A/N: So things might get a little foggy in this chapter but know that it's intentional because I'm still not sure about a sequel (or, more accurately, a companion piece). I have the first 30k written and it does involve Dean and Castiel (no Destiel) and yes, even Sam in a way (I couldn't let him go completely). But it's a very different kind of fic than what I'm used to writing so I'm not totally motivated. Also, I'm getting considerably attached to my other fic, "How Far We've Come" and want to focus on that. Just know that there is a reason why there might be questions about Castiel after you read this; it's because I'm setting it up in a way so I can either end this 'verse after this story or keep it going with a sequel.
Aaaand (sorry for the long note!), if anyone knows of someone who would like to beta the sequel or just toss around ideas let me know (I'd prefer it to be someone well versed in spn and someone who has written for it quite a bit).

And now I sleep,
Sleep the hours that I can't weep.
When all I knew was steeped in blackened holes,
I was lost.
"Below My Feet" -Mumford & Sons

When Dean arrived back at home, he locked himself in his bedroom, not even making it to the bed before his knees hit the floor. The tears came in rivers accompanied by loud, heavy sobbing as his head fell into his hands. His whole body heaved and Dean felt like screaming, felt like clawing into his own chest and ripping out that pounding, traitorous heart of his.

He couldn't do it. He couldn't live without Sam. It'd only been a couple hours and already he could feel the weight of responsibility sliding out of his life. There was nothing he was tethered to anymore; his entire family was gone and Dean was alone. Utterly and inescapably alone. The realization crushed him. He staggered to the bed, throwing the mattress off, revealing a flash of silver.

Dean had never held the knife so tight. The wood was warm and comfortable in his hand, almost molded to his grip. He'd killed enough to know exactly where to plunge it. He'd be dead within minutes. Dead but reunited with the only ones that mattered. He knew that he had made promises to Sam, had told him he would take care of his family but what did Sam know? He was dead and Dean was well on his way to following. Following…where?

A vision of Sam's soul in hell flashed red in his mind and he shuddered, the tears still coming. He hadn't been truthful when he told Sam he was going to Heaven; there were too many demons after the younger Winchester's soul. Hot anger swept through him at the thought of Sammy being tortured for eternity and Dean turned the knife around, away from his chest. He stood drunkenly, swaying. He'd kill every son of a bitch he could until he found a way to rescue Sam's soul and release it to heaven. It was the only thing left for Dean to do. After that, he would kill himself. A pissed off Dean Winchester was alarming. A pissed off Dean Winchester with nothing to lose was downright dangerous.

"Dean."

He spun around, vision blurry for a moment. The figure in front of him elicited a thunderous roar from Dean and he lunged forward, knife ready. The figure disappeared and Dean pulled back just in time to avoid sending the point of the knife into the door.

"I'll fucking kill you," he growled, turning to face the figure, now on the other side of the room. "Leave right now."

Castiel cocked his head.

"You won't."

Dean dove forward again but Cas sidestepped out of his reach, frowning.

"Please stop doing that." Dean shook his head. He was just getting started.

You leave for three fucking years and then just show up all of a sudden? Now? Hours, hours, after Sam…" He couldn't say the word.

"I'm sorry about Sam," Cas said and the sincerity in his tone was what stopped Dean angling for another attack. "Truly, Dean, I am."

"You could have saved him. You could have healed him." Cas didn't deny it.

"Dean, I came to offer something else."

"I don't want anything from you."

"I'll take Sam's soul to Heaven."

Everything disappeared. The grief, the half-destroyed bedroom, the promise he made years ago to kill Castiel if he ever saw him again.

"Why would you do that?" Cas looked confused.

"Sam was my friend." Dean snorted but his mind was spinning. The angel could do it and easily. So much more easily than Dean could. And so much faster. Sam would hardly suffer at all. Dean's brows knit together.

"What do you want from me?" Again, Cas cocked his head.

"Nothing. I have already asked too much of you, Dean."

"You would do that? Really?"

"Yes." Dean composed himself, wiping a callused hand across his face and stood up straight, loosening his grip on the knife.

"Thanks, Cas." His voice was weak with grief and relief.

"You're welcome." Cas hesitated and then said, "Dean? Would you like me to come back?" Dean thought of his shattered life, of all the pieces that had been put back together again and again. Cas was just one of those pieces. And even though he was still furious about being ignored for over three years, he knew he'd never let go of that piece of his life. But right now, being with the angel was too painful. He reminded him of too much.

"I need some time," he allowed. "But if one day you make your way back, I won't try to kill you." Castiel left with the hint of a smile and the rustle of wings.

Dean left the room a few hours later after having fixed the bed and cleaned up the broken pottery that had been destroyed in his leap towards Cas. He doubted Kat would care. He spotted Bullet on the way to the kitchen; the dog was laying by the front door, the same place she had occupied since Sam had left for the hospital. Kat's mother was in the kitchen, feeding Parker lunch.

"Dean," Barbara said, standing. "I'm so sorry."

"Thanks," he muttered, allowing her to hug him.

"I just want you to know that I loved Sam like one of my own children. He was a great man." Dean didn't want to talk about Sam.

"Yeah."

"Are you hungry? I can heat something up for you." There was already a new casserole dish on the kitchen counter. The thought of eating made Dean want to vomit.

"No. I was just wondering where Kat was." Barbara's eyes flickered to Parker who grinned up at them, holding out a piece of chicken with sticky fingers.

"She's in the bedroom." Dean left them to lunch and walked back down the hall. He knocked softly on the door before letting himself in. Kat was curled up on her side, hugging a pillow and staring at a framed picture of her and Sam on the bedside table. Dean was painfully aware of Sam's bathrobe thrown over the chair in the corner, a pair of his shoes tucked just inside the door. The whole house screamed of him.

"Hey," he said, sitting on the edge of the bed. She didn't look at him.

"Hey." He didn't know what to say. She was the only person in the world hurting as much as him right now and he didn't know how to comfort her. Everything that came to mind sounded fake and cheesy. They both knew that nothing was going to make this day easier. Or tomorrow. Or the day after that.

"I'm – uh – I'm taking off for a couple days," he said after a minute. That got her attention. She sat up, keeping the pillow in her lap. He realized with a lurch of his stomach that it was the pillow from Sam's side of the bed.

"What?"

"There's some stuff I need to take care of." Her eyes went from broken-hearted to angry in a flash.

"Yeah, there's some stuff I need to take care of too," she hissed. "Like a fucking funeral. For my husband. Your brother." He flinched at the word funeral.

"I know. But your mom is here to help and…" he trailed off, his head bowing under her accusatory glare.

"You're a real piece of work," she spat. He'd heard that before. Dean stood and was almost to the door when he spoke without looking at her, staring hard at the wall in front of him.

"I'll be back in time," he said. "If you still want me around." Something broke in Kat's expression as she watched her brother-in-law. She couldn't bear to turn him away, no matter how angry she was.

"I do," she said, almost whispered. "Please come back." He nodded and left the room.

xxx

He stopped at John's old storage unit on the way back to the bunker. It was the middle of the night but he slipped in without any noise and grabbed a flashlight from the shelf. He moved past the guns and knives, ancient relics and weapons. All in the way in back he found what he was looking for. There were two shelves that sported trophies and old toys. Folders were stuffed with children's artwork and certificates of achievement. Dean ignored his own shelf, rifling through Sam's old stuff. The last time he had been here he swore he had seen – yes, there it was. He stuffed the object into his bag and was about to turn away when something caught his eye. Two army men were tucked in the corner of one shelf, standing upright, their plastic faces stuck in a soldier's grimace. Dean stared at them for a long minute and then swept them up, his fingers coated with dust. He shoved the figures in his pocket and left the storage unit, unsure if he would ever come back.

The bunker was quiet when he walked in, the lights off. Dirty dishes were stacked high in the sink and crumbs littered the oak table. On an ordinary day, Dean would have cursed Kevin but he hardly noticed the mess. He didn't notice the light that seeped from Kevin's bedroom either; he turned around only when the door opened.

"Dean? Is that you?" Kevin stuck his head out the door, along with the nose of the gun. When he saw Dean, the gun disappeared and the rest of his body came into the hallway. "Why are you here? Is everything okay?" But as soon as he said it, Kevin knew. He knew from the shattered expression that Dean wore, from the way he stood as if there was nothing left inside of him.

"Dean, I'm so sorry." Dean glanced away then nodded and kept walking, his duffel bag swinging in his grip. The lights in his room flickered on and he sat on his bed and pulled the object from the bag.

A photo album fell open in his lap and Dean stared down at the first picture. It was of him and Sam, around the ages of eight and twelve maybe. They were each holding baseball bats so they couldn't have been with John. Bobby, maybe, or Pastor Jim. Sam was grinning so wide, Dean was surprised his face hadn't split in two. He flipped the page. The next one was older: Sam was just a baby, maybe about Parker's age. He was smiling again – Sam was always smiling – and you could just make out Dean in the background, a dark, blurred shape.

Dean turned the pages faster, speeding through the years. He had no idea who had put this album together. He doubted it was his father; John wouldn't have even thought of it. Some other hunter then, one of the many who had watched the boys when John was away. Dean would probably never know. He stopped on a page where the boys were older; Sam was taller than Dean now. Both were holding a gun and this time Sam's smile was tense. There was a bandage wrapped around Dean's upper arm and he thought he remembered this hunt. It had been a werewolf and Sam had almost refused to accompany the other two. It must have been about a year or so before he left for Stanford.

He kept flipping until he hit the last page. There it was. The only photo he knew of that had all four members of the Winchester family in it. Mary was holding Sam who must have only been a few months old in a blue onesie. His small baby feet were bare and kicking toward the camera. John had Dean on his shoulders, holding onto the boy with protective hands as Dean bent over his father's head. Dean was the only one not looking at the camera; his face was turned toward Sam and you could see the delighted smile the four-year-old wore as he watched his infant brother.

The glue was old and the picture came easily away from the page, sticking slightly to his palm as Dean brushed a thumb over all four smiling faces. It didn't feel like it had been real but if he closed his eyes and pushed away all the other crap in his head, he could sometimes unlock the memories.

Like Mary singing "Hey Jude" to Dean as he fell asleep in his parents' bed because for a while he was scared of the monster under his bed. That was, until John had bought Dean a squirt gun and claimed it was really a magic gun that would keep all the monsters away. At first Mary had complained about giving their toddler a toy gun but that night, Dean slept the whole night in his bed and she ended up thanking her husband. Sam was born almost exactly nine months later.

"Dean, come see your baby brother," John had said the day they brought Sam home from the hospital. John's mother had been staying with Dean for a couple days while Mary was in the hospital, and even though she made him cookies and let him stay up past his bedtime, Dean was overjoyed when his parent's came back.

"Let me see!" he said, sliding into the kitchen still wearing his racecar pajamas. "Let me see!"

"Shhh," Mary said, holding a white bundle to her chest. "You have to be quiet. We don't want to make the baby cry." She sat down on the couch and Dean crawled up next to her, suddenly shy in front of this strange creature.

"It's okay," Mary said, as John came to sit on Dean's other side, ready to grab the boy away if need be. "This is your little brother. This is Sam." Dean cocked his head and stared at the pink face. He jerked back in surprise when Sam's eyes opened and looked right back at Dean. The infant opened his mouth in a yawn and when a squeak came out, Dean grinned. He touched Sam's cheek with one of his own small fingers and the baby reached up, batting at Dean's finger.

"He likes me!" Dean told his parents.

"You're going to have to help us look after him," John told his eldest son. Dean's green eyes widened as he looked back and forth between Mary and John. "You're going to have to take care of him and protect him like a big brother does. Sammy's going to need you."

"I can do that," Dean said and it was the first time he sounded grown up. He stared down at his brother again, not knowing until years later that the funny feeling in his chest was called love.

Dean slipped the picture into his wallet and then put the photo album back in the duffel bag. As he passed by Kevin's room, he heard the Prophet talking to someone but it too soft for Dean to hear.

He made his way to the Weapons room and just stood there for a couple minutes, letting his eyes roam over all the different guns. There were knives hanging across one wall ranging from daggers to machetes. A couple crossbows sat in the corner next to what looked like a medieval mace. Dean had added to the collection by making sure several vats of holy water were always filled and there were sacks of salt piled in one corner.

He moved toward the guns, touching a few with his fingertips, picking up a couple to load and unload them just for fun. After so much sitting around, so much doing nothing, it felt good to have his hands doing something useful. The movements were a lullaby to Dean, calming him like the gentle rocking of a boat. The last one he picked up was Sam's gun. At least it had been until he left. Dean had no idea why his brother hadn't taken his favorite firearm with him when he walked out but in three and a half years, Dean hadn't touched the weapon. It was heavier than the guns he was used to but then again, Sam had had bigger hands and liked a weightier weapon.

Dean tucked the gun into the waistband of his jeans and left the room, closing and locking the door behind him.

There was a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue tucked in the back of the pantry; Dean couldn't even remember where it had come from but the bittersweet scent of blended scotch whiskey wafted up to him. Sam's voice was in his ear.

Can you even get drunk anymore? Isn't it kind of like drinking a vitamin for you?

"Let's find out, Sammy," Dean said out loud, pouring himself a glass and downing it in one swallow. God, it was good. He poured himself another and that one was gone as quickly as the first. "No need for this," he said, putting the glass in the sink.

Gripping the bottle by the neck, he climbed the stairs but instead of going into his room, he stopped outside the door to Sam's. It had remained closed for years; Dean had only gone in once or twice when he was looking for something for a hunt. He went in now, taking a swig of Mr. Walker before entering.

The room smelled like stale air and Dean kicked the door open wide. The bed was made up with the same gray blankets that Dean's was but where Dean had three pillows, Sam only had one. There was nothing on the walls but there were still plenty of clothes left in the closet. Dean wondered if Sam had meant to come back to get them and the bottle touched his lips again when he realized he would never know.

It was the maybe-I'm-getting-a-little-drunk part of Dean that made him get down on his knees – bottle still in hand – to look under the bed. There was nothing there and Dean rocked back on his heels, letting out a sigh of alcohol. Almost a quarter of the bottle was gone. Part of him recognized that he should probably slow down but it was a very small part of him and Dean silenced it by taking another generous sip. He was about to stand when he noticed a piece of paper wedged under the dresser. He slid his hand under and grabbed a corner by two fingers, dragging it out in a cloud of dust. It was an envelope and Dean's name was scrawled on the outside.

Dean glanced around, an absurd gesture since he was almost entirely alone but he couldn't shake the feeling that someone was watching him. It was probably the whiskey; paranoia caused by inebriation.

He let go of the bottle for the first time, making sure it didn't spill and held the envelope with one hand while opening it with the other.

Dean,

It was Sam's handwriting. Of course it was. He stared at the bottle as if it was going to start talking to him; he just wanted someone to tell him what he was supposed to do. But the only alcohol that was going to talk was the bit already traveling through his veins. He started to read.

Dean,

In ten minutes, I'm going to walk out the door of the bunker. You'll probably be upset because you tend to not like me leaving but I think you'll be okay. Hopefully, you come in here eventually and find this letter because I don't think I could say these words to your face.

I'm really sorry. For everything. For your broken arm that I know is hurting you and for your rib. I'm sorry for letting that vampire get the better of me. You're right; I'm not a hundred percent. I think I had a hard time convincing myself of that because I don't know who I am if I'm not a Hunter.

That's why I have to find out. Who knows, I might be back next week, next month, a year. You know, I used to think that Hunting wasn't for me and that's why I left for Stanford. Then you showed me that maybe it wasn't the worst thing in the world.

Thank you for that.

But now I want to see if there's anything left of me, any remaining part that I can salvage. You might not understand that. No, I know you won't understand, because there's so much left of you and every part of is dedicated to this lifestyle. I'm kind of jealous actually, of how sure of your life you are.

I know it's going to take you a while to stop being angry. But once you are, once you think you can forgive me, and if I'm still gone, please find me. I don't want to stop being brothers. You're my family and nothing can change that.

You know how to reach me.

Sam

Dean finished the bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue sitting on the floor of his dead brother's bedroom, holding a letter written by the same dead brother, more than half-hoping he'd fall asleep and never wake up.