Summary:

Liam is still missing, and Sam's unraveling a little more each day. Dean does his best to keep his little brother afloat, but they're both on unsteady ground. Add Ruby, Castiel, Uriel, and Alistair into the mix, and it really shouldn't be a surprise that everything hits the fan.

But that's okay. They're Winchesters. They'll figure it out, like they always do. Liam just has to hang on until they find him.

Because they will find him. That's a promise.

Sam hadn't slept in three days. He hadn't eaten in just as much time. His head was throbbing, his body was aching, and his hands shook on the keyboard as he typed. He was probably a little drunker than he should have been, probably a little higher on caffeine than he should have been, probably a little less put together than he should have been.

Really, it shouldn't have come as a surprise when Dean pulling Sam's laptop out from under his hands triggered an explosive response.

"What the—?" Sam jumped to his feet, vision swimming. "Dean, give it back!"

Dean snapped the laptop shut and tossed it onto the bed. "No. We need to talk. You can have your laptop when we're done."

Sam was shaking his head before the sentence was done. "No. Dean, no. We're not doing this. I can't do this, not now, not when—"

"Yeah, I wasn't asking." Dean walked over to the seat across from Sam and pointed a finger, as if that simple gesture could make Sam stay sitting.

Oddly enough, it did, and Sam slouched in his seat. "What, Dean?"

Dean didn't say anything for a moment, like he had expected Sam to fight back longer, which would have given him more time to figure out how to say what it was he wanted to say.

That was probably exactly what happened, actually.

Sam sighed and rubbed his face, putting his elbows on the tabletop. He could feel his eyes burning already, despite it being less than twelve hours since he last cried over Liam's unknown status.

"Sam, look… I'm not talking, you know, final outcome." Dean eased into the chair across from Sam, the scrape of wood on linoleum followed immediately by the gentle thud of elbows coming to rest on the table. "I still think we can find Liam, and I think he's gonna be okay. But let's—let's pretend for a second that he's not—"

Sam snorted and lifted his head from his hands, wiping his face and combing his hair back out of his eyes. "What do you think I've been doing for three days, Dean?"

"No, just—okay, look, I know I'm all over the place. Pretty sure since we've been, y'know, talking about… stuff, you've learned how much I suck at it. So, bear with me." Dean kept his elbows on the table but lifted his hands, rolling and twisting them as he struggled to find his words. "If… we want to… find him, we… gotta be in a better place mentally. I mean, I'm not—I'm not asking you not to worry or some crap like that… but… okay, like, I've got this analogy in my head."

If it weren't for the dire situation, Sam might have laughed a little at how awkwardly Dean was falling over himself. Though, considering that, maybe it was good the situation was dire. It was hard enough for Dean to talk about emotional things when Sam was silent; laughter would probably keep him from ever being emotionally honest again.

"Man, think about all the—all the cops and feds and firefighters and soldiers out there. Right?" Dean grew a little more animated as he spoke, an odd kind of desperation sparking in the spearmint shade of his eyes. "They have dangerous jobs. And, you know, no one would expect them to make some kinda crazy promise like—like to never die in a fire or get shot or get called to active duty overseas." He spread his hands slightly in a gesture of helplessness. "Cops can't promise their families are never gonna be targeted by the big-time gangbangers they've put behind bars. Successful parents can't promise their kids are never gonna be kidnapped for ransom. Because the world sucks. And people suck. And you can't—" He stuttered to a halt, gaze shifting upward as his mouth moved, struggling to figure out how to finish. "You… it doesn't… there are—there are jobs that just gotta get done, y'know?" He started picking up speed again. "And those people still, y'know, deserve to be happy. They still deserve to have families. And—and having a job that puts their family at risk doesn't make them a bad parent and it doesn't mean they don't care enough, it just means—it just means the world sucks, okay?" Dean spread his arms a little farther and scoffed to the ceiling. "The world freakin' sucks, and that means not every family gets to have the trauma-free life, the both-parents-alive-and-married life, the—the—" He moved his hands some more. "You know?"

Sam opened his mouth to speak, but Dean wasn't quite done, so he closed it again and watched as Dean leaned on the table.

"Look, Sammy, I know—I know there's a lot about you I don't know. There are things I missed—I'm kinda oblivious, okay?" Dean shook his head with a quiet sigh. "More than I thought, apparently." He shook his head again, harder. "But there are things I know about you; things I don't even know about myself."

Sam cast his eyes to the side, sniffing quietly, but he brought them back when Dean leaned forward. Dean, please. I can't do this right now.

Dean looked at Sam with concern and sincerity blazing in his eyes in equal measure. "I know you're blaming yourself, and I know it's not for something like—like not watching close enough or, or, or not putting up wards and sigils in every single motel room."

Sam laughed, soft and bitter, dropping and re-raising weary, bloodshot eyes to look at his brother. "I'm not? Because that's all I can think about, Dean. That and the ten thousand other things I could have done to keep him safe; things I didn't do." He huffed out that same laugh, dashing away the rapidly forming tears in his eyes. "I was so desperate not to be like Dad—"

"That's just it, Sam." Dean shook his head, earnest and imploring. "You're not blaming yourself for not doing enough, your blaming yourself for the life you have. You're blaming yourself because you're a hunter, so you never should have taken Liam with you in the first place. As if you could have known the Apocalypse was coming. As if you could have known killing Lilith wasn't your last mission as a hunter; that you wouldn't be able to stop any time soon."

Sam swallowed hard and averted his eyes, reaching up to tuck his hair behind his ear with a sniff. "Dean—"

"Dad messed up a lot of things, Sam, and most of the things he did wrong, he did with the best of intentions. He was a control freak, just like me. We can't let the people we love be, y'know, vulnerable to the world. I—" Dean looked down then, fiddling with his ring and shaking his head. "Look, I've been thinking a lot since we talked… that night… about, you know, how you were after…" He shook his head again and cleared his throat, glancing up before looking back down again. "I always used to think that… as long as the people you care about are still alive, it's all gonna be okay. But, uh… but I don't know if I believe that anymore. Because, uh, because if keeping someone alive means… making them so miserable they don't want to be… maybe… I don't know, maybe it's not worth it."

Sam was floored, unable to get his head around those particular words coming out of Dean's mouth. It was good Dean still wasn't done, because Sam wasn't sure he could speak. He wasn't sure he would ever be able to speak again. He wasn't even sure he would be to get his jaw shut.

"I mean, think back, Sam." Dean was still going, speaking intently, and it was painfully clear how much he had thought about what he wanted to say. "If you could relive those years, what would you prefer? Fewer scars on your body, or a closer relationship with Dad? Less danger in your life, or him—us supporting you when you went to Stanford?" He held his hands up. "And man, I'm not judging Dad. This… awful way we've been feeling, that's—that's what he felt every time we were out of his sight, because he knew what was after us… and he knew less then than we do now about how to kill what goes bump in the night." He shook his head slowly, lips pursing as his expression turned thoughtful. "But I'd like to think… if we could ask… if we could do it over… Dad would say that us staying a family would have been worth the extra anxiety."

Sam dropped his gaze to his lap, swallowing hard, and when he looked back up, Dean had turned his head to stare at the wall. At least I'm not the only one crying. Though, technically—and technicalities were very important when it came to Winchester emotions—neither of them were crying, per se. Not really.

Dean sniffed once and blinked away the moisture in his eyes. "Uh, anyways, my point is… right now, you feel like you failed Liam… like you should have done better… but you can't." Dean shook his head. "You can't feel guilty for wanting him to be safe and happy. I mean, you can, but don't." He wet his lips and shook his head again. "Liam doesn't deserve this demon-kidnapping crap, but… he doesn't deserve to wonder whether or not you love him, either. He deserves to know that it's okay to be happy—that he shouldn't feel wrong for being happy because he grew up thinking happiness and comfort means he probably missed something important and bad things are gonna happen because of it."

Sam ducked his head slightly, clenching his jaw as his lips wobbled. He put his head down and framed his face with his hands, shielding his eyes and staring at the blurry wood beneath him. He saw one tear fall to the tabletop, but he didn't move to wipe it away, and he didn't try to blink away the rest.

"Being with you has been the best six months of his life, Sam. What would be the point of him being safe at that group home and just as miserable as he was when you found him? He didn't want to be alive, Sam, and he does now. You did that."

Sam choked out a sob, gripping his hair a little tighter.

"I've only been here for two months—you've been with him half a year. You're the reason Liam likes waking up in the morning, and that's gotta be worth something, Sam. It's gotta be. 'Cause if it's not, then what's the point? Why are any of us even trying if nobody cares about anybody being anything more than alive?" Dean let out a sigh and folded his arms on the table. "Life has to be more than maintaining a pulse, man."

Sam ran his hands down his face, rubbing away the tears, and he tried to take deep, calming breaths. He heard Dean get up and walk away, but his focus was on keeping himself from a complete and total meltdown. Not that there was really any point. He had lost count of how many times he had broken down since Liam disappeared.

I don't know what to do. I don't know what to think.

Dean made some good points, and Sam knew the perspective was worth quite a bit of thought, but he didn't feel any better. He just felt like another twenty minutes had passed with Liam still out there, somewhere, alone and scared, possibly suffering or dead, and Sam just… couldn't get past that.

"Here."

Sam dropped his hands from his face and looked at the roll of toilet paper Dean had set in front of him. "Thanks," he mumbled, grabbing several squares and folding them over to use as a tissue.

Dean sat back down on his side of the table, watching in silence as Sam blew his nose half a dozen times.

Sam sniffed, staring down at the tabletop littered with used 'tissues.' He blinked languidly, the exhaustion of the past several days coming down on his shoulders. "I don't know what to do, Dean." He tried to look up but couldn't quite manage it. "I want him back, Dean. I just want him in my arms. I want to know he's safe." By the time the last word left his lips, he was barely whispering.

"I know. I know." Dean simultaneously nodded and shook his head, moving it in the almost circular way he often did when confused or undecided. "We're going to find him, okay? We're gonna—we're gonna find him. We are."

Sam didn't say anything, but his analytical brain had been running numbers for days. If Liam had been taken by monsters or demons, why hadn't anyone come forward? They wouldn't want anything with Liam himself, they would just be using him to get to Sam, so why hadn't they made their demands? So, maybe not monsters or demons, which sounded positive on the surface. But if Liam had been taken by humans, he was almost definitely dead, and if he wasn't… he was probably wishing he was.

"Sam—"

They both stopped when they heard a knock at the door. They made brief eye contact, Dean reaching for his gun while Sam pulled the demon knife from his jacket.

"Coming!" Sam slowly approached the door with Dean just a few feet behind him. He glanced at Dean, who nodded, and then he quickly opened the door.

Sam saw who it was and let out a sigh of relief, but Dean was more on edge than ever.

"You've got some nerve showing up anywhere near me," Dean snapped, but he holstered his gun regardless. It wouldn't do anything to her, after all.

Sam kept his knife out for Dean's sake, and despite the sideways look he got from Ruby, she seemed to understand Dean wouldn't tolerate the knife not being drawn while a demon was around.

Ruby folded her arms over her chest, giving Dean an unimpressed eyebrow raise. "I just have some info, and then I'm gone."

Sam frowned, leaning against the open door, subconsciously keeping himself in a position where he could stop Dean from lunging at her. "What kind of info?"

"There's a girl named Anna Milton who escaped from a locked ward yesterday." Ruby slipped her hands into her pockets, glancing over her shoulders as she spoke. "I did some digging, and this girl thinks she can talk to angels. Sounds crazy, hence the locked ward, but the demons are pretty determined to find her, so I'm thinking there's something to it."

Dean snorted. "Oh, the demons are looking for her. Like you're not one of them."

"Dean." Sam held out his hand and turned a brief but pleading look to his brother. "Please." He looked back at the doorway. "Ruby, that's interesting and all, and it sucks that the demons are after her, but… we already have contact with the angels. I don't—"

"No, I know, but I thought—" she glanced around again and lowered her voice. "I thought if she could hear angels, maybe she could hear some demon chatter, too. Maybe something about Liam. And even if it is just angels she can hear, she'd make a great bargaining chip for getting Liam back."

Dean actually stopped at that, and so did Sam, both of them sharing a brief look of resigned discomfort. Ruby scoffed and rolled her eyes.

"Or just use her for the radio in the name of morality." Ruby shrugged then. "Honestly, even hearing what the angels are up to might be helpful. I mean, from what I understand, they aren't exactly forthcoming. Maybe—"

"Woah, stop it right there." Dean held up a hand, fire blazing in his eyes. "There is no way Heaven has Liam. Castiel would know about something like that, and he wouldn't do that to us."

Ruby held up her hands in a display of surrender. "Okay, geeze. Touchy." She re-crossed her arms, undeterred. "My other points still stand."

Sam looked at Dean but gestured to Ruby. "She's right, and even if Heaven didn't take Liam, what they're saying could still be helpful. I mean, Castiel has to help with the seals, right? He can only look when his superiors let him, but this Anna chick might be able to—"

Dean heaved a sigh and leaned forward, intercepting the arm Sam tried to put between them and pushing it aside. He looked at Ruby, eyes narrowed and dark, anger still lingering in the deeper shades of green. "Does this locked ward have a name?"

Ruby held out a folded slip of paper, eyeing Dean suspiciously but ultimately releasing her end when he grabbed on. "That's everything I know."

Dean didn't look at the paper. He just took it from Ruby and leaned in a little closer, staring her down. "Thanks for the help. Now get out, and don't let me see your face again, or I'll tear it off."

"Dean, please." Sam put a hand on Dean's arm, but he knew there was no point. He mouthed an apologetic 'sorry' over Dean's shoulder.

Ruby stared right back at Dean, her own eyes blazing with barely-constrained fury. "You remember Bela Talbot?"

Sam and Dean both stopped, confused, but Dean didn't let his composure waver like Sam did. Then again, Dean saw Ruby as a threat, and Sam didn't.

"She sold her soul because her mommy and daddy touched her where they shouldn't have." Ruby said it in a mocking tone of voice, but there was something eerily, darkly sincere in her words. "She'll be a demon someday, if she isn't already, because that's what happens when you stay in Hell too long. Liam is exactly the kind of kid that ends up being one of us demons you hate so much, and believe it or not, that doesn't make me happy." She grit her teeth and stepped forward, shoving Dean in the chest and successfully pushing him back a half-step. "So find him, and make it right." She looked between them, lowering her voice to a mumble. "Before it's too late." She didn't maintain eye contact for long after that, boots turning sharply in the gravel as she strode away from the door.

Sam and Dean watched her go, both struck a bit speechless, and Sam couldn't help but feel a sort of warmth swelling in his chest.

There was good in her. He knew there was. She wanted Liam home safe and sound, and there was no benefit in that for her; she wasn't getting anything out of caring about Liam. She could sympathize—maybe, with some work and some help from him, she could empathize—and she wanted to be better.

Sam made a note to text her later—maybe while Dean was in a rest stop or pumping gas somewhere down the road—and then he turned to Dean.

From the look on his face, Dean still wasn't convinced, but he unfolded the scrap and read what was written. "That's at least a two-day drive." He sighed and shoved the paper into his pocket. "Come on." He pushed past Sam to get back in the motel room. "Let's get packed. On the way there, you can fill me in on exactly what Ruby did to you while I was gone."

Sam followed him into the room, a soft sigh passing his lips. "Ruby didn't do any—"

"Oh, she did something, alright." Dean was already throwing things into his duffle bag. "I know what you look like when you've got it bad for someone."

Sam stopped halfway to his laptop, wetting his lips and swallowing hard. "I…" He ran a hand through his hair and rubbed the back of his neck, stomach churning slightly as a mixture of embarrassment and dread washed over him. "I told you, after you died, I…"

"Tell me in the car. We'll have more time than we know what to do with." Dean stopped for a second, holding his bag in one hand and its zipper in the other. "It's not like we're going to sleep."

Sam swallowed again and nodded his head, grabbing his laptop. "Right. Car." He shoved the computer into his bag and started rifling through the bedsheets in search of the gun he normally slept with. "I just have to grab a few things, and then we can go."

Dean nodded but didn't say anything. He seemed unusually calm, and Sam wondered if something Ruby had said had given him a little bit of perspective, but Sam wasn't holding his breath.

Still, he doesn't seem as angry.

And if Dean decided Ruby wasn't so bad, well… wasn't that the best defense there was? Sam was in love, and he had been vulnerable when Ruby approached him, but Dean wouldn't fall for something like that. If Dean thought she was alright, even just a little, she couldn't be bad. Right?

Sam was unhinged.

Sam was completely, utterly, and entirely removed from any sense of hinging he had ever had. That was the only explanation. Because the conversation wasn't supposed to bother him that much. He was supposed to tell Dean about Ruby and explain why he was so willing to trust her, and Dean was supposed to listen, if only to glean information, and then it was supposed to end.

But somewhere along the line, the conversation shifted from what Ruby had done for Sam to why Sam needed help in the first place. And they were trapped in a car with hours of talking time ahead, so he couldn't pull out the vague, half-baked answered he had used last time Dean breeched the topic.

Maybe it was because Liam was missing. Maybe it was the stress of the Apocalypse. Maybe he was craving demon blood and needed a fix. But he hadn't even opened his mouth to speak before Dean's eviscerated corpse was flashing before his eyes, and before he knew it, he was so upset he could barely form a coherent sentence.

"Sammy?"

Sam inhaled slowly, still leaning out the window to get some air. "Sorry." He took another deep breath, let it out, and then took another. "I didn't mean to, uh…"

"Freak out?"

Sam nodded, leaning back into the car a little but still staying pressed to the door. "I just—I wasn't expecting—I mean, I don't—" His chest was tight and throbbing. "I, uh, I don't really like talking about—" his skin tingled and burned, like acid was coursing through his veins, "—what happened to you." He shrugged a few times, shifting in his seat and adjusting his clothes, trying to rid himself of the sensation of suffocation.

Dean looked at Sam for a moment, and then he moved his hands to the keys, as if intending to start the car. "Hey, I get it. I shouldn't have pushed. Just, uh, take a deep breath—"

"I am," Sam hissed, clutching the armrest and pressing himself against the door again.

"Hey, you're gonna be alright. Trust me." Dean forced a small laugh. "You died first, remember? I know how it feels, and it, uh… it gets better. Promise."

Sam's eyes were stinging when he whispered, "That was different."

Dean rested his hand on his thigh, scratching at his pantleg. "What do you mean?"

Sam shook his head, stomach churning as the images from that night grew darker, more vivid, more defined. "It was… you weren't…" He wet his lips and blinked, trying to clear away the moisture gathering in his eyes. "I was stabbed."

What is wrong with me? I just did this a few hours ago. Why can't I keep it together?

"Yeah, I know you were stabbed. You bled out in my arms."

Sam could hear the bitterness in Dean's voice; the subtle 'how dare you imply it was worse for you than it was for me?' And that wasn't what Sam wanted to do—not at all—but his tongue was already moving. All Sam could do was hope Dean would continue to be as good at listening as he had been for the past week or so.

"I know—I know what you went through was bad, Dean, I—I do." Sam took another deep breath and quickly wiped his eyes under the guise of tucking his hair behind his ears. "But you were… when I…" He put his hands out slightly, able to see Dean's body in front of him, able to relive the movements he had made that night. "You fell out."

Dean didn't say anything for a moment, and when he did finally speak, his tone was thick with confusion. "I fell out?"

"You—your—" Sam gestured to his own stomach. "When the Hellhounds got you, they—and when I picked you up to move you, your insides—" he indicated the space in front of him, moving his hands indistinctly as he watched the instant replay in his mind, "—all over the floor, and—and I had to, you know, pick it up, pick them—pick you up, and put you back t—together." He wet his lips, but his throat was so dry it didn't matter. "And I know—I know I was supposed to burn you. I know." His heart was pounding against his ribcage. "But I couldn't, because I was gonna bring you back, and I—I never realized how—how—" he shook his hands, tears slipping down his cheeks as the burning sensation under his skin grew hotter, "—how different, how—"

Sam stopped for a moment, clearing his throat and turning away from the window. He was immediately smothered by the heat of the car and leaned back toward the cold, but he didn't stop facing Dean. He had to look at Dean, he had to make Dean understand. And Dean was just sitting there, staring, looking shocked and a little sick to his stomach.

So, Sam continued.

"When we burned Dad, you know, he—it was like—what we buried wasn't him. It—it felt right for him to, to be ash instead of—of blood and guts and flesh and—" he gagged, swallowed, gagged again, and then got ahold of himself, "—but you were in this—this box, and I remember—" he sucked down a shuddering breath, unzipping his jacket, "—and I can see your face when I close my eyes, exactly how it was right before I put the lid on, and I—"

"Sammy, come on." Dean put his hand on Sam's shoulder. "Take a deep breath, man. It's okay, come on, deep breaths."

Sam reached up and clutched both Dean's hand and his own shoulder, speaking through clenched teeth in an attempt to keep the stubbornly rising sobs in his throat where they belonged. "And I put you down there, and I put the dirt on, and I just—I remember thinking I couldn't bury you because you needed air, and I had to—to make a hole or use a pipe or something, but you didn't need the air, and—" he screwed his eyes shut and shook his head, "—and I had to pack it all down, the dirt, but I just—I kept trying to do it with my hands, because I couldn't—I couldn't step on you, Dean, you were down there—you were—"

It was so hot.

"Sammy, hey, listen to me. That's gone. Okay? That's over. That's done." From the sound of it, Dean was turning in his seat, trying to get closer and face Sam full-on. "I'm here now. It's okay. We're okay. I'm not there anymore, man, and neither are you."

Sam shook his head and pulled Dean's hand from his shoulder. "Just—just let me take my jacket off. It's too hot, I can't—I can't breathe."

"You've got the window rolled all the way down in the middle of December!" Dean objected, using the removed hand to indicate the window in question.

Sam only shook his head some more, tearing off the article and feeling a rush of relief—however brief and mild—as his skin began to cool. "You were down there, Dean."

Dean quickly forgot the window. "Sammy—"

"It was just—" he tried to look at Dean, "—it was just this little pine box, and I—" he sucked down a lungful of air, "—every time it rained, I would think—" Sam dropped his chin to his chest, lips quivering. "I would think to myself, 'Dean's getting all wet.' And I would—" he reached up and covered his face with his hand, tears collecting on his palm and fingers, "—I'd think about you rotting or being eaten by maggots or what little was left of you, and I—" Sam let out a few sobs, shaking his head, and his words came out thick with tears. "Where is he, Dean?"

Dean didn't say anything, but from the sound of his clothing, he was moving again, possibly trying to get closer, possibly shaking his head in confusion.

Sam looked up at Dean, only able to meet his eyes for a second, tears rolling faster down his cheeks. "I can't—I can't bury him, Dean. I can't bury Liam. I can't do that again, and I can't burn him, and I can't—I can't—"

"Hey." Dean grabbed Sam by the shoulder again, shaking him hard. "That is not going to happen, okay? We are gonna find him—"

"How, Dean?" Between the stabbing pain in his chest and his burning skin, Sam couldn't find it in himself to care that his voice cracked. "I couldn't stop Lilith last time. I couldn't keep you safe then, and I don't know if—"

"Woah, hey, hey, hey. We couldn't stop Lilith." Dean pointed to both of them in turn, shaking his head. "We couldn't. Okay? It wasn't—"

"Don't tell me it wasn't my job to save you." Sam spat the words, but there was no anger behind them, only panic. "You really think I don't want to protect you? You really think I don't feel any responsibility at all for making sure you're okay?"

Dean wet his lips, a familiar bitterness crossing his face for a fraction of a second. Sam knew that look, knew Dean was thinking about the night Sam left for Stanford and all the unanswered phone calls that followed.

"Sam, you gotta stop. You're not thinking straight. Alright?" Dean shook his head and let out a soft sigh. To Sam's great surprise and relief, Dean didn't say what they were both thinking. "I know you blame yourself for Liam being kidnapped, but now you're trying to blame yourself for everything under the sun, and you gotta stop."

Sam threw his hands out, accidentally hitting the doorframe with his knuckles. "I haven't mentioned anything that isn't my fault!"

"Sammy—"

"Do you think I don't know, Dean?" Sam scoffed out the words, tears welling in his eyes and lining up for the next race to his jawline. "Do you think I don't know what I did to you when I left?"

Dean wet his lips, and his eyes said, 'no, I don't,' but his mouth disagreed. "Sam, that's in the past, okay?"

"No, it's not!" Sam dragged his sleeve across his face. "None of this would even be happening to us if I hadn't left that night!" He swallowed hard, gritting his teeth in an increasingly pointless struggle to keep his emotions under control. "If I hadn't run off to Stanford, Jess would still be alive." His hand throbbed from where he hit the window. "If I had been there to help you hunt, maybe we would have found Azazel sooner, and maybe Dad wouldn't have gone off on his own." He wiped his face again. "Maybe he would still be alive, maybe Cold Oak never would have happened—"

"Sam, stop."

"And you think I don't know? You think it doesn't tear me up inside? That it hasn't been tearing me up inside for months? Years?" Sam blinked rapidly, wiping his face again and gasping down little bits of air. "You think I didn't see the way you would hesitate when I needed you to trust me? Or all the sideways glances you would give me after every fight, like you were waiting for me to pack my bags and walk out again?"

Dean stared back, speechless, looking caught between confusion and anger and… something. Sam honestly didn't know anymore. He was just so tired.

Sam let out a bitter, broken laugh, tears rolling down his cheeks. "You think I didn't see it in your eyes when I tried to go find Dad on my own?" It was getting harder to breathe, the car was getting hotter and smaller and closer, and the little bursts of icy wind on his damp cheeks weren't enough anymore. "You think I didn't see the walls going back up?" He wiped his nose on his sleeve, but he had given up on drying his eyes.

Dean still had a dry face, but the tears were gathering, ready and waiting to fall.

"You think I didn't know the second you saw Liam, all you could think was that you had been replaced again? Because that's what I did, I made you feel replaceable." Sam shook his head, hot tears traveling down the salty tracks of their predecessors. "And I'm sorry, Dean. I'm so sorry I did that to you." His voice cracked again, but he didn't bother clearing his throat; it was too tight and dry to be of any use anyway. "I'm sorry that it took you dying for me to stop and think about how you must have felt when I left. I will never be able to tell you, in words, how sorry I am for what that did to you—what I did to you."

Dean ducked his head slightly, biting down on his lip, and a few tears hit the leather panel between the seats. His shoulders shuddered, but he didn't make a sound.

"I'm sorry," Sam croaked. "I am. I am so sorry, Dean." He shook his head. "I'm not blaming myself for everything because I need someone to blame, I'm blaming myself because it's my fault. I'm blaming myself because I was actually arrogant enough to think I could be a halfway decent father when I can't even be a halfway decent brother. And I want to make it up to you. I want to prove to you that our family means everything to me, and I keep messing it up. I keep letting you down, I keep hurting you or letting other people hurt you, and I don't—"

"Stop." Dean reached out and grabbed onto Sam's shoulder again, digging his fingers into the flesh and muscle relentlessly. "Just stop a second."

Sam fell silent, feeling the winter air on his face and neck, torn between the discomfort of cold hands and the intolerable, suffocating heat that would take him over if he dared to shut the window.

Dean kept his head down for a few moments, breathing deep and sniffing to clear his sinuses. He wiped his eyes a few times with his free hand, and then he turned in his seat so he was facing forward again.

"Dean—"

"Stop." Dean cleared his throat and shook his head, giving Sam's shoulder a few shakes.

Sam looked at the hand holding him, and then he dropped his gaze down to his lap, letting the tears blur his vision. "I gotta open the door." He sniffed.

"Mhm." That was all Dean offered, but he didn't let go.

Sam pulled the handle and pushed the door open with his foot, shuddering at the sudden cold but still feeling the burn on his skin. I hate this. How many more days could he handle the stress of not knowing where Liam was before he just keeled over? How many more panic attacks, full-blown or not, before his heart just gave out and let him drop?

"Sam. You listening?"

Sam nodded his head.

"Good." Dean sniffed, shook Sam's shoulder again, and then exhaled slowly through his mouth. "You screwed up, Sam. So did I. So did Dad. But…" He shook his head and swallowed hard. "None of this is your fault. Okay?" He shook his head again. "Dad—Dad never blamed you for anything because of Stanford. He didn't want you going to Stanford because he knew the demons were after you. I didn't want you to go to Stanford because you were my baby brother—you are my baby brother—and I didn't want to let you go. Dad and I never sat around after a hunt saying, 'Man, you know why everything sucks?' 'Because Sam went to Stanford?' 'Because Sam went to Stanford.' Cue the canned laughter or whatever. Okay?" Dean looked away from the steering wheel and met Sam's eyes. "We just missed you, man. And I couldn't let it go because you didn't just walk away, you cut me off. And yeah, that sucked, and you shouldn't have done it, but… Sam, I just wanted an apology. I just wanted us to be brothers again, I didn't—I didn't blame you for Dad leaving, or for any hunt that went wrong while I was hunting alone, or, or whatever else you've cooked up in that kinda scary, kinda screwy brain of yours." He shook his head a few times. "Crap happens to us because monsters are real and we got dealt a sucky hand. Not because of you."

Sam looked down, overcome with a simultaneous rush of, 'no, you don't understand' and 'do you really mean that?' Half of him wanted to accept the encouragement, wanted to believe everything that happened to their family really wasn't his fault, but the other half was holding on to the fact that he was responsible, albeit indirectly, for so much of what had gone wrong.

"We're gonna find him, Sam."

Sam looked up from his lap, fresh tears stinging his eyes.

Dean stared back at him, emphatically sincere, green eyes glowing in the light of the neon signs outside. He smirked, and he nodded his head, and he put one hand on the keys. "We're gonna find him. Whatever it takes, whoever we gotta shake down, wherever we gotta go… we're gonna find him, and we're gonna bring him home."

Sam couldn't quite get his mouth to form words, and he reached out to grab the car door with a tingling, nearly numb hand. Numb from the panic or from the cold, Sam didn't know, but he supposed it didn't matter in the end.

"Come on, Sam. At least nod your head. I gotta know you're with me on this."

Sam pulled the door shut and flashed a weak smile in Dean's direction. "I'm with you."

"Whatever it takes." Dean turned the engine over and put the car in reverse.

Sam leaned against the door and rested his head in the open window. "Whatever it takes."

"Samandriel?" Castiel appeared before his fellow angel with a frown and a faint note of concern in his tone. "You called me?"

Samandriel confirmed the information with a nod and then pointed to the greenroom nearby. "I think he had a nightmare of some kind, but he won't tell me. He's only said two words, and it was your name both times."

"My name?" Castiel looked at the greenroom, more confused than ever. "But he doesn't like me. He likes you."

That was why Castiel had put Samandriel in charge of Liam in the first place. Samandriel had a younger, lighter spirit, and he wasn't nearly as rigid as Castiel. Liam took to him immediately, and they had spent the day together without incident.

"Castiel, if I might offer my perspective?"

Castiel pulled himself from his thoughts and looked at Samandriel with questioning eyes. "Of course."

Samandriel looked at the room again, brow creased with sympathy—why did it come so naturally for some angels?—and then he looked back at Castiel. "He's fond of me, but he's known you longer than any other angel. He loves Sam and Dean Winchester, and you know them better than any other angel." He looked back at the greenroom. "Between the two of us, you have a better chance of figuring out what he needs."

Castiel contemplated the words for a moment, his head slowly beginning to bob. "Very well. I'll see what I can do."

Samandriel smiled, and Castiel flew into the room without another word.

It was dim but not dark, and Castiel's attention was immediately drawn to the tangle of sheets with a screaming child in the middle.

Castiel had no idea what to do.

"Liam…"

Liam's head snapped up, the cries ceasing for just a second before starting up again once he processed who was in the room with him. He pushed himself up on his knees, still sobbing loudly, and he reached out in what was, perhaps, the neediest gesture Castiel had ever seen.

"Uh… please, don't." Castiel wet his lips and cautiously approached. "Don't cry."

Liam didn't heed the request, tears still streaming down his face as he wept, but his arms only reached out further the closer Castiel got.

"If you want something, you have to tell me. I can't read your mind."

Liam didn't cooperate. Instead, he leaned so far forward that he fell, forcing Castiel to rush forward and catch him; after that, the rest was history.

Liam threw his arms around Castiel's neck and clawed at the back of his jacket, feet pushing against Castiel's hips and thighs as he fought to get the necessary leverage for a tighter hold. Liam sobbed uncontrollably, pressing his face against Castiel's shoulder only to move it and press against Castiel's head before going back to his shoulder, then to his neck, and ultimately back to his shoulder again. Liam wrapped his legs around Castiel's waist, he clutched the angel's frame like his life depended on it, and Castiel wasn't sure he was ever going to let go.

But he was still crying, and Castiel didn't understand.

How do you soothe a child? Castiel had seen mothers calming their babies in public, but by the time children were Liam's age, they typically kept most of their emotional distress behind closed doors. Castiel had never been assigned to an adolescent in any capacity, thus, he never had a reason to go behind those doors to see how things were done.

"Assel…" Liam hiccupped, gasping in between his cries.

Castiel assumed the slurred syllables were a botched attempt at saying his name. "Yes?"

Liam only squeezed Castiel tighter, cries unreduced.

Castiel thought about the situation for a moment, and then he shifted his arms so only one supported Liam from below while the other came up to gently rub Liam's shuddering back. He stood like that for a few seconds, and then he started to sway slightly, figuring the predisposition for rocking might have carried on into early and middle childhood.

Castiel figured right, and as the seconds ticked by, Liam slowly began to reduce his volume. Castiel continued to stand and sway and rub, wondering if there was something else he was supposed to be doing.

"Liam, I don't know what you need. You have to tell me."

Liam didn't—which wasn't really surprising, given his track record—but he did quiet a little more. No more screaming, only crying, with more gasps and sighs scattered between the noises.

"Do you want me to talk to you? Does that help?"

Liam nodded. Castiel had no idea why, because it made no sense that the mere sound of a voice could have such power over emotions, but he didn't question it beyond the initial confusion.

"I can do that for you." Castiel wet his lips, glancing around the room and trying to think of something to say. He wasn't good at pointless chatter, certainly not as good as a human, but he tried. "I don't really know what to talk about. Though, I suppose, that is something to talk about in and of itself." He started to walk around the room, still holding Liam to his chest. "I've never been very good at… talking. I always cut to the point, which is apparently not appropriate, and I have always preferred the silence."

Liam had settled into silence, only occasionally whimpering, but he was still shaking with silent sobs, so Castiel kept going.

"I spend my free time in the personal heaven of an autistic man who drowned in a bathtub a very long time ago. He's always quiet, standing in a lovely garden and flying a bright red kite." Castiel felt a small smile pull on his lips. "I like it there. It's quiet and peaceful… I don't have to think about what to say or do… I don't have orders to follow or tasks to complete…" …or lies to keep straight in his head… "…and I can rest."

Liam gripped and released Castiel's coat multiple times, laying his head on Castiel's shoulder as the tension started to trickle away. He moved in closer and pressed his closed eyes to Castiel's neck, his tears leaving wet marks on the angel's skin.

"I don't technically need rest—no angel does—but I do enjoy it. I don't know if it's supposed to be this way, but… I do get weary from time to time." More so lately than ever before. "I suppose you know all about weariness, don't you?"

Liam didn't respond, sniffling quietly, staying tucked against Castiel's chest.

"You truly are going home soon, Liam." Castiel sighed softly, walking over to the bed. "We're about a third of the way done with our work, and once that's finished, I'll take you back to Sam and Dean." It would also be the end of the world, but Liam likely wouldn't care about that. "Do you want me to keep talking?"

Liam nodded, otherwise unresponsive.

Castiel eased them both onto the mattress and leaned back against the headboard, gently rubbing Liam's back and struggling to think of what to talk about next. "I… suppose I could tell you about the Garden of Eden."

Liam didn't nod, but he didn't shake his head, either.

"Very well." Castiel took a breath and started to speak on the new topic, hoping it would last long enough for Liam to fall back asleep. "Back in the beginning, there wasn't any… well, anything…"

"Please tell me you're here to help." Dean couldn't believe he was actually saying that—especially with Chuckles standing there looking as smug as ever—but it had been a long week, and Dean had decided he would do just about anything for a win. "We've been having demon issues all day."

"I can see that." Uriel, if Dean recalled his real name correctly, nodded in their general direction. "You want to explain why you have that stain in the room?"

Dean held out a hand in Ruby's direction, the move almost—dare he say it?—almost protective. "Yeah, well, maybe you should worry less about her and more about, I don't know, Alistair wandering around topside." Because Dean was worried about that. Dean was terrified about that. "How did you manage to miss a player that big?"

"We're here for Anna." Castiel interrupted before the conversation could escalate, his expression softening briefly. "I haven't found anything regarding Liam, but some angels from my garrison have agreed to help when they can."

Dean felt himself relax a little, despite the still very present danger, and his head jerked in a nod without his consent. "Good. Great." That was as close as Dean could get to gratitude, given the situation, and he was quick to sidestep in front of Ruby when Uriel took another step of his own.

"Out of my way," Uriel growled.

"What do you want with Anna?" was Dean's response. "You said you're here for her, what does that mean?"

Castiel blinked in Dean's direction, wearing that ever-expressionless face of his. Though… there was a kind of fatigue behind his eyes that hadn't been there before, something bone-deep. "Anna has to die."

"Woah, what? Die?" Dean looked between Castiel and Uriel, unsure who was the bigger threat. "Look, I get that she's wiretapping you guys, but that's no reason to gank her."

Uriel smiled, patronizing and thick with a darkness that made Dean's skin crawl. "Don't worry. I'll kill her gently."

Dean snorted. "Man, I'm having a hard time figuring who's demon and who's angel." He shook his head, drawing faint pleasure from the indignant rage that crossed Uriel's face. "You're a whole new kind of heartless, you know that?"

Castiel spoke up, drawing Dean's attention. "As a matter of fact, we do. And?"

Dean's, "And Anna's an innocent girl," overlapped perfectly with Sam's, "And Liam shouldn't be anywhere near someone like that."

Dean cast a brief glance in Sam's direction and nodded, confirming his agreement, but Castiel and Uriel were nothing if not single-minded. Anna was all they cared about.

"Anna is far from innocent," Castiel replied darkly.

Dean glared, but doubt began to gnaw at his insides. What's that supposed to mean?

"What's that supposed to mean?" Sam voiced Dean's thought, hazel eyes alight with suspicion.

"It means she's worse than this abomination you've been screwing," Uriel nodded in Ruby's direction, and Dean bristled.

They know Sam and Ruby are hooking up? Why would they know that? Why do they even need to know that? Why would Sam's sex life be a priority, even if it was with a demon? Was someone actually stalking Sam and Ruby when they were together? And if they are, why haven't they made good on their threat? Why aren't they stopping him? This doesn't make sense.

Dean was pulled abruptly from his thoughts by Ruby being torn away, her body sailing into the wall in a shower of splintered wood and broken glass. His brain shifted into combat mode without any conscious thought, his hands grabbing onto a metal bar while his feet carried him toward Uriel.

By the time Dean swung, he was in full control, and he didn't hold back.

Not that it mattered.

Uriel whirled around, completely unharmed, and knocked the beam aside. Dean's hands flew up to catch the fist coming at his face, but another blow came in from somewhere on the right, and Dean hit the floor. He got his feet beneath him, but he was hit again, and then he was hit again, and then he wasn't entirely sure what was happening, but his head was throbbing, and his jaw was aching, and he didn't have the angel blade, Sam did.

"I've been waiting for this."

Crap.

Sam took a few steps back and let the angel blade fall from his sleeve, fingers curling around the hilt. "Castiel, stop… please."

Castiel ignored him, moving closer with no more than a glance to acknowledge the sword.

"Cas, stop!" Sam lifted and angled the blade, readying himself for a fight.

"You won't kill me." Castiel reached out with two fingers. "I'm helping you find Liam."

Sam grabbed onto Castiel's wrist with his free hand, stunned by the realization that Castiel was right. "So, that's it, huh?" Sam turned the blade over in his hand and held it up to Castiel's throat. "You're only looking for Liam so Dean and I dance to whatever tune you play?"

Castiel glared. "Even if that were the case, would you refuse to accept my help on principle, knowing I can search for Liam better than you ever could?"

Before Sam had a chance to respond, Castiel was reaching out with two fingers. Sam ducked to the side and pulled his arm back to swing, but he never got the chance. Light flooded the room, ears ringing as a high-pitched shriek sounded out.

"Dean?" Sam called out, squinting against the brightness in the hopes of seeing something to tell him what was going on. "Dean!"

"Sam!" Dean returned the call just as the light went away, leaving the barn dimmer and two angels shorter than before.

Sam looked at Dean. Dean looked at Sam. Dean spat blood. They both looked at Ruby. Ruby looked at them. They looked at each other again.

Dean slowly shook his head, breathless. "What… just happened?"

Sam swallowed hard and turned toward the door they all knew Anna was hiding behind. "I have no idea." But he had a very, very uneasy feeling that they were about to find out.