

"Dean, you can't."

Fuck.

"Cas, please, he – "

"He's fine," Cas says resolutely. "It's all in his mind, Dean, you know that. He's not really in danger. Just be patient, before too long it'll be out of his system and he'll be okay again."

"I can't just – Cas, he's – "

"He's your little brother, I know, Dean. And I know how much this hurts you, and I'm sorry. But the best thing we can do for him right now is leave him alone."

Dean's stomach suddenly feels like it's trying to crawl out through his throat. He knows Cas is right, but he can't … this is Sam and he's scared and in pain and Dean can't just leave him in there to suffer all alone. Take care of Sammy. John's words reverberate in Dean's head; mocking him, kicking him when he's down with steel-toed boots.

And then out of nowhere there's a blinding flash of white hot light, and before he can take a breath he's outside. The cool air slaps his face and somehow manages to sedate him enough for the frenetic metronome of his heart to slow, if just a little bit. Opening his eyes, Dean realizes he's out back in Bobby's junkyard, surrounded by the shells of a hundred cars that seem to sneer at the shell of a person he's become in some kind of disgusting poetic satire.

Dean fucking hates poetry. And now Cas is staring at him again. Perfect.

"Dean …"

"I – I know, Cas," Dean interrupts. "Just don't, okay?"

"He's going to be alright, Dean. He didn't drink very much this time and it wasn't over an extended period like it was before. He just needs – "

"To get it out of his system, yeah, I know!" Dean snaps, leaning against a car and grinding the heels of his palms into his eyes, sort of wishing he could claw them out along with his ears because when this is over, Sam will be weak and broken and seeing his usually powerful brother like that is almost as hard to take as the screaming. Almost.

The car gives a little beneath him and Dean can feel Cas mirroring his stance beside him.

"You're angry with me," he deadpans.

"No, I'm not," Dean says quietly. "I just … Cas, I just really hate listening to him in there."

Cas is silent for a few minutes and Dean can feel tears prickling at the corners of his eyes but he holds them in.

"You know, angels aren't supposed to feel sympathy for humans," Cas begins after a moment. "Our father tells us we have to love them and so we do, but we don't really understand what that kind of love is. I never knew what it felt like to worry about someone before I met you. But you surprised me. You were so different from any human I'd ever met, and I started to care for you. And, well, we both know everything sort of went to hell after that."

Cas laughs quietly and Dean isn't sure how to react to that. He doesn't think he's ever heard Cas laugh before.

"Anyway, my point is that sometime in the last year I also started to care about Sam, flawed as he may be. I felt … well, I don't know exactly what I felt tonight. But I didn't like it, and Bobby informs me that what you're feeling is twenty times worse, so for that I am truly sorry, Dean."

Dean feels a gentle hand touch his shoulder and he looks up into cobalt blue eyes shining with sincerity. He doesn't know whether to laugh or cry. Or maybe throw up and then punch something. But any such thoughts are wiped from his brain like chalk off a blackboard when Bobby's voice rings out through the night.

"It's been awfully quiet down there for a while, Dean," he calls from the porch.

Oh no. Dean takes a few steps but before he can break into a full run he is blasted by another flash, and then half a second later he finds himself back in the basement, blinking the stars out of his eyes and glaring at Cas.

"Quit doing that!" he cries indignantly, and then rips the viewing latch open to scan the round room for Sam.

His brother is slumped on the floor against the far wall, his body pathetically crumpled and with a flash of terror, Dean realizes he can't tell from this vantage point whether or not Sam is breathing.

"Sam?" he calls sharply; no response. "Shit, he's not moving, Cas, help me get this stupid thing open!"

He fumbles with the vault lock for a few painful seconds and then the door is swinging open of its own accord, nearly taking him out in the process, but he doesn't have the time to bitch at that damn angel for not warning him. He takes a lightening-quick glance around the room, just to be sure, and then he's at Sam's side in no time flat, dropping to his knees and grabbing at Sam's chest.

… breathing … heartbeat … thank god.

Cas catches up with him then, and he's helping Dean hoist the dead weight of Sam's body to a sitting position so Dean can give him a gentle shake.

"Sam?" Dean asks cautiously and then Sam's breath is catching and his eyes are opening slowly, blinking groggily at the harsh fluorescents.

"Dean?" he croaks weakly.

"Yeah, Sammy, it's me – "

"Open your eyes, Sam," Cas commands, grabbing Sam's chin before Dean even registers movement.

Sam gasps a little in surprise but Cas ignores it, pulling Sam's face toward his and using his fingers to pry open one of Sam's eyes. He stares at it intently, squinting and clenching his jaw, and Dean knows what he's looking for. Half of him wants to hit Cas for treating his brother so roughly when he's so weak, and the small noises of protest Sam are making don't help, but the other half is glad someone is strong enough to take control of the situation because clearly he isn't.

Cas closes his eyes for a moment and then squints into Sam's once more. Then he releases his grip on Sam's chin and nods at Dean.

"It's gone."

Dean breathes an enormous sigh of relief.

"C'mon, Sammy, let's get you up."

"No!" Cas says harshly.

Sam flinches at the outburst and Dean gets the sense that his brother still isn't quite sure where he is or what's going on.

"Why not?"

"Don't move him just yet." Cas continues to peer at Sam, calculating.

"Why?" Dean asks wearily. "Cas, you don't think …"

The angel shakes his head. "No, it's all gone, I'm sure of it. But just let him rest for a few minutes."

"Okay." Dean isn't sure what it is Cas is seeing when he looks at Sam, but he trusts that Cas knows what he's talking about.

"I'll go let Bobby know that Sam is alright, then I'll come back in a bit and we'll get him upstairs."

"Yeah, o – "

Dean looks up and suddenly he and Sam are alone.

" – kay," he finishes, chuckling. "I friggin' hate it when he does that."

He looks back to Sam and lunges forward as his brother starts to slip down the wall. He pulls Sam back up to sitting and then settles in beside him, smiling a little when Sam groans and his head falls heavily against Dean's shoulder.

"Sorry, big guy, you gotta stay awake or there's no way we'll get your Sasquatch body up the stairs," Dean murmurs affectionately.

He pulls his arm out from under Sam to wrap it around the trembling shoulders, giving his brother a light squeeze and then bending his arm at the elbow so his fingers can slip home into Sam's sweat-damp hair. Sam automatically snuggles in closer, probably not even aware that he's doing it. Dean's other hand goes up to push the chestnut strands out of tired eyes. Sam's breathing is coming in harsh, shallow bursts now and Dean almost starts shaking himself as his mind floods with images of blood dripping off Sam's strong chin; the way his nose always bleeds with the effort of twisting a demon right out of a human body … and how much he'd hated having to leave Sam trapped in that hotel room. How desperate he was to cut the damn ring off that bastard's finger and then get Sammy as far away from that town as he could, … and the painful clenching of his chest when he realized it hadn't worked; that he'd have to lock Sam up again – force him to go through agonizing, excruciating withdrawal. Again. Then there's the nearly invariable racket; the constant echoing in his ears of his baby brother pleading fanatically for his life, begging Dean to help him. That was the worst of everything, and Dean doesn't think it will ever stop haunting him.

Dean turns his head toward Sam's, fervently nuzzling the soft hair with his nose and inhaling deeply; that warm, deliciously earthy Sam-smell filling his mouth and nostrils, and soothing him like nothing else can. It brings him back to the present where Sam is slumped against him; breathing like its causing him pain to do so; and where the hell is Cas? He'd said he would only be gone for a minute and all Dean wants is to get Sam into bed so he can tuck him in and spend the night next to him; watching over his little brother and keeping him safe like he's supposed to.

"Dean?" Sam wheezes, gasping roughly like he's been recently strangled.

"Yeah?" Dean answers warily.

"I … so … sorry …" Sam forces out in a frail, breathy tone.

"Shh, Sammy, it's alright."

Sam shakes his head slowly and barrels on trying to speak from exhausted lungs. "Tried, Dean … tried … not to … couldn't …"

"I know you did," Dean soothes, petting the side of Sam's face gently. "I know you couldn't control it. This one wasn't your fault, okay?"

"Not … mad at me?"

"No," Dean says thickly, "no I'm not. Just want you to be okay. That's all I've ever wanted."

He's been on the verge of tears for hours now, and he wishes Sam would just stop. He doesn't care anymore how they'll get him upstairs; he wishes Sam would just fall asleep or something because Dean really doesn't want to cry right now. But Sam, in true Sam fashion, refuses to stop until he's said every last thing on his mind.

"Still …" he coughs weakly "… love me?"

Well that does the trick. Damn it, why can't Sam ever quit before Dean starts to cry? His traitorous eyes fill with tears and he squeezes them shut to keep the hot liquid from falling. Dean tightens his grip on Sam and presses a kiss into his temple.

"Always," he whispers, a few tears spilling down his cheeks but hopefully Sam is too out of it to notice. "So much, Sammy."

To be continued, soon, I swear. I'm know I'm not usually good at quick updates, but this time I mean it!