Chapter 10

For an entire week, Castiel stood vigil by Dean's bedside with Sam. The two of them became like spirits haunting the hospital wing. For the first couple of days, the staff would shoo them away after visiting hours had ended, and they would return to the nearby motel so Sam could shower and grab a few hours of sleep, maybe eat something when Cas could coax him to. But after Castiel had recovered enough to fly a little, he would leave Sam to sleep and return to the hospital to watch over Dean through the night.

During these lonely nights, Cas would place his hand on Dean's head and re-enter his mind. There was never any sign of improvement. The smoke and the blood and the ruin were as gruesome as ever. But Cas had to hope that Dean was still in there somewhere. A human body couldn't sustain life without a mind. Some scrap of Dean's consciousness, however small, had to have survived the decimation Michael had wrought, or else he would be dead.

… Right?

No matter how long Cas searched, he couldn't find his friend inside the hollow shell his body had become. He called Dean's name through the smoke and the shadows until his throat was raw, but nothing and no one ever answered.

But Castiel came back every night, and every night he continued his search. He didn't care how long it took. He would find whatever part of his friend had survived and find a way to revive him.

He would bring Dean home.

-o-

Sam rubbed his eyes tiredly. Every passing day, his hopes crumbled further. Dean wasn't getting any better; in fact he seemed to be withering away. All he did was sleep and sit by the window, hardly even blinking. Every few hours, a nurse would come in to check his vitals, take samples, or change an IV bag. They also came in every few hours to pump food into the nasal-gastric tube that fed into Dean's stomach, since he could no longer eat on his own.

Sam could never bear to stay in the room for that.

All he could do was sit by his brother's side and wrack his brain for something, anything, he could do to save him. Sam constantly had his laptop open, scouring the internet on the hospital's spotty wi-fi for anything that could help. He had called every hunter he knew. He had even spent two entire days, open to close, in the library down the street. But there was nothing.

Sam slammed his laptop shut in frustration, and looked at Dean. The brothers were sitting side by side in front of the window. Today was a rainy day. Sheets of water lashed against the glass and the first few rumbles of thunder could be heard off in the distance.

"If our places were switched, you would have figured it out by now," Sam murmured. "You would have found a spell, or a suped-up angel, or some kind of miracle healer days ago. So why can't I?"

His brother made no sign of hearing him.

Sam sighed, too tired to cry anymore. He just wanted his big brother back. It killed him to see his hero so utterly broken.

Especially when it was his fault in the first place. He would rather Dean still have the Mark of Cain than this.

Sam reached over and placed his hand on top of Dean's, gently folding his fingers around it.

"Dean?" Sam asked quietly. "Can you hear me? Squeeze my hand if you can hear me."

But Dean's hand didn't so much as twitch.

"I'm here, man," Sam said. "And I'm not going anywhere."

"Mr. Hetfield?"

Sam turned to see the curly-haired doctor at the door. He stood up from his chair and walked over to her.

"How are you?" she asked.

Sam tried to say "OK," but the lie died in his throat.

She nodded slightly. "Mr. Hetfield…"

"Sam," he said. "Please, call me Sam."

She nodded again. "Sam… I think it would be a good idea for you to sit down with one of our grief counselors."

"He's not dead," Sam argued, the words coming out angrier than he intended.

"There are different kinds of grief," the doctor said kindly. "Different kinds of loss."

Sam swallowed, ignoring her words. "When can I take my brother home?"

Her face fell, and she opened her mouth as if she was about to say something, but then thought the better of it.

"Sam," she said quietly. "Dean… can't go home."

"Why not?" he demanded. "I can take care of him. He's my brother."

"I know you want to," she replied patiently. "And I think it's admirable that you want to. But… your brother's condition is permanent. He's going to need around-the-clock care for the rest of his life."

"I could hire someone to help," Sam insisted, but his heart sank lower with every word.

"He can't feed himself. He can't bathe himself," she told him, her voice firm but full of compassion. "He will need extensive physical therapy pretty much every day. He'll need medication. He'll need constant monitoring, all day and all night. He won't be able to tell you when something is wrong. He needs to be in a place where trained medical staff can attend to his needs 24/7. There's a lovely facility called Whisperwood just a few miles from here. An old college friend of mine works there. It would be the best place for him."

The best place for him is home! Sam thought desperately, but he couldn't say it.

Seeing his distress, the doctor placed a hand on his arm. "Take some time to think about it," she told him. "If you have any questions for me, just come to the nurses' station on this floor. They'll be able to track me down. And when you're ready, the counseling center can be found on the third floor, east wing. Ask for Rose. I've spoken to her about you and your brother. She's a lovely woman. She can help you… let go."

With a reassuring pat, she left him alone again.

Sam watched her go, then slowly made his way back to the seat next to his brother. He felt painfully cold inside his chest as he sat down, as though his heart had been shoved inside a frozen vise.

They thought he should let go?

Sam grimly opened his laptop once more.

Never.