A/N: WARNING: This chapter contains implied/referenced rape/non-con.

Dean slept through the night. Somehow, he made it. When he woke up, Castiel was sitting on his green, leather couch pushed off to the side of his room, the light from his phone alighting his face. His thumbs moved quickly.

"Who're you texting?" Dean asked.

"Just playing a game," Castiel answered.

Dean tried to not see the irony in that.

Head pounding, body aching, he somehow managed to drag himself out of bed.

And then his day started.

Castiel examined the wards, but they couldn't find any way to destroy them, or even weaken them. Things grew tiring, and the despair of the day before crept back in. Dean had just finished a dinner that was too small and not even close to satisfying, when Sam walked in. Dean turned away, wanting to ignore him.

Sam, always trying to be the most stubborn out of the two of them, sat down across from him.

"How you feeling?" Sam asked.

Dean raised his eyebrows in recognition, and licked his lips. He reached for his glass of water, and wished that he could somehow grab a beer. Sam wouldn't let him. Castiel hadn't let him. Dean's brain screamed for it. Still, he had a sip, and then looked at Sam.

"How you think I'm feeling?"

The answer to that was written in languages Dean didn't even understand. How was he feeling? He was alive… somehow. Thanks to Sam. But still alive in God's story nonetheless. God's story.

"Look, I know last night—"

"I don't want to talk about last night," Dean responded.

"Fine, then let me talk. I… I have to say some things."

Dean wanted to roll his eyes, but he stopped when he saw how serious Sammy looked.

"What I said, about you being there for me, it's true, but it doesn't erase that—that, you know… it hurt sometimes. It really hurt. And it still does."

"So you think guilting me is a good idea, Sam? Seriously? Right now?"

Sam's face fell, his jaw going slack. "That's not what I'm trying to do. I'm—"

"I know, you're trying to be honest."

Dean got up to clean his dishes.

"But, Sam, I know I've messed up," he told him, glad that he had the excuse of cleaning his dishes for his back to be turned to him. "Hell, I've probably been messing up since you were four years old."

Sam's presence seemed to ache, emotions weighing both of them down.

"But I did good too. I know that. And… knowing that doesn't erase the fact that I have hurt you. I have. And I'm sorry."

"Are we… are we talking about the same thing?" Sam asked, words tentative.

"I don't know. Are we? What are you talking about?"

"I, uh… I don't know. I guess… uh…"

"Sammy," Dean intoned.

"Gadreel."

Dean hung his head. The guilt pressing in from the inside burst out, and he put his dishes down, drying his hands on his jeans as he turned to Sam.

"Believe it or not, we are actually talking about the same thing."

Dean decided to not think of why they were talking about it. Was it because this was it? Because they were gearing up to say goodbye? Some goodbye that would be if this was only the tip of the iceberg to all the things they'd done to each other; for each other.

"I shouldn't've tricked you," Dean admitted. "I was wrong. I knew I was wrong, even while I was doing it. But I couldn't stop myself. I just… I saw you in that hospital bed, knowing you weren't gonna make it, and I couldn't breathe. I couldn't even think of what it would be like to not have you by my side, so I… so I did a dumbass thing. I know it's… I know it's His story, but… that felt like me. It all felt like me. Sammy, I know what it did to you. I didn't. I didn't for years, and I just thought you'd been a baby about it. But after Michael… I'm sorry I made you feel that way in your own body. I'm sorry I let someone else in."

"And I'm sorry you know what it feels like," Sam said. "I would've—I would've rather gone through all this, knowing that you didn't get it too. Possession — that violation, that… sense of someone else being in you… I never wanted you to feel that, Dean."

Dean just looked at Sam, and for once there wasn't a bleeding, broken thing between them. There was just… whatever the hell this was. Understanding?

"Yeah, it sucks. Given the choice, I wouldn't do it again," Dean said. "But… I don't know, man, I don't think I'll ever truly regret saving you. I know you said I did it for me. And you know, you're right. I think I did. I just can't… I can't take those feelings away, or—or make it stop."

"I get it," Sam said, though there was still hurt on his face.

Dean went over and sat on the table beside him.

"What is it?"

"I…" Sam heaved in a shuddering breath. The exhale was shaky, his body caught up in those same tremors. "Do you think it was worth it — saving the world?"

Dean frowned. Okay, yeah, he really wanted beer if he was dealing with questions like this.

"I don't know," Dean answered.

Sam rubbed his hands together, and swallowed roughly. Dean saw sweat bead on his forehead.

"Yeah. Yeah, me either."

"What's going on in that genius head of yours, Sam?"

"The things we did, the things we had to do to save the world… if it's all him, then why does it hurt like I'm all alone?"

That was when Sam looked up at Dean, and Dean's breath caught in his throat.

He wanted to reach out, to hold Sam to this earth like he'd done for him the night before, like Castiel had done for him all day. But he didn't know how. He felt trapped, lost, as he looked at the fear, and the sickening hurt on Sam's face. What was making his baby brother feel like that? What existed that could make him feel like that? Was this about Lucifer? The Cage? That was the only thing Dean knew that was bad enough to give Sam that look. And his brother was barely breathing.

"'Cause it feels like I'm all alone," Sam responded. "Even… even now, with you right beside me. There are… there are things that I went through that, uh…"

And then Dean remembered: Lucifer touches me…

He'd been talking about a dream. He had been talking about a dream, a vision, right?

Not…?

Oh god.

Was that…?

"I don't really know how to say this," Sam went on.

Dean wanted to reach out, to tell him he didn't have to, and maybe it was to spare himself from hearing it. But he was going to hear it. God, he was going to hear it, and there was nothing he could do, nothing he could've done. Sam might've been...

"It's okay, Sam," Dean found himself saying.

His brother met his gaze, and they both knew it wasn't.