Waking up hurts. It shouldn't, but it does. More than unconsciousness. He barely remembers the night before, when Sam finally took enough Nyquil to force himself into a drugged sleep with the only purpose being to forget everything except his own name. And to be honest, maybe forgetting his name would be a good idea, too. Who wants to be known as the fuck up of the family anyways? As of last night, his brain was too muddled to even create decent nightmares. But now? He's tempted to take more cold meds just to reach catalepsy. He can hear Dean's voice telling him in the back of his head that it's a bad idea, to mix drugs into sleeping pills, but the memory of a brother who used to care about his wellbeing just makes him want to sleep more.

If he focuses, he can hear his brother writhing in the other room, behind iron demon-proofed walls. It makes him want to hurl, kind of like Dean is every ten minutes. He's running a too-high-for-comfort fever now, too, and Sam knows that can't be a good sign. Sure, they want him human, but they don't want him a dead human. He just needs his brother back, and then maybe he'll be able to sleep without heavy duty cold meds, and function without one serving too much liquor in his system.

But at least his family hasn't injected holy water into his system with the intent of burning out any impurities in his soul, knowing it will cause him physical pain.

Guilt doesn't go well with Bourbon. For a second, he thinks he's going to throw up again, but the guilt-ridden nausea passes and leaves anxiety behind. He's twitching and tapping, his fingers hitting the solid wood of the desk with a tap. The desk is the only solid thing around him. He is unstable. Tap. All of his relationships are unstable. Tap. Everything he's learned and loved is in the other room, running a 104 degree fever, dying in pain because of him. Tap. One person, who took on the role of parent, brother, and best friend. A childhood, a way of life, his whole family— gone. Tap, tap, tap!

His fingers claw beneath the table in a sudden rush, his fingernails scraping along the bottom. The table flips in one solid motion, crashing to the ground with a sound much louder than a tap. Papers fly through the air. Case files that he'll probably never look at again, if he becomes partnerless after tonight. Contacts he probably won't call, even though people deserve to know of Dean's demise, simply because he's too ashamed to explain how it happened. Other people's tragedies on paper float down to the ground, but Sam can't bring himself to care about a man stupid enough to go to a house full of spirits and his mourning wife who probably told him to go. He doesn't care about a set of idiotic campers who stumbled drunken upon a Wedigo, or their grieving parents. Werewolves on a rampage in Kansas, Nest of vamps down in LA, Ghouls, shifters, witches, spells…He. Does. Not. Care. He's too preoccupied in his own mourning and grief. And for once, he needs to be selfish.

"Sam!" Cas yells, storming in not ten seconds later, "What the hell is going on in here?"

"Not much. Just losing my fucking mind while you're busy talking to an imaginary god who doesn't give two shits about us."

"My father is a righteous man who—"

"Your father left you!" Sam explodes, "Just like mine did, just like ours did! How can you and Dean sit there and pretend to love people who don't love you back? God, you're so much like him it hurts."

"It's simple," Cas sounds calm, "I love him unconditionally, and he loves me. And your father loved you and I know that you love him. Just because he's absent doesn't mean he doesn't care. Besides, it's an honor to be compared to the man Dean was."

The way he says 'was' instead of 'is' makes Sam want to curl up and die. But that job's already been taken by Dean himself.

"I need to get out of here," he mutters, but he knows he won't leave. He never really can.

"You need to be here for your brother," Castiel says, mouth forming a hard, straight line.

"Are you telling me what to do?" Sam challenges with his eyebrows raised.

"I believe I am."

They stand like that, tense and unmoving for just a second too long, when a piercing scream breaks their apprehensive atmosphere. Cas blinks, like he's suddenly remembering there's another person in the house. It adds years to his face, just recalling what's going on in the next room over.

"I'm going back to Dean," Cas looks down at his feet, speaking in a dead voice "Do what you want."

Sam just nods and watches him go.

"Dean?" Cas murmurs quietly as he pushes open the ironclad door. All he gets is a strangled moan in reply, "Dean," he repeats, sighing sadly

"Cas," Dean chokes, is eyes opened in just the slightest little squint on his blood-covered face.

"I'm here," he sits cross legged on the floor and reaches his hand up to still Dean's, "I'm sorry."

He's not sure if Dean hears him or not, but the words he says are more for his own sake, as selfish as it is. He needs to say things like 'You'll be okay' to assure himself that those words are true. But saying it doesn't make that true. It only makes him a liar.

"Everything's going to be fine," Cas says, ignoring the trickle of tears he has to speak around, "You'll be fine, okay? Everything's going to be fine."

He just keeps repeating the words, 'fine, fine, fine, fine' but it holds an empty meaning. Nothing really means anything anymore. Language is just a made up thing designed to communicate ideas and feelings. And the feeling Cas is trying to express is very far from 'fine'.

"And next weekend you can teach me how to, uh, how to take shots. You wanted to teach me that, right? And I told you that I would never consume enough alcohol to get drunk but perhaps we can— we can try. We can always," he exhales a shallow, shaky breath wiping his cheeks with his free hand, "We can always try."

He doesn't get the response he wants. There is no laugh echoing in the walls, there is no witty comeback or reference to a TV show that he doesn't understand. The emptiness is something Castiel wishes he doesn't understand.

He might have been siting there for minutes or hours or maybe even days, but Castiel doesn't care. He doesn't need to eat or sleep or leave to clear his head if Dean needs him. He doesn't need anything but Dean back.

"I fucked up," he sighs after a while. The profanity tastes foreign on his tongue, but he knows it's the right word to use. He's never said that before, much less about himself, but he understands why Dean uses it so much now. It's a relief, even in self-loathing, to use a word made for the purpose of not using. Cas idly wonders what the point is, to invent a word you aren't supposed to say. Humans don't make sense, but then again neither do angels who pretend to be more pure than they are. Ironically enough, demons are the most honest species Castiel has ever had the displeasure of meeting. At least they don't tell lies.

When Dean was a demon, none of what he said was untrue. Human Dean lies to protect the people he loves, but when he wasn't human? It's probably the most honest he's ever been. So honest, that the thought of what he said makes Cas' heart stop— and not in the good falling-in-love-with-you kind of way.

How could you leave it there, Cas? How could you leave me to be with the Leviathans? And in Purgatory… Why the hell would you put me through that, not even bothering to come with me?

He can still hear the demon asking. That's how he feels. How he really feels, deep down. Like Cas left him. Like he purposefully put him through hell, instead of dragging him out. Like he wishes Cas hadn't even bothered to save him at all.

How could anyone hate themselves that much? How could someone so worthy of love confuse himself with those who deserve to be alone? Everything he's ever done has made him a righteous man, even when he broke in hell, the burden of regret was enough to keep him pure. Dean is pure, despite his flaws. His human flaws that Castiel is infatuated with. Enough sin to make him virtuous, because all of his sins were done in good intentions. He sold his soul to save his brother. He called for Gadreel to save him, too. He got the mark to win back forgiveness. Forgiveness he didn't deserve to lose in the first place.

Cas wonders if maybe deep down Dean can hear him crying. The thought forces him to silent his sobs because there's no use in putting him through emotional pain and guilt when he's already going through a living hell inside his head.

And somewhere deep down, Dean knows he's there anyways, because he knows Cas will always be there. To save him, guide him, and piss him off when he least expects questions about movies, humanity, and sexuality. Dean says he wishes he would just learn all that shit on the internet like everyone else, but part of him likes being the major influence in Cas' life, no matter how many personal questions he has.

Right now, Dean has quite a few things to ask himself. Like why he feels like he's been hit by a bus, or why he can't quite breathe yet. But he doesn't ask, because he doesn't know how to make himself form the words without breaking into a paralyzing scream.

"Dean," he hears from somewhere beside him, "Dean, come back to me."

I'm right here, he wants to say, but doesn't know how, I'm not leaving you.

Only even he doesn't trust himself. Where have the days gone? What's happened while he's been out? He can't remember anything past the black wall blocking his memory, but he knows it's something. Probably something he'd rather not know. He's in too much pain to question it.

He thinks maybe he can hear Sam in the room, too, but he phases into his next round of searing pain and everything else goes mute.

"This is the last round," are the words he couldn't have heard Sam say, "After this, he'll be good. At least, he should be."

There's a sadness in his voice Cas isn't familiar with. It's not the determined kind of loss. It's the 'I'm giving up on everyone and everything' kind of loss.

"Do you think he knows we're here?" Castiel can feel the childish tremor in his voice, but he doesn't care. He's vulnerable like this, but so is Sam. The only difference, is that Cas isn't trying to hide it.

"Yeah, Cas. Of course he knows. He's listening to us as we speak." But he doesn't sound so convinced. The words would sound more assuring coming from a computed robot voice. Sam is simply going over the motions, trying to comfort his friend because it's the only thing he can think to do.

"Is it possible for an angel to get sick?" He asks, "Because I believe this is what it feels like to vomit."

But he doesn't, because there's nothing in his stomach. Except guilt, of course, but he won't be able to throw that up. The guilt is permanent, digging itself a home in Castiel's core. And Sam's, but neither of them mention that.

Suddenly, they know how Dean's felt all his life— like everything bad that's ever happened is their fault. Because they weren't good enough or smart enough. Because they just couldn't save everyone. Maybe if Dean could have saved that ten year old girl from drowning when he was fourteen, maybe if he hadn't gambled away the dinner money trying to get baby Sammy a toy for his birthday, maybe if he didn't get in that fight with dad over the friend he brought 'home'…

Maybe then they wouldn't be here now.

But they all know that isn't true. No matter what happens, they will always end up here. Self loathing, angry, and sick of the world.

Or maybe the world's just sick of them.

"Cas," Dean moans, and at first they ignore it, because he's been moaning their names for hours on end. But then— "Cas, I need you to- fuck, what's going on?"

He's conscious.

"Dean?" Sam practically shouts, making him flinch at the sound.

"I'm fucking… What?" He erupts into coughs, confused and squinting as if the muted light of the dungeon-like prison they're in hurts his eyes.

"You are okay, Dean," Cas sighs, unstrapping his arms from their restraints.

"The blood all over my face tells a different story," He mutters, trying to wipe the red out of his eyes, "Oh my god," he gasps and gags at the same time at the sight of his wrists that the handcuffs had dug into so badly he nearly bled to death. Cas has a trash can in front of them before anyone can really process what's going on.

"Are you—" Cas starts to ask.

"Holy shit," Dean interrupts instead, "Why do I feel like— like—" he tries to find the right words, "A demon stuffed with salt?" He tries to chuckle at his expression' but stops when no one else even bothers to pretend it's funny.

No one speaks.

No one even makes eye contact.

If Dean thought he was sick before, this feeling is being diagnosed with stage four stomach cancer.

"No," His voice is airy and breathless, "No I'm— No."

And that's how they know he remembers. He bolts up, too fast for his body to catch up and nearly passes out. Instead, he forces himself forward and runs, as fast as a fatally injured man can run, out. He isn't sure where he's going or what he'll do when he gets there, but he runs.

"Dean, come on. Dean!" Sam calls after him, hardly having to jog to catch up. Sam's long legs and Dean's limping, half dead state makes for an easy race, "Look, okay? Look this isn't—"

"Don't!" He yells, "Don't tell me this isn't my fault. This is so damn screwed up and… Oh my god," his pace slows to a stop and he quite literally just sits in the middle of the hallway, watching the drippy trail of blood behind him. He rubs his hand down his face, rubbing it raw, just trying to clean the blood off. And he's afraid, because he's not sure if all of it's his. And if it is, where he's bleeding. He can't feel the cuts and lacerations lining his body anymore. He's practically scratching his face off, but the blood just moves around, not wiping away like he wants it to. Like he needs it to. It coats his hands, up his arms. Like he went swimming in it. He should have drowned himself, it that were the case.

He's too fucking stupid and selfish to off himself before turning into a monster, though, so what makes him think he'd be noble enough to kill himself now? The scrubbing of his hands quickens, but doesn't become any more successful. Maybe he'll die peeling his own face off. Maybe he should. He lets out a frustrated scream, and then his hands are lifted away from him, Sam taking a seat cross-legged beside him. Castiel watches from the other end of the hall as Sam unbuttons his blue plaid shirt, and presses it to his brother's bleeding face. Red soaks through the blue and white, in a stain that will most definitely never come out. It's Sam's favorite shirt, but he won't tell Dean that. Dean already knows, of course, but he doesn't say anything either.

I'm so sorry for the wait guys! Please don't hate me...