Sam waited quietly, watching the clock on the nightstand until Cas had lain still and heavy against his chest for a full fifteen minutes, before carefully sliding out from under him and getting to his feet. He couldn't afford to fall asleep like he'd done the night before – not this time.

He carefully adjusted the blankets so that they covered Cas's bandaged wings, an odd lump forming in his throat as he looked down at the angel's face, still troubled even in sleep.

His wings are burned, Sam realized, confusion settling uneasy in his chest. The blankets over them… the contact, the body heat… should be unbearable. So why is he so desperate to keep them covered?

Sam headed down the hall toward the library where he'd left Dean, mentally reciting his swiftly growing list of things he needed to do. First of all, he needed to find out exactly what had happened between Dean and Cas. Then, he needed to finish drawing the sigils so that Cas could inspect them when he woke up, and let them know if it was safe to remove the bond that kept him from healing properly… that kept him helpless.

And finally, Sam needed to find out anything and everything he possibly could about angels' wings.

Whatever it is, we did this to him… Sam's mouth set in a grim line as he reached the library. So we have to find a way to undo it.

Dean was sitting on the step that bore the sigils, his head in his hands. The papers he'd been gathering when Sam left were now scattered on the floor around him. A brief glance told Sam that Dean had tried to finish the drawings – shaky, uneven lines added hastily to Sam's careful work, rendering them all but indecipherable.

Sam noticed with alarm that a couple of the sheets were stained with drops of dark red. There was a slight smear of the same on the stone wall a few feet above Dean's head. Dean raised his head when he heard Sam's approach, looking up at Sam with anxious eyes, and Sam noted his red, broken knuckles with mingled heartache and relief; at least the blood had come from nothing worse.

"How is he?" Dean asked, moving as if to rise.

Sam stopped him with a hand on his shoulder, sitting down beside him instead. "Sleeping," he replied softly. "He's…" Sam's voice trailed off, swallowing hard.

"Okay" was a lie too obvious to leave his lips.

"… calm," Sam finished at last. Then he focused his attention on Dean's hand, reaching out to take his wrist so that he could inspect the damage. Dean's knuckles were scraped and bleeding, skin broken open by the force of his ill-advised attack on his much steadier opponent. Bright red blood glistened where it welled from the wounds.

Sam sighed, the exasperation in his words softened by his concern. "Dean, what the hell'd you do?"

Dean was uncharacteristically subdued, unresisting as Sam carefully unfolded and folded his fingers again, making sure nothing was broken. "Hey," he pointed out, a brittle smile on his lips. "At least it's mine."

Sam's heart sank, and he wanted nothing more than to take Dean into his arms, to do something, anything to drive that lost look from his brother's eyes. But Sam knew Dean wouldn't accept it. He needed it, yeah… but he'd just push Sam away. Make some excuse and clear out before he could reveal just how devastated and broken he really was.

As if Sam couldn't see it. As if his anguish wasn't written all over his face.

And… Sam wasn't sure that it would actually fix anything, anyway, even if Dean would let him get close enough to try.

So instead, Sam focused his attention on what he could fix.

"Come on," he said softly, rising to his feet and pulling Dean up with him. "Let's get this hand patched up, okay?"

"I can do it," Dean insisted, quiet and self-conscious, trying to pull his hand away – but not trying too hard. "You don't have to…"

Sam cut him off with a gentle tug on his hand. "Shut up and come with me."

He led Dean from the library to his own room, the one they usually shared at night, before turning to face his brother and look at him – really look at him, for the first time since they'd returned to the bunker – and what he saw was alarming.

Dean's skin was pale, his eyes hooded and dull with exhaustion. His hand trembled in Sam's. Sam frowned, wondering how much longer Dean was even going to be capable of staying on his feet. He pushed him gently back until he was sitting on the edge of the bed

"Wait here," Sam instructed quietly. "I'll be right back with the first aid kit."

When he returned, Dean was leaning back against the pillows, his eyes closed. He had drawn his legs up onto the bed in front of him, and his injured hand was clenched into a bloody fist resting against his thigh. Sam winced at the sight of it, the blood that still ran at a slow trickle from the wound, and reached out to carefully move it away from Dean's jeans, away from the bed.

He'd barely made contact at all when Dean startled awake, lurching up from the pillows with a gasp, blinking at Sam through weary, hooded eyes.

"Hey, it's me," Sam said quickly, raising his free hand to show the absence of a threat. "It's just me." As recognition showed in Dean's eyes, he relaxed a little, leaning back against the pillows again, and Sam slowly sat down on the edge of the bed, letting out a soft, relieved breath. "Geez, Dean, when was the last time you slept?"

Dean shrugged, his weary gaze following Sam's hands as he set the first aid kit on the nightstand. "Sorry about your sigils," Dean mumbled, eyes downcast, voice flat and listless. "Tried to finish them. Just fucked them up."

"Well, it's kind of hard to draw a straight line when you can't even see straight," Sam pointed out. "Let me see," he instructed softly, and Dean complied, obediently raising his damaged hand for Sam to take. "I'll get to the sigils when we're done here," Sam went on quietly as he took out bandages and tape and ointment. "We won't need them for a little while. Cas will be sleeping for a few hours yet."

"You give him more morphine?" Dean's eyes rose to meet Sam's, anxious concern behind a false calm Sam knew well by now.

"Yeah," Sam replied. "But he does seem a little better now, since he got some sleep. More… lucid, I guess. And – he actually didn't want the morphine when he woke up…"

"No," Dean interrupted, a slight edge to his voice, not looking at Sam, "not until I scared the crap out of him."

Sam hesitated a moment before conceding with a sigh, "Yeah." He was quiet for a moment, and when he spoke, he kept his words carefully measured and even. "So… tell me what happened."

"I just wanted to check on him." Dean sounded so defeated, quietly ashamed. "I thought he'd be asleep, but – he wasn't, and he – he totally freaked out. I just – I should have known better."

"You couldn't have known he'd be awake." Sam didn't look up as he removed the cap from the tube of antibacterial ointment in his hand. "So… he saw you standing there, and… what then?"

Dean swallowed hard, his hand twitching slightly in Sam's grasp, his voice low and trembling. "I – I don't know. I – I asked if I could come in, and – and that was a fucking stupid thing to do. He was practically falling all over himself trying to get me to go away without saying it outright. Pulling at that fucking blanket like it could… could protect him or something…"

Dean's voice broke, and he looked up at Sam. Sam stopped applying the ointment to Dean's knuckles for a moment, holding Dean's gaze and waiting as Dean hesitated, tears shining in his eyes.

"He couldn't even look at me, Sam," he said at last, with the hushed, guilty tone of a confession. "Couldn't even put enough words together to tell me to get the hell out."

Dean turned his face away, and Sam's stomach tightened with empathy. There was guilt and anger bubbling underneath, and Sam swallowed hard, trying to keep it all down. "Hey," he said, voice coming out low and rough. "It'll get better, okay?"

He instinctively reached a hand toward Dean's face, but Dean flinched slightly, guarded and wary. He glared up at Sam through tears, his voice hoarse and shaky as he demanded, "How?" When Sam could find no immediate response, Dean looked away again, swallowing hard. After a moment he concluded in a voice that was flat and devoid of hope, "This isn't the kind of thing that gets forgiven, Sam."

Sam dropped his gaze, fighting back the wave of anxiety that rose up at Dean's words. He returned his attention to the one place his brother wouldn't refuse it at the moment, focusing his energy on wrapping Dean's hand in a clean, white bandage. Taking a deep breath, he carefully considered his next words before he spoke. When at last he did, his tone was quiet and measured.

"I… don't think that's necessarily true. I mean - I'm not saying Cas has - has forgiven, exactly, but..." Sam grimaced apologetically. "He – doesn't want the other angels to smite you, anyway."

"What?" Dean looked up again in surprise, eyes wide. Sam thought he glimpsed just a trace of hope there before Dean looked away with a soft scoffing sound. "No, probably not," he retorted. "Probably wants to wait 'til he's up to doing it himself."

"Actually, no." Sam tore a piece of tape from the roll on the nightstand and carefully lined it up with the seam of Dean's bandage. "What he said was – that he should want you dead, but – he doesn't. So that tells me – there's a chance."

Dean shook his head slightly. "Of what?"

"Of him… forgiving us. Of – the three of us, putting this whole nightmare behind us."

Dean scoffed softly again, blinking against the tears that fell despite his efforts, as he looked away.

"It'll take a while, yeah," Sam admitted. "But – there's a chance."

Dean didn't look up, didn't make a sound, and Sam didn't say anything else either as he finished taping the bandage into place. Then he set Dean's hand down on the bed, letting his own linger on top of it. When Dean made no move to pull away, or to get up, Sam ventured again to reach a cautious hand toward Dean's face. Dean closed his eyes when Sam touched him, a slow swallow visible in his throat.

"I wish I could take it back." Dean's voice was a raspy whisper, strangled and desperate. "I just want… so damn much… just to take it back…"

"I know." The back of Sam's throat was burning, threatening to close up on him as he shifted forward. "I know, Dean." He turned and drew his legs up onto the mattress, sliding back into the sliver of space between Dean and the nightstand and pressing his head against Dean's shoulder. He closed his eyes. "I want that too."

Sam felt Dean's head tilt to rest against his, the tension in Sam's chest loosening at the contact - before Dean abruptly pulled away. "Stop it," he hissed, disgust seething in his words, as if he'd only just realized what he was allowing. "Get the fuck off me, Sam," he demanded, his shoulder pushing at Sam's in an attempt to put some distance between them.

Sam grabbed at Dean's waist to steady himself, even as he recoiled at Dean's words. "Dean-"

"I mean it!" Dean snapped, pulling out of Sam's hold and glaring over at him, defiant through tears. "God, how can you even – how can you stand to touch me?"

Sam faltered, anger and despair coiling in him as he looked at Dean across feet that felt like miles. "You don't get it," he whispered, pulling his arms up against his chest, as if they could hold in the ache threatening to explode. "Dean, please, let me - I need to – I need you."

"Why?" Dean demanded, aghast, suspicion in his eyes.

"Because… I'm as guilty as you are," Sam replied, his own voice shaking with the confession as he held his brother's gaze, silently imploring for him to understand. "And you're the only one who knows it."

Sam's words stopped Dean in his tracks.

They changed everything.

Dean had spent every minute since Crowley had shown up in that basement, worried sick about Cas, and the damage he'd done to his friend, and what he could possibly do about it, to help, to make things right, to somehow ease the suffocating burden of guilt he felt for what he'd done… so damn grateful that at least Sam was there, to help pick up the pieces if he couldn't...

And the whole time, Sam had been quietly falling apart right in front of him.

"Sammy…" Dean instinctively reached out a hand toward his brother, but then hesitated, his fingers curling back against themselves as he put his hand down again. "No. You - you didn't…"

"I did, Dean." Sam's voice was strangled. "I'm the one who found that spell, who told you how to use it, who told you it was okay…" Sam dragged in a wheezing breath, and seemed to curl into himself a little, broad shoulders hunching in as his arms tightened around himself. "I helped you tie him down, and drug him, and… and rip the tablet out of him…" Sam's eyebrows were drawn together, forehead scrunching up in the way Dean knew was a precursor to tears.

"It's - it's not the same thing, Sammy," Dean insisted, unable to resist any longer the impulse to reach out, to shift closer to his little brother and put his arms around him. "You didn't-"

"Yes, it is," Sam cut him off, voice stronger as he pulled back enough to meet Dean's gaze. Sam's eyes were wet but fierce, mouth set in a stubborn line. "So what if I didn't wield the blade? I enabled you, I encouraged you; if you hadn't done it I would have. And we can talk all day about how we were deceived, but that doesn't change a thing that we did to Cas." Sam let out a harsh breath. "I know you feel guilty, Dean, and I'm not going to try to convince you that you're not. But don't try and say I'm not guilty just because you are. We both know better. There's no point in pretending."

Dean frowned, a feeling of alarm building in the pit of his stomach. "But… we have to keep pretending, Sam," he reminded his brother. "Cas needs you to…"

"I know," Sam bit out impatiently, then took another shaky breath. "I know. I can't act like I'm guilty when I'm with Cas, but Dean, that's why I need to be able to be guilty with you." He reached out, then aborted the movement before making contact. "He… he thinks I'm his hero, that I'm safe, and it's so hard to be around that when I know the truth-" His voice broke, and he dropped his gaze, chest heaving a couple of times before he continued. "I can't pretend with you too, Dean. Please. I can't."

"Okay, Sammy," Dean answered without thought, as automatic as breathing. If that's what Sam needed from him, it was all he could do. His arms tightened instinctively around his brother, and he brushed a kiss against Sam's temple, closing his eyes and holding on tight. "Okay. I'm not asking you to. Okay."

Sam's arms settled around Dean's waist, close and comfortable, like they had countless times before - but this time, Dean had to fight the impulse to push them away. Not because he didn't want Sam to touch him; he did, desperately. Sam's embrace seemed to push back the confusion, anchoring him, steadying him. Dean needed it, like food, or breath.

But that didn't mean that he had a right to it.

He imagined the dark, coiling thing in the pit of stomach - the thing that had crawled its way out of Hell inside him, and been a part of him ever since - twisting slowly around his insides, seeping out through his skin… infecting his brother with the same evil, malicious darkness that had crept its way out of him in that cold basement room.

You already let it get to Cas…

Dean didn't want to let Sam touch him. He had no right to expect comfort, or accept it – even though he ached for it. He didn't deserve it. Sam needed to focus every ounce of his energy on helping Cas, on pouring out that affection and attention on him – not Dean.

But…

Sam's arms tightened around him, and Dean couldn't help but stiffen a little. "Dean," Sam said, his voice muffled by Dean's shoulder. "Please don't shut me out. Okay? Please."

"Okay, Sammy," Dean promised, even as his heart sank. It wasn't going to be an easy promise to keep. "I won't. I'm right here… and I'm not going anywhere."

"You're sure?" Sam spoke quietly, glancing down at the papers spread out across the comforter that covered Cas's lap, as Cas nodded thoughtfully at the last of them in his hand, before setting it down and looking up at Sam expectantly. "I know you're in a hurry to get the bond broken, but we need to be absolutely certain that it's safe before we do."

"I understand."

Cas's voice was low, but stronger, calmer, than it had been earlier. He was sitting up on the bed, his side propped against the headboard with soft pillows, to avoid putting pressure on his wings. He still looked drawn and tired, and the bruises Dean had inflicted on his face stood out starkly against his pale skin. Every so often he would tense with pain - sometimes if he shifted just wrong, sometimes for no apparent reason at all - but he insisted, despite Sam's repeated offers, that he didn't want any more medication, not yet. So Sam just sat on the foot of the bed, cross-legged, close at hand in case he was needed, and watched closely as Cas studied the sigils he'd drawn.

"I am certain. As long as these sigils are placed at all entrances and exits to this place, no supernatural being may enter unless they enter with the one who holds the key - whom, I would presume, is you?"

"Yeah." Sam nodded.

"Even if someone did pray to angels from this place, and they heard him - they would not be able to do any harm to anyone inside. And…" He glanced up at Sam, his eyes solemn and intent. "... I am not going to pray to angels to come here. You have my promise, Sam."

"I know, Cas," Sam assured him. "I know." He opened his mouth to go on, hesitating a moment. "Cas… I know you're in a hurry to get this bond broken, and I don't blame you," he began at last, carefully weighing his words as he continued, "But… don't rush through it, okay? You didn't spend more than like - half a second on any of those. Make sure you know…"

"I know, Sam," Cas insisted, mild exasperation in his eyes - and Sam had never been so glad to see it; it seemed like a good sign after Cas's mental and emotional state of the past day. "How long does it take you to read a single English word?"

Sam smiled, lowering his head and nodding. "Point taken," he conceded. He drew in a deep breath, straightening a little, and met Cas's hopeful, anxious eyes. "Okay, then. I guess it's safe for Dean to break the bond. Do you want to - to see him do it?"

Cas frowned slightly, considering, before nodding slowly. "Yes."

"Okay. I'll go get him…"

Sam started to rise from the bed, being careful not to shift it too much, but a light, tentative touch on his leg stopped him, and he turned to look at Cas, who was suddenly not looking at him at all, staring down at the blanket and picking at it anxiously.

"Wait," Cas said softly, before looking up at Sam, imploring. "Please?"

That familiar mix of fear and shame that was simply so wrong on Cas's face was there again, and Sam's heart ached as he carefully sat back down on the edge of the bed. He glanced down and reached out a gentle hand to rest over Cas's trembling fingers, stilling them before he ended up tearing his own makeshift shield to shreds.

"Cas," Sam said softly, carefully. "You know he's not going to hurt you. Even if he did want to - and he doesn't - I wouldn't let that happen…"

"No, I - I know," Cas replied, his voice hushed and thick with shame, his eyes abruptly downcast. "It's - not that. It's…" He swallowed hard, before looking up to meet Sam's eyes again and confessing, "... there's… something else."

"Okay."

Sam kept his tone carefully neutral, his thumb stroking soothingly over the back of Cas's hand, as he waited for Cas to go on. But Cas didn't. He just sat there, his head bent low, his free arm wrapped awkwardly around his torso, looking like he wanted to throw up. Finally, Sam drew in a slow, steadying breath, and shifted a little closer on the mattress, gently squeezing Cas's hand.

"Cas?" he began, gently leading. When Cas looked up at him at last, eyes stricken with shame, he ventured to ask quietly, "Is this about… does this have something to do with your wings?"

Immediately Cas's wings jerked back - an automatic response to Cas's instinct to try to hide them, as impossible as that was at the moment - and just as immediately Cas let out a choked moan of pain, collapsing forward, both arms wrapped around his stomach. Sam reached out to catch and support him, both touched and dismayed when Cas lowered his head to rest it against Sam's shoulder.

"I'm sorry," Cas rasped out, his bandaged chest heaving against Sam's as he choked back a sob. "I - didn't mean to…"

"Shhh, it's okay," Sam murmured, raising a hand to run through Cas's hair, soothing him. "It's okay… just take it easy, okay? Don't hurt yourself again…"

Cas didn't reply, just nodded against Sam's shoulder, and Sam waited until his breathing had slowed a little, and his trembling wings had settled again, to gently push Cas back enough to face him. Cas's head remained stubbornly lowered, his chin tucked against his chest. Sam ducked his head to try to meet Cas's gaze, but Cas averted his eyes.

"Cas…" Sam's voice was hushed and reassuring, as he let his hand slide down from Cas's hair to rest at the back of his neck, stroking slowly. "You can trust me. You can talk to me. All right? I need you to tell me what you need." He paused, quietly emphatic when he added, "If you don't tell me… I can't help."

"I-I know," Cas replied, his voice trembling and barely over a whisper. "It's just - you're - not supposed to be able to see them…"

Sam's stomach clenched at those words, and he swallowed back the nausea that rose in his throat.

"No human is supposed to… to be able to see them…" Cas clarified, his voice rising with agitation, shaky and uneven. "And… I have to ask you to… I… I wouldn't, but I can't… do it myself, and…"

"Cas." Sam's hand gently squeezed the back of Cas's neck, his voice quiet and soothing. "Take a breath, okay? Slow down. Just… what's the problem? What do you need me to do?"

"We can't just… break the bond. Not yet." Cas's agitation was swiftly shifting into panic, his answer coming out higher and more and more confusing with every word. "Because… I'll start to heal, and… and I can't yet, because we have to get it off first, if we don't… we have to, and I can't, and there's no other choice, you need to do it, there's no one else…"

"Do what, Cas?" Sam interrupted, frowning, shaking his head. "I don't understand. Slow down. Okay? Hey." Cas stopped, biting his lower lip as if to physically stop himself from talking, his lips trembling dangerously. Sam reached out his free hand to tilt Cas's chin up, and this time Cas met his eyes, though his own were filled with dread, brimming with tears. "Trust me," Sam said softly. "All right? Whatever you need, I'll do it. And - I'm not going to let anything else happen to you. Okay? So just… take a second… get your breath… and talk to me. All right?"

Cas nodded, obediently making a visible effort to calm himself. "The… the oil," he began again at last, looking away, uncomfortable and embarrassed. "That… Dean used to… to…"

"I know," Sam quickly offered, ashamed when Cas glanced up at him with gratitude for the reprieve. "What about the oil, Cas?"

"It's… still on… on my wings. And…" He hesitated, looking up at Sam, and something in his gaze made Sam's stomach roil with apprehension. "... there's… there's a reason why we can't touch it when it burns. Any angel who… who touches it…"

"Dies," Sam concluded grimly, nodding. "You told us that before."

"Yes," Cas agreed, his words quiet and subdued. "Any angel who touches the oil dies. But… not necessarily instantly."

Sam frowned, confused. "What?"

"That oil was specially created to react to the grace of angels. Once it touches us… once it's lit… it… it doesn't matter if you put out the flames. The oil itself, it… it consumes. Until… there is nothing left to consume."

Sam considered that for a moment, feeling sick at the implications of Cas's words - the horrifically slow, agonizing fate they described.

"But… it shouldn't work that way for you," he argued. "Jacob's Call makes it so the holy oil can't kill you. It works just like ordinary oil would."

Cas nodded wearily, eyes downcast. "Yes. And… when Jacob's Call is broken…"

"Oh." Understanding slammed into Sam with brutal force, knocking the air from his lungs, as he realized how close he had almost come to following Cas's brutal torture with an even more cruel and agonizing death. "Oh, God, Cas…" He looked up at Cas, aghast.

Cas looked miserable, humiliated, in the instant before he turned his eyes away, focusing on the quilt that covered him.

It didn't make sense. Sam didn't understand what Cas had to feel so ashamed of. Sam was the one who'd almost made such a fatal mistake. He and Dean were the ones who'd put Cas in this situation in the first place.

"Cas."

Cas looked up at Sam, anxious and self-conscious.

"Thank you for telling me," Sam stated, gently emphatic. "Now… what can I do? How do we fix it?"

Cas swallowed slowly, his anxiety fading into dread and resignation. "You have to… wash the oil off," he admitted, his tone quiet and humiliated, as if he was confessing to some horrible crime. "Every trace of it must be gone from my wings… from my body… before the Call is broken. Or… I may begin to heal, when it is broken - but the oil will continue to burn away my body and my grace… until there is nothing left."

An image filled Sam's mind of Cas's mangled wings - broken bones poking through the matted feathers, glistening with blood and oil… and he imagined those bones straightening, new flesh growing over them, the feathers pristine and glossy, as Cas's angelic healing took over.

And then he imagined the trace remnants of that oil… slowly burning away Cas's restored flesh, from the inside out.

"I… I'd do it myself," Cas said softly, looking away. "But… I can't. I need… I need you to…"

"Of course," Sam agreed immediately, suppressing a shudder at the vivid nightmare images that filled his mind. "I'll do it for you, Cas, it's no problem…"

His words trailed off when he saw how badly Cas was shaking, his arms wrapped around his torso again. His breath came in soft, shuddering sobs, and tears dropped from his face to his arms, running down to fall on the blanket.

"Cas," Sam said gently, sympathetically, reaching out to touch his arm. "I know it's… not gonna be easy. It'll probably… hurt, I know. But I'll be as careful as I can, and we'll make sure we get it all. Nothing's going to happen to you. I won't let it."

Cas was quiet for a long moment, not looking up, not meeting Sam's eyes. "You're… not even supposed to see them," he finally replied, his voice aching with shame and misery. "And… now you have to…" His words broke off, and he shook his head, eyes tightly closed as he choked back a sob.

A heavy uneasiness settled in Sam's chest, an awareness that there was something at work here that he didn't quite understand. He wasn't sure why exactly this was such a big deal to Cas - he supposed it was something unique to angels that he couldn't possibly grasp - but he knew that it went beyond the fear of pain, or even death.

Cas didn't care that cleaning his wings was going to hurt. He cared that Sam was going to have to touch his wings at all.

Yeah, because the last time a human touched his wings, that went so well for him...

"Cas… I'm not going to hurt you," Sam promised softly. "Please… please trust me."

Cas looked up at Sam, blue eyes shining with tears and a desperation that tore at Sam's heart. It felt like the weight of a promise he couldn't quite comprehend, let alone keep, when Cas replied, his words a soft, surrendering whisper.

"I... I do."