Looks like the Men of Letters were literally Apocalypse-ready.
Sam had never been so grateful for the bunker since they'd found it. Between the well-stocked general storeroom, the infirmary, and the storage cabinet attached to the kitchen, he had managed to locate all the items he would need to tend to Cas's injured wings, and then some.
Which is a really good thing, since the last thing I want to do right now is leave Dean and Cas here alone together.
It took Sam a little more than half an hour to gather his supplies and set them up in the largest of the bunker's bathrooms – which was, conveniently, just down the hall from Cas's room. The tub was wide and deep, with an old-fashioned hand-held showerhead that would make washing the oil and ash from Cas's wings easier.
Sam swallowed back the wave of nausea that rose in his throat at the thought of what he was about to do, instead focusing on a last minute catalogue of the room, making sure he had everything he needed. He drew in a deep, shaky breath, letting it out slowly and closing his eyes for a moment before heading out and down the hall to where Cas was waiting.
He supposed he was as prepared for this as he was going to be.
He found Cas sitting up on the side of the bed. His elbows rested on his knees, his head bowed to rest in his hands, but he looked up when Sam approached. Sam's heart sank; Cas looked like a man headed for the gallows, catching first sight of his executioner. Cas looked down again immediately, though he let his hands rest idle against his folded arms. As Sam sat down carefully beside him, he noticed that they were shaking.
He reached out slowly, making sure Cas saw the movement coming, to place his own hand over Cas's. Cas closed his eyes, going still, a slow swallow visible in his throat.
"You know… we don't have to do this right this second," Sam pointed out softly. "If you're… not ready, Cas… we can wait a little while."
Cas was silent for a moment, and when he spoke, his voice was halting but remarkably controlled. "My understanding of human emotions is… limited," he admitted quietly, frowning. "Inexplicably, I find them… more difficult to comprehend than ever, now that I've begun to experience them. But…" He looked up at Sam, uncertainty in his eyes. "… I believe that… the longer we wait… the less comfortable I can expect to become with… with what needs to be done. Is that correct?"
Sam smiled sadly, nodding. "Yeah," he replied, apologetic. "That's… generally the way it works. Waiting to do something that makes you nervous just… gives your nerves more time to get all worked up. I just… wanted you to know, you have the choice. It's up to you. I won't… make you do anything."
Cas nodded again, slowly, accepting and holding Sam's gaze. "I understand. Thank you." He paused, drawing in a soft, unsteady breath, before concluding, "I'd rather do it now, please."
"Okay." Sam rose to his feet, placing a hand on Cas's arm to steady him. "Ready…?"
To his surprise, Cas pulled away from Sam's gentle grasp, casting a look of veiled annoyance up at him. "Dean did nothing to harm my legs," he pointed out, quiet but terse. "I am fully capable of walking on my own."
"Okay, sorry," Sam replied, holding his hands out in an appeasing gesture. "Sorry. I just… wasn't sure, with your…" Cas glared at him, and Sam backed off a step. "Sorry," he repeated. "Just… if you do need help…"
"Thank you. I don't." Cas looked away, swallowing hard as he braced one hand on the nightstand beside the bed, the other on the mattress, and pushed himself to his feet. Sam winced, resisting the impulse to reach out and steady him. He reminded himself that the wings hadn't weighed anything when he'd carried Cas out of the cabin – that they presented no additional physical burden to Cas now, either.
Cas straightened slowly, stifling a pained little sound as he got his bearings, then started toward the bedroom door. Sam stayed close at his side, not quite touching him, but ready in case he should find himself less able to navigate the distance to the bathroom than he had expected.
They reached the bedroom door without incident. Sam went ahead of Cas to show him the way, and Cas stepped out into the hallway. As he did, he didn't account for the metal hinge that stuck out an inch or two more than the doorframe, and accidentally brushed the edge of his wing against it. Immediately he let out a startled cry, folding in on himself, his knees buckling – and Sam hurried to catch him, putting his arms around him and holding him up so he didn't crumple to the floor.
Cas tried to push his arms away, a choked sob escaping his lips – and Sam recognized the sound he heard behind it. He'd certainly felt it enough, even if he'd seldom let it show. Frustration, embarrassment, helpless anger – the sound he'd felt, screaming in the back of his mind, when he couldn't even function by himself, when he'd been violated by something outside his control… when his body wouldn't do what he told it to…
… when it didn't even feel like his own.
Sam held on, gentle but unyielding, as Cas pushed weakly at Sam's arms around him, his efforts impeded by the fact that he was barely able to stay on his feet.
"Shhh," Sam soothed him, voice soft next to his ear. "Cas… it's okay. It's okay, I've got you…"
"I don't… need you to… don't…" Cas's words were halting, breathless, even as he gave in out of sheer necessity, his weakened body slumping against Sam's as he gasped for breath.
"Cas," Sam said quietly, one hand lightly cupping the back of Cas's head, the other arm around him, supporting him. "It's okay to need help… all right? It's okay."
Cas's chest heaved with his exhaustion, but he was quiet, struggling for control for a long moment before he finally replied, voice quiet and trembling. "Let's just… just get this over with. Please."
A sharp pang of guilt in his chest at the knowledge that Cas shouldn't have to be depending on him for anything – shouldn't have to be in such a helpless state to begin with – Sam quietly obliged, saying nothing else, but taking most of Cas's weight as he helped him the rest of the way into the bathroom.
Sam had filled the tub halfway with warm water – not too hot, so as to avoid further aggravating Cas's burns. He'd found some dried lavender in a cabinet with other herbs and spell supplies, and crumbled some of it into the water; the calming properties of the scent could only help soothe Cas's frayed nerves. On the counter, Sam had arranged a stack of clean towels, and several bottles of dish soap he'd found in the kitchen's well-stocked storage area. He'd placed a chair beside the tub for himself; he was pretty sure this was going to take a while.
For now, Sam led Cas to stand in front of the chair, just in case he needed it. He hesitated, unsure how to proceed from this point. Besides the dozen or so bandages that covered most of his skin, Cas was wearing a pair or soft gray pajama pants and boxers. Sam had found them among the left behind belongings of the Men of Letters – thankfully, as neither he nor Dean possessed anything that would comfortably fit Cas.
In order to make sure that none of the oil lingered on Cas's skin, that all the ash and grime was washed away, Cas was going to need to take them off. And as vulnerable as Cas was already feeling… Sam just couldn't bring himself to ask.
As it turned out, he didn't have to. Cas unceremoniously slipped out of both the pants and boxers, letting them drop to the floor without hesitation. He straightened, looking up at Sam again. He made no attempt to cover himself, as most humans would have done – didn't seem in the slightest self-conscious about his state of nudity – but his eyes were anxious and wary as he waited for further instruction.
Of course, Sam realized. It's just a vessel… not his actual body. Not… not like his grace… his wings… Sam felt a heavy, sick sensation in the pit of his stomach. Both of which we violated like it was nothing. And that's what he's worried about… what's freaking him the hell out right now… the fact that I'm gonna be handling his wings…
Sam purposefully averted his eyes, picking up the first bottle of detergent and a soft, dry towel and moving around behind the tub. "Okay, we need to get all the bandages off first. So… why don't you get started on that while I'm getting ready?" he suggested.
Cas immediately began to comply, without a word, wincing a little as he pulled the bandages from his burned arms and stomach. Sam kept himself busy doing nothing in particular, small tasks that didn't really need to be done… waiting for him to finish. He wanted to give Cas as much space as possible, a little time to adjust to the idea of what they were about to do.
And… it was possible that he needed a moment, too.
Sam glanced up to see that Cas had finished all of the bandages he could reach, except the one over the incision in his chest. With a pained grimace, Cas pulled that one off as well, dropping it into the trash can before bracing one hand on the edge of the tub and preparing to get in.
"Wait, wait a second…" Sam held up a hand, taking a step toward Cas. "Can I take a look at that first?"
Cas bit his lip, frowning anxiously, but he nodded, and Sam closed the rest of the distance between them. Taking Cas's arm in a firm but gentle grip, Sam guided him to turn around and sit down in the chair, then knelt down on the floor in front of him. Cas watched warily as Sam leaned in close, cautious fingers gently inspecting the stitches, and the wound beneath them. The flesh was beginning to knit itself together again, and Sam nodded slowly, pleased with what he saw.
"Any place the oil's still… on you…" He glanced up to watch Cas's face closely. "… you can feel it. Right? So… you can tell me if I'm… missing anything."
Cas didn't look up, swallowed slowly. "Yes."
"So… how about here?" Sam cupped his hand gently over the general area of the wound. "If there's no trace of the oil here, I'd like to cover it back up… protect it from getting… infected…"
Really, infection was the least of Sam's worries. Once he had Dean break Jacob's Call, such ordinary human ailments would no longer be an issue for Cas. Rather, it was nightmare mental images of accidentally washing some oil residue into an open wound, and not being aware that it was there until it was too late, that filled Sam's mind.
"Once the bond is broken, I'll have no need to worry about infection," Cas pointed out quietly. Then he glanced up at Sam, vaguely apologetic when he saw that Sam was still waiting for an actual answer. "But… no, there's none of the oil there."
"Okay." Sam nodded, reaching for a bandage from the counter where he'd arranged his supplies. "I'll do this again, after, but… for now, this should protect it."
As Sam carefully re-bandaged the wound, he noticed that Cas was shaking under his hands – a fine tremor that made his entire body seem to vibrate, though it wasn't visible. He looked up at Cas's face to see that the angel looked like he was about to be sick. He was staring down at the space between himself and Sam, pale, sweating, his breath shallow and uneven.
"Cas," Sam said, his voice hushed and intent. "Hey. Look at me, man, okay?"
Cas reluctantly obeyed, and the sheer dread Sam saw in his eyes made his stomach clench.
"It's gonna be okay. All right? You can trust me."
Even as the words left his lips, Sam felt a sharp ache in his chest, a reminder that he had no right to speak them. And the way that Cas was looking at him, open and desperate, drinking in the promise they held – only made it worse.
"I know," Cas whispered, holding Sam's gaze, his face flushed with shame he didn't deserve to feel, eyes brimming with tears. "I just… it's…" He stopped, lowering his head into his hands and shaking it helplessly. "I don't know," he concluded at last in a miserable whisper.
Sam rose up a little higher on his knees, sliding an arm low around Cas's waist, to avoid contact with any of his exposed injuries, his free hand rising to stroke gently through the short hair at the base of Cas's neck. His guilt only intensified with the gesture, and the acute awareness that if Cas only knew the truth, he wouldn't want Sam touching him like this.
But – he didn't know, and he did want it. The way that Cas leaned forward into him, his head resting against Sam's shoulder, desperate for the reassurance, told Sam that his touch was having the desired effect. Already Cas seemed a little calmer, a little less panicked.
"That's okay," Sam said, soft and reassuring. "You don't have to explain it to me, Cas. It's… okay to be scared. It's okay to hate this, because… it sucks. I know. But… we have to get through it. Right?"
Cas nodded, not raising his head.
"And… we will. You and me. Right?"
Cas nodded again.
"Good... good. Now… I want you to stand up, and I'm gonna help you get into the tub and sit down. Okay? And… once you're comfortable, I'm going to take the bandages off your wings. All right?"
Cas didn't move for a long, long time. Then, finally, he nodded again. "Okay," he whispered, rising to his feet, halting and slow, as Sam rose with him.
"Good." Sam's tone was warm with approval, soothing and quiet. "That's good, Cas. Come on…"
Sam kept one hand under Cas's arm, steadying him as he stepped over the edge into the tub and then lowered himself slowly into the warm water. Once Cas was seated, Sam crouched down beside the tub and reached out to take his hand for a moment, to draw his attention, his heart lurching when Cas looked up at him with raw panic in his eyes.
"It's okay," Sam repeated. "I'm going to take the bandages off first, okay? And… you just tell me if you… if you need a break, or if I'm… hurting you, or… if you need anything, just tell me, all right?"
Cas nodded, reluctantly releasing Sam's hand as Sam straightened to his feet. Sam ran his hand lightly, reassuringly over Cas's shoulder as he moved to stand behind him. Cas drew his knees up slowly in front of him, trembling arms wrapping around them as he bowed his back and lowered his head into his folded arms, his breath coming in slow, shuddering gasps.
Sam kept talking, though the more he repeated the same useless words of comfort and reassurance, the less meaning they seemed to hold. He was pretty sure it was doing more to keep himself calm than Cas, as he carefully unwrapped the dirty gray bandages that held Cas's wings in tight. Immediately Cas let out a low groan of pain, as the splinted bones shifted and flexed, the warm air of the room meeting raw, sensitive skin that had been shielded from such contact for days. The decimated feathers rustled softly as the wings trembled, along with the rest of Cas's body.
"Are you cold?" Sam asked softly, leaning forward and pressing a gentle hand to the spot between Cas's shoulder blades.
He immediately regretted the question – because, what could he do, if Cas said yes? If it was anyone else, he'd offer them a towel to cover their shoulders, to at least make them feel less exposed – but that wasn't exactly an option here. At any rate, Cas shook his head without lifting it, a shuddering sob passing through his body. So Sam withdrew his hand, returning to the work at hand – and resolving to stop stalling, no matter how daunting he found his task.
Once the bandages were removed, Sam crouched beside the tub again, taking the hand-held shower head from its cradle and turning on the water, carefully aiming it away from Cas as he adjusted the temperature until it was warm, but not hot.
"Okay," he said, his own voice less steady than he'd intended. "I'm going to get started, all right? I – I know it's gonna hurt, at least a little, but – I'm going to be as careful as I can, okay?"
"Okay," came Cas's muffled reply from beneath his folded arms.
Sam stood up again, moving to stand behind him. He frowned, uncertainly running his free hand down the upper ridge of Cas's left wing… very, very gently, barely even making contact. Cas shivered under the touch nonetheless, the tattered remnants of charred feathers rustling as Sam withdrew his hand.
He tried to shut out the soft whimper he heard from just beyond the massive, shattered wings, instead forcing himself to act – to carefully place one hand under the bone, steadying the wing, as he raised the shower head and began to gently spray it down. Immediately a stream of gray water ran down Cas's back into the tub, whole feathers, ashen and broken, falling with it. Cas let out a plaintive moan, flinching, and Sam pulled the shower head away, alarmed.
But Cas raised his head just enough to be heard, his shoulders shaking even as he choked out, "Don't stop. Please, it'll just – just do it."
Shaken, Sam hesitated, but then nodded, letting out an unsteady breath. "Okay," he agreed. "Okay…"
He returned to his work, spraying gently and painstakingly until the large wings drooped down at Cas's sides, heavy with water. Then, Sam moved around to the front of the tub, rolling up his sleeves before he reached for the plug, letting out the murky gray water. He grimaced as he reached into the tub to take out handfuls of wrecked feathers, hesitating for just a moment over the trash can. It felt wrong to just throw them away – but there was nothing else to do with them.
Sam carefully used the shower head to rinse out the tub, then began to fill it again. While it filled, he turned his attention to Cas, who was sitting, shivering with cold, or trauma, or both. Sam reached out a hand to rest on Cas's neck, the other hand finding Cas's hand and squeezing gently. Sam's effort was rewarded when Cas squeezed back fiercely, shuddering.
"I'm so sorry we have to do this, Cas," Sam told him softly, his words choked with how deeply he meant them. "This… this next part… I know it's… not gonna feel good. Just water isn't… isn't enough to wash away oil. I've got to… work the soap into the feathers… it'll cut the oil and make sure it's all gone. All right?"
Cas was still and quiet for a long moment. Finally, he lifted his head just a little and nodded. The tiny glimpse Sam got of his face made his heart ache. Cas's eyes were tightly closed, his mouth trembling, face pale as death and contorted with pain, or grief, or shame, or whatever overwhelming emotions he hadn't been able to put into words himself.
Sam hesitated before reaching out to place a hand at the side of Cas's neck, relieved when Cas leaned into the touch rather than pulling away. "You're doing great, Cas," Sam murmured. "You're doing so good, we're gonna get through this, okay?"
Cas nodded, eyes still closed, and as Sam moved his hand, he buried his face again, knuckles white where they wrapped around his knees. Sam felt cold, and sick, and utterly overwhelmed with guilt. He'd never seen the fierce, powerful angel look so broken and small – and the knowledge of who had broken him was… well, it was too much to think about at the moment.
Sam had to focus on getting this done.
He sprayed Cas's wings one more time, lightly, before taking a handful of the soap and setting to work. He kept his touch as gentle as possible, but there was no avoiding a certain amount of pain, as he worked the soap into a lather, gradually intensifying the pressure he applied as he worked it deep into every inch of the mutilated wings. Sam knew that, even splinted as they were, every time he shifted Cas's broken wings to get at a difficult spot had to be agony; every spray of warm water against burned, raw flesh had to make Cas want to scream with pain.
He didn't scream – but after only a couple of minutes, Cas was openly sobbing – a deep, wrenching sound that tore at Sam's emotions and made his chest tighten with sympathy, and unspeakable regret. And yet, Sam knew that he couldn't stop. The only way to ease Cas's pain was to finish this task, to wash away the lingering remnants of the torture that had been inflicted upon him so that he could finally begin to heal. As much as it hurt… Sam couldn't stop.
It was only when he couldn't see straight anymore to do his work that he realized… he was crying, too.
It hurt.
It hurt so much, more than anything Castiel had ever experienced before. Of course, he'd never before been so connected with his physical vessel… never before had his wings so exposed to physical touch… never experienced the torment of burning holy oil against the most sensitive parts of his being. Of course he hadn't; of course it hurt beyond anything he could have imagined.
It wasn't supposed to have been possible.
Castiel knew that Sam was being as gentle as he could – large hands warm and steady, reverently handling the damaged bone and feathers, working the soap in and the oil out with careful, skilled fingers. He was as kind, as cautious as he could possibly be – but Castiel couldn't forget that Sam wasn't supposed to be touching his wings at all.
The warm, hushed sound of Sam's voice, keeping up a steady, rhythmic cadence of reassurance and encouragement, made Castiel feel safe and comforted – but strangely, somehow, it made the tears flow harder, rather than easing them. And it seemed that the more frustrated he became with his lack of control, the more difficult control became.
Castiel decided that it was pointless trying to figure it out; human emotions simply made no sense.
It had been so frustrating when Sam had come into his room, all soft and cautious, as if too sharp a tone or too certain a phrase might have shattered Castiel into pieces. He wasn't helpless, wasn't a child to be coddled and protected. Nothing could protect him, anyway – not from what had already happened.
Not from the reality of what was happening to him right now.
And yet, the worse the pain got, the more Castiel clung to those meaningless words, the more he strained to hear Sam's voice through the roar of his own agony, even after he hurt too much to even make out the words at all.
He knew it had to be done. He knew he'd die, slowly and in unspeakable agony, if Sam didn't do exactly what he was doing. It didn't make it any less painful, or humiliating, or a repetition of the same violation Dean had inflicted on him in that dark basement room that filled his dreams.
Shame made him sick, his stomach roiling, palms damp and cool, sliding against his knees as he tried just to hold himself still, hold himself together, and keep back the sobs that rose in his throat with every brush of Sam's careful, gentle fingers against raw, burn-blackened skin, every accidental shift of his broken bones. They throbbed unbearably even when they weren't being touched, but when Sam moved them to get at the rest of Castiel's wings, it felt like a white-hot blade slicing through them.
It hurt so much he couldn't scream… could barely breathe.
Three times, Sam stopped, and Castiel's heart sank, because he knew Sam wasn't finished. He could still feel the oil searing into his wings where it lingered. Sam would let out the dirty water and refill the tub – and while it filled, he sat in the chair beside Castiel, gently stroking his hair, speaking softly to him. And Castiel relished the touch, pleasant rather than painful, the reassurance that soon it would be over, that soon he would be whole again and all this would just be a distant memory.
He relished the reassurance – even though he knew it was a lie.
How could I ever… ever forget?
When Sam stopped for the fourth time, Castiel found himself nearly shaking apart with the overwhelming sense of relief – because he could feel it. The last traces of the oil were gone from his wings. Sam drained the water from the tub, then used the shower to carefully rinse any remnants of it from the rest of Castiel's body, until finally, it was completely washed away.
But his wings still burned, and the hole in his chest where he'd once hidden everything he'd known was true, and sure, and safe… ached with its emptiness.
"You're doing so good, Cas," Sam said, his voice low and tender, his large hand warm and steady against Castiel's head. "So good…"
Castiel could hear the thick, choked sound of Sam's voice, and realized, startled, that Sam was crying, too. And suddenly – that made all the difference. The tenderness in his voice no longer felt patronizing and shameful. Sam wasn't pitying and patronizing him, so much as he was sharing in his suffering – and so, there was no longer frustration mixed with the gratitude Castiel felt toward him. He raised his head just slightly, saw Sam's hand resting on the side of the tub, and reached out to grasp it tightly, turning his face to rest his brow against their joined hands.
Sam was quiet for a moment, and then his next words came out as a broken, startled sob. "Oh, Cas…" Castiel felt Sam's head lower to rest against his own for a moment, before he choked out, "I'm so sorry…"
Castiel raised his head slowly, his entire body shaking with pain and relief and so many things he couldn't begin to comprehend, let alone name. "Y-you had to," he managed to get out. "I – I understand, Sam. Don't be sorry. I – I thank you for it."
Sam let out a choked sound that Castiel couldn't quite identify, before gently extricating his hand from Castiel's and rising to his feet.
"Okay, we're… we're almost done," he said. "I need to dry your wings and… and put the bandages back, and… and then it'll be over, and you can rest. Okay?"
Castiel's heart sank. He hadn't even considered that that would be necessary. He'd felt such relief that the cleaning was finally over.
Starting at the top and working his way down, Sam gently pressed Castiel's wings between soft towels, wringing out as much excess water as he could, before laying aside the towels and picking up the roll of bandages instead. This time, the bandages were not so tight, and Sam wrapped each wing individually, not binding them down to Castiel's back as he'd done before.
When he was finished, Sam leaned down and took Castiel's hands, pulling them away from his knees until he raised his head, raised exhausted eyes to meet Sam's. Sam was smiling, even if it was a little shaky, and his eyes were red-rimmed.
"We're done," Sam told him gently. "It's all done now, Cas."
And of all things, now that the suffering was over, now that he could rest and heal – Castiel found himself crying harder than ever, sobs so deep that they made his chest ache, bubbling up in his throat and escaping, while Sam just sat down beside him, his warm hand slowly stroking Castiel's back as he patiently waited it out.
Castiel didn't understand. Human emotions were just so strange.
Finally, bone weary and exhausted from the tremendous ordeal of the past couple of hours, Castiel managed to regain his composure, and struggled to get to his feet.
"There we go… come on," Sam encouraged him quietly, steadying and supporting Castiel as he managed to get one leg over the side of the tub, and then the other. Sam reached around his waist with a large towel, gently wrapping it around him and securing it before putting a warm, secure arm around Castiel's waist. "Good… there we go… let's get you back to your room."
A sleepy haze settled over Castiel in the wake of his trauma, and he found himself leaning heavily into Sam's side, allowing Sam to support the greater part of his weight and lead him back to the warm, comforting safety of his bed.
His wings still hurt, but it wasn't even close to the same as what he'd felt before, with the oil still slowly burning into him every moment. And as Sam helped him to lie down and then pulled the blankets up over him, Castiel felt himself slipping under, falling into sleep, before he even had time to thank him.
Dean was sitting at the library table, surrounded by a dozen different books about angels – amazed at the amount of information that could have been at their disposal this whole time, had they only known. There was a book on angelic physiology, another on their customs and practices, yet another on the intricacies of the Enochian language. The one that held the most interest for Dean currently, and was open in front of him at the moment, was one on rituals of angelic magic.
And he'd barely even scratched the surface of the library's section on angels.
So much of this crap would have been pretty useful a few years back… Dean thumbed forward from a particularly interesting chapter; it was pretty intriguing, but it wasn't what he needed at the moment. Who knew there was a whole list of ways to gank archangels? Yeah, it's a fucking short list, but still… would have come in handy…
Impatient, Dean turned to the back of the book, hoping to find an index where he could just look for the single focus of his study at the moment.
Angels' wings… the right spell to make them invisible again's got to be in here somewhere…
Before he could get there, the soft sound of footsteps drew his attention, and he looked up to see Sam entering the library.
"Hey, Sammy," he said, putting on a smile for his little brother's benefit – but it faded swiftly when Sam neared him, and Dean got a good look at the state he was in. "Sammy?"
Sam's eyes were shadowed and red from crying, and he looked utterly exhausted. His clothes were splashed with water and grey with ash, his pace heavy and weary. Dean started to get up, but Sam was already almost to the table, where he slumped down into the seat next to Dean's. His eyes were downcast, his lips parted as if to speak, though no words came out.
"Sam?" Dean repeated, cautious, studying his brother with concern. "You okay?"
Sam was quiet for a moment before looking up to meet Dean's gaze – and the stricken expression of shame and grief in Sam's eyes took Dean's breath. Sam bit his lip for a moment, then shook his head in response, before closing his eyes and lowering his head. As Dean reached out on instinct to pull Sam into his arms, Sam's shoulders began to shake, and he leaned into Dean's embrace gratefully, burying his face in his brother's shoulder.
And Dean knew what he was feeling, because he'd been feeling it every moment since the cabin. He knew that there were no words to offer to make it all right, no promises or suggestions to make any of this better. Words couldn't change anything – so Dean said nothing, and did the only thing that he could.
He sat there with his brother wrapped tight in his arms, holding him close, and let him cry.