"Ready to try getting him upstairs?" comes a tentative voice from the door.
Dean looks up and his cheeks explode into a blush. His words were quiet enough that Cas probably didn't hear them, but he doesn't know how long Cas has been standing there and with his luck, the angel probably did see him kissing Sam's forehead. But if he did he doesn't mention it; just smiles a little (and that makes two things tonight that Dean's never seen Cas do before) and moves into the room to help Dean heave Sam to his feet. Sam seems to have almost passed out at this point, and even with Cas's angel super-strength, the two of them have a fair bit of trouble getting over two hundred pounds of pure muscle up two flights of stairs.
When Sam collapses heavily onto the bed he's out before he hits the pillow. Dean's back is now so stiff he probably won't be able to move tomorrow, but at least Bobby thought to get Sam in sweats and a t-shirt before they locked him up so now Dean isn't faced with the nearly impossible task of getting Sam out of jeans and however many layers of shirts the cold-blooded freak had layered on that morning.
Dean wipes the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, and glances over as Castiel. The angel is purposefully not meeting his eyes, and Dean's pretty sure now that he did see that kiss and is trying not to say anything about it.
"Not so easy to think of him as my little brother once you've had to carry him, huh?" Dean jokes, trying to cover up the awkward moment.
Cas looks at him curiously. "I don't understand."
Dean can't help but laugh. "It's – never mind. Thanks for helping me with Sam, is what I meant."
Cas nods. "You're welcome. I'll, uh, leave you alone now."
Cas disappears into thin air before Dean can even take a breath, and then before he gets through his sigh of amusement, he chokes on it as Cas reappears again.
"Shit," Dean breathes. "You really gotta stop doing that."
"Sorry," Cas mumbles. "I was just wondering if it would be alright for me to come back in the morning. I'd like to make sure Sam's okay."
Dean can't help the smile that spreads onto his face. "Yeah, 'course. Or you can, you know, stay here tonight. If you want. There's another bedroom just down the – do angels even sleep?"
"Not much."
"Well, Bobby probably won't sleep much either. I bet he'd enjoy the company, especially if you let him get you drunk."
Cas nods solemnly, not catching Dean's humorous tone. He takes one last glance at Sam, and Dean swears he can see fondness in Cas's eyes before he vanishes and from the floor below Dean can hear Bobby curse in annoyance at being surprised.
"I'm really startin' to like that guy," Dean says to no one in particular.
His gaze slowly drifts to the sleeping form of his brother, sprawled messily in the middle of the double bed, and Dean takes a deep breath and gets to work. First he peels off Sam's slightly damp socks and replaces them with a dry pair from his duffle-bag, because for some reason if Sam has cold feet he'll wake up practically hypothermic. Dean shakes his head. How can such a big body be so cold all the time? Dean can't count how many times he's woken up in the middle of the night, so hot he can barely breathe, because Sam's pressed up against him as if they were trapped in a blizzard and the heat's gone out. And Dean will throw the blankets off himself so he doesn't freakin' melt, but Sam comes first so Dean never pushes his brother away, even when he's wanted to. Dean smiles to himself and wonders if Sam even knows that. He doubts it.
Then Dean goes about pulling the quilt out from under Sam so he can tuck him in. He briefly considers trying the tablecloth method – yanking the blanket so hard and fast that it will slip free without Sam even moving – but as appealing as that sounds, Dean figures it's not worth the possibility of Sam ending up on the floor. So he spends the next few minutes tugging the quilt down inch by inch, going as slowly and carefully as he can to avoid waking Sam. Eventually he pulls the last little bit free, and then drapes it back over Sam and pushes him gently over to one side of the bed so there'll be room for both of them. If he ever goes to sleep, that is. He's exhausted, but he can't deny how much he'd rather spend the night watching Sam breathe; being on guard duty against the nightmares Dean knows will come after what Sam's been through. And, Dean resentfully admits to himself, he'd really rather not have to deal with his own dreams tonight, which will definitely be plagued with images of finding Sam in that room, lifeless and bloody. Dean shudders at the very thought.
He takes a few deep breaths to calm himself. Sam's okay, he's right here.
He has every intention of heading downstairs to say a quick goodnight to Bobby, maybe downing a couple to shots to get himself out of his head, and then dropping his worn out body into the bed beside Sam and sleeping until tomorrow, but Sam looks so … peaceful; so childlike in sleep that Dean suddenly can't help himself. He drops to his knees beside Sam's sleeping form and reaches out to smooth the hair away from Sam's eyes. Sam frowns and he makes a snuffling noise as he leans into the touch. It feels to Dean like a small victory – at least Sam still trusts him, still subconsciously looks to his big brother for comfort. But it still has Dean's eyes filling with tears again, and damn it this day just won't be satisfied until it breaks him completely, will it?
"I'm so sorry, Sammy," Dean whispers, stroking Sam's frown-lines with his thumb until they smooth. "I'm sorry we had to do this to you again."
His fingers continue their gentle movement across Sam's face, and it occurs to him that Sam would never let Dean pet him like this if he were awake. He used to, when they were little. And even later than that; during the first few years they were together again after Stanford. Lately, though, Sam has just become a different person entirely. He's turned hard and resilient and ruthless in a way that would once upon a time have made Dean proud, but right now just has Dean pining for the sweet little brother he's lost.
"It's all my fault," he says feebly. "The second we found out what was happening in that town I should have realized it would get to you. I should've gotten you out of there before any of this happened."
Sam gives another helpless, sleepy sigh and Dean can feel his resolve crumbling. He presses a kiss to Sam's sweaty forehead, tasting salt and harsh motel soap and underneath the overwhelming flavor of Sam. It's everything that's ever felt like home to Dean, but if he sits here any longer he's gonna start crying again, and he's had damn near enough of that for the rest of his life, so Dean strokes Sam's cheek one more time and then hurries to the bathroom to splash some cold water on his face before he starts feeling like throwing up again. Dean chances a glance at himself in the mirror, but that only makes him want to smash it, so he looks away quickly and drops heavily to the edge of the bathtub.
Despite what that jerk horseman said, Dean knows he isn't really dead inside. He may be broken down and quickly losing hope and so freaking tired, but he isn't dead. Not yet. Not as long as he still has Sam. He's pretty sure the horseman was almost right; Dean's often amazed these days at how little he feels for … well … pretty much anything. A hunt goes badly and he doesn't care. A swarm of demons takes out an entire town, and where he once would have been outraged at the loss of so many good people, now he hardly even flinches. The world's going to end bloody anyway, right? Isn't that what everyone says? If it wasn't for Sam, Dean's pretty sure he would have given up by now, and that's so unlike him that it's terrifying. And when Dean is really honest with himself, he knows that's what scared him so much tonight – the knowledge that if Sam didn't make it, Dean would never find the strength to carry on. It's selfish and cowardly and he knows it, but if Sam is the only thing keeping him going. He would be letting Bobby and Cas down in the worst way, but what the hell, it's not like he hasn't already let them down; them and everyone else. He can't stop the apocalypse like Cas seems to think he can, he couldn't keep Bobby from being paralyzed, he couldn't save Pamela or Ellen or Jo … smart, funny, beautiful Jo, who he loved like a little sister, and it's all his fault that she had to die.
He's even let Sam down, in more ways than he ever thought he could. It's been a long time since he's been a big brother Sam could be proud of. Years, even.
Dean sits there for about twenty minutes, hating himself so much he almost wishes he could throw his worthless soul back into Hell himself. Because that's the horrible truth of it all; Dean may have died to save Sam, but that doesn't change the fact that he deserved what he got in Hell. He's failed everyone he's ever loved, and a few billion people he's never even met. When his eyelids start to feel heavy he reluctantly lets himself off the hook for the night, but growls "I'm coming back for you tomorrow, asshole," at his reflection in the mirror before he slams the door shut.
Sam is still sleeping soundly when Dean re-enters their room, so he makes quick work of stripping down to his boxers and climbing gratefully into the warm bed beside his brother. But before he can get comfy enough to try and get some much needed sleep, Sam stirs.
Dean freezes, hoping Sam will just drift back to unconsciousness, but no such luck. Sam tosses his head towards Dean and draws in a shaky breath.
"Dean?"
"I'm here, Sam, go back to sleep," Dean whispers.
"Didn't think you'd be here …"
Sam still hasn't opened his eyes and Dean can't tell for sure if he's actually awake or not.
"Where else would I be?"
Sam mumbles something but the words are muffled against the pillow and Dean only catches the tail end, "- be angry … hate me …"
Dean feels his chest clench and his eyes burn like they've been splashed with acid and dear god, is this really what he's done? Has he really been so unforgiving and closed off that he's made his brother honestly believe he might hate him?
"I don't, Sammy. I couldn't ever hate you." Dean's voice breaks somewhere in the middle and he can't even bring himself to care.
Sam is silent for a minute and Dean begins to think maybe he's fallen back asleep, but then he cracks one eye open a sliver and continues on his semi-conscious 'lets break Dean's heart' warpath.
"Don't call me Sammy," he mumbles. "Not your Sammy anymore … don't deserve …"
Dean holds his breath but Sam just curls his body further into Dean's and trails off with a quiet sigh. He seems to have really fallen back asleep this time, although Dean isn't positive how awake he was in the first place, but either way the damage is done. Sam thinks Dean hates him … he thinks he doesn't deserve to … Dean can't even finish that thought. He knew he'd been scaring Sam in the last few months with how lethargic he'd become, but he had no idea it was this bad. And worse, he has no idea how the hell he's ever going to fix it.
"Why, Sam?" she whispers brokenly. "How could you just leave me there when you knew what was coming for me?"
"No … I didn't know, Jess, I swear I didn't."
"Yes you did!" she shrieks, her hair whipping around her head in a breeze Sam can't feel.
"It was just a dream!" he pleads desperately. "I didn't know what it meant, if I'd thought for a second you were in real danger I would never have left!"
"You and I both know that's not true, Sam," she chides calmly, too calmly as crimson begins to soak through her white t-shirt. "But it wouldn't have mattered even if you did know what the dreams meant, would it? I was doomed from the second we said hello, because there was never any doubt you'd choose him over me."
"Jess …"
"Admit it, Sam." Her beautiful face is twisted into a sardonic smile, lit up by the flames that suddenly begin to lick her feet. "You may have enjoyed pretending with me for a while, but the truth is you always belonged to him. I never stood a chance, not really. You were gone the second he showed up in our kitchen that night."
Wake up! This is over now, Cas said it was gone! Wake UP, Sam!
Sam can feel one of his legs struggling to kick the other; to pull him back to consciousness where Jessica is just a beautiful memory and Dean is what's real. His body is trying, but his mind laughs cruelly and drags him back down into sleep.
Her petite frame is fully engulfed in flames now, orange and red curling around her limbs and Sam can smell flesh burning and hair sizzling. His dreams had been plagued with those smells for so many months after she died, and even though it's been years since he's allowed himself to think about it, it all comes back as vivid and as horrible as if it happened yesterday.
"Maybe I wouldn't have had to die like this, Sam," she says quietly. "Maybe, if you'd ever really loved me."
"I did love you! Jess, I loved you so much!" Sam cries, feeling close to tears now.
"Not like him, though."
Jess smiles sadly and then all Sam can see is fire.
