Sam awakened several times throughout the night – each time with his heart hammering in his chest, panic seizing him at the images not quite left behind in his dreams. Each nightmare was different, and yet each one was the same, his subconscious sadistically twisting the events of the night before into scenarios that had Sam waking in a cold sweat, gasping for breath.

Sam saw the Impala, careening down a road far steeper and more treacherous than the one Dean had actually traveled between town and the bunker… watched Dean taking a sharp curve too quickly, and then spinning out and slamming into the rock face along the side of the road. He ran toward the silent, smoking wreckage with all his strength, as what was left of the car exploded into flames, the blast throwing him down to the ground – much too far away to reach his brother before it was too late.

Then, he saw Dean sitting on the end of his bed in the room that meant so much to him here in the bunker, resting his head in his hands and weeping, before picking up his own cherished .45 from the mattress beside him. Sam stood in Dean's bedroom doorway, watching in horror, useless fists pounding at a wall made of nothing but air, trying to get Dean's attention, to stop him. And then, Dean looked up, his anguished eyes swimming with tears as they locked onto Sam's – just before he pulled the trigger.

The last nightmare was Dean, caught in a deep, swirling body of water, a powerful current dragging him away as Sam raced along the shore, helpless to reach him. He knew, somehow, that he couldn't touch the water. It'd burn his skin like acid, scar him, mark him – and Sam knew even in the midst of his dream that it was very important that he remain unmarked by the dark, viscous fluid – not water, close enough he could see that it wasn't anything so natural or innocuous as that – that was pulling Dean under. Dean choked and gasped and reached out a flailing, frantic hand toward his brother – and then was pulled under for the last time… drowned before Sam's eyes.

Over and over again throughout the night, Sam watched Dean die – at his own hand, or simply drowning in the guilt and despair that overwhelmed him – while Sam himself was powerless to stop it.

Each time, Sam had to reassure himself that Dean was there, and alive, and safe. Heart clenching painfully, Sam laid his hand on Dean's chest over the threadbare blanket that Cas had left with him, feeling the slow, steady rise and fall, taking comfort in the soft rhythm of his brother's breathing. He laid his head down against Dean's stomach again, struggling to gain control of his own reactions. Throughout the night that passed, Sam didn't think he slept more than a couple of hours without interruption.

Dean slept peacefully through to morning.

His body weary and aching, his mind still unsettled, Sam finally dragged himself up off the floor, adjusting the blanket over Dean's still form before turning toward the door.

Cas would likely be up by now – if he'd slept at all. With his grace returning, Sam wasn't sure whether Cas needed to sleep anymore. He didn't want to disturb Cas if he was resting, but he needed to know just exactly what had happened the night before between Cas and Dean – and just exactly how much damage control he was going to have to do this morning.

He knocked softly on the door to Cas's room, then opened it just a little when there was no answer. Finding it empty, Sam moved on down the hall into the library – also empty, the research Dean had abandoned the night before still laid out on the table. He found Cas in the kitchen – his back to the door, hands busy with something on the counter in front of him, the sharp, pleasant scent of fresh coffee filling the room. Sam knew that he should speak, at least make some sound to make Cas aware of his presence before he startled him. But for a few brief, breathless moments – Sam simply couldn't.

It was Cas's wings.

The difference from the last time Sam had looked at them was remarkable. There were still spots where they seemed ragged and bare, but the wings were mostly covered in new, pristine feathers that gleamed black in the light. Broken bones, muscles too damaged and weak to hold them up - neither seemed to be an issue anymore. Cas's wings tensed, shifting slightly, unconsciously as he focused on whatever he was doing; and Sam was struck by the sheer power he sensed in the unintentional motion… and he found himself wondering at what they'd be capable of if Cas was actually trying to move them.

These were wings that had carried Cas high above the earth, from one continent to another in the span of a second – wings that had lashed out at his enemies in battle and struck them flaming to the earth.

These were Cas's wings as they should be – whole and strong and lethal. Sam's awestruck eyes couldn't seem to stop drinking in the sight.

And Sam was suddenly, acutely aware that… he hadn't any right.

"Hey, Cas."

He kept his voice soft and level, not wanting to startle Cas – but he did anyway. Cas didn't turn immediately, but his wings arched upward, abruptly tensed and ready – to fight or to fly, Sam couldn't be sure. But a moment later, they settled downward again and Cas turned around to face Sam, holding a steaming mug clasped in both of his hands. He offered Sam a warm smile, nodding slightly.

"Good morning, Sam."

Cas lifted the mug to his lips, and as Sam approached him, he noticed that his hands were just barely trembling around it. But Cas was still smiling, and Sam didn't think he realized how his wings had given away his reaction – so he pretended not to notice as he slid onto the stool nearest to where Cas stood.

"Did you sleep?" Sam asked, glancing once more at Cas's wings before averting his eyes, forcing them back to Cas's face.

"A couple of hours," Cas replied. "My body no longer seems to require the level of rest it's needed these past few days."

"That's good." Sam nodded approvingly. "And your – your injuries look a lot better today, too."

"Yes." Cas's smile faded a little. "I – did not realize how swiftly my grace was returning. Not until… last night." Sam hated to see the guilt in Cas's eyes as he asked, halting and cautious, "Is… Dean all right?"

"Yeah, he's still sleeping," Sam assured him. "He's fine. I'm sure he needs the rest."

"Yes," Cas agreed with a slight nod, looking down at his coffee and stirring it absently, leaning back against the counter behind him. "When I touched him, I ensured that he would sleep until his body was rested."

"Oh." Sam blinked, considering that. He hadn't realized that was something Cas could do. "Well," he observed after a moment, giving Cas a rueful smile. "I guess that means we'll see him sometime next week."

When Cas didn't smile, or respond to Sam's weak little joke, Sam leaned forward on the stool a little bit and tried to catch Cas's eye. "Cas," he began, and waited until Cas reluctantly looked up at him to pat the stool beside his. "Come here, come sit down," he suggested. "I want to talk to you."

Cas was hesitant, but obeyed, crossing the short space between them and sliding onto the stool next to Sam's. "I-I'm sorry," he began, eyes focused on his cup. "I know Dean is… fragile right now, and… was not in his right mind, and I… I could have harmed him without meaning to…"

"But you didn't." Sam reached out a cautious hand to rest over Cas's. "You didn't. And I'm gladyou didn't, but… it's not like I could have blamed you if you did."

Cas looked up at Sam, eyes plaintive and earnest. "I wasn't aware that my grace was so strengthened. I didn't intentionally strike out at him, it was just… I… wasn't prepared for him to come so close, and…"

"You don't have to apologize," Sam insisted. "Dean was the one who screwed up, all right? He shouldn't have come anywhere near…" He stopped, then shook his head with a heavy sigh. "I just – I don't know what he was thinking, you know?"

"I believe he was inebriated beyond the capacity for rational thought," Cas offered, and Sam couldn't help but laugh a little, despite his heavy heart. Cas was quiet for a moment, thoughtful, before he continued, "At first I – I thought his intention was to apologize again, but… but the things he was saying…"

An uneasy feeling settled in Sam's stomach at Cas's words, and he swallowed slowly, not sure he wanted to know the answer as he asked quietly, "What… what kinds of things?"

"He told me… about the things he did in Hell," Cas explained, his voice gone very soft and almost ashamed, as if he didn't want Sam to know, either.

Sam's stomach lurched at the answer, not at all what he'd expected. He couldn't even begin to fathom why Dean would have brought up something like that, to Cas of all people – what he could have possibly been hoping to accomplish. They sat there in silence for a moment, Cas seemingly lost in his own thoughts, while Sam tried to process and make sense of what Cas was telling him.

Cas glanced up at Sam after a moment, and the depth of sorrow and compassion Sam saw there nearly took his breath, as he said, "I think he's forgotten that… I was there. I know about those things, because I saw him, before I pulled him out, and… and that wasn't his fault. He was given no choice – at least not one that any mortal is capable to withstand." Cas was quiet for a moment, considering, before he went on. "And yet I think… he expected me to blame him for those actions as well as…" Cas stopped, swallowing hard, closing his eyes for a moment, before looking up at Sam again. "It almost seemed as if he was… trying to provoke me to violence."

All at once, it made sense – although it wasn't the sort of sense that Sam wanted to consider. His heart sank as he replied, quiet and certain. "He wanted to be punished."

Cas looked up at Sam, a little startled, then thoughtful. Then he nodded slowly. "Yes," he agreed at last, a distant sadness in his eyes that made Sam's heart ache with memories of Cas when he'd been an entirely different kind of broken, in the weeks immediately following his taking on Sam's memories of the Cage. "I suppose he probably did." He looked up at Sam again, eyes urgent. "It was not my intention to punish him. I just – reacted. I just – I'm very glad I hadn't healed any further at that point, or..."

Cas didn't finish – but he didn't have to. A cold, clenching fear seized Sam's chest, as his mind filled in the rest, every bit as horrifyingly vivid as the nightmares that had plagued his sleep. If Cas had only been a little bit stronger – if he'd only struck out a little harder – Dean would very likely have been dead.

And just like in his dreams… Sam would have been too late to save him.

Sam rose from his stool abruptly, taking a couple of lurching steps toward the door, only stopped by Cas's light grip on his hand. His stomach was churning, his heart racing again, unable to focus on anything but how close Dean had come to leaving him behind – without even realizing it. Anger and panic overwhelmed him, swirling together and feeding off each other, swelling up in his chest until he couldn't breathe.

"Sam?" There was concern in Cas's voice. "What's wrong? What…?"

"Nothing," Sam muttered, avoiding Cas's eyes as he pulled his hand free. "I just – I need to talk to Dean."

"Sam… Sam, wait…"

Cas sounded worried, but Sam didn't look back as he left the kitchen and headed back toward the den. All he could think about was his brother, peacefully oblivious to the danger in which he'd placed himself, and the terror he'd inflicted on Sam – and anger coiled hot in Sam's belly.

Rested or not – Dean was about to get an abrupt wake up call.

Dean woke up all at once, clear-headed and alert.

He sat up slowly, blinking into the dim glow of the lamp on the table beside the sofa, glancing around the room to take in his surroundings. He realized that he was in his den, having enjoyed a far more comfortable sleep than the lumpy leather sofa would typically have allowed. He didn't remember coming into this room, had no idea how he'd gotten there.

As he swung his legs over the side of the sofa to sit up fully, Dean became aware of the light pressure across the lower half of his body, and glanced down to see what it was. He abruptly went still when he saw Cas's blanket draped over his legs. He swallowed slowly, reaching out to touch it cautiously, almost reverently.

And all at once, the memory of the night before slammed into him, driving the breath from his lungs, his heart sinking with regret. He'd said… horrible things, and pushed into Cas's space in a way that was appalling, given the circumstances, and frightened Cas to the point of falling and hurting his already damaged, vulnerable wings further.

Cas… oh, God, Cas, I'm so sorry…

And yet… it was what had happened afterwards that Dean couldn't remember, couldn't even begin to make sense of. Why would Cas have left his blanket there, with Dean, instead of keeping it with him? And why was Dean not awakening with the mother of all hangovers, after the alarming amount he'd had to drink the night before? How had he gotten to this room at all?

Had to be Cas. Not sure where Sam was, but it was just me and Cas until – until I woke up here.

Dean was fairly certain he wouldn't have been able to manage getting here on his own, let alone getting his shoes off. And Cas's blanket… the one he carried around like some kind of magic protective shield, the one he didn't go anywhere without… he couldn't possibly have left it by accident.

The image that filled Dean's mind next seemed impossible, something he wouldn't have dared to imagine – but it was the only explanation he could conceive of: Cas, helping him to this room, then covering him with his blanket and making sure he was comfortable before leaving him to rest. A dull ache started in the back of Dean's throat. He swallowed hard, closing his eyes, and fighting back the wave of emotion that came with the scene in his mind – disbelief, guilt, and… tiny and flickering but just barely there… a vague sense of hope.

Cas can't even stand to be near me these days… so why would he do that? Unless… he is starting to… to forgive me? I wish I could remember!

Dean frowned, folding the edges of the worn fabric between his fingers, trying.

"You're awake."

Dean looked up at Sam, who was standing in the doorway, watching him with an unreadable expression. Sam looked like hell - dark circles under his eyes, still dressed in the same clothes he'd been wearing when Dean had fled the bunker the day before. And then other memories from the night before came flooding in – memories of Sam's voice, frantic with worry, on his voicemail; text after text that was just Sam telling – no, begging him to answer his phone, to not do anything stupid, to just come home…

Dean couldn't look at Sam anymore, so he looked down at Cas's blanket again, swallowing slowly. "Yeah," he replied at last, not sure what to say.

He was pretty sure already that Sam was pissed – he'd certainly given him every reason to be. And when Sam opened his mouth again, taking a few measured strides into the room, his words were clipped and sharp, and any doubt as to his mood left Dean's mind.

"How are you feeling?"

Dean rose to his feet as Sam advanced, tossing the blanket down on the couch with a weird little pang of reluctance that he didn't want to try too hard to analyze at the moment. "Great, actually," he replied, pasting on a smile and letting out a forced little chuckle. "Which is… kind of amazing after the night I had. I can't remember the last time I got that staggering, stupid drunk and didn't have the mother of all headaches the next morning…"

His words were abruptly broken off as Sam closed the remaining distance between them, his hands tangling in Dean's collar and shoving forward, slamming him hard against the wall. Dean let out a startled, indignant little cry as his head knocked painfully against the wall behind him, and Sam crowded in close, close enough that Dean could hear the shuddering hitch of his breath, could feel the trembling in his fists clenched tight in the fabric of Dean's shirt.

"Ow," he complained, closing his eyes with a grimace as the slightly delayed pain of the impact bloomed through his skull. "There it is," he groaned.

"You stupid son of a bitch, what the hell were you thinking?" Sam demanded, his voice low and shaking. "How could you do that?"

Dean flinched, looking away, any trace of humor leaving his thoughts as he realized that Sam must have gone and talked to Cas, and Cas must have filled him in on what Dean had done and said the night before. Sam was pretty protective of Cas these days – with good reason – and right now, he had every reason to be pissed off.

"Is Cas okay?" Dean asked, his eyes averted, head lowered. "I'm sorry. I was… really fucking hammered, Sam. I know I shouldn't have tried to talk to him, but…"

"Not to Cas, you idiot," Sam snapped, shaking Dean hard enough to make him wince. And when Dean looked up in alarm at his not-so-little little brother, he froze at the anguish in Sam's eyes. "To me," Sam hissed. "How could you do that to me?"

"Sam…" Dean shook his head, bewildered. "I… I don't…"

"Do you know how scared I was?" Sam demanded, fists tightening in Dean's shirt. "Hours, Dean. You took off for hours and I didn't know what you might be doing… getting yourself stinking drunk was the least of what I was worried about."

"Just 'cause I take off for a while is nothing to freak out over," Dean pointed out, defensive irritation rising up in him at the accusation in Sam's tone. "I'm a big boy, Sam. I can handle myself."

Sam tightened his jaw, eyes burning. "I was there, Dean," he spat out. "Out there on the road last night. I was heading into town to find you, and you passed me headed back to the bunker. What were you thinking? Going out and getting wasted and then driving home?"

"Come on, Sam," Dean objected, trying for a laugh that came out weak and guilty. "I'm not exactly a lightweight, you know that. I've driven way more wasted than that-"

"You almost hit me!"

The blood in Dean's veins turned to ice at those words, and he could only stare up at Sam in mounting horror as Sam went on.

"Do you even remember that? How you had to swerve to avoid a person walking beside the road, and almost wrecked in the process?" Sam's eyes were wide and over-bright, his face suddenly too close. "Or did you just not care?"

"Sam…" The words felt thick and clumsy in Dean's mouth, his face flushed hot with shame, and suddenly he couldn't look at Sam. "I… I'm sorry. I didn't - I - don't remember. But…" He forced his eyes up to meet Sam's, his words quiet and subdued. "... I'm so sorry, Sam. I didn't mean to… I would never…"

"But you did." Sam's voice cracked on the last word, his fists burning hot where they rested against Dean's chest. He sucked in a long breath, eyes flicking away and then back as he gathered himself. "Dean, God, I just… you could have died so many times last night, and the only thing you care about is that you might have hurt me?" Sam's voice grew tight and thin, each word sounding painful. "Do you have any idea how much it would hurt me if something happened to you?"

"Nothing happened," Dean said, his words level and cautious in response to the note of panic in his little brother's voice. "I'm okay, Sammy. I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere."

"How am I supposed to believe that?"

The words were a tight, choked whisper, and the despair in Sam's eyes made Dean's heart sink. Concerned, he reached out to Sam, one hand falling at the back of his neck, the other on his shoulder as he pushed Sam back a little to better study his expression. "What? What's that supposed to mean? Sam, I'm telling you-"

A sound caught between a laugh and a sob cut Dean off, and Sam shook his head. "What, like you saying it makes it automatically true?" Sam's voice was uneven, but the edge of anger was back. "You almost killed yourself twice last night without even trying! And it's not like that's the first time you've gone all self-destructive!" He dropped his hands from Dean's shirt and pushed them through his hair. "After - after what Cas said yesterday…" He inhaled shakily; a tear that had been threatening spilled over, and he looked away. "I didn't know what you might do."

Dean couldn't find words to argue Sam's point. He'd just been so upset, so blindsided, that all he'd thought about was getting away – not having to face Cas, knowing what he'd done. The fear Sam must have experienced that night – the memories that must have tormented him, memories of every other time Dean had reacted with reckless, self-destructive behavior to far less than Cas's accidental revelation of the previous day – it hadn't even crossed his mind.

"I - I know," he admitted at last, the words thick, his face flushed with guilt. "You're right, Sammy, and… I'm not gonna lie to you, okay? When I found out what - what I - did to him…" He cleared his throat, fighting back his own emotions and forcing himself to focus. "I - I thought about it. I did." He felt Sam tense under his touch, and hurried on, "But then I got your message. Okay? And… and I couldn't do it." He let out a bitter huff of laughter, shaking his head. "God knows I deserve it, after… but… I can't - I'm not gonna do that to you, Sam. I'm not gonna… make this whole fucked up mess and then… leave you and Cas in the middle of it, alone. Hey. Sammy." Dean ducked his head to try to catch Sam's eyes, his free hand sliding around Sam's waist to tug him closer. He waited until Sam looked up at him, a lost expression in eyes that were swimming with tears, to continue. "I promise, okay? I'm here. And I'm not gonna leave you. Not ever."

Sam gave a quick, tight little nod, chest heaving as he breathed in. But then a couple of tears fell, and he squeezed his eyes shut, lifting a hand to cover them as he turned away.

Dean caught his arm as he turned, pulling him back. "Sam… Sammy, wait… come here…"

Sam pulled his arm away, but Dean tried again, moving around to face his brother again and putting his arms around him - and this time, Sam didn't offer any resistance, allowing Dean to draw him close and coax his head down onto Dean's shoulder. It was then that the tears flowed freely, wet against Dean's neck, as Sam's arms wrapped around Dean and held on tight. Dean felt his brother trembling against him, deep, shuddering breaths hot against Dean's skin.

"You're not allowed to leave me."

Sam's voice was wet and muffled against the skin of Dean's throat, but his tone was almost defiant, and Dean was reminded of when Sam was very young, masking fear with bravado. The rush of protective affection he felt for Sam was nearly overwhelming, mingled with a sense of shame for making Sam feel this way – and Dean struggled for a moment to control his own emotions, steadying his voice into something low and reassuring.

"I know," he said softly at last.

"Promise."

Dean's chest clenched painfully at the desperation in Sam's voice, and he automatically tightened his arms around his little brother. He closed his eyes, swallowing hard, as he replied in a fierce whisper, words he meant with all his heart.

"I promise. I'm not leaving you, Sammy. I promise."