The hallway light stretched long and slow into the darkness, as if it shared Dean's hesitation to enter the room before him. He stood at the threshold, his hand lingering on the handle as though it had been cemented there.

He wasn't sure why he was hesitating. This wouldn't be the first line he'd crossed. And it wasn't even a line—not really. Sam had… he'd brought this on himself. But somehow the justification didn't purge the gnawing of shame in his gut.

Dean tried to ignore the weight pressing against his ribcage as he stared into the dark, empty room. The air was stale, cold. Musky. Old. Dust coated the surfaces unevenly. A few t-shirts were tossed haphazardly into the corner of the room, a flannel crumpled against a thin, rumpled pillow. The bed was a twisted mess of sheets, creased with restlessness, stained in sweat. Several filthy plates were stacked on the nightstand, rimmed with crumbs and topped with waded napkins. Tissues, flecked in scarlet, littered the ground at the bedside.

Dean forced a slow breath through the tightness in his chest and released the door handle as though propelling himself from shore. His stomach twisting, jaw clenching, he started toward the desk, eyes scanning carefully over every inch. A half-dozen sheets of scrawled notes, a tower of heavy books—tomes, really—stacked high. A glance over their titles—curse removal—wrought a bitter taste in his throat. He shoved them aside carelessly, sending a few sheets of paper twirling to the ground. He shifted to the drawers, yanking them out with more force than he intended and dislodging one from its tracks. But inside? Nothing. A few pens, scrap paper, a couple journals. Dean slammed it shut, though it remained askew, and turned his focus to the dresser. T-shirts, socks, jeans, boxers. His frustration ticked higher as he moved to the nightstand. He felt like a frickin' cop on a drug raid. But the most incriminating things he found were only a few knives scattered about the drawers and a gun tucked beside his bed.

He cursed, jamming the nightstand drawer closed with a force that almost toppled the lamp sitting atop it. He kicked the base of the bed for good measure, then his eyes flicked downward, and he wrung his head. Dropping to his knees, he peered beneath the bed—something he used to do back when Sam was just a little kid, when he thought monsters might be lying in wait to strike as he slept. Back then, every time it had been nothing—a few dust bunnies, a stray wrapper, a dead roach at most. But now… Dean frowned, staring at the small box for several seconds in silence. His muscles tensed as he finally reached for it, fingers twitching, and dragged the box across the floor until it was free from beneath the bed, sitting up against the nightstand and drawing it up to his lap. The box scratched at the back of his mind—a whisper of familiarity that he couldn't quite place.

A part of him didn't want to open it. Aside from the recent mess, Sam's room was typically eerily empty. Almost entirely devoid of a single personal token. If he had tucked this box away into the shadows… he had a reason. And yet, that meant Dean didn't have a choice.

Carefully, he flicked the latch and cracked the lid. The scent of old paper and ash tinged the air, wrinkling the sharp tang of his frustration. The box was maybe half full at best. Within a few seconds, he knew he wouldn't find so much as a drop of demon blood inside. And yet… he still prodded at the few tokens within.

Dean's gaze drifted over the photos first, their edges faded in sepia tones. Immediately, the sense of infringing violation swelled deeper, but he couldn't help but lift the photographs. His throat tightened at the image of his mother garbed in white, standing opposite his father in a tux—both smiling with clear joy, despite the grainy picture. The other photographs revealed similar images, with the exception of one of Dean as a baby barely able to stand, and a couple of Sam and Dean in their early teens. Finally, he recognized the box as the one that had somehow survived the house fire that had claimed Mary's life, buried away in the attic. He hadn't realized Sam kept it for so long—given that they lived out of a car together for years, the fact that Sam managed to keep it hidden away proved impressive. Maybe he kept it stashed in the bottom of his duffel bag. But now that they had a home, a place that was theirs to fill however they wanted… why leave this tucked away beneath the bed? Sam's room was mostly barren—the problem certainly wasn't a want for space.

Frowning, Dean set the photographs aside, careful not to wrinkle the old, thin film. His fingers drew a thin black leather cord, dislodging a familiar amulet from where it had been hidden beneath a pack of playing cards. His heart felt both weighted in stone and torn raw in a conflagration of emotion. He used to wear it like it was a part of his own skin, but he'd thrown it away, years ago. Sam must've dug in the trash to retrieve it… why? He couldn't decide how to feel. The sight of the thing proved both a reminder of his brother's love and loyalty, but also of his catastrophic betrayal that had wrought the very Apocalypse.

Dean wrung his head, glancing back to find his hand clenched so tight around the metal that its dull horns dug impressions in his palm. He flexed his fingers, allowing the amulet to tumble freely into the box. He exhaled shakily, pausing only a beat before he began half-heartedly flicking through the other items—a small, worn pocketknife, its handle chipped and faded. Dean smiled softly in recognition—he'd given it to Sam back when they were kids. Then his heart faltered, somewhat, at the black jelly band twisted around it, and he nudged it aside, burying it beneath an old leather wallet. He shook his head faintly at the small, green army man leaning against the corner of the box, the barrel of its rifle bent askew. Memories flitted through his mind of his little brother shoving those same plastic soldiers into the cracks along the backseat of the Impala. It felt so far away, now.

He almost closed the lid and shoved it back into the darkness, but a final skim of the contents had him pause at a small, unassuming black case. Tentatively, he flipped it open, and his breath hitched at the diamond ring staring back. It wasn't grand or flashy by any means, but a small, simple stone set along a thin silver band, nestled inside the case's velvet lining.

Dean stared at it for several minutes. The only sound was his pulse heavy in his ears. He knew exactly what it was, though he'd never seen it before. The engagement ring Sam had bought for Jessica. The one he'd never even told Dean about. Because Dean had only learned Sam was preparing a proposal as a smug taunt from Azazel, all those years ago.

He gripped the edge of the small box, finally forcing the case closed to avoid the urge to hurl it across the room.

Sam could've been married right now—happy, with the girl he loved. Maybe even with a few kids of his own, raising them safe, in the type of life he was never offered. Instead of chained to the floor in a dungeon, puking up his guts and screaming his lungs raw as frickin' demon blood dragged him through hell on earth.

If it wasn't for Azazel, playing his little brother like a puppet, nudging him along his infernal design. He'd stolen everything from them. From Sam. Even now, a decade after the demon's death, his curse was still tormenting Sam. And maybe… maybe it always would. Maybe Sam would never escape it—maybe he just… couldn't.

Dean squeezed his eyes shut, swallowing hard. He wanted to blame the yellow-eyed freak, to curse him for taking Jess from Sam like it had taken Mary from him and his father, for burning any chance he ever had at normalcy, for tearing away Sam's best shot at happiness.

But the anger kept gnawing at his gut, and as much as he wanted to direct it all at Azazel… it didn't land. Not all of it.

Because Dean was the one that had pulled Sam back into this life. Over and over. He showed up at Stanford, demanding Sam's help. Pulling him away from the life he was starting to build, from the life he deserved. Maybe… maybe if Dean hadn't gone to him that night, maybe things could've been different. Maybe Sam would've been there with Jess, maybe he could've protected her, maybe they could've somehow made it. He could've been safe, he could've been happy. And instead, Dean had dragged him back into the fire, into the nightmare they'd never wake up from.

Was he truly any better than Azazel? It wasn't Yellow Eyes that triggered Sam's relapse—that had reignited Sam's wretched addiction. Who was really the reason Sam was suffering torture of his own body's creation?

Dean's eyes burned. He slammed the lid closed and shoved the box roughly under the bed, rising to his feet to pace a few steps. His fists clenched at his sides, twisting his head against the guilt that strangled his throat.

Without thinking, he swung a fist at the wall, his fist slamming into the unforgiving concrete. Pain radiated through his hand, shooting up his arm, but he didn't care, throwing another swing. This time, the skin on his knuckles split open and blood smeared the wall. Still, the sharp sting wasn't enough to release the emotion rampaging through his skull. He snagged the nearest thing—one of the tomes off Sam's desk, probably filled with valuable knowledge of the occult—and chucked it hard across the room. It smashed into the lamp on Sam's nightstand, shattering the bulb immediately and sending it clattering to the floor. He spat a curse, chest heaving as he grabbed the nightstand itself, hurling it to the side. The hardwood cracked as it struck the ground, the contents of the drawer spilling out onto the floor to join the fractured glass.

Dean stood in silence, panting, his entire body trembling, as he stared at the wreckage. But it didn't help. It didn't even begin to scratch the surface. He grabbed at his forearm, his nails sinking into his flesh, but he hardly felt it. He didn't allow himself to glance down, to see the thing he knew was there, the thing that might always be there, even when everything else he knew turned to dust.

Shakily, he released a breath, dragging a hand over his face.

Pull yourself together, man, Dean chided himself silently. He couldn't afford to crack now. Even while the Mark sang whispers of true and final peace, if he just let it take him.

His eyes skimmed over the destruction, and guilt twinged at his heart. He'd deal with it later—Sam had bigger problems than a busted nightstand at the moment.

Still bristling, he stalked out of the room, snapping the light switch as he exited briskly down the hall. The throbbing pain in his hand made him glance down, though the sting was distant—mere noise in the cacophony of everything else. Still, he didn't exactly need the blood dripping off his knuckles as a grim reminder of… he shook his head, cradling his hand and beelining for the infirmary. He needed to check on Cas, anyway.

He shoved the door open with his shoulder, his gaze shifting to the angel lying still, his face pale and almost ghastly beneath the harsh fluorescent lights. It gave Dean pause. He'd never seen Cas like this before. He'd seen him bad, sure. Cut off from Heaven's power, nursing wounds from an angel blade. Hell, he'd seen him atomized by Lucifer. But this was different. This was a slow decay. The angel looked… fragile. Human.

Dean cleared his throat, trying to level his words, "Cas." He retrieved a roll of bandages from a medical cart, furling and unfurling his fist to test the damage. He was lucky he hadn't broken something. His eyes flicked up again toward the angel as he began winding the bandages around his knuckles—something he'd probably done more times than he could count. "Cas," he tried again, nudging the angel's foot gently. He should probably let him rest—heaven knew he needed it—but he wanted to know Zophiel's ETA. Because… he wasn't sure how long Cas had without a grace boost.

He scowled at the angel's unresponsiveness, tearing off the bandage with his teeth and tossing the roll onto the medical cart. He moved to the angel's side, gaze flicking over his body hastily. Carefully, he pressed two fingers against Castiel's throat, finding himself holding his own breath. Did angels even have heartbeats? He gritted his teeth, but finally released a breath when he caught the slow, thready pulse.

Dean cursed again. Castiel was an angel—he wasn't supposed to need a pulse check. He wasn't supposed to be lying near-dead on a cot, fading away without so much as a whimper.

He wrung his head, then slapped Castiel's legs softly, "You gotta hang in there man. Zoey'll be here soon, alright? She'll fix you up." He wasn't sure if the angel could even hear him. He didn't twitch in the slightest.

Dean ran his fingers through his hair, then started for the door. He didn't want to leave, but he couldn't sit around just waiting, either. He needed to know where the hell Zophiel was.

Still, he couldn't help but slow when he reached the library, couldn't help but wonder if he imagined the muffled screams only a few doors away. Couldn't help the trail of his eyes toward the box at the center of the table, warded in white glyphs.

He'd moved it from the storage room—he didn't want to leave it so close to his brother in the dungeon hidden just beyond. And he couldn't stand to harbor it in his room. He tried to ignore it, despite the crawling beneath his skin, and grabbed Sam's cellphone from the table from beside his pocketknives and lockpicks.

Hastily, he slid through Sam's recent calls, his pulse quickening with impatience as he flicked through the unknown numbers. Finally, he punched the number, holding the phone to his ear. Every second that ticked by felt like a punch to the gut.

"Come on," he hissed, pacing. If she didn't answer…

A click.

"Winchester?"

Without pause, Dean barked perhaps harsher than he should have, "Where the hell are you?"

"Kansas," she replied, her voice curt, quick, "Have you found Castiel?"

Dean frowned, "What?"

"Is he alive?" She pressed, anger lining her words, "You haven't answered my calls."

Dean's scowl deepened, and he pulled the phone from his ear, checking Sam's notifications. A half dozen missed calls lined the screen, ones he hadn't noticed in his blind haste.

"We've been a little busy," Dean snapped back, mirroring her irritation before he caught himself and tried to reign it back. "How far out are you?"

"How far out?" Zophiel repeated, her confusion evident, "Where is Cas, Winchester? Is he alive?"

Dean paused, turning back toward the infirmary, irritation quickly climbing back into his voice, "Cas was… you mean he never called you on angel radio?" He'd assumed the blasted angel did as he was told, that Zophiel was almost here, but she hadn't even known.

"No," Zophiel replied tightly, "Tell me where you are."

"At the Bunker, I'll… I'll send you directions," he began punching out a text madly, before returning the phone to his ear, "I'll lower the warding too." Maybe she could track Cas that way. Not for the first time, he cursed the angels' broken wings. He used to hate their constant teleportation, where they were practically breathing down his neck, but right now… he wasn't sure how long Castiel had.

After a few seconds, she asked quietly, "How bad is it?"

Dean gritted his teeth, "Just get here. Now." He jammed the end-call button and tossed the phone onto the table, even as he began marching toward the electrical room. A few hasty switches and the pull of a lever, and the lights flickered, signaling the deactivation of the Bunker's warding. Maybe it wasn't the safest move, but frankly, he almost wished some demon or supernatural entity would try to get in right now. He could use the distraction. The blood on his hands—the death.

He paced to the library, checking his watch every few seconds. His gaze flitted to the hall leading to the infirmary several times, but every time his feet took a step toward it, something drew him back. He couldn't do anything for Cas besides sit and watch. And he couldn't… he couldn't see his friend like that. Going in, just to wait—just in case… it felt like saying goodbye.

He wasn't ready to say goodbye. Not as long as he'd keep breathing.

Dean planted his hands at the edge of the table in the war room, his body buzzing with anxious energy, frustration blazing across his flesh. Minutes stretched on like hours. At some point, a few chairs upended themselves. He couldn't even quite remember doing it.

He wasn't sure how many minutes or hours had passed when he finally heard a faint echo near the entrance. His head snapped upward, just as the door creaked open, a low groan announcing the arrival. A figure stepped into the dim light—a woman with blonde hair in a high ponytail, her eyes thin and calculating, landing immediately on Dean.

"Zophiel?" he presumed somewhat guardedly. Hopefully.

Her eyes flashed blue with a distinctly angelic glow, her head tilting, "Where is he?"

Dean didn't reply, starting immediately toward the infirmary with the angel following behind. He reached the infirmary door and shoved it open, his eyes immediately flicking to Castiel, waiting until he caught the faint rise and fall of the angel's chest before he dared turn back toward Zophiel. Her sharp gaze had trailed his, lingering on her brother—all but dead. Something in her expression shifted—a mere flicker, but Dean thought it looked something like… sorrow.

"Save him," Dean ordered, following as she moved toward the side of the cot, her eyes evaluating.

She placed a hand on his shoulder, eyes closing, though they continued to dart beneath their lids as though tracking something unseen. Finally, a faint glow bloomed from her hand, breathing warmth to the gaunt skin. Cautiously, Dean peeled back the bandages taped around the angel's abdomen, releasing a soft exhale as the flesh knitted together—whole once more.

Dean's eyes slid upward, to Castiel's face—waiting. But he didn't stir.

"I'm sorry," Zophiel murmured. The words stole Dean's breath quicker than any blow. He snapped to face her, anger coiling. "I'm not sure how much time that bought him, if any."

Dean stared incredulously, expression darkening, "You have grace, don't you?" She nodded, brow furrowed. Dean scoffed, gesturing toward his friend, "Then give him some of yours."

Zophiel studied him carefully, "He refused my offer of grace before."

"He what?" Dean recoiled faintly, gaze flicking immediately back toward Castiel, as though demanding an answer.

"He said he didn't want to take more from us," Zophiel's voice was low, quiet, her focus largely on Castiel.

Dean shook his head, "No." He jabbed a finger toward her, "You're not gonna let him die. He's done too much for this frickin' planet. He's gotta stick around a little longer."

Zophiel's expression didn't change—it was somewhat unsettling. "Castiel made a choice, Winchester."

"I don't care," Dean snapped back, "It's not gonna kill you to give him a little grace. He needs it. We need him." He clenched his fists tight—her face still didn't shift. He wasn't quite sure when, but his voice had climbed to a shout. "I thought you were supposed to be his friend. Do you want him to die?"

"It's not about what I want," she retorted quickly, emotion momentarily flaring in her tone. Then, like a flame sparked and stolen by the wind, it was gone, and her gaze returned to the angel. "He made his choice… I won't take that from him."

Dean stared at her, disbelief intertwining with the rage in his chest. His mind scrambled, refusing to accept it. Cas didn't know what he was doing. He probably thought they'd find some way to fix him up without another angel's grace. He didn't want to die.

"I can try to wake him," Zophiel's voice was slow, her eyes raising guardedly to Dean, "Once. So you can say goodbye." Dean's face twisted, but she continued, "I can't promise it will work. And if he changes his mind…" she trailed off—her tone making her lack of belief plain as day.

Dean was silent for a long moment, staring at the slow, labored breaths that wracked Castiel's chest. Finally, he set his jaw, forcing a single nod, "Okay. But… let me get my brother. Sam deserves to… say goodbye, too."

Zophiel regarded him with a quiet understanding and gave a slow nod—almost a faint bow—before returning her attention to Castiel and closing her eyes.

Dean paused only a heartbeat, before disappearing from the room, his footsteps as heavy and loud as his heartbeat.

Zophiel rested her hands upon her brother, tracing the dim lines of grace that whimpered through his veins. It wouldn't be long, now. Quietly, she began murmuring a gentle prayer in the angels' native tongue. A prayer of thanks, and a prayer of peace.

She heard the faint footsteps at her back that announced the Winchester's return, but she didn't glance up, lest her prayer falter.

In the few milliseconds from the whispering of shoes across the tile to a loud, hastened scuff, Zophiel had only time to snap her head upward. Even as she did, an arm curled around her chest with preternatural speed, and a sting of pain—the type of burning that only sprung from the edge of a holy weapon—raced along her throat. She gasped as she felt her grace trail from her wound, felt the heavy weight of its absence swarm upon her bones like flies to a corpse. She grabbed at the arm, but couldn't coordinate the strength to wrest it from her body amidst the swarming vertigo and weariness claiming her. And then, almost as quick as he'd pounced, he released her, spurning her body to the tile as he leaned over Castiel.

Through a blurry haze, Zophiel glimpsed Dean pouring the bright grace through Castiel's thinly parted lips.

"Winchester," Zophiel cursed, coughing, as she tapped her fingers to the slit in her throat.

Dean barely paid her any heed, still gripping an angel-blade in one hand, eyes flicking over Castiel fervently for a sign. Slowly, color began to return to Castiel's face. The faintest rise of his chest steadied, strengthened. Dean's lips curled softly, "Come on, Cas."

Still, Castiel's eyes didn't open.

"Why isn't he waking up?" Dean demanded, daring to part his gaze for a moment.

Zophiel was slowly pulling herself from the floor, her gaze dark, brimming with an icy fury, but with something else beneath it. Almost like… disappointment. Failure. "It will take time for the grace to settle." She removed her hand from her throat, revealing the wound healed. He hadn't taken all her grace, then. Still, she looked… unsteady.

"You shouldn't have done that, Winchester," Zophiel's every word was laced with anger.

Dean ignored it, turning back to Castiel.

"I'm glad he lives, but that was not our choice to make." She spat, straightening, "You call him your friend, but you don't respect his decision. You were meant to be a warrior of heaven, but you're still but a child."

His knuckles went white around the handle of the blade, and his gaze trailed to the Mark, pulsing its curse beneath his skin. Demanding more. It had taken everything he had to refrain from killing her, when the blade was at her throat. Even now, the Mark whispered that it wasn't too late to finish the job. Her grace would recharge—she'd be fine. If that mattered.

"Thanks for the grace," he remarked flatly, "You can see yourself out, now. I'll call you if I need you again."

Zophiel's face twisted at his arrogance, the air around her cold. "You've only delayed the inevitable. Sooner or later, you will have to say goodbye."

Dean clenched his jaw, not allowing himself to glance backward—because if he did, he wasn't sure he could restrain the strike of the angel blade still tight in his grip.

Her footsteps were slow and deliberate as she moved toward the door, but she said nothing else, disappearing into the hall. Only when he heard the low creak of the metal door did Dean finally relax the tension from his muscles, leaning against the wall for support. His hands trembled slightly, the adrenaline of the moment wearing off, though the Mark still called for more.

His gaze flicked over the angel. It was almost as if he was merely sleeping. Peaceful.

"Come on, Cas," he muttered, his voice tired, "Don't make me wait all day."

Still, he didn't move—almost like he was punishing Dean.

Minutes ticked by, and Dean thought he'd lose his mind. Finally, he pushed himself from the wall, starting for the door. Cas would be alright. He'd wake up, soon enough.

His feet carried him onward in an aimless wander, his mind afar in a blur. It was difficult to string one thought after the other, his mind consumed in a hive of worry and rage. He needed sleep, probably, but he'd settle for coffee instead.

But first… he paused, glancing up to the entrance to the Bunker's storage room. It had been too long—as though he'd been avoiding it—and he needed to… he needed to make sure. He gritted his teeth, but quietly twisted the handle, carefully swinging open the door and stepping inside.

Only a few seconds passed before the echo of chains bounced through the room, followed by the familiar ragged breathing of his little brother.

"Please… please, leave me alone…" Sam's voice—plaintive, pleading—shattered something in Dean's chest. His brother was still through the bookshelves, in the dungeon hidden beyond—he knew Sam couldn't see him. Didn't know he was there, probably. His next words, every bit a beg as the previous, nearly affirmed it. "You're not real. Please… stay away from me."

Dean pressed his fist to the wall, closing his eyes tight as if that could block out the sound of his brother's suffering. He didn't want to imagine what Sam was seeing. But few things wrought such raw fear from his brother. His fists clenched tighter.

It's not him. He tried to assure himself. Not really.

"Please… please… leave me alone."

Somehow… it didn't really help.

Abruptly, Dean turned, not bothering to muffle the sound of the door as he slammed it closed behind him. He needed to check on Sam—to really check on him, to offer him water, something to try to keep his strength up. But right now… he couldn't. His breaths came heavy as he made his way down the hall, not even sure where he was going until he broke into the cool night air. It struck him like a slap, sending him reeling for a moment, until he leaned against the Bunker's walls, his boots scraping against the cement.

He stood in the utter silence, staring into the endless dark. Faintly, he realized his hand still gripped the angel blade tight, almost like an anchor, rooting him to something real. His fingers uncurled, and the blade clattered to the ground, clattering across the cement until it rolled to a stop at his feet. His hand twitched in its absence, and he stared at the blade for a long moment until he sank down beside it, his back pressed against the rough stone wall.

He was supposed to… he was supposed to be the glue that held them together. The foundation for them to rely on when the world battered them to hell. But right now… all he wanted to do was run. All he wanted to do was kill.

He swallowed down the emotion straining his throat, and stared at the sky—waiting for something, anything. An answer. A revelation. Something to draw him back from the edge. Anything to ease nightmare.

But none came. There was only silence, and the weight that threatened to crush him.

Dean leaned his head against the wall, closing his eyes. He'd go back inside eventually. For now, he'd let the lonely night keep him company.