Chapter Nine

Dean was getting progressively worse.

Sam knew that Dean would never straight-out tell him that, but it was clear as day. Dean's main symptom was grogginess, which Sam was secretly grateful for. There were plenty of other major illness side effects that his brother could have been going through, such as a runny nose and nausea...

Sam really wasn't in the mood to deal with snot and vomit. Even if it would be to help his brother, Sam still preferred sitting around, waiting for Dean to wake up.

The Winchesters were currently residing in their third motel since they had left Durham. Although Dean had insisted they keep going, Sam always made sure to stop at a semi-decent place whenever his brother started looking rather queasy. He had to admit, not his favorite thing to do, but he didn't want to risk Dean getting worse. And he would, eventually, if he didn't take care of himself properly.

Sam drummed his fingertips on the wooden table he lounged by. The chair he sat on was uncomfortable and stiff-backed, but he didn't care.

Dean was currently deeply asleep sprawled out in his bed, fully clothed. He didn't even have the strength change now. Sam was simply waiting for him to wake up. He'd been out for almost three hours now, and Sam was not only anxious to hit the road, but unease was slowly worming its way into his brain.

This wasn't normal. Even though it'd been quite a while since Dean had been sick, Sam knew for a fact that his brother, however ill he got, would take every chance he got to complain. It was just...Dean. But not now. For the past…he didn't know how many hours, Sam had been seeing Dean's closed lids more than his eyes. And, frankly, he was confused, if not slightly concerned.

In the back of his mind, he still held onto the possibility that Dean was playing him. Although his logical side told him continuously that he was being stupid, and, not to mention, selfish, he still found himself unable to discard that inkling of suspicion.

A part of him didn't want to.

His own brother had betrayed him. He had been prepared to die. Hell, he'd been in the midst of making a deal with Death, the friggin' Horseman of the Apocalypse. And then Dean had interrupted him, tricked him into allowing an angel to possess his body so he would live, exactly what he didn't want. That one selfish move of his brother's had cost them their prophet, who had been as close to family as Cass.

Sam still had nightmares, watching himself kill Kevin over and over again without having control of his body. The loss of the young prophet still cut through him like a razor-sharp, flaming hot knife. But Dean wasn't trying to win back his brother's affections using pity. It just...wasn't him.

Was it?

"I'm hitting it."

Dean looked up at Sam, his heart pounding in his chest. There were so many things he wanted to say to his brother, but...how could he possibly figure out how to phrase them without the younger Winchester exploding like he had done already? So, he did what he always did. He winged it in a half a second.

"Yeah," Dean responded awkwardly. "Hey." He added before Sam could leave.

"Yeah?" Sam's voice held an undertone of caution, as if he were unconsciously warning his older brother not to step too far out of line.

Dean directed his gaze at the glass of whiskey in his hand, unwilling to look his brother in the eye. "About what you said the other day..." He trailed off, unsure of how to say what he planned to.

Sam leaned against the doorframe, giving Dean an inquisitive look. But there was an aura of sarcasm around him as he replied. "I thought that didn't bother you." His younger brother's statement was almost mocking.

Dean ignored him. "You know, Sam, I saved your hide back there," Dean's voice was low and husky as he spoke. "And I saved your hide at that church...and the hospital. I may not think things all the way through. Okay? But what I do, I do because it's the right thing." He fell silent, waiting for Sam's answer. When his brother remained quiet, staring at Dean with a brooding look on his face, Dean continued, picking up his glass for another sip of whiskey. "I'd do it again." He added, matter-of-factly.

Finally, after a pause, Sam replied. "And that...is the problem." The younger Winchester allowed his words to sink into Dean's mind before speaking again. "You think you're my savior...my brother, the hero. You swoop in, and even when you mess up, you...think what you're doing is worth it because you've convinced yourself you're doing more good than bad...but you're not."

Dean stared at him blankly, allowing his words to sink in with silent, controlled dignity. He wanted to say something, to do something to persuade his brother that he was wrong. But...was it possible that Sam was right?

"I mean, Kevin's dead, Crowley's in the wind," Sam went on, his voice becoming angrier with every syllable he spoke. "We're no closer to beating this angel thing. Please tell me...what is the upside of me being alive?"

Mild shock flooded through Dean. He didn't even bother to think through whether or not Sam's question had been rhetorical. "You kidding me? You and me - fighting the good fight together." In the heat of the moment, Dean didn't give flying crap about how corny his words sounded...because they were true.

Sam huffed out a harsh sigh of frustration, and turned to leave. He almost did, but then he thought better of it and swiveled around. "Okay." He said, stalking over to the table where his older brother sat. Dean unconsciously leaned back as Sam sat down. "Just once...be honest with me. You didn't save me...for me. You did it for you."

What the hell does he mean by that? That thought was the first that ran through Dean's mind when Sam spoke those words. "What are you talking about?" He asked, his eyes wide as he focused on his brother's face.

"I was ready to die, I was ready," Sam responded. "I should have died, but you...you didn't want to be alone." Sam let his words hang in the air for a moment, and Dean tilted his head, practically gawking at him in confusion. "And that's what all this boils down to, you can't stand the thought of being alone."

"All right." Dean interrupted Sam, drawing back and climbing to his feet.

Sam barely gave him a chance to get a word in, sounding increasingly angrier. "I'll give you this much. You are certainly willing to do the sacrificing...as long as you're not the one being hurt."

Dean was finding it rather difficult to keep his cool. Was that what Sam thought? Was that really what his own brother assumed about him? He saved his life back there - hell, Sam even stopped the Trials once Dean convinced him not to. He hadn't been willing to die then. Now it was suddenly different? Dean felt the need to prove Sam wrong, to show him that he wasn't just doing it for himself. "All right, you want to be honest?" Dean began. "If the situation were reversed...and I was dying, you'd do the same thing."

There was a short pause while Dean waited with bated breath. Finally, Sam spoke, his voice soft, yet not guilty. "No, Dean." He answered with a minuscule shake of his head. "I wouldn't. Same circumstances, I..." He trailed off for a millisecond, meeting Dean's shocked gaze. "I wouldn't." Dean stared at him, his eyes wide with disbelief. There was a long silence between the two Winchesters before Sam broke it. "I'm gonna get to bed."

And before he knew it, Sam was out the door. Dean blinked slowly, looking after his brother, both distress and devastation growing in his gut. He was nauseated by Sam's words...

No, Dean. I wouldn't.

Dean was still asleep after five hours, and, frankly, Sam was getting worried. It wasn't like Dean to sleep for this long without stirring. Sam had passed out for about an hour after Dean had fallen asleep, exhausted from the wait. By the time he woke up, Dean was still under.

Sam would have tried waking his brother earlier, but Dean had been struggling so much lately, what with the Mark, and sleep would do him good. But now, Sam concluded that it was best to wake him.

So, with the best intentions in mind, Sam strode to his brother's motionless form and rested a hand on his shoulder. He shook it gently, and, much to Sam's surprise, Dean inhaled slowly, shifted so his face wasn't buried in his pillow, and opened his eyes. They were unfortunately still glazed with fever and something else Sam couldn't identify. Was that...distress? Something along those lines?

"Dean?" Sam asked slowly, confused as his brother stared at him with such dismay. "You okay, man?"

Dean swallowed harshly and nodded. "Y-yeah. Fine." He responded, struggling into a sitting position. "How long was I...how long was I out?" He looked up at him with tired eyes, and Sam felt suddenly guilty for waking him.

"'Bout five hours." Sam admitted. "You feeling better, man? I think it's time to hit the road."

His older brother nodded slowly, shakily climbing to his feet. "True that," He responded, pulling on his jacket and crossing his arms over his chest for warmth. He felt chilled to the bone and exhausted, which he found pretty damn bizarre, regarding the fact that he had slept for longer than he usually needed to each night. He secured the laces of his boots and grabbed hold of his duffel before looking to Sam. "Let's go. You check out."

Dean expected his head to clear when he stepped out into the cold, bright air, but it did nothing of the kind. Instead, the cool outside atmosphere only made his head throb more. But he didn't care.

His dream was still fresh in mind...Sam's angry claims, his confession that he wouldn't have done the same if the situation had been reversed. Dean still found it hard to believe. Over the years, he and Sam had sacrificed so much for each other. And Sam said he was selfish. Now that Sam's words had sunk in for a few weeks, Dean was beginning to feel resentment.

You are certainly willing to do the sacrificing...as long as you're not the one being hurt.

Dean gritted his teeth. How could Sam say that? If he hadn't been so shocked in that one moment, he would have reminded Sam of the time he had been tortured in Hell. Just so that Sam could live. He wouldn't exactly call that 'not being hurt'.

Angrily, Dean stormed to the passenger door of the Impala and slid into the seat. He slammed the door shut and glared at a random point on the ground. The least his brother could be was grateful. He smacked his palm on the dashboard, as if it would help something, but all his actions rewarded him with was a red and throbbing hand.

Annoyed, Dean stuck his hand into his pocket and fumbled for his flask. After taking a long swig of whiskey, he savored the burn of the liquor sliding down his throat. He knew for a fact that Sam wouldn't approve of him drinking while sick, but he didn't give a crap what his brother thought. The last time he'd been sick was when he was twelve or something...how the hell would Sam know what was good for him?

As Dean spotted Sam emerging from the front lobby of the motel, he dug out his massive headphones and slapped them over his ears, blocking out any outside noise. He switched on the classic rock music that he had loved since before he could remember, allowing it to completely fill his ears. He leaned his head against the window and closed his eyes.

Vaguely, Dean heard his brother speaking to him, but he pretended he hadn't caught what Sam had said. As the Impala's engine revved and the car started down the road, Dean was lulled into a dreamless unconsciousness.

Hopefully it would stay that way.

When he finally awakened, it was to Sam's hand on his shoulder. He grunted, lifting his head and realizing that his headphones were now rather lopsided. He pulled them off and blinked a few times. "We back?" He mumbled, running a hand over his eyes.

"Yeah," Sam responded, opening the Impala's passenger door wider.

Dean stumbled out and headed to the stairwell leading down to the bunker's entrance. All he wanted to do was sleep for a week, but he wasn't sure if he could. His mind felt alert and wide awake, but his body ached with exhaustion. He stood for a moment at the top of the stairs once he crossed the threshold, taking in the familiar view of the bunker. He started when Sam's voice sounded from behind him.

"You want something to eat?"

Dean glanced back at his brother and shook his head. "Nah, I'm good," Before Sam had a chance to reply, Dean was at the bottom of the staircase and heading out of the bunker's main room.

When Dean entered his room, his legs collapsed beneath him, and he half-crawled to the edge of his bed and hoisted himself upwards. For a short while, he lay sprawled lopsidedly on the edge of the mattress, thinking. This was plain bizarre. It didn't seem like he was sick, just...tired. His head throbbed slightly, but he could feel that it was simply due to his inexplicable exhaustion.

His body temperature constantly felt like it was changing, which was another sign of illness that Dean would normally have decided to ignore. But now...he didn't know what to regard.

The pain in his head began to sharpen as he strained his brain too far. So, with a sigh of irritation, he dragged his body up to where his head rested on the pillow. The minute his eyelids shut, he was lost in unconsciousness once more.

This was getting friggin' annoying.

"Hello, Sam."

Castiel was surprised by how level his voice sounded as he greeted the younger Winchester. Only he could hear the lacing of guilt that his tone held within it. He strode to where Sam sat at the table in the bunker's library.

"Hey, Cass," Sam responded, looking up in mild surprise. "You're looking considerably better." His hazel eyes scanned the angel's partially-healed wounds approvingly.

"I'm feeling better, too," Castiel said, replying as he knew he should. His blue gaze surveyed the area quizzically. "Where's Dean?"

"Uh...passed out," Sam answered. "He's not feeling too hot. I checked on him about a half an hour ago, and he was down under." He closed his laptop and stood up, checking up on his friend's injuries. "Not so bad." He muttered, half to himself.

"Dean's ill?" Castiel inquired, raising his eyebrows. Never, in the five years he had known the hunter, had he gotten seriously sick. And that was saying something. He knew Dean well enough to be able to safely say that if he had been feeling off, he would keep it to himself. It wasn't normal for Dean to admit it so freely. "And he told you?" He added, wondering if Sam could answer his question.

As if reading his mind, Sam replied. "Not willingly, of course. He fell asleep behind the wheel, almost crashed the Impala. It was a close call."

Castiel didn't answer, thinking hard. Was this Crowley's doing? He wouldn't doubt it...but he knew for a fact that the King of Hell wouldn't simply cause Dean to contract an illness. If Crowley had planned this, then Dean's inexplicable sickness was something much more than what it seemed. He had to figure out what it was before it got worse.

"Mind if I see how he's doing?" Cass inquired slowly, trying to make his statement casual. He didn't want Sam to become suspicious...no use in dragging him into this mess.

"Uh...no," Sam replied, gesturing widely towards the hallway where Dean's room was. "Go ahead. But if he's still under, try not to wake him up, or he'll be pissed. Plus, in my honest opinion, he needs the rest."

"Of course." Castiel said, heading down the corridor as Sam settled back into his chair with a bored look on his face.

The angel tread softly, trying to heed Sam's advice. When he reached Dean's door, he did his utmost best to silently pulled it open. The hinges let out a quiet creak, but it didn't wake the older Winchester, whose sleeping form was revealed when Castiel pushed open the door.

Cass rushed hurriedly to Dean's side, not wanting to waste a minute of time when something terrible could be happened to Dean. He gently pressed two fingers to the hunter's forehead, closing his own eyes as he did so.

Immediately, Dean's internal thoughts and dreams flooded into Castiel's brain, filled with turmoil and devastated loss. Cass pulled his hand back with unease. Only one, befuddled thought ran through his mind...

What the hell had Crowley done to Dean?

Castiel didn't even bother to bid farewell to Sam before he left the bunker.

What Dean had been dreaming about...it wasn't normal. The scene inside the hunter's mind had been so vivid...so detailed. It had almost seemed as if Dean was living through it for a second time.

Castiel knew about dreams. He knew every nook and corner of a human's mind. As he should, too. Back when he had been a loyal soldier of God...serving under Anna, when she had been his direct superior, of course...and then eventually Zachariah...his garrison had specialized in what he supposed humans would call 'dream-walking'.

It was something most angels were trained to do so it could be performed efficiently while fulfilling an order. To slip quietly into a human's mind to either deliver a message, which was usually the case, or to simply 'eavesdrop' on their dreams or thoughts to gain the information needed.

Not every garrison dealt with direct information from an individual human...the majority were just considered by the angels as smaller beings then themselves who needed to be protected. But whenever Castiel received a task, he carried it out without question, as he had been trained to do.

Chills never failed to go through Castiel's body when he thought about his past self. Everlastingly loyal, fulfilling every duty he was given without even caring about hurting people. He had never realized how heartless he had been until he turned his back on Heaven.

But he wasn't like that anymore.

Castiel shook away his thoughts and once more looked down at the older Winchester's motionless form.

I'll fix this, Dean.

Within seconds, he was gone.

Dean stared at Sam, an intense look in his green eyes. "The angel lied to me. Okay? He...he's not who he said he was. He said his name was Ezekiel. Cool guy, according to Cass, but it's not Ezekiel."

"Well, then who is he?" Sam asked, a half-angry, half-nervous tremor slipping into his tone.

"I don't know." Dean growled. When he spoke again, his own voice was trembling slightly. "Apparently Ezekiel is dead. Whoever this guy is, he can end you in a heartbeat if he wants to, so you have got to dump him." The words flew out of Dean's mouth so fast that Sam looked as if he barely understood what his brother was saying.

There was a long pause between the two Winchesters where Sam exhaled sharply a few times, mulling over the newfound information. "Are you hearing what I'm saying!?" Dean demanded. "I think you're well enough now, but you gotta expel him. Sam?" His younger brother was standing frozen, breathing heavily. After a beat, he strode past Dean. "Sam-" As the younger Winchester began to open the door to leave, Dean turned tail and started towards him. "Hey."

And then it happened. So fast that Dean didn't even have time to think. One minute he was facing Sam, waiting for a response, then he saw a fist flying towards his face, and everything went black.

But it didn't last long.

Again, it was as if the world was put on fast-forward. One moment he was lying unconscious on the floor, and the next, he was stalking into the bunker's library to the sound of Kevin's screams.

"No!" Dean yelled out, his eyes wide with horror as he stared at the white light flooding from the young prophet's shocked gaze. "No, no, no! Kevin!" Dean rushed forward just as Kevin's body collapsed to the ground. But before he could reach him, Sam's hand lashed outward and Dean was thrown back against the wall.

"Sam?" Dean groaned, hoping with all his heart that his brother was still in there somewhere.

The man he thought was his brother slowly turned to face him. "There is no more Sam." He said monotonously. Dean gasped out in pain, unable to lay his eyes on Kevin's dead body. "But I played him convincingly, I thought." The angel continued.

Confusion flowed through Dean, clouding his mind. How in the hell did this angel resist the sigil he'd used in an attempt to knock him out so he could reach Sam? Was he really that powerful? "How did you...?"

"I heard you talk with Kevin Tran tonight," He responded, guessing what Dean meant. He began packing a backpack as he spoke. Dean strained against the invisible force that held him painfully against the wall as the angel slipped the angel tablet into the bag.

"Alter a sigil, even the slightest..." He trailed off. "Alter the spell." He turned to face Dean and lifted up his hand, displaying the dust of markings on his fingers. "Sorry about Kevin, but ultimately...it's for the best. I did what I had to." He strode slowly towards Kevin's motionless body and placed a yellow card on his chest. As Dean looked closer, he saw the small words written on it...

Kevin Tran.

The angel once more looked at Dean, his expression identical to one that Sam would make, but still so different. And then he was gone, out the door, taking Dean's little brother along with him.

As the angel left, Dean was finally released, and he gasped out, collapsing to the floor. He slowly lifted his gaze to Kevin, whose dead, burned-out eyes, which were still smoking, stared straight back at him, lifeless. The door to the bunker shut.

"Kevin?"

Dean asked quietly, as if by some miracle the young prophet would come back to him. After a pause, he spoke again, uttering the same devastated word.

"Kevin?"

His pointless hopes were not fulfilled. Kevin remained still and dead.

A single tear slipped down Dean's cheek.

When Dean opened his eyes, that tear was still there.

He sat up, disoriented, and slowly touched the point on his face where the small streak of moisture was resting. He pulled his hand back and inspected his finger, his brow creased in confusion...

Why was he crying?

He hadn't even dreamed about anything.