A/N: Update! :) Thanks for reading, lovelies. :D

6. They Tried a Better Life

Dean is resting on the bunk bed, eyeing Sam from time to time to see if he needs anything. Sam's feverish, constantly aching and whimpering and shaking. Dean's tried everything to make him comfortable but none of it's really worked. Sam is curled up on his side the whole time to avoid friction with his brand, which is basically why Dean's on his feet in seconds when Sam falls onto his back.

Out of nowhere, Sam starts to seize.

"Fuck!" Dean is rushing towards his brother. "FUCK!"

"CAS! CASTIEL!" Dean yells, knowing Castiel is just sitting outside on the porch steps. The dude seems to like being outside, which Dean can't blame him for, since he's been sitting outside a cage for a good part of the last four years.

Sam's teeth are clenched, blood leaking out the corners of his mouth as his whole body arches for a moment before starting to shake, limbs beating down on the mattress. He's gurgling and choking and Dean's heart thrums at a deathly pace against his ribcage as he lays a hand on the side of Sam's head and tilts it so he won't drown in his own mess.

"Dean?" Footsteps pound across the wooden floor and Dean barely turns when he feels the angel at his side. Before him, Sam takes a gasping breath and bucks up as he levitates from the bed.

"What the fuck?!" Dean practically yells, putting his other arm on Sam to keep him down as Castiel joins them. "What the fuck is that?"

"I don't know," the angel guard replies. Underneath their hands, Sam continues to jerk and shake, overtly warm as he takes another heaving breath, his limbs finally going still.

There is deathly silence in the period that follows.

Dean waits just the way he is, hands on Sam and watching the dribble of frothy saliva and blood staining the mattress. Sam is sweaty and his breaths are too fast and ragged, the painful whimper at the end of each one going through Dean's heart like a poker. The seizing must have lasted thirty seconds tops, but it's one of the worst things Dean's ever had to witness, just second to watching his dad die. His hands are shaking when he sees Castiel and he follows his lead, making Sam lie on his side. Sam's out cold for now and with each moment his breathing's picking up.

"Shit," Dean whispers, wiping away some of the blood and spit from Sam's mouth with his sleeve. "Shit, Cas, this is bad. Fuck."

"Contrary to what we believed," Castiel murmurs, "I don't think this is just an attack of influenza, Dean."

"Ya think?" Dean runs a hand over Sam's head, stroking it, uttering a prayer in his mind. He isn't even the praying type, and he has no idea who he's praying to, but fuck, Sam, just be fucking okay. He pauses in his ministrations when a thought suddenly occurs to him. "Cas, I think we'll need to handcuff him."

"You're on the lookout all the time."

"Even so," replies Dean, running his hand through his hair, "I don't want that thing—whatever it is—flinging him around." He grits his teeth. "He fucking levitated from his bed."

Castiel's voice is low when he speaks. "It's possibly a drug Azazel put him on, Dean. Because if this is not the flu, I believe it is—"

"—withdrawal," Dean nods in conclusion. "The fuck kinda drug is that, though?"

"Grace," Castiel replies in a whisper. "I have heard stories of angels whose grace canisters were drained, their throat sewn back together, and it wasn't a pleasant experience for any of them when they had to face what followed. After we were defeated in the war, the demons used this technique on many of my brothers and sisters to bring us to fear them. I have not witnessed it myself, but…" Castiel swallows, his eyes wide and lips pressed together, as though it still haunts him.

"When an angel is deprived of grace," he continues, "it's like asking someone to get rid of an addiction. The withdrawal is painful and from what I've heard, symptoms match what your brother is going through."

"Okay. So was he trying to convert Sam and the others into angels, or…?"

"I don't know," Castiel says. "But we'll find out. Just know that your brother is in no mortal peril. No angel died of this."

Dean sighs. "I hope it's over soon." He fixes his eyes on Sam and studies the drying blood on his mouth and chin. "I think he bit his tongue."

"We have painkillers. I took some from the infirmary along with the sedative that we gave him." Castiel connects eyes with Dean again. "And I think your brother is going to be all right." He draws out a hesitant hand and brings it forward to squeeze Dean's shoulder.

Dean's stomach drops slightly at the unexpected touch, but he smiles. "I know. My brother's a tough son of a bitch."

~o~

The withdrawal lasts four days. Dean is at his brother's side the whole time, taking care of Azazel's branding and all of the injuries that Nick's given Sam, and then the withdrawal symptoms in themselves. Sam is miserable, to say the least, and the fact that he cannot lie down on his back is making it all worse. The muteness makes it absolutely unbearable.

On the first day, Sam yells and spasms in utter agony, clenching his fists and jaw and Dean doesn't know what to do to ease his pain. Sometimes Sam's too cold and sometimes he's too warm. He can't seem to keep any food down; or water, for that matter, and when the cramps hit him, he can't seem to even breathe in the pain that they cause him. Sometimes, he opens his eyes and looks at Dean, only to latch on to him, fists clenching tightly at Dean's shirt. His lips move but they form no words and his voice begs and pleads. Dean knows Sam's asking him to make it go away.

But he can't, and it kills him.

Fuck. Sam's a kid. A fucking kid. Barely twenty-two, and he shouldn't have to be in so much pain; not physically, and not mentally.

The second day is the same, and after worrying for a whole twenty-four hours, Dean starts an IV for his brother, steeling himself to the pleading sob that Sam lets out when the needle pricks at his too-sensitive skin.

On the third day when Sam's voice gives way, Dean loses it. He watches as a horrible cramp hits his brother and he watches Sam yell; except there is no voice. Tears leak out of the corners of Sam's eyes and his mouth is open, eyes screwed shut, all his muscles tightening and loosening while little choking noises erupt from the back of his throat. Castiel is sitting with them and Dean vaguely mutters something to the angel before walking out to the porch as quickly as he can without actually running.

Outside, it takes Dean a while to catch his breath and to stop the tears that erupt from his eyes. "Gotta be strong for Sam," he whispers to himself, collapsing against the back fender of the Impala and burying his head in his hands. "Gotta be strong for Sammy."

He remembers how Sam's going through excruciating pain, unable to even get the relief of yelling, and he's back on his feet. "FUCK!" he yells, every bit of him vibrating with anger and frustration. "FUCK!" Before he knows it, he's punching the Impala; once, twice, and when he realises what he's doing, he pulls away, knuckles throbbing from the impact.

"Sorry, baby," he whispers brokenly, wiping at the stray tears on his face. "It's not you."

He returns to the cabin and takes care of Sam through another day of shakes.

It all begins to ease up on the fourth day. The IV comes off in exchange for water that doesn't get spewed back up on Dean's shirt. Sam basically just begs heartbreakingly at thin air, eyes at half-mast, whimpering and sobbing, and Dean sits there with his hand on Sam's forehead. "It's okay," he whispers to Sam. "It's gonna be okay."

Sam continues to plead mercy, as though Dean doesn't exist. That night marks the last of the spasms.

On the fifth day, Sam starts looking less like death warmed over. He's still shaky and too hot or too cold by turns, but he's not hallucinating or choking in pain or seizing, so Dean counts it as a win. Dean reckons Sam can try eating something solid today, like toast. Their supplies are from a shop in a ghetto an hour away, and they have to steal it because if anyone recognises them, they know they're done for. Azazel has his eyes and ears everywhere and they're taking some really big risks right now.

Castiel always agrees to make the supply runs. Dean doesn't know why that is—whether the angel feels like he's obligated because of being in charge of Sam all these years, or if it's something else, but after a couple of days, it becomes obvious that Castiel is taking sole responsibility of this.

Dean sits next to Sam's bed, shows him the toast on the plate. "I got something for you, Sammy. Think you're feeling better today?"

Sam nods, brows furrowed as he points to the floor near the bed, to draw Dean's attention to the handcuffs that have just been taken off of Sam.

"You had a few fits, bud," Dean says, placing the plate on the floor and helping Sam sit up. Sam shuts his eyes when Dean's hand touches the back of his neck, and Dean smiles. He remembers what Cas had said about kindness. "No one's gonna hurt you here," he says quietly. "You know that, right?"

Sam looks into his eyes earnestly, but doesn't nod. He still doesn't trust Dean, it looks like, and Dean tries not to be too offended, reminding himself that Sam's been through a really hard time. He picks the toast back up and puts it on Sam's lap. "Eat up."

Sam shakes his head, pushing the plate to the bed, crumbs falling and scattering on the mattress. He brings his knees up to his chest and scoots backwards with his arms around them.

Dean sighs, pushing the plate back towards Sam. "It's good, bro. You'll feel better."

Sam shakes his head again. Dean lifts up a piece of toast and takes a bite, proving to Sam that it's legit. It's bland, and Dean hates it because really, he's not the one sick here. "Shee?" he asks Sam, around a mouthful. "It'sh good."

The crumbs spray everywhere, some catching on the sleeves of Sam's sweater and he eyes them for a while, still bewildered, before brushing them away. His gaze is trusting when he turns back to Dean, though, and he extends a shaking hand to accept his meal.

"Good boy," Dean mumbles, handing him the toast. Sam lifts it to his mouth and takes a small, unsure bite. His teeth crunch on it for a while, and in the meantime, he hands it back to Dean.

"Gotta eat more than that, dude," Dean replies, pushing it back.

Sam shakes his head and brings it closer to Dean's mouth.

"He thinks we're all still locked up by Azazel," Castiel provides from behind them. "He wants to share his food with you, Dean." He comes forward and seats himself at the foot of the bed. "Sam, you're free. We all have food for ourselves. You can eat that."

Sam doesn't listen, eyes pleading as he shakes his already trembling hand, offering the toast to Dean anyway. Dean watches him for a moment, taking in his sweaty, worn-out face, tired eyes, and the extremely sweet gesture, and nods. "Okay, Sammy." He hates that at this point, Cas can read Sam better. But, okay, he'll help his brother in any way that he can.

He takes a small bite of the toast before giving it back to Sam. Sam takes in another mouthful and passes it to Cas. They continue this until both pieces of toast are gone, and Dean gets Sam to drink all of the water, too. He smiles as he puts the old utensils away, coming over to place a hand on Sam's floppy hair, crinkling his nose at how sticky it feels. "You need a shower, dude."

Sam blinks up at him and pushes the crumbs away from the bed before starting to lower himself on the bed to lie back down. Dean smiles, sinking his fingers deeper into Sam's hair as he cards through it. "You're tired." He kneels down, so he's eye-level with Sam. "It's okay. Go to sleep, Sammy."

He helps Sam lie on his stomach and his brother's eyes close after a moment. "We need to take care of that brand Azazel put on your back," he whispers to Sam. "You have to take some more pills once you wake up, okay?"

Sam nods sleepily, and in the next few moments, his breaths have evened out. Dean sits back, takes a look at his brother for a long moment, and tilts his head to Castiel. "I need a beer," he says, "or six."

He doesn't wait for Castiel's reply, just heads to the small fridge and extracts two drinks, handing one to the angel. "C'mon," he tells Cas. "We've been in here for a long time. Sammy's better now."

"I have been outside," Castiel remarks, but nevertheless, he follows Dean out to the porch. Dean kicks away some dry leaves from the creaky wooden stairs and sits down, patting the place beside him for the angel to follow suit. Cas's blue eyes blink once and he nods, before coming down and plopping beside Dean.

Dean pops off his bottle's cap with his ring and takes a long swig. "Ahh," he sighs, smacking his lips. "Today's a good day."

Castiel is still struggling with his cap, but he shrugs. "I hope you know, Dean, that Sam still doesn't recognise you. He merely thinks you're kind."

"I know."

"Are you going to tell him?"

Dean glances back through the open door, to the single cot where his brother is sleeping soundly. "Yeah. When he's not so confused." He fumbles with the label on his bottle, peeling off paper with blunt fingernails, and sniffs. "Wish he knew who I was, though. Would make things a lot easier."

"I'm sorry. It must be very hard to have your family not remember you. Especially when you are close with them."

A dry, cool, gusty wind blows in their direction and Dean bows his head, replaying memories of his time with Sam before he'd disappeared: of how it should have been Sammy next to him, sitting on the porch steps of some cabin after they'd rescued Dad, while they made triumphant phone calls to the bunker and drank beer. Of how they should have discussed defeating Azazel as a family, after getting intel on Hell, and not like this… all damaged and broken, and dead.

Of course, it couldn't be that way. Dean's life couldn't even be normal in the least abnormal way. It had to be this.

"Will Sam ever remember me?" Dean asks Cas slowly.

"I believe he could, at some point." There is brief silence, as Dean processes the words, and they're like a prayer in his head, of pleasepleaseplease. He peels off some more of the label. "What about your family, Cas? Where are they?"

"I don't know."

Dean turns to him. "What?"

"They're probably dead," Castiel replies nonchalantly. "I have been told I had a wife and a daughter. My human name was Jimmy Novak and my wife was not supportive of my decision to become an angel. She took it as a sign of me abandoning her."

"Who told you that?"

"Michael. When we were initiated into the angel army, we were told of the current status of our families. He spared no details."

A pang of sympathy sears in Dean's chest, and he looks down. "I'm sorry, man."

"It's all right," Castiel says, shrugging. "I don't remember, so it doesn't hurt me, really."

"Still…"

"I found a family at my workplace," Castiel says gently. "Before we were taken over by the demons, my brothers, sisters, and I did not fight as much as you witnessed. We were in harmony, and we enjoyed each other's company."

"I can believe that… kinda."

"Afterwards," Castiel continues, "I found my solace in caring for your brother. He came in scared and confused, but he's fought tooth and nail." He licks his chapped lips, putting his beer bottle aside as he gives up trying to open it. "Sam is a very good man."

Dean finishes his beer, takes Castiel's bottle and pops it open before taking a sip and handing it back to the angel. "I know," he says quietly. "I know." He can feel pride inflate every bit of him, throat clogging up, because that right there; that kid inside the cabin, curled up and asleep and shaking off some horrendous withdrawal symptoms is Dean's fucking brother. He might be broken, but he's still so fucking brave. Dean never expected any less of Sam.

A hand comes to clamp around Dean's wrist and he smiles up at Castiel. His eyes are kind; blue sparkling with all the colours of the sun as he looks at Dean, getting Dean's heart to jolt again.

Dean hides the jolting somewhere deep inside him and continues to think about Sam.

~o~

"Hey, Cas, do you know how to use a gun?"

It's a week since they've been back at the cabin, and Castiel's entering the cabin with a plastic bag of the stuff he stole from the grocery store. He takes off his trenchcoat and hangs it meticulously on the rack. Dean took him and they nicked some jackets, shirts, and pants for Sam and Cas from a small shop at the ghetto in the middle of the night, but Cas still wears his trench over it all whenever he is cold or has to go outside.

Meanwhile, Sam's solving the crossword puzzle in one of the old newspapers at the cabin, tongue sticking out between his teeth as he meticulously writes down the answers. He does this a lot these days.

Dean's cleaning his guns on one of the bunk beds, the parts all taken apart and arranged on the sheets, when he notices the plastic bags in Castiel's hand. "What you got there?"

Castiel looks into the cover, smiles, and extracts a triangular foil. "To answer your first question," he says, "I do not know how to use a gun. As for your second, this is for you." He hands the pack to Dean and Dean opens it eagerly, only to peer in and find—

"Pie!" Dean grins at Castiel. "Dude! How did you know?"

"You spoke of it last week," Cas shrugs. "You told me in passing that this was your favourite dessert. I cannot obtain one made by that woman you adore…"

"Ellen," Dean fills in for him.

"Yes, and I'm sorry this doesn't make up for it…"

"You kidding me?" Dean asks, breaking off a huge piece and shoving it into his mouth. "Thish is delicioush!"

"You're welcome, Dean."

"You should totally try some of this," Dean tells Castiel once he's swallowed it down. "C'mere." He turns to his brother. "Sam?"

Sam doesn't look up, just continues to do his puzzle, and Dean's heart sinks just a bit, although he tries not to be too affected by it. Sam's usually on his own ever since he's recovered, taking out a few of the old newspapers that Rufus seems to have hoarded in this cabin, solving crosswords and Sudoku in a corner. He sometimes makes gestures to Cas if he needs anything, but the only time he reacts to Dean is when Dean initiates a conversation, and that too, happens only sometimes.

Towards the evenings every day, Sam starts to get nervous and fidgety and he won't let anyone near him at those points. He thinks Dean or Cas might just take him to Nick for his—and Dean feels sick even thinking of it—taming. But, since Sam doesn't even trust Castiel at these points and not just Dean, Dean is less resentful.

"He will talk, Dean, he just needs time," Castiel tells Dean gently, as though he's read his thoughts. He walks over and sits next to Dean on the bed. Their shoulders bump when he bends forward to pluck out a small piece of pie.

"What did they do to make him…?"

"Not want to talk?"

Dean nods, watching Castiel put the pie in his mouth. He chews for a moment, swallows, and narrows his eyes. "Sam had a furious mouth and many opinions at first. He was stubborn and he had a smart tongue. Azazel didn't like it."

"Of course he didn't," Dean scoffs.

"The other children started getting ideas and motivation from Sam. Not that they weren't capable by themselves—but Sam was the only hunter amongst them all, and they just weren't used to being in situations like that."

Dean thinks of Jessica in cage number eight and Andy in six and the other nameless kids in there. He wonders what Jessica might be doing, having no one to hold her hand through the bars of her cage anymore. He wonders if she and Sam were in love.

Dammit, if Dean could've done it, he'd have brought Jessica along. He'd have brought every fucking kid back from that place.

Castiel contemplates as he absently licks a pie crumb off his bottom lip, tongue wetting it in one brief stroke. "I believe they had some kind of a technique to make Sam and the others stop talking in Nick's sessions. It's a by-product of severe post-traumatic stress. It took more than a year to break them like this, but it worked."

It sure did, Dean thinks, eyeing Sam again.

"This is really good, though," Castiel continues, eyeing the residual pie filling that sits on his fingers. He brings them up to lick them clean, one by one, and Dean swallows, turning to Sam.

"Dude," he says hoarsely, pushing his pie into the angel's free hand. "Just eat it. Stop—" He swallows again, goosebumps rising all over when Castiel looks at him, eyes blinking sluggish and innocent. "Stop with the licking. It's fucking disgusting."

"Sorry."

Dean gets up from his face. "I'll fix us some lunch."

"Okay."

Dean ignores the goosebumps, unable to understand why they are still refusing to leave.

~o~

Dean makes mac and cheese with ketchup and Fluffy Marshmallow Mix for Sam, and plain mac and cheese for him and Cas. Sam is brainstorming over what looks like the tenth crossword puzzle for the morning. Dean just watches him work while he scoops up the food into plates, finding his peace from Sam's furrowed brows and sure hand while he writes. It's obvious that all of Sam's brain cells are still intact despite his four years of exile. What Dean has now is a traumatised version of his brother—one he plans to fix.

"You know—"

"JESUS!" Dean hollers, jumping as he almost drops the mac and cheese. He turns to Castiel, who's so close to him, their noses are almost touching. "Cas," he says, voice taking on a warning tone.

"Sorry," the angel mutters, taking a step back. "I didn't—"

"Forget it. What were you saying?"

"You can reintroduce yourself to your brother. I noticed you've made him something he might have liked in his childhood, but that might not work as well as you're hoping it to."

Dean arches up an eyebrow. Castiel blinks, shrugging. "He thinks you're kind, Dean. I think you should start from there."

"Dude, he's the one who doesn't want to talk. I'm trying."

"You are yet to remind him that you're brothers."

"Yeah. And he won't remember until I give him some memories, Cas. Until I tell him something from the past, which you say I shouldn't be doing!"

"His mind is fragile. Shoving memories into him can be detrimental."

"Oh, look at that! The family psychiatrist!"

Castiel frowns. "I'm serious, Dean. I think you should just start by talking to him about your life, and then, when he can handle it, telling him about how he's involved too."

Dean rolls his eyes. "And why the hell would he believe me if I just tell him? He still thinks he's in Hell sometimes! Every fucking evening he thinks one of us is going to grab him and throw him to Lucifer."

"Nick."

"Satan. Don't give him a cute pet-name."

Castiel sighs. "I know you're angry. I know you're impatient—"

"You think?"

"You have to wait, Dean," Castiel tells him simply. "I never hurt him once, and he doesn't trust me, either. The only people he ever believed never to hurt him were the other special children."

Dean snorts. "Fantastic."

"Do not—"

"No." Dean picks up Sam's plate. "I'm not angry at Sammy. But I have to get him to snap out of this. It's been a fucking week and he has to know."

"It's not that easy. It's a delicate situation."

"Fuck you," Dean spits at him. "I knew him eighteen years before you even saw him. Don't you fucking teach me."

"I'm not trying to."

"Good. Don't."

Dean throws the dishrag over his shoulder and takes Sam's plate to him. Sam's sitting cross-legged on the wooden floor, and he doesn't look up when Dean sits in front of him. Dean pushes the plate towards Sam, watching as Castiel picks up the two other plates and heads towards them.

"Lunch time, Sammy," he says lightly.

Sam looks up at him, gaze meeting Dean's for a single moment before swivelling over to the plate of the disgustingly flavoured mac and cheese which he'd always preferred. Well, at least until he was dragged to Hell. Dean hopes he still likes it, and that… well, that Sam will remember something. He knows it's not of small consequence, this amnesia, but he can't fucking take it any longer.

Castiel joins them with the plates and Dean takes his on his lap. "Eat up, Sasquatch," he says, trying to smile, forking some macaroni and waiting for his brother to follow.

Sam stops writing and peers upwards, pencil end between his teeth. Dean reaches for it and pulls it out of his mouth, drawing a thin string of saliva as he pulls it out. "Yuck, dude," he mumbles, scrunching his face as he proceeds to rub the spit off on Sam's sleeve. "Eat the actual food, will you?"

Dean puts the slobbery pencil on one side as Sam picks the plate up to his lap just the way Dean has. He spoons some macaroni and puts it into his mouth. Dean freezes at that moment, watching Sam eat, looking at his jaw moving while he chews, and then his face when he swallows, and he thinks, maybe Sam will remember—react. Anytime. Anytime now…

Sam remains indifferent as he gulps down some water and reaches out for more. Dean refuses to acknowledge the lump in his throat and butchers his macaroni with his fork a little before taking in some for himself. He's barely paying attention to it; barely watching Castiel eat it, his mind only on how Sam didn't even react, when there's a gagging sound.

"Sam!" Castiel calls out.

Dean looks up. "Sam?"

Sam's cheeks are bulging as he takes in spoonful after spoonful of macaroni, stuffing his mouth with the food, and he's not looking up while he continues despite Castiel and Dean calling out to him.

Dean grabs the plate from Sam's hands and pulls it away. "Stop!"

Sam looks up, eyes wet, and still gagging on too much food as he extends a hand to Dean.

"No," Dean tells him sternly. "Spit that crap out."

Sam's shoulders hitch as he heaves, clamping a hand to his mouth, but he shakes his head.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Dean asks him as Castiel grabs a box of tissues for them. He rips a few paper napkins and holds it before Sam's mouth. "Spit it out, Sammy. Now." Sam is about to refuse but Dean glares. "Sam, spit that crap out, or so help me—"

Sam bends forward and finally spits up the extra-large mouthful into the wad of tissues in Dean's hand. Dean groans when he looks at the half-chewed food. "So much slobber, dude," he mutters, but before he can get up to put it in the trash and clean off his hands, Sam's on his feet and already making his way to the door.

"SAM!" Dean stands up too, running with Sam's gross food in one hand, but Sam takes off at a pace that's much quicker than Dean's. His training has improved his speed and dexterity to an almost supernatural level, despite the fact that all the angel grace he was force-fed or whatever has been drained from him. He runs into the woods and Dean curses, throwing the semisolid mess in his hand at the base of a tree as he follows. "Sammy!"

The trees are too dense for Dean to spot his brother but he can hear his footsteps. He keeps his pace, following the sound of them, but the ground is too uneven to be quick enough and Dean's starting to lose the trail.

He looks for Sam for two whole hours before giving up, hoping, praying that Sam will come back. When he gets back to the cabin, Castiel is waiting for him, all three plates of food still where they are with Cas sitting beside them, shell-shocked.

Dean feels something tighten in his chest.

"I think he remembered," Castiel tells him slowly from his corner.

"No shit, Sherlock."

Dean hears the plates being scraped up and suddenly he's standing inches away from Castiel's face, listening to him breathe. Castiel's eyes flash an enraged blue. "I told you," he says in a low voice. "I told you."

"I thought he might not remember, at the worst," Dean argues, fists clenching, before he grabs the plates from Castiel's hands and heads to the sink. However, he is stopped, strong fingers on his wrist pulling him to turn around.

"I gave up everything, Dean," Castiel says, his voice menacing. "Everything. And it was not for you to act this way, without thinking or listening to me."

"Don't act like you know—"

"I know Sam better than you do," Castiel tells him, slowly, clearly, as though he's getting Dean to grasp on to it. "He is not the boy you missed all those years— the younger brother who looked up to you and wanted to follow in your footsteps. He had to grow up and accept you wouldn't come back. He was made to forget and was broken in ways that you cannot imagine. He is different and I have been there with him for every single day of this transformation, so I think it will be beneficial to you if you decide to listen to me and just accept this."

"You don't fucking know him," Dean reiterates. There's a painful lump sitting right at the opening of his throat, but damn if he just goes with this shit that Castiel's spouting. An angel—an emotionless super-soldier—can't possibly know the kid Dean fucking grew up with.

He frees his hand from Castiel's. "Screw you. You don't even have any fucking emotions on you."

Castiel doesn't respond and Dean feels his heart sink as he starts to throw away the food and rinse the plates. He feels awful. Castiel risked his life to get them those supplies. Dean and Castiel both risked their lives to bring Sam back and this thing—this single mistake—is threatening to pull it all apart right now.

Castiel's words fall on Dean like a pile of bricks as realisation slowly seeps into him. Maybe Dean doesn't know Sam after all. Maybe Cas is right.

He remembers his father, bleeding and gasping in that alleyway and the dark couple of nights that followed. Save Sam, or kill him.

Dean chose to save Sam, and no matter what, he won't be going back on those words. For his father's sake, and Sammy's sake.

He puts the clean dishes on the counter and turns to Castiel, who is leaning against a wall with his arms crossed. "I'm going to look for him again. You can come along if you want."

Castiel straightens up and nods. "I'll come along."

"Good." Dean goes over to his duffel while drying his hands on his jeans, pulls a Taurus and the Beretta and throws one to Castiel.

"I can't use this," the angel replies, catching it. "I don't know how."

"Suck it up," Dean retorts. "If something happens, just pull the fucking trigger. We don't have time."

Cas stares at him for a long moment, and Dean looks away. "Okay," he hears Cas say. "Okay."

They head back out into the woods. The sun is high and bright and uncomfortably warm and Dean wipes off droplets of sweat from his nose as he hikes up the trail carefully, calling out to his brother occasionally. Sam doesn't respond.

They look everywhere that they can—near a very narrow stream, deeper into the woods—and Dean's legs are throbbing with every move. The sun's going down, bringing with it chilly gusts of wind. Dean hugs himself. He doesn't know what to do. He doesn't know how to make up for this screw-up of his. He just wants his brother back.

"Dean."

Castiel's voice drags him out, wrapping around him like a tightrope, and Dean blinks back at the angel, who is pointing a finger towards his far right.

On a rock, sitting with his head in his hands, is Sam.

~o~

"I brought you some pie."

Castiel is aware that there was no need to go back into town for this. He knows the risks it carries and he knows that it is not at all recommended. Yet, he couldn't help himself this morning when he woke up to a very sullen Dean and realised just how heartbroken Dean is.

Ever since they brought Sam back from the woods, Sam has been responding, in his usual, non-verbal sense, only and only to Castiel. Dean's attempt to talk to him hadn't yielded too many results even before, but now, they can both make out that Sam is purposefully ignoring Dean. He seems angry; resentful for a reason Castiel cannot fathom, and he seems to vaguely recognise Dean. Which makes it all worse for Dean.

He isn't taking the rejection from his brother well, and Castiel knows he didn't sleep all night because they do actually sleep on a bunk bed, Dean at the top, and the bottom bunk had moved every time Dean had tossed in his sleep. In the morning, Castiel decided he wanted to cheer Dean up. He has no idea why that thought popped into his head, but he just went with it and left the cabin before Dean could say anything.

Presently, he looks at Dean's blank face and dejected eyes and takes a step closer, holding out the pie. "Dean?"

Dean blinks and takes it from Castiel without uttering thanks, but it's not like Castiel wants to be thanked. He watches the young man make his way to the single cot where Sam is sitting. Dean kneels before his sibling. "Sammy?"

Castiel's heart jolts when Sam looks away, despite the fact that he expected it.

Dean unwraps the pie and puts it on the bed. "This is good, you know. I tasted it yesterday and Cas did, too." He chuckles. "He was licking his fingers, dude."

Sam doesn't respond. He merely pulls out a pencil and a newspaper from his bundle and gets to work on the crossword again. Dean licks his lip and scoots forward. "Do you want this?"

It's so silent that Castiel thinks he can hear the crickets chirping in the distance. He sighs and heads towards the brothers, wanting badly to help Dean. "It's true, Sam," he provides. "It's a very good pie. You should, perhaps, try it."

Sam looks up at Castiel, eyes focussing on him as he pushes back his messy hair, and nods. Castiel can hear Dean's heart shatter at that and he stands up when Sam finally accepts the pie. Dean comes over to Castiel and gives him a smile—one that doesn't even try to reach his eyes. "Thanks for getting him to eat, man," he says, patting Castiel's shoulder. "We should get started on your shooting skills today."

"Okay." Castiel returns the smile and pulls Dean's hand from his shoulder, but Dean's already taking his hand out of Castiel's grip.

"I'll be outside," he says, swallowing thickly. Castiel watches him leave, and then looks at Sam devour the pie before bracing himself to go outside. Dean's sadness can be overwhelming and palpable and he knows the target practice is an excuse to get out of the cabin for an hour or so.

He just hopes Sam will understand, and forgive Dean soon. "I'll be outside, Sam," he says.

Sam gives him a nod and Castiel heads outside, picking up his trenchcoat to battle the chill. Dean is already arranging empty beer cans on an old wall a few feet away and when Castiel joins him, he points at the porch steps. "Go stand there."

Castiel obeys him and Dean comes back, handing him a gun. Castiel takes a breath. "Dean—"

"This is a Taurus," Dean explains plainly. He points at the parts. "Muzzle, barrel, magazine, trigger, hammer. These are the most important. You get shit done with them." He holds up a bullet. "This is called a cartridge, not a bullet," he says, and Castiel mentally corrects himself. "The projectile that you shoot is a bullet. You gotta be careful when you fire 'cause the empty casing can hurt you."

"Dean, I—"

"Hold the gun with both hands." Dean pushes the pistol into Castiel's palm and arranges his fingers on it. He comes up behind Castiel and pulls his shoulders back, the touch of his hands making Castiel feel strangely good.

"Keep your shoulders squared," Dean says, pushing up Castiel's elbows to adjust them. "Eyes on the target." He turns Castiel around slightly and kicks his legs apart. "One leg forward, one behind, or recoil will have your ass."

"Dean…"

"Cas, do you wanna fucking do this or not?"

He looks into Dean's angry gaze. "I'm sorry. I would like you to teach me how to shoot."

"Good. Now…" Dean reaches forward and cocks the hammer. "Shoot."

"Now?"

"No, tomorrow."

Castiel understands this is sarcasm and braces himself, taking a deep breath. His finger shakes around the trigger and he thinks he's sweating. He was built to fight, yes, but never like this. Demons did not succumb to bullets and killing them wasn't evil. However, Castiel doesn't want to kill humans. He isn't violent, or someone who likes to murder.

He hears Dean sigh. "Oh, for the love of—" The gun is snatched from him and Dean aims shot after shot at the cans, each bullet hitting its target as they all get knocked off the wall.

Dean's expression is unfathomable when he hands the gun back to Castiel. "This used to be Sam's. You can give it back to him if he's interested. If you wanna learn, you can do that too, but don't ask me until you're sure you're not wasting both our time."

He exits into the cabin and Castiel knows now that Dean is still hurting just as much as he was a while ago, and the practice has done nothing to make him feel better.

He waits there, watching, as Dean re-emerges with a duffel and walks straight ahead to his car. He watches and watches, expecting Dean to drive away and come back after a couple of hours, but that doesn't happen. Slowly, Castiel pockets his gun and heads towards the Impala.

Dean is sitting on the front seat, one of the old newspapers spread on it, and he's laying out a few bottles, a long brush, and an old toothbrush before him. Castiel watches him as he reaches for a gun and places it, meticulously starting to take it apart.

"Are you cleaning your gun again, Dean?"

Dean starts. "Jesus, Cas! What the fuck?!"

"I'm sorry I startled you."

"Ring a bell or something, man," Dean huffs irately. "What do you want?"

"Can I come in?"

"No."

"I want to talk."

"Why?"

"You seem upset."

Dean's gaze is even greener when it meets Castiel's. His eyes remind Castiel of spring and apples and calmness and beauty, but he doesn't say this out loud because he doesn't want to bristle Dean further.

"I'm not upset," Dean mumbles, breaking eye contact and making Castiel wonder if that's what Dean always does when he lies.

"I would just like to keep you company, then. Watch what you're doing to your gun."

"I'm cleaning it. Nothing to look at."

Castiel sighs. "If you don't want me around, Dean, I'll just leave." He turns around, preparing to go back into the cabin, when Dean's voice stops him.

"Wait!"

Castiel smiles to himself and reaches back to open the door of the car. He climbs in, adjusting himself beside Dean with the gun-cleaning items between them, knowing Dean will talk when he wants to.

Dean wets the inside of the barrel with some solvent and sets it aside as he reaches for a Q-Tip to start running over one of the other parts that Castiel doesn't recognise. Castiel watches as Dean holds the narrow stick of plastic between the cotton, fingers delicate and careful despite their stockiness, and he watches the Q-Tip wipe out what looks like soot and residue.

The other parts are cleaned the same way, Q-Tip and rubbing, and Castiel is fascinated. Dean's got his tongue between his teeth, much like Sam when he's solving his crossword puzzles, and Castiel thinks of how both of them are so big—tall and well-built, but still so gentle, in nature and actions. They have big hearts and they have too much faith, and all of that has been broken. Repeatedly.

Castiel wonders how he got stuck with caring about a family he never knew about. From being an emotionless angel, he's come all the way here, and where he's from, he's a rebel and an abomination but he doesn't care. He thinks, for these two men, it's worth being all that.

"I don't know why Sammy's so pissed with me," Dean says suddenly, and Castiel is snapped out of his thoughts. Broken eyes meet his, and it's like a magnetic connection that he and Dean share—that they find each other's gaze every time. For Castiel, it is comforting to do this; to find this one person who seems to profoundly trust him even if he doesn't sometimes, and the purity of heart that Dean ejects from those eyes is like nothing that Castiel has ever seen.

"I mean," Dean continues, "I don't wanna whine—least of all to you, but…" He presses his lips together. "You know him."

"I do, Dean," Castiel replies. "But this time, I don't know why he's angry, either."

"Won't he tell you? I mean…"

"He does convey a lot of things without talking, and no, Dean, he hasn't said anything to me."

"I know he's changed and I haven't. I know he's been through a lot…" Dean blinks, his eyes shining, and Castiel finds himself taking a deep breath. "He was all I had," Dean says. "Him and Dad. I mean, when Mom died, I took care of Sam and I thought he'd give me a chance if I ever screwed up…"

"He doesn't completely recognise you."

"That's bull."

"A foodstuff from his childhood isn't enough to bring back repressed memories."

"Then why the fuck is he pissed at me?" Dean asks him, gritting his teeth. "If you have such amazing theories, Cas, tell me this too. Why is he still pissed?"

"I don't know."

"He knows who I am. He was missing for hours that day, Cas. He was mulling it over for all that time. You might not know that part of him, but I do. I know how he broods and comes to conclusions. And every fucking time something like this has happened, he's bitch-faced the whole time before deciding to fucking tell me what's pissing him off, just like now.

"And if that's not enough, ever since we got him back, he's been trying to recognise me, like he always had small memories at the back of his mind."

"If that is so," Castiel tells him, "I will ask him."

Dean's hand moves rhythmically as he pushes a cleaning patch through the barrel and removes more black residue. His fingers caress the surface lovingly as he feels for breaks and damages—like he's checking a loved one for injuries. He picks up another Q-Tip and some oil to squirt on it. "Tell me what he says, then," he huffs. "I think he'd rather have me out here than inside anyway…"

"Don't say that."

"I don't know what else to say." Dean finishes lubricating the parts and his hands go back to putting the gun back together. Castiel watches the stocky fingers again, covered in oil and solvent and black residue as they stroke and caress the gun like it's a beloved pet.

"You take very good care of your guns and your car," Castiel remarks.

"My brother too," Dean adds. "Until I couldn't anymore."

"I'm sorry, Dean."

"You don't need to apologise."

"I am merely saying I feel remorseful that things are this way for you."

"Yeah, well…" Dean pouts, eyes still sullen. "Just tell me whatever Sam says."

"I'm going right now."

"Good for you."

"Perhaps you should watch."

"I'd rather not."

Castiel fiddles with his trenchcoat. "Maybe when you realise he doesn't recognise you yet, you might feel better."

"Really?"

"Dean…"

"Just go ahead, Cas. Please. I don't wanna watch."

"Okay." There is silence inside the car, and Castiel raises his hand, intending to either lay it on Dean's shoulder, or at least squeeze his hand in reassurance… something. In the last moment, he reaches for Dean's wrist again. "I'll be back."

"Cool."

Heart shattering over and over, Castiel throws the car door open and sets foot into the breezy evening to get some answers from Sam Winchester.

A/N: Reviews? :D